The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  And she still hates Darren, can’t see why I want to have a boyfriend anyway. Last week, I told her that not all men are like Dad when we were arguing about whether I could go out with him on a school night and she didn’t speak for the rest of the night. Then she had one of her episodes that went on for three days.

  Well, it turns out she might be right. If he is cheating on me, it’s pretty low of him – and with a tramp like Melissa! But have I not learned any lessons from my own dad? I heard Norma and Mam talking about some woman the other day. Putting two and two together, it’s not hard to figure out why Dad disappeared and why Mam hates him so much. It doesn’t explain why he hasn’t ever got in touch with me though.

  But I still love him. And I love Darren.

  I hate my life.

  10

  ‘Did you give her the laptop?’ Viola asked, her voice like a scalpel.

  ‘Yes, she was thrilled, even a little teary, which was sweet.’

  Viola stirred her Earl Grey, the teaspoon clinking against the fine china cup. ‘I still have the feeling that I’ve met her before, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe she just has one of those faces.’

  ‘Maybe. She’s very pretty. Those eyes.’ Viola watched her husband across the table as he sipped on a whisky, his attention on the book in his hand. ‘I think she’s a good fit for you as a mentor. I think this will be good for both of you.’

  He looked up and smiled at her. ‘Really? Well, I’m glad – and I agree,’ he said, then returned to his book.

  She watched him a moment longer, then picked up her phone from the table and began watching a video, the volume muted. The jerky footage showed Katherine leaving her house and walking down the street, wearing a denim skirt that sat mid-thigh, a tight white T-shirt that left little to the imagination and a battered leather jacket. Her hair was loose and flowing behind her as she hurried along, the bright scarf at her neck flapping in the breeze. Her hands clasping her coat closed at her throat made her seem anxious, as did her wide, darting eyes, as though she was checking around her suspiciously. A bus drove in front of the camera briefly before the image of her was back. She then disappeared into a train station and out of sight. The video began again, playing on a loop on Viola’s tiny mobile screen.

  She watched a little longer, then put her phone face down on the table and picked up her teacup again.

  ‘The anniversary is next month,’ she said.

  The words exploded into the room.

  Sam set the book down again, this time with an audible slap, and looked at her without smiling this time. ‘Don’t you think I know that? But I do not want to talk about it now.’

  ‘You never do.’

  ‘Because some things are better left unsaid, Viola.’

  He got up from the table and left, his book abandoned, the pages fluttering forlornly.

  11

  Over the next few days, Sam and I chatted regularly in a WhatsApp group he had created for the two of us, pinging ideas back and forth in between banter. He was surprisingly funny once you got past the melodramatic overcoat he chose to wear.

  I hadn’t told Helen or Paul about meeting Sam. I’d decided that this was going to be just for me for as long as possible. They didn’t need to know just yet. The laptop remained out of sight under my bed until I was alone and could use it without prying eyes and the need for explanations.

  I told Helen I was still suffering from my hamstring injury so that I could forego our usual lengthy dog walks and exercise classes, ignoring the annoyance I could sense coming off her in waves. But I didn’t think I could keep my secret quiet if I saw her in person; I’d want to blurt it out instantly instead of nurturing it like an illicit love affair.

  There had also been another note. This one just as unoriginal in content as the first.

  WHO DOES YOUR FAMILY THINK YOU ARE? DO THEY KNOW THE TRUTH?

  Identical plain white paper; identical typed capital letters. I’d stashed it in the same place as the first and slammed the drawer, pushing it from my mind, determined not to let anything ruin everything that was going right for me. Nothing could really take my mind off my next meeting with Sam though.

  On Thursday, I made my way over to Sam’s apartment at the agreed time. I arrived five minutes early and rang the buzzer, my feet bouncing on the pavement. The door buzzed open and I made my way in. As I passed the downstairs flat, I could hear jazz music drifting through the closed door of 42a. Everything here oozed class and sophistication and was a million miles away from where I had grown up.

  At the top of the stairs, Sam was standing in his doorway, a glass of whisky in his hand and a cravat at his throat, and I immediately thought of Hugh Hefner. I started to laugh as I approached him.

  ‘What’s this in aid of? Am I at the Playboy mansion?’

  His eyes were sparkling and he looked genuinely delighted to see me. ‘Oh, it’s been a morning of meet and greets with my publisher. I like to dress the part of the eccentric writer now and again. And, trust me, I need the whisky,’ he said. ‘Now, I assume we only have a few hours, so shall we get started? I have some ideas of my own that I’d like to run past you too.’

  ‘I do have to get back for Lily and Jack, but you have my undivided attention until then.’ I followed him inside.

  ‘Lax of me, but I’ve not asked much about your family yet. How old did you say your children are?’

  ‘Lily is ten and Jack is eight. Very different characters, but they are my world, even when they’re driving me mad. What about you and Viola? Do you have children?’ I asked politely, although I couldn’t imagine Viola as the maternal type. She came across as too brittle in my experience.

  ‘No, we don’t. And your husband? What does he do?’

  ‘Paul? He’s in finance in the city. High on pressure, low on thrills, it would seem.’

  ‘And he’s supportive of your writing?’

  I looked away. ‘Oh, you know… I guess he wants me to be happy and not stressed. I… I can get worked up about things sometimes, so he would prefer me to take on less on a day-to-day basis… but this is important to me and I think he recognises that. It’s complicated though.’

  ‘Most relationships are. Goodness knows, Viola and I haven’t had it easy over the years.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to think we’re friends – and all of these interactions we have with different people are fodder for our stories, don’t forget. Never write off the importance of the little details, the nuances shared between people, the annoyances, the quirks. That is what will bring your story to life on the page.’ He paused. ‘I do hope he was okay about the laptop?’

  ‘Oh, erm, yeah… speaking of which, shall we start work?’

  For the next hour we sat engrossed in words and imagery, debating ideas and running through writing exercises. When I was alone I had been struggling to get my thoughts and ideas into order, but with Sam the words flowed out of me in a steady stream, full and rich with layers. I was excited about my manuscript shaping itself into something special under his guidance and he seemed enthusiastic too.

  Originally, I had based the story on when I had met Paul, the idea of a wealthy gentleman sweeping a lowly waitress off her feet, but it was evolving into a story about the waitress finding herself a prisoner in a gilded suburban cage. This book was turning out to be better therapy than all the hours I’d spent on my doctor’s couch over the years – and there’d been a few hours racked up by now.

  We took a break for coffee and some posh dark chocolate cookies that Sam produced from a cupboard in the kitchen. We were sat at the breakfast bar laughing at me dunking my fancy biscuit in my latte when the door to the apartment burst open and Viola swept into the room, her long, camel-coloured coat flapping around her legs.

  ‘Oh, do excuse me for interrupting,’ she said.

  I felt cold creep up the back of my legs. I hadn’t seen h
er since the publishing party and, much as Sam said she was fine with him mentoring me, I wasn’t sure what reception I would get in person.

  ‘Viola, nice to see you again,’ I said, approaching her with my hand outstretched.

  ‘No need for formalities,’ she replied and pulled me into a brief air kiss on each cheek. ‘Working hard, I see?’

  ‘A coffee break, darling. It has actually been a very productive afternoon so far. What brings you here?’ Sam said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Meeting with Andrew.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Is there one of those for me?’ She nodded at the coffee.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Sam went to make her a coffee and I sat back down to finish mine, not entirely sure what to say next.

  ‘So how is it coming on really, Katherine? Your book, I mean? Do you feel you are making progress?’ Her eyes glinted at me, but I found them incredibly difficult to read.

  ‘Very much so. The writing exercises are helping and are really useful in getting me into the habit of writing regularly rather than in fits and starts.’

  ‘And what does your husband make of you spending all this time with Sam?’

  Why so many questions about Paul today?

  ‘Oh, you know, he understands,’ I replied vaguely, twisting the wedding ring on my finger around and around, the gold hot and tight against my skin.

  ‘Well, you’re only as good as the support system behind you. I do hope he’s proud of how hard you are working.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Oh, thank you so much for the laptop. It’s a godsend.’

  ‘My pleasure. We all have a vested interest in you succeeding after all.’

  Sam handed her a steaming cappuccino.

  ‘Thank you, darling. Now, I have some work to be doing myself, so I will retire to my room so that I don’t disturb you.’ As she passed me, she rested a firm hand on my arm and said, ‘You will let me know if there is anything else you need, won’t you? I’m more than happy to help in any way I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Viola. I will.’ I smiled back at her, confused by the juxtaposition of her cold eyes and warm offer. Viola’s eyes flicked to Sam before she headed down the hallway and disappeared into another room.

  Sam and I worked for another hour or so before I had to rush off for the train, but the atmosphere was more muted now that Viola had intruded, even though I didn’t see her again before I left. But I think we were both aware of her presence behind the door, like a faint scent in the air.

  On the journey home, I scribbled notes on character weaknesses and plot holes in my notebook, my brain ruminating over possible solutions and where I could take the narrative next. All I wanted to do when I finally pushed through my own front door was to open the laptop again and keep going, but it was 4.20 p.m. and I was cutting it fine to collect Lily and Jack.

  I did have time to quickly log on and change the last sentence of what I had typed earlier, a new way of saying it coming to me as the train had jolted and jarred through south-west London. But when I looked up again, the wall clock told me I was late, so I rushed out the door to collect the kids, leaving the laptop open on the kitchen table.

  *

  Spread out on her bed, with her papers and computer covering almost every inch of space, Viola heard the door to the apartment close and her fist tightened around the pen she was holding. She swallowed down the bile that had coated her gullet since she had seen Katherine here with Sam. Of course, she knew they were working together, but seeing them as cosy as they had been, their heads together as they giggled over chocolate cookies, clearly relaxed in each other’s company, had her bristling. It had taken a sheer force of will over the last hour to stop herself from bursting from the bedroom and thrusting that pen into Katherine’s ridiculous, cartoon eyes every time their laughter had filtered through the closed door. She composed herself, plastered a tight smile on her lips and emerged from her hiding place.

  ‘So how is she doing?’ she asked Sam, who was gazing out at the view beyond the windows.

  He turned to face her. ‘Quite well. She certainly works hard and has some good ideas. It worries me that she doesn’t get much support at home though. She’s rather vague about all of that. I hope it doesn’t become a problem. But she is a delight to work with. So enthusiastic.’

  Viola’s hands clenched at her sides as Sam’s eyes twinkled. ‘There’s often more going on behind closed doors than we think. You know that as well as anyone.’ She heard his small sigh. ‘And what about you? Written anything yourself?’ she probed.

  Sam turned his back on her and walked away to sit at his desk. ‘I will let you know when I am ready to share what I have, Viola. You know that.’

  ‘Well, if it’s time for me to—’

  ‘No, it’s not. I’ve told you. We are doing it differently this time.’

  Viola raised her hands. ‘Okay, I’m only offering. I will leave you to it.’

  She wandered back down the hall, her bare feet sinking into the plush beige carpet. She paused briefly in front of a closed door to the right of the main bedroom, her hand outstretched towards the door handle. She let it rest gently for a moment, then removed her hand and returned to the bedroom and her spot on the bed. Propping herself up against the pillows, she pulled her laptop back onto her lap, checked her watch and calculated the time it would take to travel from Mayfair to Hampton Hill. Just over an hour perhaps? Plenty of time to fit in some more phone calls and another look at the contract lying next to her.

  After an hour had passed, Viola clicked open an application on her desktop and enlarged the window that popped up. The image playing back at her showed a typical suburban family room with books, glue sticks, pots of glitter and letters strewn across a large, eight-seater table. Behind the table were partition doors that stood open, revealing an uninspiring lounge. Two children sat at the far end of the dining table eating what looked to be carrot sticks, houmous and grapes.

  Viola wished there was sound on the video, but the spyware she’d had installed on the gifted laptop wasn’t advanced enough for that, so she watched as though a spectator in a silent movie theatre.

  She sat up a little straighter as Katherine wandered into the shot and reached out a hand to stroke her son’s hair tenderly. He flinched out of the way, his attention diverted by the iPad lying next to his plate. The girl sitting beside him had a pretty face and long hair swept into a high ponytail. She was talking to Katherine, her hands gesticulating and her face animated. Katherine had now stopped to lean against the kitchen counter, a mug in her hands, and she was smiling as she listened. Viola studied Katherine’s face, the way her expression moved through love, pride and awe when looking at her daughter. Then Viola’s eyes flicked to the girl, curiously soaking up every detail – the way her ponytail swished as she talked; her carefully knotted school tie beneath a jumper embroidered with the school logo; her full lips that enunciated every word.

  The girl pushed back from the table then and disappeared from the screen and Viola wanted to reach through the pixels and pull her back so that she could study her some more, aware of the gnawing hunger she felt as she watched this domestic scene, an appetite to know everything about Katherine and her family. The boy followed after his sister, then Katherine’s face filled the screen as she sat down in front of the laptop. She casually swept her own long dark hair up into a ponytail, using a hairband she had looped around her wrist. Viola’s fingertips tingled with the urge to thread themselves through the ponytail, to pull and yank the hair at the root. A painful heat wrapped around Viola’s heart, like a poultice infused with acid.

  She closed her eyes for a second. When she reopened them, Katherine was still filling the screen, her face enlarged, every pore magnified. Viola noticed a raw cluster of spots below her bottom lip and fine lines between her eyebrows, betraying a tendency to frown.

  Katherine’s fingers were tapping the keyboard, her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth in concentration. Viola watched that tongue in fascination, the
pink moistness of it, her head tilting to one side. Katherine frowned, tapped furiously on one key, mouthed what Viola could clearly lip-read as a swear word, then drained her mug with a look of sheer frustration. She sat back in her chair and stared off into space, her brow furrowed. Even now, with no make-up to cover the blemishes, her brow falling into its frown lines, her enormous eyes wide and unfocused, and her teeth chewing on her lip, she looked quite beautiful. Viola felt a snake of envy writhe through her and leaned closer into the screen, as though she could climb straight through, wishing she could so that she could wrap her own brittle hands around Katherine’s neck and squeeze until those big eyes bulged and popped.

  *

  Sam and I quickly fell into a familiar routine. I scheduled our twice-weekly meetings on Mondays and Thursdays when I knew the children were busy with after-school clubs, but I kept the details to myself and the laptop out of the way, so that Paul remained completely unaware of what I was doing. It was surprisingly easy since he rarely asked questions about what I got up to when he was at work. For me, the thrill of knowing I was doing something clandestine was addictive.

  Helen was a different story though. I reluctantly told her about meeting Sam in case I ever needed her help or an alibi and, as suspected, she was quick to tell me I was playing with fire, as well as wasting my time in chasing a silly dream. To her, a day full of trips to the gym, shopping and box sets on Netflix was a day well spent and she couldn’t understand why I was adding extra pressure onto myself by trying to build a career as a writer at this stage of my life or why I was insisting on doing it on the hush.