by Carmen Reid
‘Don’t,’ Annie warned her. ‘I’ll probably shake her by the hand and call her that.’
Lana’s, and therefore Eric’s, current form teacher was the school battleaxe: the kind of dragon who roared just for the sake of roaring and enjoyed sending children scurrying away in fear.
‘Eric!’ Becca called to her husband, Eric senior, a red-faced man stuffed into a pinstriped suit. ‘This way. Let’s get started.’
Upstairs in the corridors and in the classrooms, parents were milling, looking at the artwork on the walls (‘Gosh, Jessamy’s showing so much talent, look at the brush strokes. We should take her to Florence for the summer holidays. She should be inspired by the masters’); leafing through jotters and textbooks (‘Isaac’s just brilliant at maths . . . look at this, he hasn’t set a foot wrong. The Kumon classes after school were worth every penny’); waiting for their turn to speak to the form teachers (‘George already thinks she’s Oxbridge material . . . that’s right, she’s ten in April . . . but she already reads Dickens. Oh? Henry’s on to James Joyce?’)
At St Vincent’s, parents were very, very interested in how their children were doing and never missed the opportunity for a progress report.
‘Jill!’ Annie tapped the shoulder of one of the mothers, who had recently become a client of hers. ‘Look at you! Lovely.’ She smiled, appreciating Jill from head to toe, taking in the caramel mac they’d bought together, the gorgeous velvet scarf tied just so, and the confident Bobbi Brown glow on Jill’s face.
Smiling back, Jill said: ‘Thank you,’ just as Annie had taught her: ‘Thank you is enough, no more “oh this old thing?” or “I just threw this on” or “I ran backwards through a bush on my way over here” . . . or whatever else you used to say in response to compliments.’
After several minutes of chat, Jill pointed surreptitiously and whispered to Annie: ‘There’s Tor! Tor Fleming. She’s been completely stuffed in the divorce: Richard’s keeping the house, he gets joint custody of Angela with all the plum holiday weeks and Tor doesn’t even get an allowance. Totally stuffed. I think she’s going to fall apart. Look at her. No-one needs you more than her, Annie.’
Annie followed the discreetly pointed finger to the mother of one of Lana’s classmates. Poor Tor. Her bare, exhausted face hovered above a shapeless pale blue anorak and beneath a scruffy mid-brown bob with a tragic grey parting. Worst of all, Richard – tall, handsome and commanding, expensive navy blue overcoat, smart golfing umbrella to hand – was several steps ahead of her, scrutinizing a painting on the wall with too much interest. They’d obviously decided to put Angela first and come to this evening together.
Annie bustled forward, straight past Richard with an effusive ‘Tor! How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages, you’ve got to come round . . .’
Soon enough, it was Annie’s turn to pull up the chair opposite Lana’s form teacher, the feared fifty-something, super-strict Miss Gordanza.
After a curt hello, Miss Gordanza turned to the three pages of typed notes she had on her desk about Lana – and term was only in its first half.
‘Well, Mrs Valentine, there were certainly some difficulties with Lana in the run-up to Christmas,’ Miss Gordanza began, adjusting purple cat’s-eye spectacles on her over-powdered, pointed nose.
‘Difficulties’ was putting it mildly. Lana and her gang of friends had egged each other on to play a series of increasingly daring and dodgy pranks throughout the Christmas term: raw fish hidden in classrooms over a holiday weekend and then the spectacular treacle-based sabotage of the school orchestra’s brass instruments. The Christmas concert had come to a very sticky end.
An MI5-scale investigation had followed involving the headmaster, various teachers, Lana, five of her friends and all relevant parents. The girls had been punished and had left for the holidays in disgrace. Back at school in January, a clever penance had been devised: Lana and the others involved were now in charge of the school’s charity fund-raising group, although Lana was still trying to weasel out.
‘She’s enjoying school a lot more,’ Annie was telling Miss Gordanza. ‘She promised me a fresh new start this term and she seems to be keeping to that. She’s really into her GCSE course . . .’ she heard herself gushing a lot more enthusiastically than Lana might have.
‘I’ll be keeping a close eye on her,’ Miss Gordanza said as Annie fixated on the harsh fuchsia lipstick on the teacher’s thin lips. It was the kind of pink tide line that wouldn’t have dared to rub off, even at night. Probably Miss Gordanza woke up every morning to that same little pink pinched mouth.
‘Yes, so will I,’ Annie assured Godzilla, focusing on her gold locket, because the teacher was wearing the national dress of fifty-something battleaxes: a navy skirt with knife-pleats and a pale acrylic turtleneck, stretched tight over the ample bosom to create a little trampoline for the locket. She probably wasn’t going to agree to a makeover though, was she?
‘There are . . . I mean . . . Lana is bound to have issues because of her father’s . . . ah . . . situation,’ Miss Gordanza went on awkwardly. ‘But I’m sure they’re not beyond the control of this school.’
‘Yes well . . .’ Annie told her gently, ‘I’m sure we all have issues, Miss Godzil— zanza.’ She thought she’d saved herself.
‘So many people call me that, I’m considering a name change,’ the teacher added testily, without looking up again from the typed sheet.
‘Sorry.’ Annie suddenly felt mortified and about ten years old. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘No matter. Shall we turn to Lana’s subject choices?’
Owen’s new form teacher, back in the Junior School, was the head of music, Mr Leon. He was a recent addition to the school staff and already very popular. Not just with the pupils, it seemed. Certain mothers had a tell-tale twinkle and had even been seen to blush in his presence. But Annie, who’d met him several times now, failed to see the attraction. To her, Mr Leon was undoubtedly nice and a terribly committed teacher, but he was just a little too English-eccentric-stroke-tramp for her to see why anyone would be interested.
Waiting in the corridor for her turn to speak to him, Annie could overhear the anxious parents ahead of her: ‘Marcus is astonishingly bright,’ the mother was informing Mr Leon. ’We want to make sure he’s being stretched.’
‘Well, unfortunately we don’t keep a rack on the premises any more, Mrs Gillingham, but I’ll see what other ideas I can come up with,’ Mr Leon replied, provoking at first silence, then a confused titter from Mr and Mrs Gillingham.
When her turn arrived, Annie went in to find Mr Leon seated on the corner of his desk, humming cheerfully.
‘Mrs Valentine! Come on in. All child torture suggestions gratefully received.’
He unfolded his arms, stood up, tried to sweep a hand through his hair but got stuck in the tangle, so pulled out and waved at the two chairs set out for parents beside his own. St Vincent’s parents tended to come in pairs, it occurred to Annie with a pang.
‘What about the violin?’ Mr Leon asked, sitting down and crossing his arms again. It made him look strained and uncomfortable in the clothes he’d chosen for this evening in an effort to be smart. Not a big effort, it had to be said. Tonight he’d taken the eccentric tramp look and run with it: worn-out cords paired, unhappily, with clumpy brown hiking boots and a tight tweed jacket so hairy, she wondered when it was going to bark.
His top shirt button was undone and his tie had been pulled into a tiny scrunched knot, at odds with his broad shoulders, tanned face and spectacular mop of hair. He looked like he’d come down a mountain and stepped into the first clothes to hand. There was a funny smell wafting about him as well: damp, slightly smoky, even boggy.
‘What about the violin?’ Annie repeated, wondering if she’d missed the start of this conversation.
‘We should get Owen playing the violin. He’s doing brilliantly with the piano. He can play just about every instrument he picks up in my class, he’s nine, great
age to start, very good ear, really very good. Plus,’ he rushed on, ‘we’re desperate for new violins coming up through the ranks. Three will be leaving at the end of this year.’
She had to assume he was talking about members of the school orchestra.
‘Mr Leon—’ she began.
‘Ed,’ he interrupted. ‘Please call me Ed.’
He turned away and fumbled in his pockets, catching a violent sneeze just in time with his crumpled cotton handkerchief.
‘Well, bless you, Ed. Where did you catch that cold?’
‘Fifth form orienteering in Snowdonia, just got back.’ He blew his nose vigorously. ‘Brilliant time.’
‘Bit cold for camping, wasn’t it?’ She understood the damp boggy smell now.
‘The kids were in the youth hostel, but it wasn’t any problem for me, I’ve got Arctic kit.’
‘Right. Well . . .’ Sleeping outdoors in February?! See? Mad, eccentric tramp. ‘Believe me, Ed, there is no way that either of us is going to persuade Owen to take up the violin. No way! You may not have been able to discuss this fully with him’ – this was her way of gently introducing Owen’s acute and, at times, crippling shyness – ‘but I can assure you the super-cool-skateboarding, science-kit-blasting rapper boy that I know won’t want to play something as poncy and nerdy as the violin.’
‘I play the violin,’ Ed told her.
‘Oh . . . well . . .’
‘It’s not just about concertos,’ he assured her. ‘Although they are lovely. There’s folk music, Irish jigs, even rock ’n’ roll.’
‘No, I don’t think he’ll go for it and I don’t want to force him.’
‘I just think of the violin as such a personal voice, a way to express—’ Ed began.
But Annie gently reminded him: ‘Owen has a perfectly good voice of his own. He uses it beautifully at home and when he’s really comfortable with people. It’s our job, everyone’s job, to help him feel just as comfortable at school.’
‘I totally agree,’ Ed said quickly, ‘but he’s very good at music and we should be encouraging that. All creative outlets are a good thing for children. Did you know that Owen speaks about five words a day to me, which is great progress and I’m trying, just as gently as I can, to increase that. What about guitar then?’ He suggested. ‘Guitars are cool.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said carefully, worried she was going to agree to something by mistake.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ Ed said enthusiastically. ‘Guitar lessons!’
See.
She worried about shy Owen having to cope with one-to-one lessons from a stranger. ‘I don’t know if he’d want to have . . .’
‘I’d be happy to give him guitar lessons,’ Ed cut in. ‘At home, even, if that would make him feel more comfortable. Don’t you think that would be a good idea? Seeing me, his class teacher, in a much more normal, less threatening setting? It might really help him to relax at school.’
‘Erm, well . . .’ Annie was reluctant. Aside from what Owen might think of this, she didn’t know if she wanted this big hairy man in her home, clumping about in hiking boots, wafting bog.
‘Ask him what he thinks,’ Ed urged her, ‘then I’ll give you a call to discuss when might be a good time. Let me take your number.’ He clapped the pockets of his jacket but couldn’t find pen, paper or anything useful. He began to look on his desk as Annie took out her mobile and prepared to commit his number direct to its memory, never mind chasing round the room for bits of paper.
Once numbers had been exchanged, Ed sat down again and asked: ‘Right, so, and my favourite member of the Syrup Six is coming on nicely, isn’t she?’
Annie had no idea what he was talking about.
‘There weren’t enough for a Treacle Ten, so ever since the sabotaged concert I’ve thought of them as the Syrup Six . . . Lana,’ he explained.
‘Oh, Lana! Yes, she’s fine. But she’s really not enjoying the fund-raising thing,’ Annie began.
Why Ed Leon was the teacher in charge of fundraising remained a mystery to Annie. He obviously couldn’t even raise enough funds for new trousers.
‘No?’ he lifted an eyebrow. ‘Well, she’ll have to stick with it. This was her punishment and anyway, I think it’s good for her to get involved with the school again, she was starting to tune out on us.’
‘Yes . . . hmm . . . well, you could be right.’
‘I’ve had an idea for the fund-raising which might make it more interesting for her,’ he added. ‘We might try and run a charity auction website. The Syrup Six will have to track down all sorts of things to flog off and there’ll be a little group competition to see who can raise the most money. She’d enjoy that, wouldn’t she?’
Annie couldn’t help smiling. As Lana was already a budding eBay trader, this would be right up her street. ‘She’ll love it. But keep a sharp eye on her. She’s likely to get naughty just as soon as she gets bored. Keep making it very hard and very interesting or watch out.’
‘Will do. Now, how would Thursdays suit you for guitar lessons?’ Ed wasn’t going to let the subject drop.
‘I’ll have to see what Owen thinks first.’
‘Oh yes, fair enough. Now, I suppose we should talk about his school work too – shouldn’t we?’
‘Mrs Valentine?’
With a start, Annie felt the tap on her shoulder. She was only ten feet or so from a little-known side exit, sure she’d made a clean getaway from the concert. But now it appeared she’d been rumbled.
Turning, she saw the tall, lean figure of the school bursar behind her.
‘Oh, hello, Mr Cartledge, I was just . . . I’m afraid I have to leave early. Such a shame.’ She tapped at her wristwatch (Cartier – eBay, third-hand, possibly fenced) for emphasis.
‘Just a very quick word, Mrs Valentine, I was hoping to catch you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Well, in a nutshell . . .’
With a lurch, Annie knew what was coming next.
‘Your cheque for this term’s school fees has bounced, Mrs Valentine,’ Mr Cartledge informed her.
She’d taken a risk buying the limestone bathroom and steam sauna shower so soon after the Christmas spendathon. Looked like she was going to have to sell up sooner than expected.
‘You do take credit cards, don’t you?’ Annie asked, thinking through the credit card juggle she would have to do. She knew perfectly well that five of her cards were dangerously close to their limits, but there was the sixth, emergency use only card. It might give her just a little bit of leeway.
‘We make a one per cent charge for credit card payments,’ Mr Cartledge said.
‘Never mind, I think that’s what I’ll do, just this once!’ She tried to sound as cheerful as she could.
‘No . . . erm . . . problem, is there?’
‘No, no,’ Annie insisted. ‘Just . . . cash flow . . . a fundsclearing situation,’ she fibbed.
She’d put it on the emergency only card and just – well – just work harder. Make some extra sales in the day, find a few more home consultations, sell some more stuff on the website. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t juggled overdrafts and debts about like this before.
For most of the time Annie had been managing on her own, it felt fine. Most of the time she could cope. But there were moments when she hated it, resented it, felt she couldn’t stand it for even one more day.
At times like this, she was certain that having anyone, any partner at all, would be better than being alone. A back-up, a supporter, that was all she was asking for, he didn’t need to pay the mortgage (although OK, a small contribution would be useful), even if he was just someone to go home to, someone to give the kind of neck rub Roddy had been so good at. Someone who could soothingly remind her, just as Roddy would have done: ‘Hey, it’s only money. They print more of it every day.’
Once she was outside, Annie squeezed her eyes shut and then wiped carefully beneath her lower lashes. Only someone looking very, very closely would have seen the slightest of
smudges there.
Unzipping her handbag, she delved about inside for two small pieces of chewing gum. She popped them into her mouth and crunched down. Sometimes just a little minty blast at the back of the mouth could fend off that choky, tearful feeling completely.
She tied the belt of her raincoat tightly around her, pulled up the collars, then straightened her shoulders and held up her head. A stiff, shiny Valentino trenchcoat, even secondhand via the internet, was so useful for keeping all sorts of troubles at bay.
OK, she resolved, she’d put Svetlana’s handbag up for auction tonight and maybe she’d look into the intriguing information about finding a husband that the billionaire’s wife had left inside.
Chapter Three
Dress-down Dinah:
Swirly blue and green above-the-knee dress (Topshop)
Dark straight jeans (Topshop)
Soft leather rubber-tread boots (Camper)
Green necklace, green sparkly hairclips (Claire’s Accessories)
Pea green leather knee-length coat (Oxfam)
Total est. cost: £185
‘So, ask me where I got my coat?’
‘It could be worse,’ Annie’s younger sister Dinah told her as they surveyed a slimy, slightly mildewed shower curtain dangling by two hooks from a flimsy rail above a bath, possibly last cleaned in the 1990s.
‘It could,’ Annie agreed loudly. ‘If there was a large black, plague-carrying rat sitting on the kitchen floor, for instance, that would be worse.’
‘Shhh!’ Dinah urged. It was just like her to worry about what the estate agent and inhabitants of this sink might overhear. Annie couldn’t care less. This was the ‘exclusive investment opportunity’ she’d got out of bed early on a Sunday to view? What a joke.
She was exploring the possibility of swapping her beautiful, fully renovated home for both a doer-upper and a little buy-to-let, but if this was the quality of the doer-upper she could afford: forget it.