Happily Never After_A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Emma Robinson

  * * *

  The Civic Hall had been decked out with tablecloths and flowers in an attempt to make it seem classy. The seating plan – seems they couldn’t escape the damn things – placed Rory and Nathan quite close to the front of the stage.

  Rory was tearing a piece of bread into small pieces. ‘Do you often have to come to these events?’

  ‘From time to time.’ Nathan looked amused by her bread dissection. ‘Are you going to eat that?’

  Rory put the bread on her plate and looked around. ‘Actually, I’d like some wine. Where is the waiter?’

  On reflection, she probably shouldn’t have started drinking so early. Red wine on an empty stomach was all very well for a night out with the girls, but not so much for an evening engagement with a deputy head she trusted less than the education minister.

  The other people on their table were all from one primary school so, after a brief period of polite conversation, they left Rory and Nathan to entertain themselves. Nathan’s previous employment experience was something of a mystery which, after a fourth glass of wine, Rory decided to investigate. ‘So, what made you leave your last job?’

  Nathan shrugged. ‘I had gone as far as I could there. The new head wasn’t looking to replace his current deputy and I didn’t want to hang around and wait for someone to die.’ Rory hoped he was talking metaphorically. ‘How long have you been at St Anthony’s?’

  ‘Gosh.’ Rory counted on her fingers. She had been there since Belle was one. Was it really that long? ‘Fifteen years this coming September. Although it seems to have gone very quickly.’

  Nathan nodded slowly and sipped his wine – still his first glass. ‘Why are you still just a teacher?’

  Here it was. Rory’s pet career hate. ‘Because being just a teacher is what I want to be. I want to teach kids, not manage other people to teach kids.’ She could never understand why some people seemed desperate to climb the career ladder when it meant leaving the classroom.

  Nathan shook his head. ‘That’s very admirable, I’m sure. But aren’t you bored of that by now?’

  Rory took a gulp of her wine. ‘How can I be bored when people like you keep changing things every year?’

  Nathan raised his glass in recognition of her quick response. ‘All I’m trying to do is ensure we have consistency across the school.’

  That bloody word again. ‘But kids aren’t consistent, are they? They are all different, so the way we teach them must be different. The teaching has to fit the pupils.’

  Nathan wasn’t persuaded. ‘Consistency is the most important thing. At my old school, everyone taught the same lessons and marked in exactly the same way.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit dull and repetitive? Look at Penny, her RE lessons are creative and interesting: pupils love them.’

  ‘Enjoyment is not a priority. Even though it’s only RE, all lessons need to follow the same form as everyone else’s. Students learn better when they know what to expect. When they have routines.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. And RE is important. Penny tackles lots of…’

  Nathan coughed, then put his glass down. ‘It’s inappropriate for us to discuss another member of staff. Anyway, I was hoping to speak to you tonight about a new position we are creating. It’s something I’m… we’re hoping you might be interested in. We need a lead teacher to coach the members of staff who are… How can I put it…?’

  ‘In danger of being fired?’ Four glasses of wine made Rory blunt.

  ‘You could put it that way. You’ll note that I didn’t.’ Nathan paused and took a sip of water. ‘I was thinking that you might be just the person. The staff like you. You’re an excellent teacher.’

  He was praising her again. It was uncomfortable. ‘What are you asking me to do?’

  Nathan pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘If we have concerns about a teacher’s effectiveness, we have to show that we are helping them to improve. It’s not like the real world; we can’t just sack them.’ He looked as if this was a great sadness to him. ‘We need to show that we’ve provided coaching.’

  What did he mean? Was this a genuine job offer to coach other members of staff, so that Rory would have a chance to help her colleagues? Or was it a poisoned chalice? Was she the priest being sent in to read an innocent man his last rites? ‘Are you offering me the job?’

  Nathan tapped his fingertips together and shook his head. ‘There is no job as yet. It’s just something we’re thinking about. Obviously, we would have to make sure we found the right candidate. Would you apply?’

  ‘It would depend on what the job entailed.’ Honestly, it might also depend on how much money he was offering. Finances were a little tight right now and some extra income would be most welcome.

  ‘Well, it would mean that we gave you one or two teachers to work with each term. You would observe their lessons, give them some targets and then check that they were meeting them. Obviously, we would need to reduce your teaching timetable to enable you to do that. We could take your 10-G class from you pretty much straight away.’

  Rory sat up. That was Charlie’s class. ‘I couldn’t give up that class.’

  ‘Of course you could. We’d probably give them to a trainee teacher. It’s only babysitting really, isn’t it? There’s not a hope for a decent grade in that room.’

  Now he was really pushing his luck. ‘I disagree. There’s a couple of kids in there who are doing really well. And anyway, that’s not the point. I like teaching them and they deserve to get good lessons.’

  Nathan leaned back in his seat. ‘But that is you thinking as a classroom teacher. Think how much of a wider impact you could have as a lead teacher. You would be improving lessons for hundreds of pupils; not just those twenty. If I had stayed a classroom teacher, I would not have had one tenth of the impact I am having now.’ If Rory imagined his ‘impact’ as being similar to that of a nuclear bomb, she’d be forced to agree. ‘Just think about it over the half term holiday.’

  Rory drained the last of her glass. She didn’t really need anything else to think about over the holiday. Particularly as she was supposed to be fitting a complete kitchen, and she didn’t want to ask John Prince to help.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The entire sitting room was taken up with cardboard boxes. What was the collective noun for boxes? A pack of boxes? An Amazon? A bloody mess?

  Call Me Adrian’s delivery friends had made several trips back and forth to their large van to bring in the flat-packed kitchen units. The man who seemed to be in charge had given Rory a large delivery note and she had attempted to cross off each item as they brought it in. Very quickly, the combination of serial numbers and box sizes had confused her completely and she had resorted to pretending to tick things rather than admit she was lost.

  The whole process was made even more difficult because she had no voice. It was typical to get ill at the end of term, and what had started as a sore throat had now left her barely audible. So, when the man in charge asked her – for the third time – if she was really intending to put this kitchen together on her own, she was only able to nod rather than quote chapters from Caitlin Moran. Probably a good thing.

  Now she was sitting on the front step with a cup of tea, psyching herself up to go in and get started. Belle was out for the day and Charlie was with his mum. John had offered to come and help her but, after the parents’ evening epiphany, Rory did not want to be another single mum in a list of his charity cases. Just thinking about it made her blush. How had she misread the signs so badly? Idiot.

  It was cold outside, but Rory’s face was burning. Was her sore throat the beginning of flu or was she still hot from pulling the boxes around to check that she hadn’t missed anything on the list? It was more likely to be flu because her face was hot, but her body was cold. She had the throw from the couch on her lap and had wrapped it around her legs like an old woman. Or a geriatric mermaid. She nodded ‘hello’ at one of her neighbours – motioning to her mouth and
shaking her head to explain why she didn’t speak.

  Then a familiar white van pulled up outside the house.

  ‘Morning. Did I get here in time?’

  Rory’s lack of voice reduced her to holding out her hands and doing her best ‘quizzical’ face – a la Marcel Marceau. She’d had plenty of practise over the years with 10-G.

  John scratched his nose. ‘The kitchen? It’s being delivered today? Your mum called me and said that they’d made a mistake and it was coming today after all.’

  If Rory had had a working larynx, she would have growled. She should never have given Sheila his number. Putting up some picture frames, indeed. How had she not seen that Sheila had an ulterior motive?

  Rory nodded in the direction of the house, pointing to her throat and shaking her head.

  ‘Oh! You’ve lost your voice?’ He grinned. ‘That explains why you didn’t call me yourself.’

  Rory shook her head as she walked through to the sitting room. Where could she find a notepad and pen under these damn boxes?

  John whistled. ‘That’s a lot of cabinets. They don’t seem to be in any order. Did they not put them in groups of the same? Where’s your delivery note?’

  The delivery note! Rory could write on the back of that. Finding it, she scribbled: It’s okay. You don’t need to help.

  John leaned forwards to read it and laughed. Then he saw the look on her face and coughed to hide it. ‘Just let me stay and get you started. It’s no trouble, honestly.’

  Rory started to write again and then stopped. Who was she kidding? She had no idea where to start with this lot. And now her head was beginning to throb. She scribbled again.Thanks. I appreciate it. But I WILL pay you.

  John shrugged. ‘Yeah, whatever you want. Now give me that delivery note.’

  * * *

  John was so fast at putting cupboards together. Rory had just about finished one in the time it had taken him to do three. He tried to take hers when she was struggling to push a dowel in, but she pulled it away from him with a scowl of disapproval. She might not be as capable as Chris, the perfect plumber, but she could shove a damn dowel into a damn hole. Eventually.

  John just laughed. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you remind me a lot of my mum.’

  Great. Just what every woman wants, to be compared to someone’s mother.

  ‘She was a strong woman, too. Really determined.’

  Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

  ‘Had to be, really. My dad left when she found out she was pregnant, and her parents didn’t help much.’

  John pulled over another box and tore it open. Rory leaned over and wrote on it: You must have helped?

  John pulled the box away from its contents in one swift movement. ‘Yeah, when I grew up. I was a bit of a bugger when I was younger.’

  He started to arrange the pieces of cupboard in front of him. He had a definite process with each one. He laid everything out in the order he would need it, including the screws and dowels. Then he became a mini production line. It was soothing to watch.

  ‘Wish I’d been able to help her more, really. Although she did get to see me start the business before she passed away. She was dead proud. You know what mothers are like.’ He smiled up at Rory, then went back to his work.

  Rory knew exactly. She had albums full of Belle’s childhood creations to prove it. She picked up her pen again.You like helping people?

  ‘I s’pose I do.’

  They continued to work in silence. John wasn’t a talker and Rory couldn’t. Usually that wouldn’t have been a problem. But today, there was something nagging at her.

  You’ve helped a lot of single mothers? She tapped at the cardboard to get his attention.

  John shrugged. ‘I guess so. I see them on their own with their kids and I remember what it was like. If I can help them out by charging what they can afford, I do.’

  This was very admirable. But memories of Fiona’s mother’s face made Rory uncharitable. She felt hot again. There was a burning in her chest.

  What about the single dads? She wrote.

  John laughed. ‘I’d help the single dads too, but there seem to be less of them who have the kids living with them. And they’re usually too proud to ask another man for help.’

  Too proud? Were women not proud, then? Did he think she had no pride? Rory felt hotter and hotter. And it wasn’t just because she was unwell.

  John paused and frowned. ‘Are you okay? You’ve gone very red.’

  Rory nodded. She didn’t have enough room on the cardboard to tell him how she felt right now. Did he think he was some kind of saviour to these women? As if they weren’t completely capable of doing these things themselves. Like this kitchen. She hadn’t asked for his help. Well, her mum had, but that was not Rory’s fault. Rory’s head swam. She stopped hammering and took a deep breath.

  John tapped the small corner cupboard he had just put together. ‘Shall we put this one up? See what it looks like?’

  He was up and holding the cupboard against the wall before Rory could get to her feet. There was no way she was going to admit she wasn’t up to this. But she wasn’t. Her legs felt so heavy. Within seconds of standing, her vision blurred and her legs went out from under her.

  ‘Rory!’ John let the cupboard slip to the floor and crouched down beside her. ‘Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?’

  John held onto Rory’s arms and looked into her eyes. He had very deep blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Must not look at them.

  Rory closed her eyes and opened her mouth. ‘Fine. Flu.’ She managed to squeak.

  John slipped an arm around her back. ‘I’ll carry you to the sofa.’

  Rory jerked in alarm. She would have to be dying before she’d let him pick her up. She managed to scrabble herself into standing. The ground swayed beneath her feet.

  John helped her into the sitting room and pulled the last few boxes from the sofa before helping her to lie down. He brought her some water and then hovered over her. Rory closed her eyes.

  ‘I’ll go back to the kitchen and carry on; I’ll come back and check on you.’

  Rory kept her eyes closed but shook her head. Even that small movement was painful. She managed to squeeze out a couple of sounds. ‘No. Go.’

  ‘It’s fine. I really don’t…’

  Rory opened her eyes. ‘Please. Go.’

  ‘But, Rory…’

  Rory propped herself up on her elbows and croaked, ‘I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own.’ She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘I didn’t even ask you to come here today. And now you won’t leave. How many times do I have to say that I don’t need your help? Just go.’

  She closed her eyes again and listened as John walked back to the kitchen and packed away his tools. Her throat tightened even further. She was being unreasonable. Acting like a child, even. But she couldn’t let him see her like this. She wasn’t a charity case who needed helping. She shouldn’t have let him do so much. That had never been her plan. And if she had fooled herself into thinking that there might be something more… Well, that was her own stupid fault and she needed to get back to the way things were. Standing on her own two feet.

  John crept back into the sitting room. ‘I’ll be off, then. Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

  Rory held up an arm and waved. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t write. All she wanted was to curl up in a ball and feel better.

  The front door slammed shut.

  * * *

  Rory was in bed for the whole of the next day. Susie brought over some whisky to make a hot toddy and, when Rory woke up, Susie was sitting on the end of her bed, sipping at it.

  ‘So, you are alive. How are you feeling?’

  Rory tried to push herself up into sitting but the effort was too much. ‘A bit better. The paracetamol seems to be working and my voice is much better. Where are Belle and Charlie?’

  Susie took another sip of the whisky. ‘Charlie went out with Harry. Belle
is in her room doing her half-term homework.’

  Rory’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

  Susie put the whisky tumbler on the side table. ‘Of course not! How drugged up are you? She’s gone out.’

  When Belle was sick, Rory would cook all her favourite foods and make her a bed on the couch so she could sit and watch her favourite programmes. What did Rory get in return? Nothing.

  ‘No one wants to look after me, then?’

  ‘I’m here, you ungrateful moo.’ Susie prodded her through the quilt with a shiny red fingernail. Her face was made up, too. Was she on her way somewhere?

  ‘You look nice.’

  Susie arched an eyebrow. ‘Compared to you right now, anyone would look good. Tell me you didn’t let the dashing John Prince see you like this?’

  Oh, no. The way she’d treated John yesterday! Where had that come from? There was only so much she could blame on the flu. Rory pulled the duvet up over her reddening face.

  Thankfully, Susie didn’t notice. ‘I’m meeting Jim after I’ve checked on you. I’m hoping we might actually go out somewhere if I’m dolled up.’

  Rory pulled the duvet away from her face. ‘What do you mean?’

  Susie picked up a cushion from the bottom of the bed and held it on her lap, smoothing it over. ‘We don’t seem to do anything. All he wants to do is hang around my place; says he prefers it to the place he’s staying in. Not that I’ve ever seen it.’

  Rory managed to wriggle upwards a little. ‘Forgive me for being forward, but I thought you enjoyed hanging out at your place.’

  Susie threw the cushion at her. ‘We don’t even do that. He says he’s tired all the time. Just wants to lie on my sofa and drink beer.’

  Even through her paracetamol daze, Rory was annoyed by this. She knew that Dragon Man had been a bad choice the first time she’d met him. How dare he treat her lovely friend like this? ‘You can’t put up with that. Does he not even talk to you?’

  Susie retrieved the cushion and recommenced stroking it. ‘That’s the weird thing. When we do talk, he just wants to ask about my job, the school and…’