Rebecca didn’t join in with the collective laughter. In fact, she experienced a burning desire to stick her pen in Julie’s Wonderbra enhanced breasts. The bell rang out, saving her from a possible prison sentence.
“Lunch. Great.” Emma stuffed her books into her so unsuitable Gucci knock-off bag. “Are you coming to Shakes? I really can’t handle another school cafeteria shrivelled sandwich. Peter and Simon are buying. It’s Simon’s birthday. He’s twelve, I think.”
“Ah, I wondered why the sudden interest in the twit twins.” Rebecca pulled out a term’s supply of essays. “You are such a mercenary bitch, Brown. You’ll do anything for a free lunch.”
“Naturally. So, are you in?” Emma shuffled out of the bench seat. “I wonder if we can sneak into the King’s Arms. I fancy a Martini.”
“I don’t know why.” Rebecca joined her in the aisle. “You’ve never tasted one. I’ll catch up. I have something to do.”
Emma’s x-ray vision zeroed in on the rolled up sheaf of A4. “Never let it be said Rebecca Harding is a coward. See you later.” Blowing a kiss, she sauntered out of the door.
Left alone with him, panic set up home in her stomach, joining forces with the squadron of butterflies that had, once again, taken to flight. Hitching her bag onto her shoulder, she walked to the front of the room.
Hunched over a pile of open exercise books, Mr. J. frowned, red pen in hand, slashing at the pages with Musketeer fervour.
“So, how are you feeling?” He continued slashing. “You look tired. You should have stayed at home.”
She wished he’d look at her. “I tried.” She tugged at the end of her plait, resisting the urge to chew on it. “But....I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to give you these.”
At last, he looked up. Re-capping his pen, he tilted his chair back and folded his hands behind his head. The way he looked at her…it was as if he’d shed his teacher mantle and, once again, slipped into the role of her new best friend, protector of all her secrets and saviour of her soul.
“Ah, the elusive essays.” He returned to upright position, green eyes dancing with merriment. He took the bundle of coffee-stained and Wally chewed A4 papers from her trembling fingers. “Fine. I’ll read through them and get back to you.”
The teacher mitre settled firmly back in place. Aiming for nonchalant, she concentrated on zipping up her bag. “I’m sorry they’re in a mess but Wally—never mind.” She felt such a fool for thinking their relationship had changed. Without another word, she made to leave.
“Rebecca…”
His gentle call halted her in her tracks. Hand on the door handle and her heart somewhere between stomach and lungs, she turned.
“It’s okay.” The tender expression in his eyes and warm smile lit up her world. “We’re okay.”
Nodding her understanding, she left.
* * * *
“Hey, Becs. Over here.” Mouth stuffed with pizza, Emma waved at her from the corner of Shakes. “I ordered mushroom and pepperoni. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Bit late if I do.” Rebecca grunted before sidling over next to Simon. “Happy birthday. I didn’t know. Otherwise I’d have bought you some crayons or something.”
“Now, now. Don’t upset him.” Emma wiped at her tomato stained chin. “He’s promised us cheesecake after this.”
“And she wonders why she’ll never make a top model.” Rebecca swiped the last slice of pizza.” Cramming it into her mouth, she noticed Peter studying her with this new intense stare he seemed to have been working on. She wondered if he thought it made him sexy. Okay, he did have nice eyes, but he could hardly pull off the Daniel Craig sex smoulder. Even she melted under that.
“So,” Emma broke the moment, “did the Sydney Sex God blast you out again? Talking of which, Peter has some reeeeelly juicy goss about him and someone, and you’ll never guess who?”
“Skippy?” Concentrating on her iced tea, Rebecca feigned disinterest although her pulse raced so fast it would have shamed a cheetah.
“Hah, hah, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, you know.” Emma extracted her straw from her juice and flicked it at her. “Seriously now, it’s Miss Holmes. Peter said he saw them out together last night.”
Rebecca’s pizza slice hovered in mid-air, grilled cheese sliding off onto the red-chequered table cloth. “When? I mean why?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Emma scoffed. “God, that woman is sooo obvious. Apparently, she’s offered to help out with drama club costumes blah blah.” Emma hooked her fingers into quotation marks. “Meaning she is so desperate to shag Mr. J., which is totally gross. She probably set up a ‘business’ meeting with him. Peter saw them in Cedars last night.”
Rebecca suddenly lost her appetite. Cedars was the most expensive restaurant in town, the kind of establishment folk went to for special occasions: romantic occasions. “And just what where you doing in Cedars?” She wiped her greasy fingers on Emma’s scrunched up napkin. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Peter. More like she didn’t want to believe him.
“It was my parents’ anniversary. We were just paying the bill, and they came in together. It was pretty late, but hey, maybe they were hungry after an evening of hot sex.” Peter laid the scene bare before her.
“Oh, so not fair,” Emma sighed.
“My God, listen to you all.” Rebecca tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled gurgle. “There is no way you can tell it was a ‘hot’ date. Even with your amazing gossip managerial skills, Emma, you cannot know that.”
“He-llo.” Emma rapped on Rebecca’s skull with her knuckles. “Miss Holmes has been trying to get her claws into him since day one.”
Rebecca couldn’t dispute this; the staff room convo she overheard gave too much bloody credibility to Em’s theory.
Miss Holmes had never been one of her favourite teachers. They’d gone head to head many occasions, especially since year eight when Rebecca broke into the school lab and released all the frogs into the wild.
“What’s up with you?” Emma nudged her. “Bloody hell, talk of the devil. Would you just look at that?”
From their window booth, they had a clear view of the high Street. Rebecca’s breath remained on hold as she saw Mr. J. and the slim, blonde biology teacher saunter out of the King’s Arms. Miss Holmes linked her arm through his and sashayed—there was no other word for it—at Mr. J.’s side. Laughing at something she said, he opened the passenger door of his BMW. Her hand resting on his shoulder in a blatant predatory fashion, Miss Holmes leaned in and whispered in his ear.
“I bet she’s saying your place or mine.” Simon whistled in awe. “God, she’s hot, don’t you think, Pete?
Peter nodded.
“She’s a slapper.” Emma gasped. “Did you see that? She’s so brazen. She just rubbed her tits in his face.” Sure enough the ample breasts just about skimmed their teacher’s nose. Why Miss Holmes’s barefaced flirting bothered her so, she didn’t know, but it did. Rebecca wanted to walk up and slap her silly face.
“I think I am going to throw up.” Emma stuck two fingers into her mouth and pretended to barf. “It’s so gross. She’s got to be at least thirty.” Emma giggled. “Poor Mr. Lloyd. I bet he’s pissed. He’s been after her for years.”
“You know what? You’re all giving me a headache.” Rebecca pressed her fingertips into the sides of her head. “I think I made a mistake. I don’t feel better at all. I’m going home.”
“But what about rehearsals? If you don’t let Mr. Hurst know you want the part, he’ll give it to Vicky. How can you live with that?”
Emma put up a good argument; her sister would become more unbearable than she already was, but that was preferable to spending the next six weeks watching Miss Holmes fawn over— What was she thinking? What business was it of hers?
Chapter Fourteen
“Did you know, Wally, that more suicides are committed in winter than any other season?”
Wally whined in agreement. He and the cold did
not marry well.
Rebecca perched on the study bay window seat, knees drawn up under her chin as she stared out at the winter wonderland scene. According to the BBC weatherman, Britain was experiencing its heaviest snowfall in years. Rebecca didn’t buy it; they spewed out the same rubbish every year.
She watched her father and Jack put together a lop-sided snowman. Vicky would go ballistic. Jack had ‘borrowed’ her new ultra chic and expensive beret. Resting her chin in her palm, she supposed she could go out and join them, if only to referee. No doubt the annual scarf fracas would soon erupt. Jack was a die-hard Man U fan while her dad was true blue Chelsea all the way. She wondered which team Mr. J. supported. She wondered a lot of things about him—like why hadn’t he called her in to arrange the promised extra tutoring?
Rebecca pulled her knees in tighter to her chest. She knew why. He was too busy squiring Miss Bimbo Holmes around town. According to Emma and Vicky—the most cunning spy since Mata Hari—they were inseparable. Okay, it wasn’t as if they made out in the school corridors, but everywhere she turned, she saw them walking together, deep in conversation, Miss Holmes’s irritating hyena laugh rising above school break time mayhem, which showed how high-pitched and loud it was.
Rebecca couldn’t understand the attraction. So, she was pretty in a Lady Di sort of way, but she was a scientist, for goodness sake. What on earth did they talk about? The closest she probably got to literature was reading out the names in her class register. On the other hand, Mr. J.’s fiancée was an archaeologist, so maybe he went for the non-intellectual type—which brought her back to the next internal debate. How could he date Miss Holmes if he was engaged? Rebecca desperately wanted to ask Emma’s opinion on that one, but how would she explain her inside knowledge?
Her mother chose that moment to bustle in, dragging her killer vacuum behind her. “Becky, you’re still here? You’ve been sitting there for hours. It’s the weekend. Go out and have some fun. Go and help your father and Jack. They’re fighting again.”
“Mum, I am not five.” Rebecca swapped a here-she-goes-again sigh with Wally.
“So where is Emma today?” Her mother shooed her off her perch. “And will you stop letting your dog sit up here. I just had it recovered. He stinks.”
“Why is it when he is smelly or bad, he’s my dog,” Rebecca grumbled. “And to answer your question, Emma has gone to visit her grandmother. Apparently she is close to popping her clogs, and Emma is hoping for a substantial chunk of the assets.”
“That girl is so mercenary.”
“Oh, but wise in so many ways.” Rebecca grinned
“You know Peter has called several times.” Done arranging the cushions in synchronised-swimming formation, her mum sprayed the air with a lethal concoction of water, bleach, and citrus oil. She claimed it killed all known germs. “Why don’t you go and do something with him? He seems such a nice boy.”
“What do you suggest? I think we’ve got past the stage of playing house, and please don’t start on the boyfriend thing. I am not Vicky. Ensnaring a rich man is not high on my list of interesting things to do with my life.”
“I am not asking you to marry him.” In her frustration, she sprayed above Wally’s head, and a cloud of toxic mist engulfed him. With a sneeze of monster whale proportions, he shot out the room, feet slipping and sliding in all directions across the newly buffed parquet flooring.
“Mum?”
Bad timing. They screamed in unison. “Vicky, the bloody door!”
Too late. Wally made his big break for freedom and his one true love.
“You are such a klutz, Vick.” Pushing her red-nosed sibling out of the way, Rebecca dashed out into the snow after him. “Get back here, you over-sexed mongrel!”
Wally, as per usual, ignored her. “That’s it,” she muttered, trudging through the six-inch snow blanket, wiping new falling flakes from her mouth and nose. “Doggy training for you, followed by a quick nut removing ceremony.” It was then she remembered Mrs. Baird and Crufts champion poodle lived at the bottom of the next cul-de-sac—three doors down from Mr. J.
The cold bit into her bare hands and stung her cheeks as she followed Wally’s saucer size paw prints. “Where are you, you bloody mutt,” she moaned between chattering teeth. “Get back here or…oh God, no.”
A dog on a mission, Wally kept up a brisk zigzag pace, stopping every ten seconds to mark his territory, peeing up and on everything, including Mr. J.’s gleaming BMW 330d. Rebecca hid behind a set of blue recycling bins, wondering if it was possible to recycle a dog. Silently, she willed her not-so-best-friend dog to keep going. Being sued by Mrs. Baird was preferable to Mr. J. catching her skulking outside his house.
Nose to the ground, Wally picked up a scent and crouching down into reconnaissance dog mode, he shuffled forward and disappeared into a gap between two conifers. “No, no, no.” Stamping her feet to ward off possible frostbite, Rebecca wanted to cry. She couldn’t even whistle. Her lips were too numb. “Wally…” She managed a croak. From behind the line of regimented evergreens, she heard him snuffling around like a demented boar on a truffle hunt. She hoped he hadn’t sniffed out a cat. Wally and cats didn’t mix well. Her wimpy dog invariably came off worse. Oh well, let the chips fall. Sprinting from her look-out post, she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled through the space into Mr. J.’s front garden. “You are so dead when I get you home.” With rugby tackle finesse, she lunged at him and grabbed his collar.
“Rebecca Harding? Do you have a death wish? What is it with you and the cold?”
With Wally caught in her half-nelson attack, she stared at two black jean-clad legs.
“Oh, hello.” Okay, not the world’s most original answer, but she was stumped. With practised dexterity, she clipped the lead to Wally’s collar. “I’m so sorry. My ditsy sister left the door open again, and he legged it. Bloody idiot. My dog, I mean…not you.”
Shaking his head and sighing, he held out his hand and helped her up. “Ah the illustrious Wally. We meet at last.” Crouching down, he ruffled Wally’s ears in the way her traitorous hound adored.
Once again, Rebecca marvelled at the ease with which he handled animals. “I’m sorry if he’s damaged anything. I’ll pay.”
Straightening up, he dazzled her with his smile. “No harm done—except you look as if you’re about to turn into an ice-sculpture. Come on.”
“Come on?” Rebecca went into automatic shut down. “Where?”
“Inside, of course. You may be used to the Day after Tomorrow set up, but I am a red-blooded Aussie. I am freezing my bollocks off, here. Time for some of my wicked hot chocolate, I believe.”
Rebecca remained rooted to the spot. He’d actually said bollocks?
“Hurry up then.” Hands on hips, he studied her, expression bemused.
“Oh, yes… I mean I can’t. I have to take Wally home, or else he’ll—”
“Bring him.”
“But he’s all muddy.”
“Miss Harding, will you stop arguing with me and come inside? I grew up on a farm. A little mutt mud is not going to kill me. Come on, Wally.” He prized the lead from her hand and with one tongue click and a lead tug, he brought Wally to heel.
Rebecca gaped in awe. Wally hadn’t walked to heel in all the years she’d had him. Breaking into a trot, she followed the two new best buddies out of the garden and up the stone steps.
“Do you always run round in your slippers?” Frowning, he looked down at her feet. “No, don’t answer that. I have given up expecting the normal from you. There’s a towel on the rail in the bathroom. Go and dry your feet, and there’s a pair of my slippers on the shoe rack behind the door. I’ll see to pooch, here. Come on, mate.” Whistling to Wally, they disappeared into the kitchen.
“This is completely nuts.” Stomach churning over with the ferocity of a cement mixer, Rebecca headed for the bathroom. “And some weird déjà vu.”
Ten minutes on and with all her toes thankfully still attached to her
feet, she shuffled into the living room to find Wally dozing by a roaring log fire, legs sprawled out flat in all directions and Mr. J. sitting on the sofa, head buried in what looked like—oh hell—her essays. Two mugs lay on the coffee table from which aromatic steam rose into the air.
“Ah.” He looked up and showered her in that smile again. “Just in time. Hot chocky’s ready. Wally couldn’t wait. Sit.”
“You gave him hot chocolate?” Picking up a mug, Rebecca sat as far away from him as she could.
“Well, I did ask, and he told me it would be okay.” A rakish grin stretched his strong features. “I left out the brandy top up though. I am not that irresponsible.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She sipped at her brew and then spluttered. Heat rushed to her face.
“Now I didn’t say I left out it out of yours. You looked as if you needed it.” Throwing back his head, he laughed.
Rebecca’s gaze fixed on his smooth, brown throat. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him there. Shit—what was she thinking? Not straight, for sure. Time to jump out of the whirlpool on to safe ground. Clearing her throat, she cast a feigned disinterested eye at the pile of A4 in his hand. “Are those my essays?”
“Sure are.” With an infuriating evasive smile, he stacked the papers and placed them on the coffee table.
“And?” She forgot to be cool.
“And some are A-worthy, some not.”
Rebecca wondered if she’d drunk too much brandy. Rebecca Harding never scored less than A. She felt like a tyre with a slow puncture. “Oh…okay.” He didn’t know it, but this was a first. If it had been anyone else, she would have thrown a hissy fit.
“I’m sorry.” He grinned.” I couldn’t resist it. When you get mad, your nostrils flare. Okay, joke over. Some A-worthy, the rest A plus.”
“Very funny.” She avoided his searching gaze, knowing her cheeks glowed and not only from the fierce heat kicked out by the fire.
“But we must strive for A plus plus.”
“There is no such thing,” she shot back, her heart hammering out a joyous beat.
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