‘What happened to the two-pound coin I put in your pocket on Friday?’
‘I spent it on a Year Three sweet sale. They were selling gigantic marshmallows.’ Tom’s arms shoot outwards, to demonstrate (or exaggerate) just how big these sweets were.
I grab my bag from under the desk, and retrieve my purse. Just as I’m rummaging for a couple of pound coins, the security system notifies me that there is a person coming through the double gates. They’ve been stuck open ever since we had a delivery of toilet supplies first thing this morning, though I’m assured that they will be fixed by the time I leave at one. I squint at the monitor to see who the visitor is, and my breath catches in my throat.
It can’t be.
But it is.
Simon Travis saunters up the middle of the driveway as though he owns the place. My muscles stiffen and my mouth falls open at the sight of him on the screen. What the hell is he doing here? I have no idea, but I thank God (or the security firm) that we have an electronic lock on the door. There’s no way he’s coming in here.
Just as I’m preparing to dive under the desk and ignore the inevitable buzz of the doorbell, one of the cleaners comes out of the toilets and heads straight for the front door. Before I can stop her, she releases the lock just as Simon reaches the entrance. He smiles and stands back to allow her to pass.
‘Mum! Please can I have the money? The Year Four teacher says that everything will be sold out by lunchtime, and we’re about to go into assembly!’
Shit, for a split second I had forgotten that my son was standing in front of me. He needs to be gone. He needs to be gone now!! I grab a five-pound note from my purse and stuff it into his hand.
‘Take this, okay? Buy Charlie something as well.’
Tom squeals, and he stares at the note as though it’s made of gold.
‘Wow, thank you! I can get the biggest cream cake with this!’ He grabs his friend and the two of them sprint from the reception and head down the corridor, muttering about how many cupcakes they could buy for five whole pounds.
They have just left when Simon appears in the foyer, held captive between two electronic doors; one leading to the outside, and the other to the inside. Although the cleaner should never have let him in, he can’t enter the main school without my consent. However, from where he stands, he does have a clear view of me, sitting just feet away behind a sheet of glass.
I try to keep the fear from my face, as I stare up at the father of my child. He smiles, points at the mechanism that opens the window, and then waggles his finger in an effort to get me to release it. Instead, I speak to him through the security panel in the glass.
‘Can I help you?’
Simon laughs.
‘Is that an invitation?’
He winks, and bile leaps into my throat. He always was a dirty bastard. My knees knock against the bottom of my counter, and I push down on them with as much force as I can muster. Still they move, but at least from the waist up I seem calm.
‘Are you here on some kind of official business? If not, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Well, I’m not here to pick up a child, if that’s what you mean. My days of being old enough to have primary school kids are long over.’
My stomach lurches, and I think if only he knew… If only he knew.
Does he know?
‘Please can you leave. I can’t have you in my workplace.’ The sternness of my voice shocks me, but by the look on Simon’s face, he’s amused by it. I need this man to leave. I need him to get out of here before Tom runs back to my desk with his cupcake or whatever he needed the money for.
‘Simon!! You found us okay, then?’ The voice of our principal, Margaret Holmes, comes booming down the corridor. Margaret likes to think she is in the 1960s, with her long, golden (though going grey) hair, and her never-ending supply of kaftans and flared trousers. Firmly in the Generation X category, Margaret is a flower-power hippie on the outside, and hard as nails on the inside.
My ex-lover waves at her through the glass door, and two seconds later, the principal pushes the interior button and he’s inside.
‘Hey, Margaret! How’s your day going?’
Simon beams at the principal. They must have met before. But where?
‘I’m very well, thank you. Thanks again for agreeing to come in for our careers week. The children are used to having talks from doctors or hairdressers, so it’ll make a nice change to hear about marketing.’
‘You’re very welcome. No problem at all.’
Margaret points to the visitors’ book.
‘Just pop your signature into the book, and Charlotte will give you a badge.’
Simon flashes me a smile, but it’s more of a sneer. He leans over and signs the book, and I hand him a badge. His hand lingers a little too long, and he manages to brush his thumb against mine as he backs away.
‘Thank you, Charlotte,’ he says. He unzips his jacket and pins the badge to his shirt pocket. I feel a lump in my throat, but I swallow it down. I must not let him see that I’m bothered by him. I must not.
I watch as Margaret and Simon Travis saunter off down the corridor, towards the hall. In the distance I can hear the familiar sound of children chattering as they pile into assembly. We’ve been doing these career talks for several weeks now, and I knew they had all manner of people – parents mainly – booked in, but never did I think one of the speakers would be the father of my child.
Wait!
The blood drains from my face and pools around my shoulders, as I realise that my son – our son – will be one of those eager little humans, waiting for Simon to tell them about his career. I swallow hard. What if Simon sees him? What if he recognises him somehow? I’m told all the time that Tom looks just like me, but there are moments when he’ll smile and I’ll think of Simon. That lopsided grin that he has, was shared with his son.
I hang around reception long enough to hear the last chain of children trundle towards the hall, and then the familiar cries of ‘Shush!’ as they enter and take their places on the floor or gym benches. When the hall door clunks shut, I turn the reception phone onto silent mode, and then dart out of my little booth.
I walk about ten feet, before I’m met by Annie Wells, carrying her class register.
‘Here’s the register, Charlotte,’ she says, and then thrusts the folder towards me.
‘Thank you, Annie,’ I reply. ‘Now, hurry to the hall, or you’ll be late for assembly.’
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘My teacher told me I had plenty of time.’
I clutch the register to my chest, and follow Annie as she skips towards the hall. She pushes against the heavy door, and four hundred kids look up at her as she makes her entrance. When the door closes again, I move forward and gaze through the little window at the top, staying at an angle so that I have a direct view of the stage, but nobody else should be able to see me.
Simon Travis is being introduced by Margaret, and from my place behind the door, I can just about hear what she’s saying.
‘I’d like you all to give a big Bromfield welcome to our special guest. Today we have Mr Simon Travis, who has come to talk to us about his job in something called marketing. Does anyone know what that is?’
A hundred tiny hands shoot up, and Margaret points to one.
‘Is it someone who works on the market?’ asks a boy from Year One. The older children snigger, while everyone else stays silent and waits for the answer.
‘No,’ says Margaret, ‘it’s not someone who works on a market. But that was a terrific answer, Jacob, so well done. I won’t bore you with my explanation of what someone in marketing does, because I’m sure Mr Travis can explain it much better. So please clap loud and proud for our special guest. Mr Travis, over to you!’
Margaret steps back, as the hall breaks into applause. Simon thanks the principal and then dives into an inane talk about his work. Some of the children gawp at him with their mouths open, while others
whisper to their friends, and teachers tell them to be quiet. At the back of the hall, my son, Tom, sits on the gym benches with his classmates. It’s their turn to feel important and grown-up in the ‘big kids’ area, instead of sitting on the floor with the younger kids. He stares at the stranger in front of him, and seems to soak in everything he says.
Tears sting my eyes when I think of how the speaker is his father… His father who didn’t want him, and cannot ever know about him. Will Tom remember this encounter years down the line? Will he be aware of the man who came to talk to them about his career in marketing? Will this talk sow a seed and Tom will follow his father into that line of work? Will he hold it against me that I never introduced them today? Or any day?
So many questions.
With no immediate answers.
‘Excuse me, are you waiting to go in?’
I swing round and see Linda Turner, a permanently offended teacher from Year Two, standing behind me with her arms crossed. Linda looks like a matron from a Carry On film, though I’m told she was a local beauty queen back in the day. Her clothes are always earth tones of brown and green, and mainly woollen and musty-smelling. But the weird thing about Linda is that although her fashion sense is drab and meaningless, her hair is always adorned with a colourful slide in the shape of a flower. She wears a different one every day, and today’s specimen is a scarlet rose, with electric-blue tips. Where does she buy these things? Rumour is that she makes them all on the weekend, but I don’t dare ask her if that’s true.
Linda has been here since 1983, but although she thinks she is senior to everyone in the building, in reality she’s never been promoted. She’s coming up for retirement, but despite the fact that I’ve worked here for five years myself, she always talks to me as though I’m a newcomer. I guess if you haven’t been here for thirty-odd years, you just don’t count.
‘No, I’m not waiting,’ I say, and I step away from the door so that she can enter.
‘I noticed there was someone waiting for you at reception,’ she says, poking her grey shoulder-length hair behind her ear. ‘Maybe you should go and see what she wants.’
The door whooshes shut behind Linda, and I hurry back to my desk. There I deal with a little girl with a poorly knee, and then I leave a rambling message on Zach’s answer machine. Three minutes later he calls me back.
‘Hey! Are you okay? What do you mean Simon is in the school?’
I sigh and hold my hand to my forehead. It feels hot and clammy. Am I coming down with something? I have no idea.
‘I mean just that,’ I say. ‘He came in as an assembly speaker. He’s talking to the kids right now! What if Tom recognises him? What then?’
Zach rustles some papers on the other end of the line, and I can almost hear him rolling his eyes.
‘Will you calm down? Tom is not going to recognise Simon. He has no idea who he is, other than some old guy coming to talk about jobs. It’s all fine. Just breathe, and for goodness’ sake, don’t let Tom see that you’re freaking out. Okay?’
I hold my head in my hand, and try to steady my breathing.
‘I’ll try,’ I say, and then I bid my friend goodbye.
5
It’s 1pm and I’ve just handed over my job to Amy, the afternoon receptionist.
‘Did I miss anything important this morning?’ she asks.
‘No, not a thing,’ I lie.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘What’s that they say? Same crap, different day? Yeah, that’s what you missed.’
Amy grabs a tube of bright-red lipstick out of her handbag and runs it over her lips, from side to side.
‘Sounds fabulous,’ she says, and then snaps the lid back onto the lipstick. ‘Have a great afternoon. At least it’s not raining.’
‘You too.’ I grab my handbag from under the desk and take one last look up the corridor. The last I saw Simon Travis, he and Margaret were having a working lunch with three other teachers, in the meeting room. I had to carry in a tray of sandwiches and treats supplied from the local bakery, and could feel Simon’s eyes trailing me from one end of the room to the other. I never looked at him, and I’m proud of myself for that.
I sling my handbag over my shoulder and press the interior button. The door swooshes open, and just as I’m about to step through, a familiar voice comes at me from down the hall.
‘Hold the door,’ Simon shouts, and for a second, I wonder what would happen if I just let it close onto him. Would he be mushed up like one of those cartoon characters that Tom still laughs at? It would be nothing less than he deserves.
I hold my hand on the door, and the sensor beeps at me in disgust.
‘Thanks!’ Simon piles through, and adds a hasty scribble to the visitors’ book. ‘You want this?’ He flashes his visitors’ badge at me, and I shake my head.
‘I’m on my way out,’ I say. ‘You can leave it on the ledge there.’
Simon throws the badge onto the wooden windowsill, but Amy is too busy examining her eyebrows to notice. It’s none of my business, so I keep on walking. The low sun hits me as I exit the school, but the crisp autumn air means it holds no warmth whatsoever. I hold my coat around me and hurry up the drive, trying to get away from the sound of Simon’s footsteps, right behind me.
‘Wait! Hold up! It would be nice to catch up with you. It must be like what? Eleven years since we saw each other? Twelve?’
‘It’s ten and a half,’ I say. How could he forget that?
‘If you want to be pedantic, you could always say it’s been a matter of days, since we bumped into each other in Waterstones on Friday.’
I look up at him and he flashes that awful smile of his. Too confident, too self-assured… He’s a legend in his own lunchtime.
‘Funny how we haven’t seen each other in a decade, and we bump into each other twice in the space of three days, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, it’s hilarious.’
He trots beside me in an effort to keep up, but I’m going so quickly it looks like I’m training for a marathon.
‘Hey, don’t walk so fast. It would be great to catch up with you for a while. Where are you parked? I’m in the car park next to the post office. If you’re there too, we could walk together.’
I turn to tell him that I don’t need him to walk me to my car, that my car is in the garage of my house, just a mile or so away, but I manage to stop myself at the last moment. I don’t need him to know where I live. That’s the last thing in the world I need.
‘How have you been? You look terrific by the way.’
I ignore Simon’s attempts at flattery and instead, point down towards the row of shops, at the end of the street.
‘I’m going to the post office,’ I say. ‘And then I have a dentist appointment, so I need to rush off.’
By now we have left the school premises, and as I head towards the shops, Simon comes too. What am I going to do if he follows me into the post office? Post an imaginary parcel? Enquire about postal orders?
Stamps! I’ll buy my Christmas stamps early. Anything to get rid of this idiot.
‘So, how long have you worked at the school?’ he asks.
I swing round and look him straight in the eye.
‘Look, I know you’re the master of small talk, and it might have worked with me ten years ago, but it’s not going to work on me now. I’m not that nineteen-year-old that you manipulated all those years ago. I’m my own person now.’
Simon jerks back and screws up his eyebrows.
‘Manipulated? What are you talking about? We both entered into that relationship if I remember rightly, and I didn’t hear you complain at the time.’
He is so out of touch that he doesn’t know that I’m referring to him cajoling me into having a termination! Has he forgotten? Did it mean that little to him? We reach the car park and Simon uses his beeper to open his flash, black BMW.
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Let me buy you lunch. For old ti
mes’ sake.’
‘No thank you. I’ve told you; I’m going to the post office and then on to the dentist.’
I carry on walking; my hands shaking in my pockets out of rage, or fear or both.
‘Another time then?’ he shouts, but I don’t reply.
‘Did you enjoy the careers talk today?’ I ask Tom as we’re eating dinner. I don’t know why I ask, except that I need to know his reaction. I need to know that there was nothing about Simon that seemed familiar or strange… He bites into a piece of chicken, and scowls.
‘Oh, the man who talked about his market job? It was okay, I guess. Not as good as when Lily’s mum came and talked about being a hairdresser. She brought some wigs, and Mrs Holmes tried one on. She looked like Grandma!’
‘Grandma doesn’t wear a wig.’ I help myself to more roast potatoes, and Tom laughs.
‘I bet she would if she had one,’ he replies. ‘Maybe we should buy her one for Christmas!’
‘Oh, I’m sure that would go down well,’ I say. ‘So, you liked Lily’s mum better than the marketing man then?’
‘Yes. Lily’s mum gave us stickers that had scissors with googly eyes on them. The market man didn’t give us anything at all.’
Tom pokes at some green beans with his fork, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘A bit boring then,’ I say, and my son nods.
‘Yes, a lot boring!’ he replies, and then sticks the beans into his mouth.
It bothers me that Margaret Holmes somehow knows Simon Travis, and I scour my mind for everything I know about her private life. Our head teacher isn’t one for sharing personal details, and perhaps the only thing I know about her is that she’s not married. One of the teachers got into a fight with her a year or so ago, and caused a magnificent scandal when she remarked that Margaret might loosen up a bit if she found a man. It went all around the school in hours, and it wasn’t long until the teacher in question left quietly. Until that remark I just assumed that Margaret was married, but what do I know? I’m not one to go poking into anyone’s business.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 4