by Roxie Cooper
‘I should say I can’t ever see you again,’ he says, looking right at me. ‘But I can’t. And I can’t explain it. And I know it’s wrong. I know that sounds utterly mad …’
‘I feel it too,’ I say, nodding my head. ‘It could be our little … thing. This weekend every year. We meet and catch up, as friends …?’
Friends.
That last word lingers in the air, lazily floating above us, like smoke from a cigarette.
‘Yes.’ And he smiles in such a way that his eyes brighten and dimples by the side of his mouth cave in. ‘I’d like that.’
CHAPTER 5
Thursday 21 August 2008
Jamie
‘Mr Dobson! Look! I got an A*!’ Katie yells, running towards me and waving a piece of white paper in her right hand.
‘What? Let’s see …’ I beam at her as she thrusts the exam results in my face. I already know she attained the top mark – and rightly so – but I’m not taking this moment away from her. She’s earned it.
‘That’s incredible! Congratulations!’
‘Sir! Look what I got!’ Louise says, yanking on my arm, impatiently.
‘Get in! You worked so hard for that C, Lou. So proud of you!’ Her face lights up and some of my other pupils run over.
This is why I love my job.
GCSE results day is nerve-wracking. Yes, we have targets to hit and numbers to think about. But for me these concerns come second to these kids’ expectations and hopes. I don’t have children, but I feel like they’re all mine when they’re waiting for their results; when I know how much hard work they’ve put in over the year. When their place at art college depends on them getting the right grades. They did brilliantly this year and I couldn’t have been prouder. Watching them jump up and down, squealing with delight, was a pure joy. I always arrive early and load up on coffee, assessing the results before the pupils arrive. It’s useful in knowing who to watch out for and excruciating discovering which ones will be disappointed. But it’s the best feeling in the world when they run up to you, desperate to tell you their news. It chokes me up.
The school hall always starts off quiet, just whispers and the sound of pupils calmly walking in. It’s quickly replaced with shrieks and shouts bouncing around the walls. It’s utter chaos, but I love it – I always wait until all my pupils have been and gone. And as a teacher at the school I’m on hand to deal with any kid who needs support. We are one big family.
My students’ passion was infectious, so after being at school all morning, I came home and did some painting of my own. I love the summer holidays for that. It’s the only time I can properly create stuff. Music on, a few beers, a beautiful, sunny day. Perfect.
‘To you, Class of 2008!’ I say, hissing the top of the beer bottle off and casting it into the recycling bin next to the back door. The cold beer slides down my throat with incredible ease in this heat. It’s still stupidly warm, even at 5.45 p.m. But if I’ve ever earned an early finish, it’s today.
I decided to do a BBQ for me and Helen tonight, so I’ve bought all the meats, made a salad, some fancy pesto pasta thing (got it from Jamie Oliver) and even stuffed peppers. I thought we could eat outside on such a gorgeous night and she’s been working so hard lately.
I’m relaxing in the garden when she suddenly appears at the back door, saying something I can’t hear over Oasis blaring out loud on the Bose speakers.
‘Sorry, baby, what did you say? I didn’t hear you come in.’ I turn the music right down.
‘I said you look like you’ve had a good day!’ Helen nods towards the recycling box, which has three beer bottles in it. It was recycling day yesterday.
‘I‘m celebrating, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, I’m very proud of you,’ she coos, hugging me. ‘Another successful year under your belt.’
‘Yes, I can’t believe it! Highest number of A*s I’ve ever had.’
Wrapping my arms around Helen’s waist, I bury my face into her dark brown hair which is tied up in some kind of knot thing. It smells of her.
‘I know,’ she says, pulling back and resting her hands on my shoulders. ‘Well done! And because you’re so clever, I’ve booked us a table at that new Thai place on Deansgate. Table reserved for seven-thirty so you’d better get a move on.’
‘No need,’ I tell her proudly. ‘I’m doing a BBQ.’
‘Oh,’ she says, peering over my shoulder. ‘Right, so you are. Well, you haven’t put the meat on yet. We could save it and do it tomorrow. I really fancy this place – it’s had amazing reviews and I only got the reservation because they had a cancellation.’
‘I’ve done a full spread and it’s a lovely evening for sitting out,’ I reply, casting my eyes over the garden. I’ve worked really hard on it the last few days. I’m not an expert by any means, but I’m fairly handy with a pair of shears and can work a lawnmower.
‘Well, it was my treat, but if you’d rather stay in, up to you,’ she says, smiling, removing her arms from around my neck. ‘I’m going to get changed, I’ll be down in a bit.’
I’ve always loved doing BBQs. Meals always taste better when they’re cooked or eaten outside. Fact of life.
Looking over the banquet I’ve prepared for us on the wooden garden table, it’s a great summer feast. I take a picture of it on my phone and send it to Cal with the caption ‘Not just a pretty face’. He immediately replies: ‘And not even that, mate!’. Twat.
Helen comes back down in a long summer dress, her sunglasses resting on the top of her head. I hand her a glass of chilled white wine and she takes a sip before flashing me that smile I love.
It was her smile I first noticed when I met her. That, and her huge, cocoa-brown eyes which match her long hair. She used to turn up to art classes wearing some of those over-the-knee socks and a pinafore (only one side fastened), revealing a tight T-shirt underneath. Helen was quick-witted and wore bright make-up which highlighted her features. She was different back then, more of a free spirit. She had a wildness about her and I identified her as being on my wavelength, something which is important as a young eighteen-year-old, struggling to find your place in the world.
We were friends for months before anything happened. Best friends. We were never apart, me, Helen and Cal. We could always be found in either the art studio or the pub directly next to it. Helen and I finally got together at a sweaty Britpop night in Camden, drunk on cheap cider, dancing to Pulp’s ‘Common People’. As students at Saint Martins, the irony was not lost on us. But the three of us laughed, talked, lived and breathed art. It was our passion. Three completely different characters, but art glued us all together.
Now we couldn’t be more different. Helen rejected all romantic fantasies of exhibiting, instead going into the commercial sector, working as a designer at an advertising firm in Manchester. Cal is an artist and designs incredible leather pieces of clothing and accessories.
And there’s me, an art teacher and a big fat disappointment to Helen. I work too many hours, I worry about my students more than I should, and I don’t get paid enough for any of it. But I love it. The kids are there because they have a passion they need to nurture. You can see it when they come into class. They throw their bags down and can’t wait to get started. They work through breaks and stay after the bell goes. They demonstrate true dedication, reminding me of how I used to be. They’re at that stage where they’re starving for inspiration, their minds ready to absorb art and be blown away by it. The school I work at is in a fairly rundown area and these kids don’t have much hope, but I feel like I make a difference – especially on days like today.
‘So, how was your day?’ I ask, shovelling sausages on to Helen’s plate for her.
‘Oh, all right!’ she replies. ‘Well, bloody Grotbags laid into my presentation.’
‘Jesus, she never lets up, does she? Daft hag!’
‘Everyone else thought it was a great concept, then she piped up “Yeah, mmm, I do like it …”’ she says, doing a brill
iantly affected impression of the fake-accented Lisha (who we only ever refer to as Grotbags). ‘“… but I feel it’s not quite hitting the core audience that we are aiming at” and then she slagged the entire thing off for five minutes.’
‘Was any of it remotely justified?’
‘Was it hell!’ she says. ‘It was signed off in the end, but she just likes to watch me under pressure.’
‘She’s got some nerve.’
‘I know.’ She shrugs. ‘Sarah came up to me afterwards and said not to worry about it.’
She’s putting a brave face on, but I can tell she’s down about it. Grotbags – aka Helen’s new boss – has been making Helen’s life difficult for about six months now.
‘I know it’s hard, but it’s likely she’s only being a bitch because she knows how brilliant you are. She’s just jealous and intimidated by you. You’re obviously doing something right.’
‘I suppose. Can’t wait for the weekend. I thought we could perhaps drive to Liverpool on Saturday? There’s a food festival on,’ she says, chomping into her sausage bun. ‘And on Sunday, maybe lunch at The Lowry overlooking the Quay?’
Helen is a very organised person and always likes to have things to do. She gets so many recommendations and freebies with her job that we spend most of our weekends eating out, drinking at new bars or seeing the latest up-and-coming band. I’m more laid back with my time; I’d quite happily sit and just enjoy being in the house sometimes, but Helen likes to be out and about.
‘Sounds good. How’s the food?’ I ask. ‘There’s more on the grill if you want some.’
‘No, I think this will do me,’ Helen says, wiping her mouth with a blue napkin.
‘Well, I’ll put the rest of this in the fridge. I can pop some of it in a Tupperware thing for your lunch tomorrow, if you like?’
‘No, you’re OK. I’m in London tomorrow, remember. I’m on the seven o’clock train.’
‘Ah, right, I forgot. What’s that for?’
‘All to do with plans for the company expansion.’
‘Yeah, you mentioned that.’ I nod, stuffing a burger into my mouth.
‘They’re on a real drive for talented designers, illustrators,’ she says, pushing some salad around her plate. ‘Great money if you fancy it?’
I look up at her, mid-chomp, and laugh.
‘Never in a million years!’ I tell her, reaching for my beer.
‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ she looks up. ‘God forbid you become a big corporate sell-out like me!’
‘Shut it, you!’ I tease, leaning over to give her a kiss. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me closer to her.
‘Besides,’ I say, when we finally break apart. ‘Someone has got to be the house husband around here. We can’t both be hotshots. Have you seen how immaculate this bloody house is?’
This is the perk of being a teacher. Thirteen weeks off a year. Well, I still have stuff to do, but it means I can do things to the house and – when the time comes – look after our children. Helen works such long hours and, thinking ahead, I’d love to take on as much childcare as I can. And I love making sure she comes home to a nice, tidy house in the holidays. Dinner is always made and she never has to worry about the food shop. We’re a good team.
‘I suppose you’re right.’ she laughs. ‘You still do that weird thing with the towels, though.’
She’s told me this many times and I never understand it. Something to do with how I fold them.
‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ I joke.
The kids who live next door are larking about in the garden. I can hear squealing and shouting amid intermittent splashes so they must be in the paddling pool. You’re never without background noise when you live in a semi-detached house.
The room is dark, but for the flicker of the TV in the corner. Helen always goes to bed much earlier than me. We’re not one of those couples who synchronise bedtime. In the early days, we’d go to bed together and talk for ages, before having sex pretty much every night. That’s pretty standard at the beginning, though. It changes as you get further into a relationship – not worse, just different. But now I like to stay up late reading, watching TV, drawing, thinking. Helen loves to sleep, which is fine; everyone is different.
I glance at the photo on the mantelpiece – our wedding photo. I love that picture. You can just about see me and Helen through the shower of confetti which has been thrown over us. We looked so happy, and we were.
‘We are,’ I whisper to myself, barely audible as a shard of guilt punctures through my chest.
But, it just felt right, us being together. I never yearned to be with anyone else. I mean, yes, we have the odd argument like any other couple. Who doesn’t? But generally, we have a very content relationship. We respect each other, love each other. We have lives independent from one another; we each understand the importance of having time and friends away from each other. She has weekends away with the girls, I’ll go away with the guys.
We’re a good match and know each other inside and out. We’re best friends.
I’ve never, ever been tempted to cheat.
I don’t even think I can put into words what it is about Stephanie. I could probably paint it better than I could describe it.
Something dark, unique, captivating.
Beautifully melancholic. That’s it.
She’s a naturally stunning woman. But that wasn’t it. That wouldn’t be enough to make me do what I did. It would never be enough.
I found myself thinking about her every now and again. She kept cropping up, no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes when I saw a girl with blonde hair, I’d think it might be her. Whenever I was talking to a girl with green eyes, I’d think of the time I gazed into hers. Then, Helen would snap me out of it, asking what was going on with me. Why had I been so ‘distant’ lately? I knew, then, I had to get a grip on it. I mean, what the hell am I doing? I’m happy with Helen. And, yet, I can’t not see Stephanie.
And now I have to send her this message. I have to see her.
CHAPTER 6
Thursday 21 August 2008
Stephanie
It always took pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece, as it now does on mine.
The frame is thick, embossed with pearls. The photo has a grain to it in that way old photos do. Ebony and I adored looking at it when we were kids.
It doesn’t matter how dated her dress looks, or how awful my dad’s suit is – it’s a gorgeous photo of their wedding day.
‘What was it like, Mummy? Did you feel like a princess?’ I asked her one day. I couldn’t have been much older than about eight.
A big smile appeared on her face.
‘Perfect. And yes, I did. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I still do,’ she said, gazing fondly at the photo.
‘Did your mummy and daddy go?’ Ebony asked.
Her smile dropped for a moment.
‘No, darling, they didn’t,’ she said, looking away at the floor briefly.
‘Were they busy?’ I asked.
‘Kind of. Your daddy is a wonderful man, you know. He always finds the best in people,’ she said, brushing the hair out of her face and gently touching the scar on her right eyebrow. She did that sometimes.
‘Steph! Can you bring the salad out?’ Ebony yells from the kitchen. Tearing my eyes away from the photo on the mantlepiece, I head in there and do as she says.
We’ve only been in the new house two months, but it’s slowly coming together. Matt found it and insisted we came for a viewing, saying it wouldn’t be on the market long. He was right. Three other couples viewed it the same day we did, and all made offers. It’s a three-hundred-year-old detached house in Poppybrook, the next village along from Dad and Ebony, not far from Cambridge. Exposed wooden beams adorn the ceilings, an Aga warms the kitchen and a welcoming porch is out front. It’s everything Matt and I wanted in a house: traditional, old features but modernised throughout. It didn’t need anything doin
g to it but I was prickling with excitement, walking around, thinking about how I’d put my stamp on it. Matt kept squeezing my hand at the best bits – the kitchen, the study, the huge garden!
‘That’s the one,’ he said, the second we got back in the car. ‘I’ll make sure we get it.’
This is why he’s so good at his job, I guess. What Matt wants, he gets. He quickly ensured we offered the most – with help from both sets of our parents – and it was ours. Our ‘forever’ home.
Ebony has really gone to town on the decorations for my birthday meal, which we’re eating outside as a result of this beautiful weather. Bunting hangs from the trees, balloons float on the lawn and the table is set in pastel shades. She completely takes over whenever she comes around and it’s always funny watching her boss Matt about. Flouncing in an hour ago, she shoved a huge oven dish of chilli con carne (my favourite) at Matt the second she was through the door.
‘Pop it in a pan and let it simmer with the lid on. You do have a pan large enough, don’t you?’
He looked at her, bewildered, not daring to refuse her demands.
Ebony is currently in the throws of enjoying new motherhood. Well, it’s more like her new project. She spends all her time finding the newest baby fad and becoming obsessed with it. She was all about hypnobirthing and ‘breathing the baby out’ for the entire pregnancy, then fifteen minutes into the labour she told the midwife to ‘turn that fucking CD off and give me an epidural!’ She loves baby topics. But why she thinks I need to hear a twenty-minute rant about ‘baby-led weaning’, I don’t know, because I still have no idea what that is. Her gorgeous baby, Jude, is only one month old but she’s already ahead of the game and researching how best to feed him real food just so she’s prepared. She’s very particular about things. Everyone has to wash their hands before they touch him and she carries sanitising gel around in her handbag in case anyone within a five-mile radius gets near him without having degermed.
She frogmarches everyone outside, giving them jobs and things to carry. Will, Ebony’s husband, does it without a second thought. He’s used to it after so many years. Standing back to admire the beautiful banquet she’s put on, he puts his arm around her and kisses her on the side of the head.
