The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

  ‘Well, if not here then how about somewhere else? You should have no trouble getting something with your experience, and you’d interview really well.’

  ‘There’s not a lot of jobs out there, funnily enough. In case the news has escaped you, the economy is a bit shit at the moment. That’s why it was so important we pulled this merger off – a company this size might not have survived on its own. That’s the reason this new guy got in touch with Martin – he comes from a competitor on the verge of culling half their staff. I’d been front-runner up until that point but apparently this maverick is just too good not to snap up.’

  He practically spits out those last words, and I cross the room to his side of the desk and put my arms around him.

  ‘So what are we going to do about us?’ I enquire softly after a minute or two.

  ‘What about us, Holly?’ He spins around aggressively on his swivel chair. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to make this about you?’

  ‘Not me Richard, us.’ I take a step back. ‘This affects us both. This was meant to be the turning point for us, so we could actually be a proper couple at last.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t we? We can’t let anyone know about us because they might think it’s inappropriate because you’re my boss – that’s what you’re always telling me. If you weren’t my boss any more then what would be stopping us doing all the normal stuff couples do? You know – like going out for dinner, and going on holiday. Or moving in together.’

  ‘Christ, Holly – just plan out our entire future, why don’t you? I don’t remember promising any of that.’

  I feel like I’ve just been slapped around the face. And even if I had been, I don’t think it would sting as much as Richard’s words.

  ‘Well then, what are we doing, Richard? What have we been doing for the past year? What’s the point in any of this if it’s not leading to anything?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, sweetheart, that’s the least of my concerns right now.’

  I walk out without saying anything further and find Melissa hovering at my desk.

  ‘Holly, hun, there’s no paper in the printer.’

  ‘It’s in a box, next to the printer,’ I mumble.

  ‘Great. I need to print a report by close of play today, so as long as it’s refilled by then—’

  ‘Oh, just put the bloody paper in the printer yourself, Melissa – it’s not rocket science.’ I don’t wait for her reaction before I storm off to the loo.

  ‘You all right, Holly?’ asks Jemma. ‘I don’t mean you going postal at Melissa – that was brilliant – but your face is all puffy and your eyes are red. I really hope you’ve been crying, because otherwise you just look like shite.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell Jemma, attempting a smile.

  ‘Really? You look even worse than you did on Friday on a hangover. And you looked terrible then.’

  I’ve been silently bawling my eyes out in a locked toilet. Silently bawling your eyes out sounds like it would be quite difficult, but it’s surprisingly easy. If someone had been listening outside the door they would have thought I was just a bit of a heavy breather. I’d just calmed myself down when I remembered it was the same toilet I nearly took a pregnancy test in a few months ago. And to think I thought that Richard might have been happy about it. What was I thinking?

  I wish I could call Alex, but he’s on a training day. I’ll feel better after talking to him. He’ll help me put things in perspective, and work out how to deal with all this. What would I do without Alex? It pains me to think that if this had happened a few months ago I wouldn’t have had him to lean on. I wonder if he even realizes how much of a difference he makes to my life.

  I try to think how Richard must be feeling. Between the job and our argument it’s fair to say he’s had better days, and I’m half expecting him to hide in his office when Martin gathers everyone together at 3 p.m. for the big announcement. But he strides out and stands next to his boss, smiling pleasantly at the news that a Shawn Walker will be joining the team as our new Director of International Ventures, and that other staffing shuffles will be announced in due course. Pretty much everyone glances his way to check his reaction to the news – it’s no secret that he was the obvious candidate for the role – but his face remains impassive. It must look like he’s taken the news on the chin, but I can tell it’s killing him. For a moment all I want to do is hug him, but the memory of our argument keeps me at a distance.

  When it’s over everyone shuffles back to their desks, murmuring speculation about who on our floor might be working on the new team – and whether they’ll get to go to New York if they do, and whether iPods are that much cheaper there, or if you’re better off buying them on Amazon.

  Melissa pats Richard’s arm on her way back to her desk in a gesture of commiseration, and Richard replies with a silent little nod of gratitude. Oh, so she can comfort him without getting beaten around the head with the sarcastic stick, can she? A fresh bout of tears stings the back of my eyes but I fight them back.

  He catches my eye on the way past. ‘Can I see you in my office please, Holly?’

  ‘Sure.’ My voice is shaking. This is it. He’s going to finish with me. He’s come to the conclusion that whatever this is, it’s not worth it. Maybe he blames me. Maybe he thinks if I had just spent one or two more nights helping him with his work stuff rather than hanging out with Alex, he might not have been pipped to the post by Shawn Walker.

  ‘I’m leaving at five thirty on the dot tonight, baby.’ He rests the back of his head on the door he’s just shut behind him. He looks knackered. ‘I can’t wait to get out of here. Will you stay at mine tonight?’

  He sees my confusion and adds: ‘I could really do with a hug.’

  ‘But earlier—’

  ‘I was upset earlier. It was the shock – I was so sure Martin was taking me out to tell me the job was mine. Sorry if I upset you.’

  I fall into his open arms and let the relief wash over me, breathing in his familiar scent of Jean Paul Gaultier aftershave and waiting for it to intoxicate me like it usually does, making me forget everything. But it doesn’t work. I can’t forget everything that was said between us earlier. Even though I really, really want to.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ALEX

  ‘Just one more item to deal with,’ says the new acting headteacher of Whitford High, scanning his audience to ensure everyone is paying attention.

  The official line is that Mr Stretford, the permanent head, suffered a cardiac arrest while changing the oil filter on his family saloon early in the summer holidays, but a counter rumour originating right here in the staffroom is that he was kidnapped by Mr Cotton, who buried him alive on the penalty spot of the school playing field before assuming control himself. Mr Cotton escaped justice because no email was sent about the incident. Therefore, it never actually happened.

  ‘I know you’re all desperate to go and put your feet up before the new term officially starts tomorrow, so I’ll keep this brief.’

  It’s Monday afternoon and the staff of Whitford High are enjoying a training day that has consisted of updating wall displays, catching up on gossip and listening to senior staff ‘remind’ us of things they never told us in the first place in case Ofsted drops by.

  ‘Some of you will already be aware of this . . .’

  I drift off, back to last Thursday night, in bed with Melissa.

  ‘I love you, Alex Tyler.’ Her words floated in the air like Pac-Dots, waiting to be devoured. I stalled for time but the ‘Game Over’ sign appeared – the window I had to return her three words was closed.

  Melissa woke the next morning and acted as if nothing had happened. She kissed me on the cheek and departed for work, and whenever I’ve broached the subject since she’s talked over me about something insignificant like what she had for lunch or what I want for my birthday.

  I’m sure I could fall in love with Melissa, bu
t it’s only been nine weeks. It’s like listening to a great album – no one thinks it’s great the first time they put it on. You need to absorb it, listen to it over and over, and only then does its genius become clear. Patience is required.

  I just wasn’t expecting it. I had other things on my plate: my first full year at Whitford High; lesson plans, strategies to build on the foundations laid with my year nines as they start their GCSEs.

  ‘. . . but Kenny Sonola won’t be returning for the forseeable future.’

  I lift my eyes from the floor, redirecting them to Mr Cotton, his expression a recipe of smugness and indifference, as if he predicted whatever has happened all along.

  ‘It’s unclear at this stage what part Kenny played in the stabbing but his case will be going to court and, in the meantime, he’s taken residence in local authority secure accommodation.’

  ‘He was involved in a stabbing,’ I report, still trying to process everything.

  ‘Whoa!’ Melissa’s voice resonates as if she is speaking through a megaphone.

  I shift my mobile to my other ear. ‘The other boy is in intensive care. I don’t think it was Kenny who had the knife, but he was at the scene.’

  I hear cupboards being opened and closed on the other end of the line. ‘Kenny is in intensive care?’

  ‘No, the boy who was stabbed is. Kenny is in custody. Are you even listening to me?’

  Kenny was making real progress before the summer but now . . . I trace back through the hours I’ve spent with him, trying to bring to mind anything I might have overlooked. I should have been more concerned that he was in with the wrong crowd when I saw him with those older lads after he stormed out of class. I should have counselled him again, tried to alter the course he was taking. I should have predicted this. But I didn’t, and so all this – Kenny incarcerated and another boy critically ill – feels partly my fault.

  The line clicks and becomes clearer. ‘Sorry, you’re off speaker now. I’m making spag bol.’

  ‘I just feel like I’ve failed him, you know?’

  ‘Aw, honey.’

  ‘I really thought he’d turned a corner.’

  ‘There’s only so much a teacher can do. When I think back to my old English teachers – I used to give them hell. I hated English.’

  My mind rewinds to the night I met Melissa at the pub quiz. ‘I thought you said you loved Shakespeare at school?’

  ‘Argh!’ Melissa disappears behind the sound of clattering pans. ‘The spaghetti is boiling over, I better go.’

  ‘Were you lying about liking Radiohead too?’

  ‘What? Look, Alex, I need to get off the phone. Try not to be sad. I’ll cheer you up tomorrow night.’

  ‘Tomorrow night?’

  ‘My friend Rhian’s birthday, remember? We’re all going for a meal.’

  Damn.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ I say, to myself more than Melissa. ‘I’ve just agreed to meet Holly. She’s coming to mine.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about Holly Gordon. She was so rude to me today. I felt like saying, “Drop the attitude, love – you’re only a PA”. But she’s your mate, so I didn’t.’ I fail to conceal a sigh, but it doesn’t register. ‘Anyway, you’ll have to rearrange.’

  The line stutters. I think I’ve been put on speaker again.

  ‘Look, my cooker top is starting to resemble the Serpentine. I’ll see you tomorrow night, OK?’

  I go to answer but by the time the words have formed in my mouth, Melissa is gone.

  Holly rings the bell to the flat just before 8 p.m. I lead her into the living room, where she takes a seat on the sofa. Carl is doing caricatures at a party in Chelsea so it is just the two of us.

  I start to pour the wine. ‘So everything good with you then, Hols?’

  One of the reasons I didn’t want to cancel tonight was the tone of her texts yesterday afternoon. It was like she had something on her mind, but now she ignores my question. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’ve got really spindly fingers?’

  I examine my hand and allow my bottom lip to quiver in false desolation. Holly responds by offering one of her own tiny hands to compare.

  ‘Come on,’ she coaxes, and as our skin collides I try not to let it become any kind of moment in my head, but still I find myself avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Anyone’s fingers would appear long against yours,’ I protest, once her point has been proven. She half-moons her eyes dismissively, then removes her shoes and leans into the opposite corner of the sofa from me with her knees lifted to her chest.

  ‘What’s new with you, Alex Patrick Tyler?’

  My shoes already off, I emulate her posture and answer the question, filling her in on Kenny.

  ‘I feel like Kenny was my first real test as a teacher and I’ve failed,’ I say, trying not to notice Holly’s foot starting to slip across the sofa. ‘And if I fail when it really matters, maybe I’m just not cut out for it?’

  ‘How many pupils pass through any given teacher’s career?’ She doesn’t wait for my answer. ‘Thousands. You can’t get to all of them, Alex. You’d be a fool to set yourself that mission. You gave Kenny your time. Like you said, you were making progress. But he came to you when he was what, thirteen or fourteen? Most kids are in school, say, six hours a day for how many days a year?’

  ‘One hundred and ninety-five.’

  She regards my overly precise answer mockingly. ‘So, six hours a day, one hundred and ninety-five days a year. The point is, they’re not in school all that much when you think about it.’

  Finally her foot touches mine but instantly she snatches it away.

  ‘It doesn’t help when half of them sit there bored all lesson.’

  Holly refills our glasses without asking. ‘You’re concentrating on the wrong half. You can’t solve all of the world’s problems. I know what you’re going to say – you’re going to say that you came to London to make a difference, but if you ask me, if you just catch a few, if you just set a few on a better track, then that is making a difference. Not many people come close to that with their careers.’

  She pauses, puts down her wine and then leans across, putting a hand on my shoulder and fixing her eyes onto mine. ‘And anyway, you do make a difference. And not just at school. Just having you in London . . .’ She hesitates. My eyes flick to her lips for a split second and I imagine myself kissing them. ‘What I mean is, you’ve helped me remember who I used to be before . . .’

  Her sentence trails off, and I’m left wondering what she means by ‘before’. She is still gazing at me and her gaze is like a puzzle, but before I can solve it, and before I can ask when she forgot who she was and why, it is as though she remembers who she is, who I am, and takes her hand off my shoulder.

  ‘You know what I did today?’ she says, recoiling completely and talking breezily as if nothing had just occurred. ‘I typed up a health and safety report for someone who shut their thumb in their drawer. Under the heading “Nature of the injury” I had to write “No injury”.’

  A sea of guilt washes over me for moaning about the job I always wanted. OK, Holly has never told me she is unhappy, but she didn’t grow up wanting to be a PA, did she?

  ‘I’m fed up of talking about me,’ I say. ‘What’s going on with you? How’s Richard?’

  She sets her focus on the plasma screen. The TV isn’t on, so all there is to see is a silhouette of the two of us positioned on the sofa. The distant way she’s staring, it’s like she’s in another dimension.

  ‘Has something happened?’ I ask, and she shuttles back into orbit.

  She bunches her hair into a ponytail with her hand before letting go. ‘No, no. I just feel . . .’

  I hold my tongue and wait for her to continue.

  ‘I was on the bus the other day and I overheard this girl talking to her boyfriend and she was having a go at him. He’d put his PlayStation first again like he always does. I could tell it was a row they’d had loads of times and yet I was jealous. I w
as jealous because at least their relationship is real; at least their arguments are proper arguments.’

  Holly sets about another refill but there’s not enough left in the bottle for us both so she goes to the kitchen to fetch another. It’s a school night and I’m just a few sips from insobriety, but I’ve spent half my life dreaming about nights on the sofa with Holly, so I hold out my glass and thank her with a grin.

  ‘At first it was exciting, sneaking around,’ she says, returning to her previous position. ‘But that’s gone now. I want a normal relationship. Everyone else seems to be moving on with their lives but me.’ She inspects a lock of her hair for split ends. ‘Is it slugs that can sleep for three years, or is that snails?’

  I laugh. ‘I’m really not sure.’

  ‘That’s what I’m starting to feel like: a slug, or a snail. I feel selfish and when I’m talking to him I can see in his face that he thinks I’m nagging, but am I really being that unreasonable?’

  Holly’s feet are inching towards me again.

  ‘You’re not being unreasonable at all. He’s clearly a . . .’

  Our eyes fuse fleetingly. I suppress the word ‘creep’ because that road is bound to lead me to Richard and Melissa. Yep, your boyfriend’s a creep and he’s not looking for anything heavy right now. Ask Melissa.

  I decide to keep my counsel. This is the first time Holly has expressed real doubts to me about Richard, and I know it’s probably just frustration. If I speak my mind now she’ll never open up to me again.

  ‘He’s just a bloke, Hols.’

  Holly takes another decisive glug of her drink, her blushed cheeks revealing that she too is tipsy. Her feet are touching mine now and this time she doesn’t retract. Feeling a twitch from within my boxers, I shift my sitting position slightly to disguise any visible signs, all the while careful not to disturb our feet.

  ‘I was supposed to be seeing Melissa tonight.’

  Holly silently regards me. After all the fidgeting she’s been doing, her hair looks like it used to: wild. Not for the first time since we met up again in spring, I have an intense urge to hug her, to hold my best friend in my arms, to press her chest against mine and to feel her breath warm the nape of my neck.