Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Melissa Nathan
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Copyright
About the Book
Nicky Hobbs loves teaching at the local primary school. She’s idolised by her class – in particular ten-year-old Oscar Samuels – but she’s starting to find she’d quite like some adult adoration for a change.
Mark Samuels is a frazzled single father working all the hours God gives to provide for his beloved son, Oscar. But he’s unable to see that Oscar would prefer his presence to his presents once in a while.
Ms Hobbs knows Mr Samuels is a heartless workaholic. Mr Samuels is certain Ms Hobbs is an interfering busybody. But when they finally meet they start to discover that first first impressions can be deceptive. And perhaps they’ve both got a bit of learning to do ...
About the Author
Melissa Nathan is the author of the incredibly successful novel The Nanny, which hit the Sunday Times top ten in the spring of 2003. Born and raised in Hertfordshire, Melissa now lives in north London with her husband and young son. She was a journalist for twelve years before turning to writing novels full-time. She is a Jane Austen aficionado, a fact reflected in her two earliest novels, Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field and Persuading Annie. Both were witty new spins on two of the nation’s favourite novels, Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion. She is also the author of The Waitress.
Also by Melissa Nathan
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field
Persuading Annie
The Nanny
The Waitress
The Learning Curve
Melissa Nathan
To Jeremy
Oh brother, have you more than compensated for rolling me up in a rug when I was a baby. Thank you for everything.
In memory of Rebecca Lawson, 1950–2004
Acknowledgements
To all at Tetherdown Primary School, especially Annie Ashraf for allowing me into her classroom, being so generous with her time and energy, being so perceptive, intelligent and kind, and for being nothing like my old primary school teachers.
Also to Deborah Nathan, for giving me invaluable insights into the world of top City finance, even with a bad knee. And Joshua Nathan for his invaluable details into the world of an eleven-year-old boy, with two good knees.
My heartfelt thanks, as ever, go to Alison Jones for all her plans.
And also to my wonderful agent, Maggie Phillips. I still can’t get over that she wants to represent me.
And, of course, my enormous thanks go to the fantastic editor, Kate Elton, who is happiness and professionalism on legs. (Really long ones.)
And all at Random House, especially the spectacular Rina Gill, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Ron Beard and Rob Waddington.
I am in the unusual position of knowing that this book will, in all probability, be published posthumously. And so please indulge me in a rather unusual set of acknowledgements. First, to my wonderful parents. You have given me a life suffused with love, support and friendship. I have been lucky enough to see eye to eye with you both and look up to you at the same time. You are two of my best friends. Please never feel that I have had a hard life. I have had thirty-seven wonderful years and I’m grateful to you both for giving me that. I am happy and at peace.
To Jeremy. It turned out that our dynamic was to be that of doctor and patient. I never would have chosen it to be that way, but there it was. You were always there for me, from the first phone call I made when I was nineteen, telling you I’d found a lump, right through to – and beyond – the night you stayed in hospital with me, sleeping on an inflatable lilo on the floor when I had my first mastectomy, some seventeen years later. You have been everything a brother could have been and more. Thank you.
My wonderful Andrew. I respect you as much as I love you, and that is saying something. You, of all people I know, will get through this. After all, you’ve got through nearly twelve years of marriage with me and that’s no easy feat. I have been so lucky to know you. You have been my steady rock, my gentle giant, my best friend, my everything. I wish you a happy life, full of love and joy.
And my amazing Sammy. I wanted to know you for longer, my love, but it wasn’t to be. Still, at only three years old, you have already left an imprint on my heart that will go with me, wherever it is I’m going. Motherhood made my life worthwhile. And you gave me that. What does a mother wish for her son? I wish you happiness. You have a wonderful daddy and a family who adores you. Go into the world knowing that while you were everything to your mother, you won’t have to deal with an annoying woman who can’t stop kissing you when you’re fifteen. I will be in the sky, kissing you from afar.
1
NICKY HOBBS’S BEDROOM was dark and silent. The smooth planes of her wardrobe doors and matching bedside table revealed nothing of their contents. In the middle of her tidy room, in the middle of her tidy bed, lay Nicky Hobbs, tidily. Her body was almost completely still, apart from her eyelids, which fluttered like butterfly wings, tremulously hinting at the dream-world evolving beneath them. For there, the distant sound of church bells lifted towards her as if on a silken breeze, while she lay heavy with dreams in the empty barn. Suddenly Pierre, the farmhand, was silhouetted in the open door, his pitchfork sharp against the cerise sky. He stared at her and then, slowly, started to approach with a languorous stealth which whispered of oiled hips.
Then he turned into Rob. ‘Hello, Nickers!’ he said and winked. And she was wide awake.
And alone.
One hand landed, bang! on her alarm clock, and the distant church bells, which she now realised had sounded suspiciously like an alarm clock, gave way to silence. Her other hand lost no time in pulling off her duvet, for Nicky Hobbs was not one to waste time. She knew that getting out of bed in the mornings, like many things in life, was much worse in the premeditation than in the actual fact. Like homework. Or doing your hair in the mornings. Or visiting your sister. (The only exception – and there was usually one exception to any rule – was going on a blind date. In her experience, the anticipation was usually the best bit.) So the only thing was to get on with it, and before you knew it the worst was over.
After a quick shower, she strode across the polished floor to her bedroom wardrobe, opened the door and scrutinised herself in the full-length mirror, with the same mindset one might adopt when marking an essay. An essay that, at first sight, gives a good impression with its neat handwriting, but on closer inspection reveals a cavalier attitude to grammar. At first sight, her young, curvy figure looked good even in a shabby old towel; and her heart-shaped face was winning. But, on closer inspection, she could not avoid the facts: her Cupid’s-bow lips were dry, her skin was so pale that she looked like she was in the process of vanishing,
and the only quality shining out from her eyes was potential. And then, of course, there was her hair. She stared at the copper coils which radiated from her head like an advert for headache pills. She nodded her head up and down just to see the coils go ‘boing’. (For even in moments of despair, Nicky Hobbs could always see the funny side of life, and there was little funnier than her hair going ‘boing’.) She allowed herself one large sigh. Oh! To be able to flick sleek locks across her shoulder and feel the weight of them against her back!
She turned and went into the kitchen.
From her kitchen window she could see the sun bleeding through heavy treetops and it almost made her stop in her tracks. Instead, she just smiled, told herself that there were benefits to getting up so early, and flicked on the kettle. While the water boiled she prepared a packed lunch of sandwich and apple, and only then did she allow herself to look at the early-autumn morning view. It was at moments like this that she loved her small but perfectly formed first-floor maisonette. From every room, she had an aerial view of the sky as it changed colour before her eyes. Nature was a marvellous, miraculous thing, she thought in wonder. Then she went back to her bedroom to try and turn her hair straight.
Fifteen minutes and much huffing later, she finished. Not so much improved, she thought, frowning at herself in the downstairs hall mirror, as changed. ‘Could Do Better,’ she told her reflection with a small but firm nod. As she picked up her briefcase and left, she reminded herself that it wasn’t always imperative to get ‘Excellent’. Sometimes it was healthy to have something to work towards. Goals were necessary in life. They kept you striving, which kept you learning, and learning was A Good Thing.
The girl from next door overtook her on the path with a quick hello, her long, blonde hair gleaming down her back like polished gold. Nicky slid her hand down the length of her still-damp hair. The bottom had already reverted to curls. She’d always hated that girl.
She slid into her car, dropped her case on the passenger seat, slammed the door shut, took her mobile phone out of her handbag and put it on to hands-free, pulled her make-up bag out of the glove compartment, and placed it in her lap. ‘Right,’ she murmured as she started the engine with one hand and took out an eyeliner with the other, ‘I want a “Very Good”.’
Nicky adored her car. It was more than just a vehicle to her, it was a much-loved room that happened to be on wheels. Specifically, a boudoir. In its boot lay her favourite hats and scarves, and two pairs of long, tight, leather boots that enjoyed more space in here than they ever would if they were squashed inside her wardrobe or allowed to clutter up her hall. The glove compartment was tightly packed with her make-up bag, tissues, nail varnishes and earring collection. The ‘boudoir’ had grown organically (as all good boudoirs do), first as an outpost for those early mornings when she’d run out of time, and then gradually as the ideal place to finish off her face, hair and accessories while listening to the radio in comfort. Even though the journey was not a long one, London traffic and ever-increasing roadworks meant there was never any doubt that she would have ample time to do all of these things. In fact, technically, she lived near enough to school to walk there, but she always had too much to carry even when there hadn’t been any marking the night before – and anyway, she loved being in her boudoir. The only drawback was that sometimes, due to diversions, her eyeliner was uneven because of road bumps.
This morning was no exception. Most of the schools went back today and, true to fashion, there were two new temporary traffic lights and one diversion. After texting her sister and listening to the news, she still had time to apply two shades of eyeliner, one of mascara, one of lippy (twice), and even tried on three different earrings before arriving at school.
She parked in the school car park, and just as she was about to give herself a once-over in the rear-view mirror, she got a text from Ally. She smiled and wondered if Ally might actually be in the staffroom already.
Morning! R U up yet?
She texted back that she was already in the car park and got another text immediately.
Swot. Put the kettle on.
She tutted.
A quick glance in the rear-view mirror, a final flick of mascara, and she was ready. (It was always worth giving the final version a once-over before handing it in, as she often told her pupils.) She allowed herself the faintest glimmer of a smile when she saw Rob’s car in the nearest space to the school building. She tidied her boudoir, picked up her briefcase, and climbed out, shutting the door behind her. And then, silence.
She smiled at the long, wide, gently curved path leading up to the school. Beneath her elegant, yet comfortable high heels, the softened tarmac yielded pleasingly, as if helping her on her way. On the right-hand side of the path stood the younger children’s classes, bordered with conifers, which, if there had been rain the night before, smelt like heaven. On the left of the path stretched the playing fields, and on the ground, in faded rainbow colours, ran the numbers 1 to 10 beside corresponding numbers of brightly coloured insects, followed by the alphabet beside corresponding animals. It doubled as the reception year’s playground. She couldn’t remember who had dubbed the path ‘the learning curve’ – probably Ally or Pete – but it was perfect. At the end of it, you came to the school itself; an imposing, red-brick building, with tall, rounded windows and a large, welcoming front door. Nicky always slowed her pace as it came into view. The building seemed to pulse with potential at her across the empty playground. She walked slowly across the main playground, so as to put off the moment when detail would take over emotion. As she did so, she realised this was A Moment. Nicky Hobbs liked Moments.
For here she was, a young teacher for Year 6 (the ten- and eleven-year-olds), only just turned thirty, on the career path of her choice, on her way to a fresh new academic year with a class who were by all accounts fantastically enthusiastic learners. She loved her job and knew she was good at it. She still had the energy of youth combined with an increasingly confident air of expertise. She had good friends, good health and owned her own home. Not only that, but she’d lost three pounds in the summer and could fit into her favourite skirt. Life was good. She allowed herself a childish grin – the kind of grin her pupils never saw till Christmas. She Had It All.
Whoops.
Crash bang wallop. The Moment was over. Her teeth unconsciously sought out her lower lip and gave it a small but satisfying chew. OK, maybe not everything, she told herself, but there were many worse off than her. She pushed the sudden image of her sister out of her mind.
Opening the school door, she came face to face with Rob Pattison, teacher to Year 5. They grinned at each other.
‘Nix!’ he exclaimed.
‘Prattison!’ she exclaimed.
Term had begun.
‘Anyone else in?’ she asked as they walked past the empty, glass-fronted administration office towards the staffroom. The school was absolutely silent, as it always was before the children started arriving, and Nicky always found the silence uncomfortably eery. All it took was one child to race in and the place would come to life. Before then, everything felt wrong somehow, as if she was trespassing in a forbidden dream. But usually, within minutes of the first arrival, the noise levels slowly rose; children’s spontaneous laughter echoed out from behind closed classroom doors, as did their lusty singing from the music room, their exhilarated shrieks and shouts from the PE fields and their wild running from the corridors wallpapered with WALK, DON’T RUN! notices. All these noises combined to make the unique noise of school, probably because adults had forgotten how to make them years ago.
Nicky looked straight ahead as she and Rob proceeded down the corridor together, only turning her head to glance into any open doorways. She did not turn her eyes towards him once, even though she knew he was looking at her every time he spoke. She’d long since stopped questioning her need to play these games with him after all these years. It was simply girlish pride and she was allowed her little foibles.
&
nbsp; ‘’Course no one’s in,’ said Rob, as they passed the photocopier outside the bursar’s office. ‘Lazy slackers.’ He was smiling down at her.
‘Not even Amanda?’ Her eyes finally rose to his and she gave him a knowing smile. She saw his lips twitch.
‘Not even Amanda,’ he said. No more.
She opened the staffroom door and tried to ignore the plummet in her stomach this always caused. ‘I must get some posters,’ she murmured to herself.
The staffroom at Heatheringdown Primary School, London N10, was a TV makeover producer’s wet dream. Government funding never quite stretched to the staffroom because, technically, it was still standing. It was small and square, yet could never be called cosy because the ceiling was so high it could have comfortably housed a mezzanine level. Around the edges of the room squatted old, low chairs which made anyone who sat in them look as if their diaphragm had been sucked out through their back. In the centre of the room lay a multicoloured carpet that was so faded not one colour was discernable; on one wall was propped a kitchenette, which looked as if it was taking a tea break on its way to the junkyard; on another wall stood a bank of small, padlocked lockers. The room was basically a skip with a roof.
Nicky glanced up at the clock. 7.30 a.m. She had half an hour to pop up to her classroom and reacquaint herself with her interactive whiteboard before the Head’s first morning meeting of the year. She didn’t want to miss a moment of that meeting. Exciting things were afoot: right at the end of last year, the Deputy Head, Miss Fotheringham, who had also been the Reception class teacher for the four- and five-year-olds, had suddenly announced her retirement. She had spent an amazing thirty years in the same job, and almost twenty-five of them in the same skirt. After she’d made her shock announcement, there had only been one more full day of the year left, so Miss James told her staff that she would sort out a replacement as soon as they were back at work next year. But they were to forget this and enjoy their holidays, as there was nothing anyone could do about it now. This was uniformly accepted as typical of her ‘team-spirit’ attitude. It meant that six teachers were able to enjoy their holiday with an extra spring in their step at the thought of possible promotion next year, without having to deal with competition or interviews during the summer.
The Learning Curve Page 1
