The Learning Curve

by Melissa Nathan

  As she approached the gates, she recognised the boy she’d seen in the after-school club. One of her new pupils. Oscar. She called out his name and his head shot up at her voice, his scowl relaxing slightly. He clearly had need of the cold water in the Ladies.

  ‘Don’t hit the school gate, please, Oscar,’ she said, approaching him. ‘Is that your cricket bat?’

  He looked at it and thought about lying. He nodded.

  ‘Well, I think you know it’s far better suited to playing cricket than vandalising the school gates.’

  His head hung low. An apology just reached her over the wind.

  ‘It’s ever so late,’ she said, opening the gate and standing next to him. ‘What are you doing still out here?’

  ‘Au pair’s late. Probably lost.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘She’s new.’ He took out his mobile phone, and Nicky was surprised to see it had a camera facility. ‘I’ll call her,’ he said.

  She listened as he managed to have an entire conversation using only one grunted syllable. He clicked shut the phone. ‘Two minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ she said, hugging her coat to her and sitting on the ground, her back leaning against the gate. ‘Sit.’

  Oscar sat.

  ‘Three things,’ she said. ‘One: Don’t bring your phone into school again please. You know that can cause problems. If you need to make a call you can always use the school office. Two: Especially a phone with a camera facility because it won’t just get lost, broken or stolen, it will get stolen and you will get mugged. Three: Tell me where your parents are.’

  ‘My dad’s working late. Again.’

  ‘And your mum?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t have a mum.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, her voice softening.

  Oscar shrugged.

  ‘Neither do I,’ she said.

  He looked up at her. ‘But you’re a grown-up,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘I still don’t have a mum.’

  A car swung into the space in front of them and the driver hooted.

  ‘That’s her,’ he said. ‘I better go.’

  ‘What are you going to do with that cricket bat in future?’

  He managed a placatory smile, eyes down. ‘Play cricket.’

  She cupped her ear, an already familiar sign to him. He gave a half-smile. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hobbs.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I should think so too. See you tomorrow.’

  He gave a nod. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Pardon?’ She inclined her head towards him.

  ‘Bye, Miss Hobbs.’

  ‘Bye, Oscar. Have a good evening.’

  Oscar gave a grunt, stood up slowly and lolloped to the car. Neither he nor the au pair acknowledged each other’s presence as the car swerved out from the kerb. Nicky stood up, wiped the back of her coat, and wondered why some people bothered to have children.

  She walked to her car gently chewing the inside of her lip.

  Oscar stole a cautious glance at the au pair’s hands on the wheel. Her knuckles were white, which was stupid, seeing as she was only driving at five miles an hour. He could skateboard faster. He’d stopped bothering to take any notice of their faces any more, except to register – he didn’t know what; prettiness, friendliness, motherliness? This one’s face was all hard lines. He hated her.

  As they drove through the high street Oscar stared out of the window at the children walking beside their mothers as they passed shops; at the babies in buggies being pushed by their mothers, and at the laughing teenagers flirting in their baggy trousers, holding cigarettes or bags of chips. He imagined their mothers at home, waiting for them, baking bread.

  He couldn’t wait to be older. Sometimes he could almost feel it, as if it was days away, and then, like a mirage, it would fade, and feel like it would never come.

  ‘What time deed your faather say ’eed be ’om?’ asked the au pair.

  Oscar shrugged.

  ‘Ozkarr?’

  He grunted.

  ‘What time deed –’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Oscar cut her off. ‘Something important came up.’

  His au pair whistled through her teeth. Oscar clenched his fists under his satchel.

  The road took them past the terraced houses of Muswell Hill where there were buses and lots of people, through two woods on either side, and then suddenly rose up towards Highgate. Here there was more greenery, fewer people and buses, large detached homes and a village pond. He watched the posh boys spill out of the local private school in gangs of four and five. His dad had asked him if he wanted to go there. It would have meant exams later this year, but his dad was happy to pay for private tuition if he felt he needed it. Oscar had said no. He wanted to be like the cool teenagers he saw on the street corners in their baggy trousers, not like these saddos.

  The car now crawled down a steep hill and, without indication, turned into the spacious side road where he lived. Oscar’s dad often said that the houses in this road were so far apart you didn’t have to ever see your neighbour, which was amazing for London living. But Oscar knew the neighbours were there because in the summer he heard them splashing in their pool. The au pair stopped the car, held her breath, put the car into Park, got out, pressed the button at the side of their gate and ran back into the car. While the gate slowly opened, she manoeuvred the car down the drive and tried to negotiate it into the garage. What was the problem? thought Oscar. Just park anywhere, the garage was big enough for two cars. As soon as she stopped the car, before she had exhaled, he leapt out and raced through the connecting door from the garage into the hall. He ran through the vast, square hallway, leaving mud marks on the marble floor and scattering satchel, coat and shoes on and around the cream chaise longue. He went straight to the kitchen, opened the walk-in fridge and took out some Diet Coke before his au pair had even come in.

  ‘Whot are you goin’ too doo now?’ she asked, holding his coat in her arms.

  He shrugged. ‘Homework,’ and went for the stairs.

  ‘Aye weel be mekking pastahr at seven,’ she called after him.

  ‘I hate pasta!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll make my own dinner.’

  ‘Yoo know your faather will be upset eef yoo are not een bed by nine,’ she called out.

  Oscar let out a roar of anger as he raced three at a time up the curved staircase, past the full-length window. He slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. Then he flung himself on to his bed, located the remote control under a pillow in one movement and turned on the TV.

  He ate dinner upstairs. Toast with peanut butter and a packet of crisps. Luckily he didn’t hear from the au pair again. When he made his toast he could hear her in the utility room talking on her mobile in a harsh, bitty language. It sounded like she was trying to cough up phlegm. She was probably ironing, and thankfully she didn’t come out. After dinner, he spent a couple of hours on his Xbox and then did his homework cross-legged on his bed in front of the telly. Then he shook off his clothes, leaving them next to his bed alongside the plate of toast crumbs and empty crisp packet, put on his pyjamas and picked up his well-thumbed copy of The Lord of the Rings.

  He didn’t look at his alarm clock as he turned off his AC Milan bedside lamp, but he knew that he’d got away with later than nine o’clock. Stupid au pair didn’t even check. When he couldn’t sleep, he turned on his torch and continued to read under his bedclothes. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

  And he didn’t hear the garage door sliding shut hours later.

  Mark Samuels slipped off his shoes, threw his briefcase and jacket on the chaise longue, and took the curved stairs three at a time. He tiptoed across the hall and opened his son’s bedroom door. He waited. No movement. He coughed. He opened the bedroom door wider, letting in light.

  He walked across the room, sat gently on the edge of Oscar’s bed and looked at his sleeping son. He leant over and gave him a kiss on his cheek, taking in the smell of sleeping
boy, then pulled the duvet up to cover his shoulders.

  He watched how Oscar’s breathing made the duvet rise and fall steadily. When Oscar made a small grunt and turned over, he smiled. It was always worth waiting. Eventually, he got up, put Oscar’s book and torch on the bedside table, picked up the plate, crisp packet and clothes, and took them downstairs. Ten minutes later, he was in bed, setting his alarm clock for the morning.

  3

  FOUR HOURS LATER, at half past five in the morning, a besuited Mark Samuels was back in Oscar’s bedroom. He felt lots of emotions watching his son sleep, but the most visceral one was envy. Holding his tie against his chest so that it wouldn’t drop on to Oscar’s face, he leant over and softly ran his hand through the boy’s growing curls – his mother’s curls, nothing like Mark’s own hair – then moved the duvet up to cover his shoulders again. Then he kissed his cheek, wondered how his son could look so much like a baby in his sleep while his body filled up so much of the bed, and traced the delicious curve where the back of his head joined his neck. Then he left the pitch-black house.

  The roads and tube were always empty this early and he made it into the office in a record twenty-five minutes. He glanced at the clock as he paced into the office. 6 a.m. Half an hour before the rest of the team would start coming in. In a matter of weeks they would be doing all-nighters. It was always like this during a Due Diligence – the massive, secretive project of checking a firm’s entire accounts and reporting back to their client before their client bought the firm. And, as one of the newest partners at the City’s second biggest firm of accountants – and in fact the partner who had brought in this huge amount of work – Mark Samuels was for the first time in his fifteen-year career, answerable only to himself and the client. And the other hundred partners, of course. His days of drawing pretty graphics or ticking tidy sums might be over, but the stresses of meeting deadlines and keeping the client sweet were now all his. It never got easier, it just got different.

  His office had yet to be moved to the partners’ rooms, so it – and he – were still attached to his department. So far, it was working well. He walked through the empty office, carrying a coffee that he hoped would see him through to 11 a.m. in one hand and flicking on light switches as he went with the other. He passed the desk of his personal assistant, Caroline, and opened his office door. He kept it open and pulled up the blinds to the window between him and his department so that he could get a good view of his team throughout the morning, until they got their cabs to the firm on the other side of London. The room they were assigned to there was stuffy and badly lit. He opened his window, sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. He managed to get a full twenty minutes of work done before his team came in.

  Matt was the first.

  ‘Yo, boss!’ he called out loudly.

  Mark smiled a bitter smile. It was so nice to be respected. He would have got up to chat, but that would have meant moving his bones.

  ‘See the football last night?’ called out Matt, stuffing half a croissant in his mouth as he shrugged out of his jacket.

  ‘Nope,’ said Mark. I was here till midnight, you arse, he thought.

  Matt shook his head. ‘Referee should be fucking shot.’

  Danny entered and Matt made a sort of war-like noise.

  ‘Two-one, two-one!’ chanted Danny, arms in the air, legs akimbo.

  ‘That was never a penalty!’ cried Matt.

  ‘The better team won, my man. The better team won.’

  Anna-Marie came in and the room went quiet for a moment. ‘Morning,’ she said, smiling. Matt and Danny said hello. She’d announced her pregnancy last week and as far as they were concerned any energy directed her way was dead energy. Matt chucked some paper clips past her, at Danny, and she gave a little jump.

  ‘Oy!’ shouted Danny, laughing. ‘You’re a bad loser, man.’

  ‘Oh, the football, right?’ asked Anna-Marie.

  Danny raised his arms in the air. ‘Two-one!’ he sang again.

  ‘Well done.’ She grinned. She turned to Matt. ‘Bad luck.’ Matt gave a quick jerk of his head upwards in response.

  Oscar was more mature than these two gibbons, thought Mark. And they were senior managers. By seven o’clock that evening, he thought he might still make it home in time to see Oscar. By eight, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. At nine o’clock, he called one of his team over.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve found a hole in the books.’

  ‘What?’ cried Matt. ‘You’re kidding me. Fuck.’

  ‘Someone will have to go to Birmingham tomorrow to check this out. No one above Assistant Manager. I’ve got an 8 a.m. meeting with the board, so I’ll be in mid-morning.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ sighed Matt.

  As he walked through the still-buzzing office, he heard Danny telling his wife that he wouldn’t be home till midnight and Matt telling Anna-Marie that a car would come and collect her from her house at 6.30 a.m. and take her to Birmingham for a 9 a.m. conference.

  Oscar woke early on Friday morning and insisted the au pair drop him at Daisy’s flat on the way to school. He stood outside Daisy’s front door, his entire bodyweight leaning on the doorbell as the car made its halting exit. Eventually, the door opened and Daisy’s mum stood in the narrow hallway she shared with two other flats, looking down at him with an unimpressed expression.

  ‘You know what?’ she shouted. Oscar’s finger jumped off the doorbell. She lowered her voice. ‘The doorbell works.’

  ‘Sorry, Lilith,’ he said, running past her up the stairs to her flat. ‘Forgot I was pressing it.’

  ‘Daisy’s in the kitchen,’ she said, following him up, although she knew he wasn’t there to see Daisy, he was there to be part of a family breakfast. Most ten-year-old boys didn’t want to know girls and Oscar only just scraped into the exception bracket. Lilith knew that he and Daisy barely made eye contact in school, but out of school they leant on each other almost as much as Mark leant on Lilith. She would have been insulted on behalf of her daughter by this double standard if it wasn’t for the fact that Daisy felt just as hypocritical about him.

  They were in the kitchen in no time, the flat being what an estate agent would call bijou and what Lilith called ‘big enough to swing a cat in if you wanted to kill it’.

  Daisy looked up from her cocoa pops and heat magazine. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Have you got a packed lunch?’ asked Lilith.

  ‘No,’ said Oscar.

  She sighed and handed him a lunchbox. ‘How did I guess?’

  Oscar froze, staring at the lunchbox. Lilith froze too, staring at Oscar.

  ‘What?’ she asked. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘It’s pink,’ mumbled Oscar.

  Her eyebrows rose into her fringe. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘you mean “Thank you, Lilith”.’

  ‘Thank you, Lilith,’ he mumbled unconvincingly.

  Lilith sighed, took it back and started repacking his lunch in a blue box while issuing orders to Daisy. ‘Coat and shoes on! Satchel, lunchbox and homework. Lights off! Wait for me on the pavement!’ She shut the front door behind them all, handing Oscar a lunchbox.

  ‘That’s my lunchbox!’ screeched Daisy.

  ‘I know!’ Lilith screeched back, handing Daisy the pink one. ‘Why don’t you write and tell all those Third World children who are dying of starvation?’

  Daisy raised her eyes to heaven. ‘God,’ she muttered. ‘Boring.’

  Lilith hugged the living breath out of her daughter. Then she did the same to Oscar.

  ‘Ooh, you’re both so scrummy,’ she said. She stood up. ‘Be good. And if you can’t be good, I really don’t want to know. Have fun,’ she called after them as they trotted off. ‘Don’t cross the roads without looking. Don’t eat your lunches until lunch-time. Have fun.’ Then she saw the 147 appear at the bottom of the hill and ran like fury the other way to the bus stop.

  The next day was the first Saturda
y since the new school year had begun. Across the country new pencil cases had been lost, pencil leads dulled and shoes scuffed. Throughout the so-called ‘nappy valley’ of north-west London, parents like Lilith were lying in bed, enjoying the luxury of not having to scream themselves hoarse just to get out of their homes before 7.30 a.m., while trying to zone out of downstairs’s television. No wonder she needed to shout to be heard, Lilith thought idly. Daisy was turning deaf from the TV.

  Further outside nappy valley, in slightly less sought-after postcodes, the teachers of nappy valley’s children were out cold. The unfortunates who were both teachers and parents of young children were comatose, but as ever there were exceptions to the rule and Nicky was one of them. For a start, she was a teacher who lived in the same postcode as her school and most of its pupils. When her mother had died, eighteen years ago now, she had left both her daughters a tidy sum of money. This was put into a high-interest savings account by their father – one of the most thoughtful things he ever did for them – and by the time Nicky was looking for her first property, she had enough to secure herself a new-build in what was to become one of the most sought-after areas in north London. Not only that, but a week of teaching had given her more energy, instead of less. By the end of the summer holidays she always felt slightly sluggish and it was good to feel bouncy again. She woke relatively early, walked to the shops and brought back fresh coffee, warm brioches and two weekend papers. Ally arrived at ten, as usual, and as it was a mild morning, they breakfasted on Nicky’s balcony while Nicky wondered how to tell Ally all her news.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re here again,’ said Ally.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Back at another school year. When I was a kid, summer holidays lasted for ever. This one lasted two weeks, tops.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Before we know it, we’ll look round and wham! We’ll be dead.’

  Nicky looked at her friend. ‘Well, I’m glad you came over,’ she said. ‘I was worried I might spiral down for a while there, but you’ve brought your magic into my life again and up I go.’