The Learning Curve

by Melissa Nathan

  ‘Gosh, thanks, Mark,’ added Nicky. ‘Otherwise, I don’t know, I’d have had to hitch, or something.’

  She said goodbye to everyone and gave an extra long look at Rob. Despite his pathetic show of laddish flirting most of the evening, her heart went out to him as he stared soulfully up at her. Goodness only knew what sort of bollocking he was in for now.

  As she and Mark approached Mark’s low-slung, red sports car, she remembered Rob commenting on how expensive it was and then remembered how Mark had boasted in his introductory speech that his City partnership paid well. She felt a surge of underdog support for Rob.

  ‘It’s open.’ Mark smiled at her over the shiny roof.

  After a while, he spoke again. ‘You might have to give me directions. Oscar may have been to your place, but I haven’t.’

  Nicky directed him. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about that,’ she said softly. ‘That was Hallowe’en, wasn’t it?’ As soon as the words were out, she remembered the text Oscar had received from his father that night while in her kitchen. She fell silent.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mark. ‘He was so excited about it.’

  ‘Mm.’

  They drove on in a silence punctuated only by Nicky’s increasingly monosyllabic directions. She kept remembering Oscar’s bitter disappointment of that night.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking,’ Mark said eventually. His voice was soft.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You’re thinking, “That was the night you let him down again.”’

  She had to laugh. ‘Am I that transparent?’

  He smiled. ‘No, I just . . . think I know what you think of me.’

  She turned to him. ‘Oh, do you now?’ she said, archly.

  ‘Mmhm,’ he replied, just as archly.

  ‘Actually, to be honest,’ she confessed, ‘I can’t make you out at all.

  ‘Well,’ his voice was suddenly serious, ‘I’m glad you’re trying.’

  After a while, he spoke again.

  ‘I tell you what, I’ll help you in your efforts to make me out. Of course, I am a bit biased, but I promise to keep just to the facts. That night, Hallowe’en, I slept for two hours on the office sofa with a picture of Osc on my mobile phone next to my face. I set my alarm for when he would wake, and phoned him at Lilith’s first thing. As it happened, he refused to speak to me. The next night, after twenty straight hours of work, I came home and fell asleep with him on his bed. I woke at dawn to finish two more hours of work that I still had to do.’

  Nicky blinked at him in the dark. ‘What would you like me to say?’ she kept her tone light, just like when she was telling off her pupils.

  He sighed. ‘Nothing, I’m just giving you the other side of it. And remember – that was before I realised that I was not being the father Oscar needed. Yes, I was misguided, but I was still trying.’

  ‘It’s left here,’ she said.

  He turned into the drive of her block of flats and parked.

  ‘Look,’ she said finally. ‘Your relationship with your son is really none of my business.’

  He laughed. ‘You could have fooled me.’ She noticed that his tone was as soft as hers had been.

  She frowned. ‘I couldn’t possibly have known that you’d change your life so dramatically after what I said. And I only told you my thoughts so . . . plainly . . . after you’d insulted me.’

  ‘Accidentally!’ he rushed. ‘When I said those things I had absolutely no idea you were the famous Miss Hobbs.’

  ‘I’m not famous.’

  He laughed. ‘You are in my house. Osc thinks the world of you.’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, it’s mutual,’ she said quietly. ‘I think he’s . . . wonderful.’

  ‘Good,’ whispered Mark. ‘So at least we agree on something.’

  They were silent.

  ‘I think . . .’ he murmured slowly, his voice suddenly all velvety, ‘there’s something else we agree on as well.’

  Nicky’s blood flooded, like a tsunami, to all her good bits. Her heart declared an emergency situation and got pumping. Her head tried sending aid, but it was too late. She held her breath.

  ‘I feel,’ he said slowly, his voice low and a touch tremulous ‘that you . . .’ – he took a deep breath, as if gathering courage – ‘you . . . and . . . you alone . . . deserve that promotion.’

  At first, Nicky’s ears were confused. They repeated the message to her brain a couple of times, and then, probably through embarrassment, started whistling. What had she expected him to say? What had she hoped he was about to say? She skimmed a hundred thoughts, twice. Then she went off on a few little tangents. When she’d finished each one, she came back to where she’d started from. Finally, she stopped.

  She was now completely lost. She decided to wait for help.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was probably unprofessional of me.’

  She decided to wait for more help.

  ‘God,’ he said, ‘now you’re angry with me.’

  Ah, she knew how to answer that one.

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not angry. I’m just . . .’ she let out a long, heartfelt sigh, ‘I’m just disappointed.’

  Disappointed like needing a big bar of chocolate disappointed.

  ‘Shit, sorry,’ Mark said. ‘I’m used to City office politics. Maybe you don’t do it like that here. All I’m saying is that you have a massive fan. I mean, professionally speaking.’ Silence. ‘I think the school would benefit hugely from you being the next Head. And I know the kids would absolutely love it.’

  Now fully acclimatised to the conversation, she joined in.

  ‘How do you know I’m going to go for it?’ she asked squarely, turning in her seat so she was now facing him.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, turning to face her. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re thinking of not going for it?’ he almost whispered. ‘Are you mad?’

  Now there was a question she knew the answer to. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘You have to go for that job.’ He leant in towards her. His head was nearly as tall as the car roof.

  ‘Why?’ she frowned up at him.

  He spoke with a compelling urgency. ‘Because every cell in your body is made for that job,’ he said. She grimaced. He leant in closer still. ‘You are a future headmistress. It’s what you were made for.’

  She turned her face away quickly.

  Mark frowned. ‘Have I said something wrong?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘That was a very nice thing to say. Thank you.’

  ‘You are brilliant,’ he continued, on a roll, ‘Rob is an arse; ergo, you should be the next Head.’

  She laughed. How could she put this without him thinking she was a hormonal sad case?

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. In fact, it’s quite complicated.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I think . . .’ she began, ‘it’s just . . .’ she continued, ‘there’s just a different set of considerations for women with these things. Especially women of my age.’

  He sat back suddenly. ‘Are there? Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘It may be for our employers, but the plain fact is that we have to . . . fit in more, shall I say. If we want a family, that is.’

  ‘Oh! I see,’ he said. ‘Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . .’ She did not want to use the phrase ‘biological clock’. (Funny, she thought, how words describing women’s fertility – biological clock, ticking, menopausal – all sounded so pitiful.) Then she remembered she was in the middle of a sentence. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t actually know – for sure – how to get this right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I was talking about it to Ro— to a friend recently. We’re the first generation of women who’ve been brought up to belie
ve we should have a career as well as a family.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ asked Mark gently. ‘I mean, my wife was a wonderful accountant as well as a fantastic mother. And she was happy because she was doing both.’

  Nicky stared at him, transfixed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course, I’m not saying it was easy. It wasn’t. Oscar arrived much earlier than we’d planned and so Helen – that was my wife – had to really fight to keep her career going. And at times it was very hard. She felt she was being torn in two. Most of the time she felt guilty for not doing either as well as she could. She used to say that a working mother was the definition of guilt.’

  There was a pause. ‘I think I’d have liked her.’ Nicky smiled.

  He smiled back. ‘I think you would have.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said suddenly, ‘that’s just it. She – your wife . . .’

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Helen – had no one to follow. I mean, apart from the odd exception, generally speaking; as a generation, we haven’t got any role models to follow.’

  Mark frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, whereas our hypothetical daughters will be able to learn how to juggle properly from their mothers, we didn’t. In fact, our mothers did the absolute opposite of what we’re trying to do; they sacrificed career for family or the other way round. So it’s really hard for us.’ She shrugged. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Her voice dipped. ‘We learn so many things at school, but we don’t learn how to make ourselves happy. I mean, the nuts and bolts of making ourselves happy . . .’

  She turned to see Mark looking grave. Oh God. She’d gone off on a tangent again. The gang would have shouted her down long before now.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Ignore me. I get carried away.’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘you’re absolutely right. I’ve actually never realised it, but that’s exactly how I feel about Oscar.’

  ‘You? How?’

  ‘Well, exactly what you’re saying,’ said Mark simply. ‘My dad knew precisely what his role was. He didn’t have a moment’s doubt. He was the provider, full stop. But,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s so different for me.’ He let out a heavy sigh. ‘To be honest, if Helen hadn’t died . . .’ he paused, ‘and if I hadn’t met you, things probably wouldn’t have changed much in our household. I can see now that Helen did find it very hard to do everything, which was in effect what I was asking her to do, without realising it. She used to call it extreme motherhood!’ He gave a short hollow laugh.

  They sat in silence for a while, Nicky desperately trying to find the right thing to say. Finally she plumped for more silence.

  ‘Anyway,’ he cleared his throat, ‘things did change and I’m here now and I can’t ever be that kind of dad again. But . . . anyway, where was I?’

  ‘Um . . . your dad?’ asked Nicky.

  ‘Ah yes, role models. You’re absolutely right. If I’m honest – I feel like I’m trying to do a job without a job description. And, like you say, I suppose that job is trying to be happy. And of course trying to make my child happy.’

  Nicky nodded. ‘Yeah. We’re all working off-plan,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘Scary,’ he murmured. ‘A whole generation working off-plan. Hoping we’re getting it right. Learning on the job.’

  They looked at each other and then smiled.

  ‘Look,’ he said finally. ‘There’re lots of things I don’t know. But what I do know is who should get that job. But I won’t go on about it. Especially if there are other issues for you. Sorry if I spoke out of turn or if it’s something you don’t feel you should discuss.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Actually it’s . . . really nice . . . to talk about it. I can’t talk about it to Rob, obviously. Or any of the other teachers. And . . .’

  ‘Well,’ he grinned, ‘if you ever want to “brainstorm” it – I’m your man.’

  After a moment, she heard herself say, ‘I’d invite you up for coffee, but . . .’ and then wondered how to end this. She looked at him. He raised his eyebrows. She sighed.

  ‘I’m knackered and caffeine this late gives me the runs.’

  Two minutes later, as she heaved herself up the stairs, Mark’s laughter echoing in her head, she wished she had a superpower to turn back time. But of course, if she did, it would be a cruel misuse of it, which was probably why that sort of thing didn’t happen to her.

  As she opened her front door, her mobile phone beeped. It was a text.

  Phew, came Rob’s text. I’m still alive. U?

  She frowned as she replied, realising that for all his confusing messages, she’d never had any awkward moments with Rob like she’d just experienced with Mark.

  Meanwhile Mark drove home slowly. How on earth had he imagined that a woman like that wouldn’t have some bloke in the background? And from the sound of it, some bloke who was pressurising her to settle down fast.

  22

  MARK AND NICKY didn’t discuss the promotion for another fortnight, even though it was on her mind all the time. (Well, most of the time.) It wasn’t easy to keep the subject to herself. In fact, it wasn’t easy to keep anything to herself, and she had certainly never managed it for this long before. She hadn’t been able to discuss it with Claire because Claire was now so busy, she had been forbidden to discuss it with Ally, and whenever she touched on the subject with Rob, he would inevitably joke that one day, in a long, long time, they’d laugh together about all this. Possibly over the family Christmas turkey. Obtuse, but she understood it. She stopped talking to him about it.

  Which was why, one lunch-time, she found herself knocking on Mark’s office door. His office, now cleared and tidy, was very cosy. It even had a plant in it, although it looked rather too suspiciously healthy to be real. There was only one photo facing him on the desk, and Nicky wondered idly whether it was of Oscar, Helen or an au pair. But thoughts like this occurred less and less as their chats continued.

  Although Nicky’s possible promotion was their main topic of conversation, it was never their only one. They covered all the important areas of contemporary culture, from whether they preferred showers to baths, aerobics to the gym, reality TV to US sitcoms.

  Before long, Nicky felt as relaxed as she was content talking to Mark, and was able to be up-front about most of her concerns about this promotion. Within a month, she had revealed why she’d gone into teaching in the first place and had confessed just how special she thought Oscar was. The one topic she kept well away from was, of course, her biggest block; her concern that with increasing work responsibilities, she might actually be thwarting her dreams of one day having her own family. Only the other day, she’d read an article in the newspaper exclaiming (victoriously?) that men emphatically did not look at successful career women as potential wives. And it was too simplistic to retort that she wouldn’t want a man like that for a husband anyway.

  Part of the reason she kept away from the subject was because it felt too personal, but the other reason was because it was purely academic, there being no man in her life, and she didn’t want to look like a completely sad loon.

  Because of her reticence on the subject, whenever the topic came up there were ambiguous pauses and unsatisfactory silences, but she just couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.

  Sometimes she felt disloyal to Rob having such intimate discussions with Mark. But then, she’d tell herself that was ridiculous. She owed Rob nothing. They were friends, nothing more. And anyway, she wasn’t doing anything to be ashamed of. Mark was also just a friend, nothing more. It wasn’t her fault she was enjoying his friendship so much that she had started to look forward to seeing him in the mornings more than anyone else. Mark was selflessly helping her, with wholehearted support that came from complete belief in her. Not the kind of thing she’d ever got from Rob. And the chats with Mark were getting so enjoyable that they were her first waking thought, giving her a feel-good morning moment before she’d even opened her
eyes. She didn’t realise it but he was turning into a drug and before long she needed a daily fix of him just to keep her up. Thankfully, due to her difficult decision, and his keenness to support her in making it, she had the perfect excuse to get her daily fix.

  But then suddenly it all changed. A few days after the clocks went forward and the longer days pulled everyone out of their winter slump, Miss James had some rather startling news. It was days before the spring fête. During the morning meeting – as soon as the unfortunate caretaker had finished his piece of the puzzle and scarpered fast, probably never to return – she told Rob and Nicky that she planned to announce her retirement during the fête itself. Her mother would be there, as would many of the PTA and governors, and it felt like the appropriate moment. So! She expected all applications no more than one week later.

  After the meeting, Rob found a corner of the Mediterranean just off Sicily within minutes, and left the office whistling a jaunty tune. Nicky, however, stood over Miss James’s puzzle feeling completely thrown. Not only would she have to finally apply for the post of Headmistress – which felt very different from just being asked to consider it – but she’d have no more excuses to start rambling conversations with Mark. She stared at the occasionally fuzzy map and took twenty minutes to find the northern tip of France.

  That lunch-time she popped in to see Mark and when she told him Miss James’s deadline he practically congratulated her on winning the job already. He seemed more excited about it than she did.

  ‘At last,’ he grinned at her, ‘no more shilly-shallying. It’s as good as in the bag.’

  Why was he feeling so confident? And why wasn’t she?

  On the delicious spring evening before the fête, as she strode across the playground towards her car, she heard Oscar call out her name. She whizzed round and watched him race his father to reach her. It was close, but Oscar won. He asked her if she was going to the fête tomorrow, and as the three of them ambled to the car park together, she replied that not only would she be there, but she expected both of them to help on her stall. After a picture-book wave goodbye from father and son, she got into her car feeling as if the best-looking boy in the school had just asked to carry her books.