‘The big boys on the nationals do it all the time,’ Chris said as he stuffed chips into his mouth. Despite it being shortly after ten-thirty in the morning, he’d inveigled Adam into stopping at McDonald’s to grab emergency supplies on the way. Consequently, the car stank of greasy chips and burger. Shreds of wilted iceberg lettuce were scattered in the footwell.
‘That doesn’t make it right,’ Adam pointed out.
‘Come on,’ Chris said enthusiastically. ‘This is the biggest story we’ve had in ages. It’s normally some bollocks about the Heritage Society or a poncy literary club or something. This is meaty.’ Chris did a ‘meaty’ look which wasn’t remotely attractive.
‘It’s tawdry,’ Adam said.
‘Look, mate,’ Chris snapped with a sigh. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a homoeopath or some bollocks, because I don’t think you’re cut out for the hard-edged world of international news.’
‘What?’ Adam said. ‘Sitting outside some sad bastard’s office trying to catch him with his trousers round his ankles?’
Chris sat up straight. ‘Do you think we will?’ He grabbed Adam’s camera with his greasy fingers and tried, unsuccessfully, to focus it.
‘Get off,’ Adam said, snatching it back. ‘Oh man, you’ve got ketchup all over it!’ Adam polished his camera on his T-shirt, huffing and puffing in dismay until it was clean again.
Chris stuffed the remains of the burger into his mouth and threw the empty box over his shoulder. It didn’t look as if he was the first person to do so. ‘A little bird told me,’ he said as he licked his fingers free of unsightly stains, ‘that the lovely sensitive photo-journalist Adam Jackson took our lord and master Dippy Chick Cara out for lunch yesterday.’
‘We went to the Jiggery-Pokery,’ Adam confirmed briskly. ‘There was nothing in it. I bought her a sandwich.’
‘Not bacon?’
‘Cucumber, if you must know,’ Adam said. ‘The Jig doesn’t specialise in an extensive range of vegan food.’
Chris looked impressed. ‘I thought the Jig was a green-free zone? I’m surprised they had any cucumber.’
‘Me too,’ Adam admitted. But failed to add that he’d phoned up beforehand just to make sure they’d got at least one green thing in stock.
‘So what was this in honour of?’
‘Nothing.’ Adam tutted. How could he tell someone like Chris that he’d been press-ganged by a wily twelve-year-old into sampling the delights of female company once more. Chris would never understand; Adam wasn’t entirely sure that he did. ‘She’s down at the moment. This Emily, bottom-baring babe, is her best mate. Cara’s in a very compromising position.’
‘So was her mate!’ Chris gave a belly laugh.
Adam smiled reluctantly. ‘Have some sympathy for her. I know you. You’re determined to make matters worse.’
‘I was going to come to work in a Santa’s hat this morning.’
‘Don’t,’ Adam warned. ‘Not if you want to keep your job.’
‘It’s just a bit of fun!’
‘It’s people’s lives, Chris. Take some responsibility for that.’
‘I don’t make people get themselves into a mess, mate.’ Chris wagged his finger belligerently. ‘I just report the facts.’
‘Make sure you do. Just the facts.’
‘You have very little joy in your life, Adam,’ Chris said. ‘Has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Yes,’ Adam sighed. Himself. Frequently.
‘So, are you taking her out again?’
‘No,’ Adam said. ‘It was just a cheering-up sandwich.’
‘Does she know that?’
‘Of course. Cara may be a bit weird, but she’s not stupid.’
‘Women get very stupid when they’re in love.’
‘Yeah? And so do men when they’ve been sitting in a car for too long doing nothing.’
They had been here for hours. Adam checked his watch. Well, about an hour, but it felt much longer. Much, much, much longer. ‘I am seeing my life flash by me, Chris, while I am sitting here waiting for something deeply uninteresting to happen.’ Adam slammed back against the worn velour seat. ‘I must have some sort of special talent I can work on.’
‘Snarf, snarf,’ Chris snarfed.
‘You know what I mean,’ Adam pressed on. ‘We all have them.’
‘Adam, mate. Every time I’m with you, you want to talk about the meaning of life. It’s piss-pot boring and makes me want to drink heavily.’
‘Oh come on, Chris. You can’t be as vacuous as you make out.’
‘I am,’ Chris insisted.
‘You can’t be. That would be just too pathetic for words. You must have hidden depths. A special talent.’
Chris looked up thoughtfully. ‘I do, actually.’
‘Go on then,’ Adam said. ‘What?’
‘No, mate. You go first. You started it. What’s your hidden talent?’
Adam stared out of the windscreen, lips pursed, and thought. Hard. For quite a long time. ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually, and his voice sounded sad and ever so slightly depressed. ‘That’s what I’m hoping to discover.’
‘Oh, very bloody insightful,’ Chris snorted. ‘At least I know what mine is.’
Adam looked at him expectantly.
Chris puffed out his chest. ‘I can burp “The Archbishop of Canterbury”.’
Adam’s mouth dropped open. ‘That’s it? That’s all it is? You can burp “The Archbishop of Canterbury”?’
Chris looked offended. ‘It takes a lot of preparation,’ he said, wounded. ‘And about five pints of particularly gassy beer.’
‘And that’s really the sum total of your abilities?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Chris snapped. ‘I hope one day to expand my repertoire to include all Church Leaders of the World. Although I think “Pope John Paul the Second” will be a bit of a bastard.’
‘I’ve heard it all now,’ Adam said and closed his eyes. The whole of his life was futile. A bit like putting a resealable lid on Pringles. What on earth was the point? And the most galling thing was that, as well as not knowing what his own special talents were, unlike Chris, he didn’t even have a decent party trick to perform.
‘Eh, up,’ Chris said excitedly. ‘There’s Toff!’
And sure enough, their good friend Sebastian Atherton was strolling confidently up to the offices of hot news property Declan O’Donnell, clutching a heavy-looking briefcase.
‘What’s Toff doing here?’ Chris said out loud.
Adam was wondering the same thing.
‘We’ll have that bugger when he comes out.’ Chris turned to Adam. ‘Now that’s what I call bloody exciting.’
And even Adam had to admit there was a certain frisson about it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I would like to see you in my office, Ms Miller,’ the Headmaster says as he walks past me. ‘At break.’
His tone is very threatening. And no ‘please’, from a man who is such a stickler for politeness. This is not looking good, is it? Somehow I don’t think he wants to discuss my next pay rise.
I am going to have to do a serious amount of grovelling to get myself out of this one. I could start with the fact that I have an exemplary employment record up to now. No pupils have ever skied off a mountain whilst in my care. I have no anorexics. I have never beaten a pupil with the attendance book, although I have felt severely moved to it on several occasions. I constantly provide the school with pleasingly high marks that go some way towards justifying their unpleasantly high fees.
We are also so short of teachers in this country that they are starting to import them from China – or somewhere. There is a list of unfilled vacancies on the noticeboard in the staffroom as long as an orang-utan’s arms. I just hope the Headmaster remembers that.
I have only an hour or so to think about this, so I go straight up to my classroom and avoid doing so. English with Form 5S, Year 10. The pupils from hell. Form 5S are mainly boys and a
re, mainly, a pain in the neck.
I should have taken more care over what I’m wearing today. The skirt seems rather short on this suit to be entirely sensible and my shoes should be less clippy-cloppy. My fitted jacket’s a bit on the shapely side too. Even if I put on things that start out without shape, I poke shape into them eventually. Being an English teacher with a 36 double-D cleavage has always been a disadvantage. The boys are at that age when their hormones are all on the rampage anyway, and being faced with a figure of authority with a chest like Martha Melons or Kirsten Bigcups can’t be easy. From my point of view, it’s OK being an object of desire to a brood of spotty teenagers when you’re in a stable adult relationship, but right now it’s just downright depressing. I don’t know how Britney Spears copes. I suppose being a mega-millionaire might help.
We still have fairly small class sizes here – around fifteen pupils – which is, I guess, what the parents pay for. Who wants their kid educated in a seething mass of forty-odd others, all with sweaty trainers? Particularly when you can afford for them not to be. When I go into the classroom, there is much scrabbling of youthful feet and I see several copies of last night’s Hampstead Observer disappearing into school bags, which is something I should have expected – but hadn’t. It would normally take a miracle to get these little darlings anywhere near a newspaper – unless, of course, it featured their teacher in a sex scandal on the front page.
‘Good morning.’ I take up my place at the front of the class and am faced by a group of inanely smirking individuals. One or two of them might be drooling. And there is an awful lot of extraneous nudging going on. It is hard to gain respect from one’s pupils when they’ve all seen you looking like a two-bit whore in your dressing gown. I wonder how many of them rushed up to their bedrooms and logged onto the net to see me in my full glory. I hope their parents have had the sense to program their Internet access with parental restrictions, but as the majority of parents are totally computer illiterate, I doubt it.
I look up and they are all still grinning toothily at me. This promises to be a very long morning. Followed, I expect, by an equally long afternoon. Getting them interested in Hamlet is going to be a real challenge when all they want to do now is get an eyeful of my boobs.
At this precise moment, I could quite cheerfully murder Declan. Followed by this lot. I turn and make an attempt to start the lesson, before hysteria seizes 5S. ‘OK, show’s over,’ I say. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’
The white board is obscured by a pull-down cover and as I release it, I see, written large in red marker pen, the words HO-HO-HO.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Toff came out of Declan O’Donnell’s office building a mind-numbingly boring hour later, by which time Adam had long lost interest in the delights of his camera. In a frenzy, Chris wound down the window. ‘Toff!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Hey – Toff! Over here!’
Looking slightly bemused, Sebastian Atherton ambled over to the car and leaned on the roof. He poked his head inside. ‘Morning, chums.’
‘Toff,’ Adam said in acknowledgement.
‘What are you two likely lads doing here?’
‘Surveillance,’ Chris whispered, looking round in the manner of a dodgy criminal.
‘Surveillance?’ Toff sounded surprised. As well he might.
Adam shrugged.
‘Get in. Quick!’ Chris spat impatiently. ‘We need to know what’s going on.’
Toff, not in the same hurry, glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got half an hour or so.’ He ambled a bit more to the back door of the car and took his time as he eased himself in.
‘Drive! Drive!’ Chris barked.
It was Adam’s turn to look bemused. ‘Where to?’
Chris took his turn with bemused. ‘How should I know?’
Toff leaned forward. ‘I know, let’s go to the pub. There’s one just round the corner. I could kill a gin.’
Two pints and one gin later, they were all comfortably ensconced in the Princes Arms public house which was one step from being the least tastefully decorated pub in London, including the Jig, but was packed with arty types from the nearby Camden Market so the clientèle had a more cosmopolitan air than the dossers it otherwise might have attracted. It was getting near to lunchtime and if Chris had to forgo his midday tipple he started getting obnoxious. Even more obnoxious.
‘So. What’s this all about?’ Toff said, sipping his gin and tonic.
‘We were hoping you’d tell us,’ Chris replied, trying to inject an air of mystery. ‘Why are you mixing it with the likes of that scumbag Declan O’Donnell?’
Toff gave Chris a withering look. ‘Darling,’ he said with a tut, ‘don’t be such a drama queen.’
Chris relented. ‘What’s the score then?’ he said in his best, most macho voice.
Toff shrugged. ‘I’m supplying the guy with some photos. He’s starting a website.’
‘What? Porny ones?’
‘Erotic, old boy,’ Toff sighed. ‘Very nice. In the best possible taste.’
‘But still girlies in their undergarments at the end of the day?’
‘Yes,’ Toff admitted.
Chris harrumphed decisively.
Adam put a copy of last night’s Hampstead Observer on the table. ‘He’s the guy who put his girlfriend on the net.’ Adam pointed at Emily in her dressing gown. ‘Chris’s future intended.’
‘I’m not interested any more,’ Chris said, turning his nose up. ‘Who wants a bird whose bum’s been seen by half of the world?’
‘She’s Cara’s best mate,’ Adam continued.
‘You don’t think Cara’d fix me up with a date with this Emily?’ Chris interjected.
‘Of course,’ Adam said. ‘Why not?’
Chris rubbed his hands together in glee. Sarcasm never was his strong point. Nor was playing hard to get.
‘She doesn’t look up to much,’ Toff said, leaning towards the newspaper.
‘Nick took the photo,’ Adam informed him. ‘I’m not sure how he managed to get her looking quite so scuzzy. She’s actually a bit of a stunner.’
‘You’re suddenly very keen,’ Chris complained.
‘An impartial assessment,’ Adam replied.
Toff took the paper and examined it more closely. ‘Emily Miller?’
Chris pulled a print-out of Emily in her Saucy Santa’s outfit from his jacket pocket.
His friends stopped and stared at him. ‘What?’ Chris asked. ‘This is purely for research purposes.’
Adam and Toff looked at him incredulously.
‘You don’t think I’m carrying this round because I’m a sad bastard who’s in love with her or anything, do you?’ Chris tutted.
Toff took the photograph.
‘Don’t smudge it,’ Chris snapped.
‘She certainly looks more festive,’ Toff said after studying Emily’s picture. ‘And considerably more attractive. I wouldn’t mind taking some snaps of her myself.’ He handed the photo back to Chris. ‘The Santa suit would have to go though.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Chris said, kissing the print-out before refolding it lovingly and putting it back into the safety of his pocket.
‘Do you think this guy’s into anything else, Toff?’ Adam wanted to know. ‘Is there a story here?’
Toff shrugged. ‘Seems a perfectly nice chap. A bit pushy, perhaps. Maybe a bit strapped for cash. Seems overly desperate for this website to work.’
‘Will it?’ Adam said.
Toff nodded. ‘Probably. Like it or not, the majority of money on the web is made from pornography.’
Chris leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Did you see any evidence of drugs?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes. ‘Money laundering? Vice?’
‘This isn’t The Bill, old bean.’ Toff frowned. ‘This is Hampstead we’re talking about.’
‘There are some dark and dangerous things going on behind these designer curtains,’ Chris said darkly and dangerously, and got up and disappeared towards
the men’s loos.
‘I think there are some dark and dangerous things going on in our dear friend’s brain,’ Toff remarked.
Adam sighed.
‘How do you put up with him?’
‘He’s my only friend,’ Adam said. ‘And that is a truly pathetic admission.’
‘Don’t forget me, old fruit.’
‘And you,’ Adam said.
‘You’re still looking rather ticked off, Adam. Even this exciting little charade failing to stimulate your juices?’
‘Totally.’
‘My offer’s still open.’ Toff leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘Come and work with me. I’ve got more than enough to do. Loads of dosh and it’s a doddle.’
‘No offence, mate, but I don’t think it’s my bag either.’
‘Like everything in life, Adam, you never know until you try. Come over one night. Sit in on a session.’
Chris wandered back towards them.
‘You can even bring Chris, if you must.’
‘Where?’ Chris said as he sat down again.
‘To my studio.’ Toff gathered his belongings. ‘I want Adam to see what I get up to.’
‘We can come and watch?’ Chris’s eyes were out on stalks.
‘I can’t come with him,’ Adam said. ‘He’d embarrass me.’
‘He’d embarrass himself more,’ Toff said.
‘I won’t.’ Chris crossed his heart. ‘I promise. We could go tonight.’
‘No,’ Adam said flatly.
Chris pulled out his diary. ‘Tomorrow,’ he enquired. ‘Next week? How about Tuesday?’
‘No!’ Adam repeated.
‘Put away your little black book, old fellow,’ Toff suggested. ‘Adam needs to do this in his own time.’
‘Thanks, Toff,’ Adam said as he pushed back his chair, knowing that he wouldn’t hear the last of it from Chris until he did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘This is not the sort of behaviour we expect from our staff, Emily.’ The Headmaster is pacing up and down. His room is sumptuous and stuffed with antiques and hand-woven carpets from a bygone era. Normally I love the feel of tradition in here, but today it’s suffocating me and I’m in desperate need of some fresh air before I pass out.
A Compromising Position Page 11
