by Kate Hewitt
“I’m glad you’re on board with the club idea,” he told her. “I think it will really be great for Sam, as well as the whole school.”
The bell rang signalling the end of the day, and Laura’s eyes widened. “I should…”
“Yes, I certainly should. The Year Sixes will be champing at the bit, trying to get out of the classroom.” Even so he had an unwise impulse to continue the conversation, to say something more, although he had no idea what. She was the mum of one of his pupils. She was a widow, for heaven’s sake. Off. Limits. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Yes, of course. Of course. And thank you. For…everything.” She flung a hand out towards him and after a second’s hesitation James shook it, unsure if that’s what she’d intended. It wasn’t icy anymore; it was warm and soft and eminently touchable, her fingers small and slender against his palm before she withdrew her hand, her face still rosy. “Well. I should collect Sam.”
“Yes.”
Still they were staring at each other. This was starting to feel a little bit awkward. With a small, apologetic smile, James went to the door and opened it, gesturing for Laura to pass through first. Her shoulder brushed his chest as she went by, and he breathed in the lemony scent of her shampoo or soap. He straightened to avoid any further contact; he didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already had, staring at her like some love-struck idiot. What on earth was wrong with him?
With one last fleeting, uncertain smile, Laura hurried out of the front entrance to the schoolyard, where parents were congregating in cheerful knots under a sky the colour of a bruise that was already beginning to darken to dusk.
James gave himself a hard mental shake before he headed back to the Year Six classroom, where the pupils were indeed starting to go a little haywire. Coats were being tossed in the air and someone was using a boot like a football.
“All right, all right, settle down!” James called out in his sternest voice, and the pupils gave him a sheepish look before the coats and stray boot went back to their owners. James glanced out the window at the schoolyard, but he couldn’t see Laura anywhere.
*
She was such an idiot. Laura stood in the corner of the schoolyard, doing her best not to meet anyone’s eye. She definitely didn’t want any friendly getting-to-know-you chats right now, not when she’d just made such an utter fool of herself in front of Sam’s teacher, and she was feeling scorched through with humiliation.
But who would have ever thought a schoolteacher would be so…would be so…well, sexy?
She had been completely floored from the start of their meeting, as well as totally wrong-footed, panicked over Sam, and then mesmerised by James Hill’s eyes, which were the blue green of the Caribbean, or what Laura thought the Caribbean looked like, judging from pictures she’d seen, as well as his floppy, chestnut-brown hair, his tall, muscular physique, the tweed jacket and battered cords he’d worn with confident ease. Everything about him had been relaxed and wry and basically just…gorgeous.
Shocked at the nature of her own thoughts, Laura stiffened where she stood. Why on earth was she thinking this way about Sam’s teacher? She hadn’t looked at another man with anything close to romantic interest even once since Tim had died. She’d barely noticed they were breathing, for heaven’s sake, lost in her own haze of grief as she was. Yet she’d certainly been aware of James Hill in that way. Very aware. Had it simply been because of his rather noticeable good looks, or something else? Something more? Was that buried, deadened part of her coming back to life? How very inconvenient.
“Mum!”
With relief, Laura pushed the disturbing thoughts to the back of her mind as she waved to Sam, who was hurrying towards her, a shy smile brightening his face.
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m going to start a Minecraft Club with my teacher, Mr Hill!”
“Wow, that sounds amazing, Sam.” She ruffled his hair even though they were still in the schoolyard, and he let her, grinning, making her heart feel light. She loved to see her son so happy. It made her spirits lift in a way that nothing else could.
“He thinks Minecraft is really good at teaching stuff,” Sam continued as they headed out of the schoolyard. “I told you, Mum, it’s not the same as Fortnite.”
“So you’ve said. Maybe it’s time I believed you.” She gave him a teasing smile; he was still grinning, bless him. Today had definitely been a good day.
As they walked down the high street back towards Willoughby Close, Laura’s thoughts drifted inexorably back to James Hill, and she remembered again, with fresh humiliation, just how ridiculously she’d behaved—panicking over Sam and then at the end shooting her arm out like that…
She wasn’t really sure what she’d been thinking in that moment. She’d had some crazy idea of grabbing his hand with both of her own, like some sort of feudal thanks to the lord of the manor. He must have thought she’d really lost the plot by then, and perhaps she had, but the truth was she’d just been so grateful that he seemed to get Sam. The idea that something might actually be going right in their lives at last had filled her with teary gratitude.
And as for any so-called sparks she’d felt, well, those had been due to an excess of emotion and nothing more. James Hill certainly couldn’t have felt them. Besides which, he had to be about thirty, a good ten years younger than her, which just added to the humiliation of her own response. Ludicrous. Ludicrous. But he was, Laura thought on a sigh, undeniably gorgeous.
Smiling faintly, determined to make herself see the humour in the situation, she fired off a text to Chantal.
Just made a complete idiot of myself in front of Sam’s teacher, who happens to be insanely gorgeous. She added a couple of random emojis as she always did with Chantal—a stiletto, an ice cream sundae, and—not so randomly—a facepalm.
Sighing, she slid her phone into her pocket. The next time she saw Mr Hill she was going to do her best to act like a normal, well-adjusted and reasonable person.
As they turned into the lane that led to Willoughby Close, her phone pinged with a text. Already smiling in expectation of Chantal’s undoubtedly witty reply, Laura swiped to read the text.
Not insanely gorgeous, surely…and not an idiot, either. What’s with the stiletto?
Laura stared at the text in confusion—it wasn’t at all Chantal’s style—when, with an icy ripple of horror, she realised what she’d done. She’d replied to the last text she’d been sent without thinking, because the only person who ever texted her was Chantal.
But she hadn’t sent the text to Chantal. She’d sent it to James Hill.
Chapter Five
James stared at his phone, willing a response. When the text had pinged on his phone, clearly meant for someone else, he’d debated for a few minutes about whether to reply. He had a feeling Laura would be mortified that he’d seen it, and yet if he didn’t reply, she would know eventually, if not sooner, that he’d received it, probably the next time she looked at her phone, and his silence would be seen as—what? Arrogant? Rude? Indifferent?
And so he’d replied, trying to make light of it, and maybe even being the tiniest bit flirty, because, well, why not? She’d said he was insanely gorgeous, after all. The memory made him smile. No one had ever called him that before.
He might have beefed up a bit since his school days, and chess, reading, and logic puzzles all could be seen as, to an adult, if not quite cool, then at least kind of coolly different. Maybe.
But she hadn’t replied, and it had now been ten minutes. The schoolyard was empty along with his classroom, which held that salty, sweaty smell particular to Year Six boys on the cusp of puberty. James kept a can of air freshener spray in his desk drawer, and he needed to use it several times a day.
With a sigh he put his phone back in his pocket and headed to his desk. He had thirty maths sheets to mark before he headed home.
Outside twilight was falling as he worked his way steadily thro
ugh scribbled pages of long division. He usually loved the quietness of his classroom at the end of the day, almost as much as he loved it when it was full of children, cocky ten- and eleven-year-olds who were still young enough to be cute—sometimes—but old enough to be thoughtful and smart—mostly.
He loved seeing their minds awaken, excitement firing up their eyes as ideas took hold. When he’d decided to do a PGCE in primary education after completing his English degree at Durham, his parents had been a bit nonplussed.
“Not a lot of blokes in primary teaching,” his father, a Shropshire farmer born and bred, had remarked as he’d rocked back on his heels, his thumbs firmly in his belt loops, his expression one more of blank incomprehension than outright disapproval.
“Nope,” James had replied as cheerfully as he could, because, as ever, his father’s lack of endorsement had stung. “That’s why I’m doing it, at least partly.” His father had narrowed his eyes and he’d explained patiently, “Boys that age need male role models. There aren’t enough men in primary education, especially with the lack of fathers at home. And I like that age.” Secondary school students had too much attitude for his liking. By fourteen they’d already hardened, become cynical and suspicious, a brittle shell already forming around their minds. It was sad, and he admired all the teachers who were willing to take that on, but he liked to teach the younger ones, whose minds were still malleable, their enthusiasm still infectious.
And here he was, seven years into it, and not regretting it one bit, except maybe the lack of romantic prospects. Every teacher at Wychwood Primary was married save for him, and that had been the case back at the school in London where he’d taught until this year.
His uni friends had all managed to pair up since graduation, as had he—although unfortunately his three-year relationship hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped or planned. But that was life for you, with all its complicated tangles and turns. Things didn’t always get tied up neatly with a bow, or in his case, a wedding ring. Helen had decided they weren’t suited, and she’d probably been right, even if it still stung more than a little when he let it.
James slid his phone out of his pocket. Nothing. It was probably just as well. Yet as he thought again of Laura calling him insanely gorgeous, he couldn’t help but smile.
*
“Mum. Mum.”
Impatience sharpened Sam’s voice as he tugged on her sleeve. Laura blinked him slowly into focus; she realised she’d been standing in the middle of the pavement, staring at her phone in something probably resembling Munch’s The Scream as she’d absorbed James Hill’s text. Dear heaven. Could she possibly have embarrassed herself more? Well, probably, but she didn’t like to think about that. The current reality was certainly bad enough.
“Sorry, Sam.” She dropped her phone into her bag, half-wishing she could chuck it and all of its texts away entirely. She’d have to reply to James—Mr Hill—at some point, but she didn’t have enough composure to do it now. “What were you saying?”
“Mr Hill wants me to write a letter explaining about the Minecraft Club,” Sam said in the tone of someone who had said this before and had not been heard. “Will you help me?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled at him, even though her stomach was still cramping unpleasantly at the thought of that stupid text. She’d called him insanely gorgeous, for heaven’s sake. “Sounds fun.”
Back at the cottage Perry lumbered hopefully to his shaggy feet while Sam dumped his school bag, coat and lunch box on the floor and sprawled next to the dog, putting his arms around him and burying his head in his shaggy coat. Nothing like the easy, unquestioning loyalty of a canine, Laura thought as she picked up the detritus Sam had happily left behind, hanging his coat on the stand by the door and then washing out his lunch box at the sink.
“So good day today, huh?” she said, and Sam made a noncommittal noise. Laura wanted to ask him if he’d made any friends, or met any kids he thought might be friends in time, but she knew better than to press him on such a sensitive subject. No child over the age of six wanted to be asked if they’d made friends. “Do you know if anyone else in your class wants to join the Minecraft Club?” she asked instead, and was rewarded with another noncommittal noise. The grunts and groans of an eleven-year-old boy should have their own dictionary.
She fixed him his usual snack of a peanut butter and banana sandwich and then sat at the table with him while they hammered out the text of a letter. It was, Laura thought, wonderfully pleasant to sit in a pool of sunshine, Perry sprawled at their feet, Sam’s tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth just as Tim’s used to as he concentrated on writing the letter.
If she could just hold on to moments like these—cup them between her two hands—she thought she might remember how to be happy. It wouldn’t even be that hard.
But then the front door was practically hurled off its hinges as Maggie stalked into the house, flung her coat and backpack towards the kitchen, grabbed an apple from the bowl, and started upstairs without so much as a hello, or for that matter, a noncommittal noise of the kind Sam had been making.
Still Laura tried. “Hello, darling,” she called brightly, hating how artificial her voice sounded, but what else was she supposed to do? “Good day?”
Nothing in reply, just the thud of Maggie’s feet up the stairs, and then the slam of her door. Laura sighed and Sam reached over and patted her hand.
“She’ll grow out of it,” he said, so seriously that Laura couldn’t help but smile.
“I certainly hope so,” she told him. She’d give Maggie a few minutes to decompress and then go up and try again. Sometimes that was all motherhood felt like—endless trying, few results. You just hoped they paid it forward when the time came.
With the letter finished and Sam happily ensconced on his iPad, Laura decided to brave going upstairs. She made two cups of tea in the faint hope that Maggie might accept one, and then crept quietly upstairs.
“Mags? Sweetheart?” She tapped on her daughter’s door. “I’ve got tea for you.” She thought she heard a grunt in reply, and so, her heart beating rather hard considering this was her daughter, she pushed open the door with her hip and came into the room.
Contrary to Maggie’s first scornful assessment, her furniture did fit in the room, and Laura thought it all looked rather nice, the bed under the window, the bureau by the door, the desk in the corner. Laura had offered to paint the walls, but Maggie had dismissed her with a contemptuous ‘why bother?’
“Here you go,” she said now as she handed her daughter a cup of tea, which Maggie took without a word. Laura perched on the edge of the bed, her own mug cradled between her hands. “How was school today?”
“Fine.”
Of course it was. Laura realised she should have known better than to ask such a pointless, open-ended question. The grief counsellor had suggested specific questions that required detailed answers—unless, of course, your child wasn’t ready or willing to talk. Considering Maggie had not been willing to talk for over a year, Laura wasn’t sure where that left her.
“Have you met some people?” she tried again. “People you might be friends with, I mean?”
“I dunno.” Maggie hunched her shoulders as she blew on her tea. “Maybe.”
Well, that was promising, surely. “If you ever want to invite someone round—”
Maggie looked up, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Why would I want to invite someone here?”
“Because it’s our home?” Laura suggested as lightly as she could.
“It sucks.”
“Maggie…” Laura hesitated, unsure, as ever, how to navigate these fraught moments. “We’re going to be here for some time,” she finally said as gently as she could. “You need to give Willoughby Close—and Wychwood-on-Lea—a chance.”
Maggie just shook her head, her lowered gaze focused on her tea. “We could have afforded something better than this place.”
“If we could have, we would have,” Laura re
plied, doing her best to keep her tone as sympathetic as possible, and not snap the way she sometimes felt like doing. “This was what was available in our budget.”
Maggie looked up, her eyes glinting with fury. “Dad had a good business and we lived in a way bigger house than this one. So tell me why this is all we can afford?”
Laura sat back and sipped her tea in order to stall for time. The last thing she wanted to do—well, one of the last things—was go into the family finances with her daughter. Yes, Tim had had his own business doing landscaping design. It was why they’d moved to Woodbridge from London; he’d had enough of the corporate world and wanted to follow his dream somewhere near the sea.
They’d all followed it, and it had led to ploughing all the money from the sale of their modest three-bedroom in Chiswick—a house that had been smaller than this one, incidentally—into getting the business up and running, except it never really had.
Which had left them in the unfortunate position of having to use the proceeds from the sale of their house in Woodbridge to settling debts and paying credit cards bills. As for the lapsed life insurance policy…well, there was no point going there.
“It’s complicated, Maggie,” Laura said at last, “but please trust me that we’re where we can afford to be and if you just—”
“I don’t want to just do anything,” Maggie snapped, and then reached for her phone, swiping the screen with pointed aggression. The conversation was clearly over.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” Laura said on a sigh, and then rose from the bed and went into her own bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.
With Sam downstairs and Maggie right next to her, Laura was conscious of how small the cottage really was. Perfectly adequate, but yes, small. She decided to go out into the garden to call Chantal and tell her about that wretched text, among other things.
It was both freezing and dark out there, but at least it was private, assuming no neighbours were skulking about, which Laura doubted they were, considering the weather.
