by Cole, Tillie
“Yes, I’m Mrs Nor–,… erm I mean Mrs. Jones.” she announced, a little flustered.
“Oh, you must be Boleyn’s mother?” I asked, shaking her hand.
“Yes. I really just wanted to come and see you and meet the woman who is changing my daughter’s life,” she said, smiling.
“Excuse me, I don’t understand. You mean me?” I questioned, shocked.
“Ms. Munro, since you came to this school and started working with her she is a completely different person. She smiles. She’s happy, she sings all day, and I didn’t even know she could sing.
“Boleyn doesn’t have an easy time at home, and has to live an unusual and, let’s say, unique life. She moved against her wishes to Calgary two years ago, and has been in two schools already, and hasn’t responded to anyone as she has done to you,” she announced kindly, with a face full of gratitude.
With a lump in my throat I replied, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I confided.
Getting up, Pamela took my hand again and pulled me in for a hug. “I know it may be your job, but it's her life and it's got a whole lot better since you came along,” she flattered, patting my hand.
With that, she turned and walked out of the studio. I waited two minutes, and then began shimmying around my classroom with ‘Spice Up Your Life’ playing in my head. I grabbed my bag, and decided to ditch the rest of the marking; this called for a hot tub celebration!
As I headed to the door, I punched a Breakfast Club-style arm up in the air, and with a loud shout of, “She shoots, she scores!” ran to my Smart car, eager to tell all to the other Oink Fairy.
Chapter 6
The beginning of the Tudor reign
Les Miserables was shaping up to be the best production I had ever put on, and I couldn’t have been happier, but the stupidly long hours and huge pressure made me look forward to the October break like I’d never looked forward to a holiday before.
With only getting a week off school, I had decided not to go home for a visit – it took me four bloomin’ days to beat the jet-lag anyhow – so I planned to have a nice chill-out week in Calgary, all kicked off with a night on the razz with Tink.
I arrived home at five o’clock after finishing some paperwork, and I was excited as hell for a good night of drinking. Tink was at the restaurant and wouldn’t finish until ten that night, and I was to meet him there, prepped and ready to go.
In true Geordie style, the beauty regime had started the previous night with a soak in the bath for about an hour, using a good exfoliating brush to get my skin as smooth as Bruce Willis’ head. I’d then applied fake tan, a Natasha Munro-trademark three times, to make sure I was totally tan-tastic, although the outside observer may say that I resembled a recently creosoted fence. Yes, my sheets were completely ruined, but vanity costs, people!
So, the perfect night-out colour achieved and a large glass of pinot grigio in hand, I concentrated on meticulously curling both my hair and my 18-inch clip-in hair extensions; applying lots of helpings of bronzer; gluing two layers of fabulous strip lashes firmly in place (anymore and your eyelids will struggle to function, believe me); sticking on nails like talons; adding a thick coat of scarlet red lipstick; and finally, whacking on the shortest dress I owned and the highest sky-scraper heels you can imagine! I was good to go.
Looking at the clock and feeling a little bit tipsy from the wine and obligatory few cheeky sips of sambuca I had consumed, I realised that it was only just eight in the evening and that I was two hours early. After twiddling my thumbs and searching for something to do, I decided I’d go to the restaurant early and hang out in the back with the staff. I quickly called a cab, and fifteen minutes later arrived at a very busy Ristorante Girasoli.
In the months that we had been in Calgary, I had been to the restaurant more times than I could count. I always used the staff entrance, as they all hung out there when things were quiet or when the wait staff were on their scheduled breaks. There was always someone to talk to and always music playing, with each staff member rotating their iPhone playlists – although the back room was always a lot quieter on Tink’s playlist night – funny, hmm?
The best thing was that you could have a laugh and talk without the patrons seeing you. Tink had truly landed on his feet working there, and he knew it too. The Italian contingent of Calgary were some of the nicest people we had met since we had moved. I had become a bit of a permanent fixture on weekend nights, always showing up to neck a grappa or two just before closing, and grabbing Tink for a night on the tiles.
I swung open the back door and saw all the staff huddled together. Now, I was a lil’ tipsy from my getting-ready wine and so didn’t register that this was a bit odd. I heard Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’ coming through the speaker and let the music take hold of me. I began bopping in time to the beat and made my way towards the mob of servers.
As the chorus kicked in I threw in some comedy phone shapes and headed in Tink’s direction, who was looking at me in a mixture of both amusement and horror. In hindsight, I should have realised something was up as he would usually have imitated my actions as I made my way towards him. However, tonight Tink was making cutting gestures with his hand over his throat. Mmm, strange. But in my alcohol-addled brain, I thought it was a new move, and I successfully, with superb fluidity and grace, incorporated the action into my already-outstanding routine.
When I made it to the group, I screamed, “slut drop!” at the top of my voice and began dropping to the floor in a squat position, over and over, in-sync with Carly letting her boy know that before he came into her life she missed him ‘so, so bad’.
When I looked up, I saw several sets of wide eyes focused on me, and Tink’s head facing down on the tile counter, mumbling something about “Why tonight, Lord?” and groaning like he was in pain.
I put my hands on my hips and a massively confused frown on my face. “What? Why is everyone acting so weir-,”
“Ms. Munro? Ms. Munro! Mom, it’s Ms. Munro!”
It was that moment that every teacher dreads while a little bit intoxicated, dancing like a stripper working for tips and frankly making an absolute tit out of themselves, the call that has you running for the hills.
Shit, a student.
I plastered a fake smile on my face and turned around, flashing the pearly whites at a table of about six people all staring at me. They were in a very dark corner with only a red table-candle illuminating the area, meaning I couldn’t initially make out individual faces. I cast a quick glance at Tink who was looking a bit pale and clammy.
What the heck is going on? Why are people eating in the back room? And what is up with Tink, he couldn’t have known one of my students is here?
At the table, someone second-to-right was waving their arms around like a jacked-up air traffic controller, and was frantically gesturing for me to come over. Ah, recognition hit like a smack to the face. It was Boleyn Jones.
Fuck.
Sucking in a breath, I began to make my way over to the table. Bloody hell, it was like walking the Green Mile. I searched for any holes along the way to throw myself into, but tonight, it seemed, was not my night. Only smooth and polished floors led me to my doom.
“Ms. Munro! Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you, you look so different,” squealed Boleyn excitedly.
Looking down at myself I nodded, taking in my micro-mini LBD that tied in a cleavage-enhancing structured-cup halter and flared out with a net tutu skirt that just about covered my more-than-ample arse. I realised I looked absolutely nothing like a teacher, but like a bad extra on the set of Moulin Rouge.
This is just awesome.
“Hey,” I said weakly, feeling like an utter knob. “Hope you’re all having a nice meal.”
I briefly surveyed the dimly-lit table, noting that there seemed to be near-equal numbers of men and women, all around my age or older.
In the corner farthest away from me
sat an enormous hulk of a man sporting a grey woolly beanie hat, with his head resting on the heavily-tattooed arm covering his face from view. It all seemed very mafia-like.
“Yeah, we are. We are out celebrating my part in Les Mis. It was the first night all the family could get together in weeks,” Boleyn bubbled.
Getting up from the table, Mrs. Jones held out her hands and greeted me. “Hello, Ms. Munro, nice to see you again. Sorry if Boleyn got a bit over-excited then. We didn’t mean to interrupt your night.”
“No problem, it’s nice to see her so lively. I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone back here. Sorry if you witnessed my little performance just now. It’s kind of a tradition I have with the staff, it’s not really meant for public viewing,” I squirmed, looking down at my hands while I beamed a lovely shade of crimson.
A few laughs came from the table, and Boleyn chimed in. “I thought it was funny, Miss!”
Having not dared make too much eye contact with the rest of the patrons through utter mortification, I decided it was probably best to make my excuses as soon as possible. “Well, I’ll leave you to it; I don't want to keep you from your evening. Buon appetito.”
I quickly turned to scurry off, and heard muffled voices behind me. I could hear Boleyn throwing an uncharacteristic strop and a gruff male voice spit something out sharply in response, but ultimately making grunts of defeat.
What is all that about? Ignore it and run. Stop embarrassing yourself.
“Oh, Ms. Munro!” shouted Mrs. Jones.
Arghhh! I turned my head slightly towards her call.
“Could we introduce you to the rest of the family?”
Noooo!!! I must have sinned badly in a past life. I just want to go and hide under a rock!
In a fake, cheery tone I answered. “Sure, I’d love to.”
Tink and what seemed like every Italian immigrant in Canada were all watching me with their mouths wide open.
What the fuck is going on? Is my train wreck of embarrassment really that bad? Shit, is my skirt tucked into my knickers?
Mrs. Jones (or Pamela, as she urged me to call her) came over, took my arm, and escorted me back to the table while I discreetly checked the back of my skirt, making sure I didn’t have a whopping wedgie. You’ll be pleased to learn that it was all good.
The introductions started with Boleyn’s side of the table.
I put my hand out and said to my student. “Hi, I don’t think that we’ve met? I’m Ms. Munro.”
Boleyn began laughing whole-heartedly and shook my hand right back. “Hi! I’m Boleyn,”
“Like Anne?” I teased.
“Yeah, but don’t behead me,” she joked.
“Well, only if you’re a good singer and can rock out to Adele like no-one’s business!”
Blushing, but obviously flattered, she answered, “I think I can do that.”
I winked and looked at the next person, a beautiful blonde with blue eyes who looked about my age.
“Ms. Munro, this is Samantha; she is married to my eldest son, Henry,” Pamela explained, pointing to Samantha and a casually dressed man next to her.
I nodded, smiled and shook both their hands. “Hi, nice to meet you Samantha, and you too, Henry.”
They both smiled back, reciprocating the pleasantries. Henry had longish dirty-blonde hair that ran just enough to tuck behind his ears. He looked like a surfer – a very good-looking surfer – maybe in his mid-thirties. Together they looked like Barbie and Ken, all good-looking and obviously madly in love. It was lovely to see.
“Next is Tate, a friend of the family,” continued Pamela.
Tate was very cute, with an extremely happy disposition. I liked him instantly. He had the preppy look down to a T, with a crisp white shirt, dark denim jeans and a red dickey bow tie. He had dark hair styled in a comb-over and was cute as a button. I would bet any money that he batted for Tink’s team.
“And this is?” I asked, turning to the massive bloke on the end with the beanie hat hiding most of his face. He peeked up reluctantly, and I went to introduce myself, and then stopped.
Well, shave my head and call me baldy!
“Holy shit!” I gasped and covered my hands with my mouth as if I could stuff my inappropriate cursing back in. “I’m sorry. But–”
“Yes, Ms. Munro. Please let me introduce my youngest son, Tudor,” Pamela announced, chuckling to herself.
“Hi,” he looked up briefly sporting a disgusted scowl, clearly not at all happy about my presence.
“You’re Tudor North!” I blurted out.
“Am I?” he said, patting himself and feigning shock. “Shit, that’s why I’ve been getting gawked at all night. I couldn't figure out why before you kindly reminded me of who I am. Thanks for that, you really must be a good teacher, so witty and quick!” he quipped dryly, turning up the right side of his mouth in a snotty smirk.
“Tudor!” admonished all of his family in unison.
I however, just stood there in shock. Partly because of who I had just been introduced to, but mainly because he had just been such an arse. If there’s a sure-fire way to stop the awe of meeting a celeb, it was for them to be a complete and utter twat.
Looking rather sheepish at being shouted at by his family, he held up his hands in surrender and muttered an insincere “I’m sorry,” under his breath.
That quickly snapped me out of my trance. “Apology accepted, Mr. North, and I’m happy that it was one that sounded so heartfelt and sincere,” I retorted with venom. “I admit, I was a bit wowed there for a moment. You are Tudor bloody North! I’ve never met anyone famous before, and kind of don’t want to ever again now. I heard that fame could do things to a man's ego,” I pointed right at his face. “Exhibit A. Tudor North: arrogant and rude – alert the media.” I shouted, flinging my hands in the air. I had always been one for the dramatics!
Perhaps I shouldn’t speak to him like this in front of Boleyn, you know, professionalism and all – but hey, I am bloomin’ pissed off!
“Yep, that’s me, Tudor North: arrogant as hell, rude to anyone outside of my family, and public property to the whole fuckin' world,” he remarked slyly.
This was spiralling out of control and my annoyance was at an all-time high. If we were back in Newcastle, I’d have bottled the bastard!
“Tudor! Stop it. Don’t speak to Ms. Munro like that!” cried Boleyn, getting visibly upset.
Seeing that, I began to laugh, pretending his jibes had no effect on me. “Boleyn, don’t get upset, I’m sure your brother is just annoyed that your meal has been interrupted. No harm done,” I said soothingly.
She seemed somewhat appeased, but her eyes were wide and embarrassed.
Okay, okay, I can hear what you’re asking. Who the hell is Tudor North? Well, Tudor North is a thirty-one-year-old bonafide superstar actor, as in Hollywood actor, the real McCoy. No, I’m not shitting you.
He is six foot three, ridiculously muscular in build – and by ridiculously, I mean like a four-storey brick shithouse. He has stunningly beautiful green eyes; sometimes shaven, sometimes fair, cropped hair and sports a full body of tattoos, all of which are tribal and cover most of the left side of his body. And he is fitter in person than he is in real life, I can now testify to that fact.
He has been on the scene for about four years, but he had recently been catapulted to the A-list with his lead role in The Blade Reaper, a story about a ruthless criminal-hunting vigilante, which made a record-breaking amount of money on its first weekend.
After meeting the brooding actor, I could see why he was cast as the dark superhero. And, as pissed as I was with him at that moment, I couldn't deny that he was all muscle and pure gorgeousness. Bad attitude though. What a bloody shame.
Tudor pushed his hand over the table and grabbed Boleyn’s in his. He began apologising and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles to calm her down, a surprisingly gentle gesture considering the verbal rinsing I'd just received.
Slanting his eyes up to
wards me, he sighed. “Ms. Munro, I apologise. It’s no excuse for my behaviour, but it’s difficult to go unnoticed these days, and I can get slightly uncomfortable with it.”
I simply nodded my head, not knowing the proper etiquette for this situation. Turning to the rest of the group, their faces all embarrassed and awkward at my expense, I decided I had made a reasonable enough idiot of myself for one night, and made my excuses to go.
“Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of the night. I’ll move on your adoring fans too, so you don’t have to feel them ‘gawking’ at you for the remainder of your meal,” I told Tudor, using my fingers to accentuate the air quotes.
“Thanks,” he whispered quietly, still clutching his sister’s hand. I would have thought he was kind of sweet really, if I hadn’t just been the target of his anger.
I swiftly walked back to the gaggle of waiters and laughed at their ludicrously shocked faces. Tink ran to the front and grabbed my arm, pulling me into the kitchen, out of view and out of ear shot. The Roman army followed.
“Fucking hell, Wil, you just met Tudor North! What was he like? I almost shit a disco ball tonight when he came in and asked if we could arrange a private table for him and his family. Arghhhh! Tudor ‘sex on legs’ North! What I wouldn’t give to sink my ball in his hole,” he shrieked.
“Calm down, Tink. And you lot,” I pointed to the rest of the staff, “are creeping him the hell out, so back off.”
They all scurried away at the insistence of Nonna Girasoli and her trusted pasta roller, leaving me and the Tinkster alone.
“Wil, who was that girl?” he quizzed when we were no longer subject to eavesdroppers.
“That was my student, Boleyn, one of ‘Destiny’s Delinquents’. Think I now know why she’s so secretive. Turns out her brother’s Tudor bloody North, who’d have guessed that?” I mused.
“What about him? I saw him talking to you. What’d he say?”
I crossed my arms defensively. “Just introduced himself and then ripped the piss at my star-struck reaction. Came off as a moody knob really, which is a shame as I think he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” I admitted, expressing my disappointment.
