by Kiki Archer
One Foot Onto The Ice
Kiki Archer
Editor: Jayne Fereday
Copyright 2013 Kiki Archer
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For my girlies:
Andrea, Katie, Lyndsey & Sarah
xxx
Chapter One
“She did a quiff!”
“What do you mean, she did a quiff?”
“In gym class. She did a quiff. Susan Quiffy Quinn. She did one, in gym.”
Amber puzzled at her animated work colleague. “How old were you?”
Jenna closed one eye and thought for a moment. “Thirteen, maybe? I remember she didn’t have any boobs because her top fell down and she wasn’t wearing a bra.”
“When?”
“In gym class!” Jenna James continued to part her mass of wavy brown hair, lifting the side sections into two high bunches. “Battle-Axe Brown asked her to demonstrate a handstand. She was teaching us how to support each another.” Jenna smiled. “I remember Susan Quinn throwing her hands onto the mat and flinging her legs up into position. Battle-Axe Brown grabbed Susan’s ankles to stop her from wobbling.” Jenna paused to fasten a second band into her hair, quickly securing her bouncing style. “That’s when Susan’s top fell down and we all laughed at her pancakes.”
“Poor girl,” said Amber, genuinely mortified by the scene.
“Battle-Axe Brown roared for us to be silent, so we immediately stopped laughing, but Susan was still upside down, bright red from embarrassment.”
“Maybe she was red because she was upside down?”
Jenna lifted her sunglasses from the table and moved them on to the top of her head, slotting them behind her bunches. “Yes, maybe. But she was red, the silence was deafening, and then it happened.”
“What happened?”
“The quiff!”
“No?”
Jenna nodded seriously. “Yes. Susan Quinn, tits out, quiffed right in the face of Battle-Axe Brown.”
Amber tried to disguise her giggle. “That’s awful.”
“No one spoke. It was silent. But I remember seeing Battle-Axe’s fingers getting tighter around Susan’s ankles and her knuckles going whiter and whiter. She held her in that position for a good two minutes.”
“Didn’t the teacher say anything?”
“No, Battle-Axe just tilted her head to the side and lifted her nose in the air, flaring her nostrils in disgust.”
Amber shrugged her shoulders. “So it could have been a regular toot?”
“Toot?”
“Trump? You know what I mean, Jenna.”
Jenna shook her head with authority. “No. It was definitely a quiff.”
“And how do you know?”
Jenna raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice. “Everyone knows what a quiff sounds like.”
“Remind me.”
Jenna spotted the cheeky tone in her friend’s voice and laughed. “Behave.”
“Come on, Jenna, we’re already halfway through the ski season. Do we really have to wait until April, like last year?”
Jenna ignored the question. “Remember silly putty?”
“That goop stuff?”
“Yes. That’s what a quiff sounds like. When you push your fingers into a tub of goop.”
Amber leaned further forwards. “Does it ever happen if you push your fingers somewhere else?”
“Stop it, you pink-haired sex pest!”
Amber folded her arms. “Me? You’re the ski instructor who manages to bed more females on the slopes than the rest of us put together.”
Jenna shrugged. “It’s never intentional. It just kind of happens.”
Amber looked at her friend. “It’s your exotic eyes. They’re mesmerising.”
“Oh please! I never wear a scrap of make-up. My hair’s either in bunches or bulging out from under a beanie hat, and I have a wonky smile.”
“You have dark brown, almond shaped eyes, and really cute dimples. That’s all you seem to need to get the ladies swooning.” Amber tilted her head and squinted. “Smile then.”
Jenna lifted her lips at the corners, displaying a set of perfect white teeth that were glowing out in contrast to the deep tan on her face.
“Nope. Your smile’s not wonky.”
“It is, look.” Jenna smiled even wider. “The right corner of my mouth rides up higher than the left and my right eyebrow goes higher when I’m talking.”
Amber gently sucked on her lips. “Trust me. The women aren’t looking at your eyebrows.”
Jenna James checked her brightly coloured watch, wondering what time her coach load of skiers would arrive. She lifted her head and sensed Amber’s eyes looking her up and down. “What do you keep staring at?” she asked, turning her body to the side and studying her friend. “I think it’s your new pink hair. It’s made you naughtier this season.”
“It’s not worked on you yet,” pouted Amber.
Jenna shook her bunches. “Listen, it was the last day on the slopes last season. We were drunk. It was fun, but…”
Amber pushed her chair backwards and jumped up. “Saved by the school,” she said, peering out of the French service station window at the group of students who were barging out of the coach and racing across the tarmac, all desperate to use anything other than the undersized, overflowing on-board toilet.
Amber moaned. “Why do I always get the roughest comprehensive schools?”
“They don’t look rough.”
Amber pointed out of the huge window. “They do! Look.”
Jenna looked at the dishevelled mixed-sex group of British students making their way into the service station. “All schools look like that after a day’s travel.”
“It’s a comprehensive school. They’re from Manchester. Inner city Manchester. Trust me, they’re rough.” Amber shook her head. “You make sure you have a jolly good time with your all-girls school and Madam Susan Quinn.”
Jenna tapped her teeth together, unable to hide her huge grin. “I used to go there.”
“What?!” Amber spun back around. “To the school you’re looking after?”
Jenna’s dimples were on full show. “Yes. St Wilfred’s All-Girls School. I used to go there.”
Amber was open mouthed. “I don’t believe you. You went to a private school? Well, well, well. You never cease to amaze me. Jenna James is a posh girl.” Amber suddenly laughed and leaned over Jenna’s shoulder, pointing down at the briefing sheet that was open on the table. “What if your lead teacher’s the same Susan Quinn? She was in your class. She went to St Wilfred’s. What if she works there now?”
Jenna shook her head. “No. It’s just a coincidence. Quiffy Quinn was a girl destined for greater things. She’s probably a top surgeon or the head of some great big international charity. There’s no way she’d be teaching back at St Wilf’s.”
Amber pursed her lips together and ran her fingers up her tall pink Jedward hair. “Stranger things have happened. The coolest, hippest, most carefree ski instructor on the slopes went to one of the country’s top fee-paying private schools.” Amber giggled. “Wait until the gang find out about this.”
“It’s no big deal. There’s a lot you guys don’t know about me.”
Ambe
r turned to leave so she could go and greet her designated teacher. “Yeah right. You’re an open book, Jenna.” She hollered over her shoulder. “Sun, skiing, sex. That just about sums you up.”
Jenna nodded, “Yeah, just about.” She sighed to herself and checked her watch, wondering what was keeping Susan Quinn and the party of girls from St Wilfred’s.
****
Susan Quinn pulled on her seatbelt and leaned forwards, aiming her hushed voice at the thoroughly exhausted coach driver. “So sorry.” She performed a polite cough. “I notice we’re going above sixty again.”
The coach driver was indeed exhausted. Not from the day’s travel from the UK, (his partner, who was now sleeping in the cabin, had handled the bulk of the journey), but exhausted by Madam Quinn’s constant reminders about speed. He looked at the dial, 61mph. “Sorry, Miss.”
It was now Marcus Ramsbottom’s turn to lean forwards in his seat. “It’s Madam Quinn, please. Here at St Wilfred’s we like to address each other correctly when in the presence of students.”
“Noted, boss,” said the driver.
Marcus leaned forwards. “It’s Professor Ramsbottom, if you please?”
The driver chuckled. “I don’t think I do, but thanks for the offer.”
“Don’t rise to it, Marcus,” whispered Susan.
Marcus pulled at the corners of his ginger moustache and turned to his colleague with a deep breath and a self-enforced sense of calm. “I never do, Susan, I never do.” He adjusted himself in his seat and placed a hand on her knee. “The care you show these students is exemplary. I’ve seen you watching the dial. You hear such horror stories about coach crashes on these lawless French motorways.”
Susan looked down at the podgy hand that was resting where it shouldn’t and noticed the ginger hairs sprouting from the knuckles. She lowered her voice. “Marcus, I’d rather you didn’t.”
Marcus lifted the offending hand and tapped it with his other. “Naughty boy,” he said, turning his head and peeping over the high-backed luxury coach seat. Most of the girls from St Wilfred’s were still asleep. “You’re right, as always, Susan. We can’t have the ladies getting wind of our attraction. Heaven forbid they find out we’re dating.”
Susan blushed. “Marcus, we’re not dating.”
“We had drinks.”
“Yes, after the school Christmas concert, in the staffroom, with the governors.”
Marcus fingered his thinning hair. “We have a week in the French Alps.” He smiled a yellow smile. “Look at us! We’re blossoming already.”
Susan was about to reply when a timid hand tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and dramatically grabbed the young girl, pulling her forwards and holding her tightly. “Daisy Button, what are you doing in the aisle? You have to wear your seatbelt at all times. Professor Ramsbottom’s just been talking about how dangerous these French motorways are.”
Daisy Button started to cry. “When are we stopping?”
Susan kept hold of the girl but bent forwards slightly to look out of the front window. The road was wide and empty. She decided to go for it and unclipped her seatbelt, ushering little Daisy Button back to her single seat in the middle of the coach. She sat her down and quickly fastened the girl’s seatbelt. Susan crouched at the knees and gripped the backs of the two adjoining chairs with far more force than was needed. “Daisy, I need to get back to my seat. What’s the problem?”
Daisy sniffed back some tears. “I want to call my mum.”
“That’s fine, Daisy. Use your mobile. We’re not in school now. They’re no longer contraband.”
Daisy Button was only eleven years old and the youngest on the school ski trip, but she knew what contraband meant and she knew that Madam Quinn was trying her best to be friendly. “I don’t have one.”
Susan turned back to the little girl. “You don’t?” All of the students from the fee-paying school were constantly out-doing each other with the latest electronic gadget, or designer piece of clothing. “At all?”
Daisy Button shook her head.
Susan studied the little girl. “Would you like to use mine?”
Daisy nodded quickly, trying not to look too shocked at the offer.
Marcus Ramsbottom’s voice sounded up the coach, “Madam Quinn. We’re about to pull in. Ladies, ladies, ladies. Rise and shine, please. It’s our final service station stop. You’ve got twenty minutes to do what it is that you girls do that makes you look so flourishing.” He raised his eyebrows at the students who were paying him no attention whatsoever. “Then get yourselves back on this coach, sharpish! And remember, on ne parle pas aux étrangers, surtout aux hommes. A part, moi, bien sûr.”
Champagne Willington, the eldest girl on the trip at eighteen years old, shouted back down the coach. “Même dans vos rêves les plus fous, Professeur Ramsbottom.”
Susan stood up from her crouched position. “That’s quite enough, Champagne.”
“On ne peut jamais avoir assez de Champagne,” laughed Marcus.
“Professor Ramsbottom, if we’re talking to the ladies in French can we please always explain ourselves to the younger members on the trip. Someone like Daisy Button here won’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
Daisy looked up. “Professor Ramsbottom told us not to talk to any strange men, him not included. Champagne said, in your dreams, Professor. You told her off, then Professor Ramsbottom flirted that you can’t ever get enough Champagne.”
“Daisy!”
Daisy Button shrugged. “It’s true. I’m only saying what they said, Madam.”
Priggy Bunton-Chatsworth stood from her seat and joined in the conversation. “Ouais, détendez-vous, Madame Quinn. On n'est pas en classe.”
Daisy looked back up at her teacher. “Priggy just told you to relax because we’re not at school now.”
Susan Quinn fanned her face, desperately trying not to get flustered. “Yes, thank you, Daisy, I know exactly what she said.” She walked quickly back down to the front of the coach. “Professor Ramsbottom, I think we may need to remind these young ladies about expected etiquette.”
“I don’t need to remind you girls, do I?”
There was a general groan of: “No Professor Ramsbottom.”
“Good. Seatbelts stay fastened until we pull in.” He twisted back down into his seat and patted the space next to him. “We need to show them we’re fun, Susan. Trips like these are the stuff of legend.”
Susan Quinn bent down and picked up the blue itinerary folder from the floor. She sat down and fastened her seatbelt. “Not on my watch, they’re not.”
Chapter Two
Susan Quinn watched the sixteen girls from St Wilfred’s walking, mostly sensibly, into the French service station. She reached into the blue itinerary folder for the briefing sheet from Club Ski, searching for the name of the instructor who would be spending the week with them, aware that this was their designated pick up point. She scanned down the details, fixing her eyes on the name. Jenna James. Susan felt a rush of nerves, immediately transported back to her own school prom. Sixteen years old, crap mousy brown hair, spots, and zero confidence. Not a great start in itself, but then the ever-so gorgeous Jenna James, with volumised wavy brown hair, exotic eyes, and perfect behind, walks into the hall with the same blue polka-dot dress on as her. Jenna’s, however, accentuated her curves, shaped her body, and fitted to perfection. Her own hung loosely around the chest and was a strange length at the knee. It was mortifying.
Susan looked out of the window at the snow-topped mountains and started to think about the other mortifying things that had happened at school. She stopped, aware that it was only a twenty minute service break. She smiled to herself. There was no way the charismatic, endearingly cheeky, and gorgeously beautiful Jenna James, with her to-die-for dimples, would have ended up as a ski instructor in the French Alps. She was probably the editor of a top-class art and fashion magazine, or a producer on some well-loved television show. Susan smiled. Jenna James had
in fact been one of the few girls at school who hadn’t made her life an absolute living hell. Susan remembered how she’d secretly pretended they were friends, latching on to every small comment and kind smile, paying great importance to the fact that Jenna actually passed her the ball that one time in netball back in year eight. There was no way Jenna James would remember her though. There was no way Jenna James would have replicated her own version of their imaginary friendship.
Susan focused her attention and caught a glimpse of herself in the coach window. Her hair was still crap. No amount of volumising spray, shampoo, or after care could ever combat its definite flatness and the hazelnut shade in this latest dye was still being overshadowed by her hair’s natural mousiness. She studied the shoulder length style and had to admit that the new choppy layers were helping somewhat. She peered closer and checked her skin, always relieved that her confidence crippling acne had finally cleared up in her early twenties. She reached back into her bag and brought out her pink shimmer-gloss lip balm. It wasn’t a full-on lipstick but it gave the impression of effort, and now, at twenty-six, Susan Quinn felt confident enough to make an effort. She shopped in the Per Una section of Marks and Spencer and would occasionally venture into Monsoon for the very special occasion, even though most of those were school related. She sighed to herself. Maybe she should give Marcus a chance. He had good prospects. He lived on the school site like her. His breath didn’t smell all of the time. She stopped herself and thought about it logically. Why was she even considering it? She paused in thought. He was taking an interest. That was the reason. He was taking an interest, where no one else really had.
****
Marcus Ramsbottom studied the bottle of wine carefully. He had tried his best to select a good but reasonably priced one from the small shop inside the service station.
“No alcohol allowed on the trip, Professor.”
“I’m an adult, Champagne. The rules don’t apply to me. Madam Quinn and I will be partaking in a bouteille de vin when you little ladies are tucked up in bed tonight.”
