In a Class of His Own

by Georgia Hill

  I walked barefoot along the landing, feeling like the intruder that I was. Jack had said he needed to be up and out early so I fervently hoped I hadn’t missed him. I followed the sounds of Radio Four’s Today programme which appeared to be coming from the far end of the house. As I padded silently towards John Humphrys’ silken tones I realised I was heading for the sumptuous master bedroom. Well, the worst that could happen was that I’d disturb its occupant having breakfast in bed.

  At that moment a door to my right opened suddenly and the man I’d been seeking stepped straight out of my fantasy and onto the landing in a cloud of fragrant steam.

  “What the f … NICKY?” Jack bellowed, startled as well he might be. He stood there, magnificently naked as nature had designed and with a horrified expression on his face.

  I didn’t know where to look. Well, actually I knew precisely where to look but didn’t think it good manners somehow.

  His usual pallor became suffused with a dark red blush and with an anguished yelp Jack disappeared back into the wet room.

  To my relief and disappointment he returned a second later with a small white towel wrapped around him. It was completely inadequate to cover such splendid manliness and clung damply to every muscle and sinew he possessed. It became apparent that while his face was proclaiming shock at finding me in his home, another part of his anatomy was showing distinct signs of approval.

  However, the man himself was recovering his composure rapidly. “Nicky what is it, is there something wrong?” He spoke urgently and put his hand on my arm.

  I felt heat burn through the thin fabric of the silk kimono I was wearing. I backed off from this vision of masculine beauty and stared. I couldn’t help it.

  For a minute I didn’t know what to say. I was rendered completely speechless. My eyes widened as I couldn’t help but take in every detail. Most people let’s be honest, look better clothed. It was not the case with Jack Thorpe. Who would have thought that such physical perfection lay underneath the conservative grey suits he usually wore? I knew he was broad shouldered and long legged but now he was revealed in all his glory.

  And what glory.

  His skin glowed pink with heat from the shower and was stretched taut across an impressive set of pecs. Wide shoulders led my eyes to Jack’s thrilling arms, with his finely sculptured biceps. A droplet of water ran down his smooth chest and drew my gaze to the well-honed six-pack moulded on his torso. I sighed inwardly, his body spoke of vigour and perfect physical fitness. How on earth he found the time to maintain this body astounded me but I was eternally grateful that he had. I’ve always prided myself that I can look beyond superficial appearance and in the past I’ve been rather dismissive of friends who are attracted by simple physical good looks but what I felt now was a double whammy of pure, unadulterated lust. I wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t drooling. I certainly had my mouth hanging wide open.

  “Nicky?” He said again, with a deepening frown while grabbing desperately at his towel which threatened to slip off entirely.

  It was only then that I realised how embarrassing the situation was. In dismay I clapped my hands to my now reddened cheeks.

  “Oh I’m so sorry … erm …leak,” I managed idiotically. “Plumber. I need a plumber.” I shook my head to try to get an inkling of sense in it. “No, I need to find a cock.”

  The merest flicker of a grin showed at the corner of Jack’s mouth.

  I blushed again, furiously. “No, the stop-cock.” This time surely I had the sartorial upper hand and yet he was still making me babble nonsensically. I took a deep breath, pulled myself together and managed in a rush, “I need to find the stop-cock to the flat so I can turn the water off.” And after that impressive speech I winced and added: “Sorry.”

  He raised his eyebrows as he took in the situation and nodded. “Oh God it’s not the seal on the cistern again? I thought Colin had got it fixed.”

  I had to admire how quickly he was recovering his dignity.

  “Hang on a minute, will you? I’ll just put something on.”

  Oh no I thought wantonly. Stay as you are so I can feast my eyes a little longer.

  I eventually returned to the flat some time later, with Jack’s own, and much more unwarranted, apology still ringing in my ears. He had to go he’d said, as he was already late for the meeting with his sister and brother-in-law but he thrust the number of a reliable plumber in my hand as he went.

  Before he’d gone he had dragged on a pair of jeans and had directed me to the stopcock, serving both properties and which was cunningly hidden under the main stairs. As he strained to turn the damned thing off I had a fresh opportunity to study the muscles in his back bulge and stretch. I could stare at him forever. I was in hormone heaven and I didn’t want it to end.

  Chapter Nine

  Christmas, as Christmas has a tendency to do in primary schools, started precisely on November 6th. I’d agreed the plans sketched out by Ann, and Monica the music co-ordinator, and they looked impressive. The idea was to have an infant nativity, and an afternoon of poetry reading and carols followed by an evening gala of entertainment all on a Victorian theme, to fit in with the history topic some of the older children had been studying. The afternoon would also feature an extract from ‘A Christmas Carol’ acted out by some mustard keen Year Six pupils, Joyce’s granddaughter included. The evening gala was to be by invitation only and restricted to governors, staff and members of the PTA. Ann had a vision that there would be old-fashioned dancing and a buffet too. Luckily, Janice was married to the music teacher at a private high school and he was organising their school orchestra to play something suitable to which we could dance. Ann had also thought it would be fun to make it fancy dress to fit in with the Victorian theme. I’d worried that it was the last thing the staff wanted to do after the long gruelling Autumn term but surprisingly the idea was met with no little enthusiasm from the teachers. The teaching assistants had even got together and were planning on singing some Victorian music hall songs.

  However, I had my work cut out to convince Jack to agree to the evening’s entertainment. I saw it as a powerful morale booster and recognition of the school community’s hard work and commitment. He saw it as a frivolous waste of time, money and energy. We’d had the inevitable heated argument about it in yet another interminable senior management meeting. But I’d never seen Ann as impassioned about anything as she was about this and together we had gradually persuaded a reluctant Jack to admit defeat.

  I was confident that Ann and Monica would do a great job and pleased that all the staff were pitching in to help, but I had a couple of purely private concerns. Where was I going to find a costume and how on earth could I learn to waltz in the time left available?

  The solution presented itself from an unexpected source. I’d popped into Mum’s on the way home one evening.

  I thought she was still looking a little fragile and far from completely well, despite Joyce’s campaign and my father’s optimism that she was getting better.

  We sat in the lounge toasting our toes in front of the coal-effect gas fire and presided over by Dad’s beloved print of ‘The Haywain’. It was cosy in the bungalow and I was glad I’d dropped by. Beautifully stylish though my flat was it took most of the evening to warm up. Beyond Mum’s rose patterned curtains there was a miserable late November night, with a heavy sleet falling and the promise of another frost.

  “So, what’s the new flat like Nicola?” Mum looked up from pouring my cup of tea. “I keep meaning to get your father to run me over to see it but somehow there never seems to be enough hours in the day.”

  This I privately doubted but I replied that she was welcome to come over and see the place anytime. Just as long as I’d locked up any gorgeous stray naked men beforehand, I added to myself silently and grinned. Poor Jack, he’d never once mentioned me catching him as nature intended. And the only person I’d confided in was Bev, who had had hysterics on the ‘phone as I’d related the encounter.
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  “Are you feeling any better Mum?” I asked, as I took my cup of tea. I was almost afraid of bringing the subject up.

  She looked away, quick tears rising in her eyes. “Some days Nicola I feel like my old self but on others it’s so hard to go on. Your father, well he tries to help but -”

  I looked at her in alarm. True, she didn’t look much better but I’d had reports from Joyce about their activities. They had both come to one yoga session which predictably Mum hadn’t enjoyed at all. But Joyce had persuaded her to join the local WI and that had been more successful. The only problem being that the meetings were held in the evening and Mum was even more reluctant to go out at night. I shivered, on a night like this I sympathised.

  “Do you want me to move back in?” I said quietly, guilt as ever quick to reassert itself. “Would that help? I could you know, I only have the flat on approval for a few weeks. I’m sure Jack, I mean Mr. Thorpe, wouldn’t mind me changing my mind.” I looked at Mum, selfishly wanting a negative reply.

  “I hope you haven’t been talking to all and sundry about our private affairs, Nicola,” snapped Mum, with a flash of her old self.

  “Of course not Mum,” I sighed in relief and hated myself. “It’s just that Jack is my headmaster and he needs to know why I have to leave early sometimes to take you to the doctor’s.” I took a sip of tea and thought how kind Jack had been recently.

  “He’s been very good, very understanding. I had to tell him something of the situation and he understands. His own father is ill too so he knows what it’s like.” I trailed off, afraid I’d said too much. But Mum didn’t seem to be listening all that closely. I looked across to what she was staring at. It was the most recent photograph that Andy had sent. It was sitting on the mantle-piece, in pride of place, with Andy grinning out of the frame looking sun-tanned and carefree.

  I changed the subject hastily. “Mum where do you think I could get a Victorian style dress? The Christmas gala at school is fancy dress and I haven’t a clue.”

  She looked at me, her interest suddenly focused. “Victorian you say? Which decade? She was on the throne for a long time you know.”

  Of course, how could I have forgotten? Mum had taught history for a short while before she’d got married and had Andy and me.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think it matters,” I said vaguely, hoping I was right. Ann hadn’t specified exactly what part of Victorian history we were concentrating on. I’d been so busy at work that I hadn’t had time to even think about what sort of dress I could wear. It had hardly been at the top of my list of priorities, although it had got the rest of the female members of the staff in a tizzy.

  “Well honestly Nicola, you ought to know. It makes a big difference to the style of frock.” Mum put her teacup down on the mock mahogany occasional table with a chink. “I was watching that lovely programme the other night – you know, the one set in the north? It’s ever so romantic and they wear such lovely dresses in it.”

  A dreamy expression stole over her face. Obviously my mother, in common with the rest of the female TV viewing public had fallen for the male lead in the current BBC costume drama. I’d managed to catch the second episode and had joined in with the fevered discussion in the staffroom on the following Monday morning. Janice had kept going on about how dark and brooding the lead actor was. She insisted that he was the spitting image of our esteemed headmaster.

  “Mmmm” murmured Mum thoughtfully. “The programme’s set in the 1840s – or 1850s. I can’t remember exactly. No matter though, I might have something that would do.” And then she rose with a sudden energy that I hadn’t seen in her for a long time. “Let’s have a look in the attic. You never know there might be something in the old dressing up box.”

  And there was. After we’d hunted through some family photographs and got thoroughly distracted by my old school reports, we came across some dresses lying in the bottom of an ancient and mildewed trunk.

  “Mum, this is gorgeous!” I exclaimed as I reached in and drew out a dress. Made from shot silk it was neither green nor gold but was a colour which magically moved between. Tight waisted and sleeveless it could, with a bit of imagination, be transformed into something vaguely nineteenth century. This however wasn’t good enough for Mum.

  “Which decade I wonder?” She mused and fingered the silk lovingly. She sighed, “The 1830s had such pretty designs but that’s too early for you. Wouldn’t count as really Victorian.”

  I looked at her curiously. “Was this yours? Did you wear it?” I coughed a little and rubbed a cobweb away from my face.

  She smiled and sighed again. “I wore it to the first proper dance your Dad took me to. It was a firm’s do. Very posh, all the ladies had to wear long. I was, let’s see.” She paused and tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “Twenty two? No, twenty three I think I was.” She held the dress against her and, in the cramped confines of the attic, did a little twirl. “Oh, how your Dad and I used to love to dance.” She noticed my look of disbelief. “Yes, Nicola, your old Dad. I don’t suppose you can imagine him on the dance floor can you?” She shook her head and laughed, the first I’d heard from her in a long, long time. She felt the front of the dress. “Well, it’s got a boned bodice so you wouldn’t have to wear a corset.”

  “I should think not,” I interrupted indignantly. But I smiled back at her. I was entranced at the idea of my parents dancing the night away.

  Mum’s mind was bent on more practical matters, however. She gave me an old-fashioned look. “Does wonders for the figure, Nicola.” She looked me up and down and raised her eyebrows, “You’re bigger than I was of course and taller. But I might have some nice velvet somewhere that I could tag onto the bottom, to make a frill. That might do. Shall we take it into the bedroom and try it on you?”

  In the cold light of my parents’ bedroom reality replaced romance with a vengeance. The dress was only calf length on me, it would need a long frill added to it. Moreover, the bodice was extremely tight.

  “Breathe in child,” scolded Mum, as she viciously tugged the back together in an attempt to do up the hooks and eyes.

  “I am,” I protested feebly, as she finally got the dress fastened and turned me to the mirror.

  Mum and I began to giggle like a pair of overgrown schoolgirls. I made a comical sight. The dress was extremely low cut and revealed my aged M&S T-shirt bra in all its glory. As accessories, my neon stripy socks didn’t help the image much either. However, the colour suited me and the bodice, although painfully tight, did push my bust upwards into an interesting shape. It also managed to accentuate my hips to give me a feminine curvy shape. I rather liked it. Apart from the fact I couldn’t breathe.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit low cut?” I gasped as I bent over to reveal an impressive décolletage.

  “Nonsense,” said the woman who had seemingly replaced my mother. “You want to show off your assets don’t you? Then she saw my look of doubt and added, “I can always put some flowers – roses, I think, around the neck-line. I can make some out of the same material that I put on the hem.” Then she tutted, “You’ll need some new underwear, young lady. That bra’s a disgrace!”

  She stood behind me smiling wistfully at my reflection in the full-length mirror and I glimpsed sudden tears starting in her eyes. “You’ll be the belle of the ball my Nicola, never you fear!” She gave my shoulders a gentle shake. “And it’ll give me a little project to work on over the next few weeks. Now when did you say you needed it by?”

  I told her and then said desperately, as another thought suddenly occurred to me, “Oh and Mum, do you think Dad could give me dancing lessons?”

  Chapter Ten

  The term was hurling itself frantically to its conclusion. Green, red and white tissue paper was being used by the bucket load to make cards and decorations; the children in Reception were making some peculiar looking unidentifiable objects, sure to be treasured by doting parents. Concerns over the budget had, after the third re-order, l
ed me to ration out the supplies. Something which had caused me to be jokingly christened ‘Scrooge’ for a few days. I didn’t mind. I took the name calling as the sign of affection that it was.

  I’d tried very hard to make sure I did a good job of being Rupert’s mentor and liaised regularly with him. As we taught in the same year group, we had to work closely together in any case. At first he’d made the mistake of being too familiar with the pupils wanting, as any teacher does, to be liked and not realising that respect and like do not necessarily need to go hand in hand. But he’d gradually won them round and was making real progress. I was delighted and was enjoying the role of mentor. It was like having another pupil but one who was always keen to improve.

  Rupert hung upon my every word, which I secretly found flattering. It was certainly a novelty in comparison to the exhausting arguments I always had with Jack. But I half suspected Rupert might have a bit of a crush on me and didn’t know quite what to do about it.

  Jack always seemed very short with me when I emerged from the mentoring meetings, often to go straight into a senior management meeting. We seemed to be having a lot of those lately and I wondered if Jack was expecting the dreaded telephone call. The one which signalled an Ofsted inspection. At this stage of the term, it was all we needed.