by Paula Byrne
Edward insisted on taking Lisa with him. She was such good company. She would be an adornment to the small dinner parties with Indonesian plutocrats that Nick was lining up. If he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was using his wife as eye candy. ‘And what about her airfare?’ the bursar asked. ‘I’m sure you are aware that Mr Camps always travelled alone, though of course we allowed him to book a suite in his hotels, in case he was doing any entertaining there.’
‘My wife will be an indispensable asset to the recruitment drive, I assure you,’ said Edward, mustering the most pompous voice he could find. ‘There is no question. The school should pay her airfare.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see what the governors say,’ replied the bursar, sniffily.
The governors agreed without demur – it was crucial to give the new man a chance. But there were mutterings in the staffroom, orchestrated by a disgruntled physicist called Schrodinger, who seemed to have taken a particular dislike to the new headmaster, and his wife. Soon after arriving, Edward had walked into the staffroom and overheard Schrodinger saying ‘… only because of his background, and as for the wife …’ He had looked at him, square on, and Schrodinger had muttered something about David Cameron.
Lisa told Edward that she was uncomfortable about leaving the children and spending a week on the other side of the world. If there was going to be a fuss – ‘Airfaregate’, they jokingly called it – he could go on his own. She was dreaming of a week of seeing Sean without constantly having to cover her tracks. But Edward was insistent.
‘It’s a point of principle that has to be laid down in the first year. We’re a team. You’re coming. There’s no question. And it’ll be good for you. George isn’t a baby any more, and Emma’s heart is doing just fine. There’s got to be a first time away from them, and now is the best possible moment. Your parents will love having them back in Bootle. They’ll be spoilt rotten and have the time of their lives. It’ll make up for us moving away – you know how your mother hated us going, taking the children away from the extended family.’
Lisa knew that there were times when Edward was not to be budged, and this was one of them. Besides, she felt guilty at her desire to have him out of the way on the other side of the world, and she didn’t want to raise any suspicions. She would go.
She’d never travelled business class before. Luxuriating in the space, she spread out her beauty products and occupied herself with a self-administered facial and manicure, taking a photo on her phone. She tweeted it when she landed, to make Sean laugh and reassure him that she had conquered her fear of flying.
Overcome by the humidity and the crowds every time she went outside, she was bored senseless in her Jakarta hotel room, waiting around while Nick paraded Edward before a selection of prospective parents. There was nothing to do but tweet. Things looked up when she was taken shopping by Nick’s pretty and very Westernized girlfriend, Annisa: ‘He has a different beauty in every continent,’ remarked Edward.
Lisa loved the richly-coloured fabrics in the markets, and then, after lunch with two bottles of wine, they somehow found themselves in Melawai Plaza, Jakarta Selatan, famous for its jewellers. And, before she knew it, probably because she was angry with Edward for having dragged her away from the children (and Sean), only to dump her in a hotel room while he schmoozed the millionaire parents, she was walking out with a beautiful sapphire necklace, the glassy blue of her own eyes.
She didn’t tell Edward about the sapphires, paid for from her Ladies’ Nice Things Account. But he had noticed that she was feeling neglected, so he had arranged a little treat for her. Nick had told him of a service whereby one of the best – and best-priced – dressmakers in Jakarta would come to a hotel room, measure up a customer for a bespoke garment, then make it up and post it to England.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
My dressmaker has just left (Yes, I did just say that!) and says he loves my 36, 24, 34 measurements. Yay.
DM from @MrOCon: My Marilyn. Miss you. Xxxxxx
*
At the end of the trip, with Edward having bagged ten new pupils (more than Mr Camps managed in all his trips put together), Nick and Annisa took them on a boat to Pulau Macan, one of the Thousand Islands, just north of Jakarta. The sand was white, the palm trees out of a picture postcard, the indigo sea dazzling. They sunbathed and went scuba diving among darting, brightly striped Siamese tiger and lizard fish. Lisa had packed a white Elizabeth Hurley bikini with gold buckles. She asked Annisa to take a photo of her, standing sideways, on the edge of the ocean, the white sand between her toes. For Sean. But then, so as not to seem vain, she took a selfie of the unsightly red raw sandfly bites that had appeared all over her legs.
Edward noticed them. ‘I haven’t had any bites. You’re so hot-blooded that even the sandflies find you irresistible.’
Hot was the word. She and Sean hadn’t texted much during the week, for fear that once they started they would not be able to stop, and that might result in a suspiciously large bill for international messages. But there had been one text that she cherished: ‘You have the rare combination of being both warm and hot.’
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
In the tropics! I’m so hot. Yay.
Then with the photograph taken by Annisa:
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
Me in my Liz Hurley bikini.
Quickly followed by the selfie:
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
#Uglyme. My husband says even the sandflies find me irresistible. LOL.
*
As soon as they got back from Indonesia, she returned full time to Twitter and to text exchanges with Sean, furiously checking the phone, which was glued to her hand all day, the first thing she looked at in the morning and the last at night.
Lisa and Father John used Direct Messages. He knew that privacy mattered.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Hey sweetie. You online?
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Writing a sermon. Not really feeling it.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Why?
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Bored. I’ve started running. Trying to lose some weight. So there I was running around the park, thinking that I wasn’t doing too bad and, I swear, this random guy walks past me and whispers ‘Fat Cunt’.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: LOL. There’s a tramp by the river where I run. On good days he says ‘Morning, miss.’ When I’m looking old and gaunt he says ‘Morning, madam.’
DM from @FrJohnMisty: I know. The bloody cheek. Anyway, how are things in Blagsford? How’s the affair?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: It’s more of a virtual affair than a real one. I barely see him. It’s really harmless. No one will get hurt. I’m in control. He loves his wife, and I love Edward. It’s just a bit of fun. I do feel a connection with him, though. I feel like I’ve known him all my life. Like he’s my Shakespearean twin.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Well don’t fuck him, because that = incest.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Ha ha.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Say 3 Hail Marys and 1 Our Father.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Think it’s a bit late for confession, Misty
DM from @FrJohnMisty: You do tweet some risky things, darling. Some of those photos are a bit dodge. Not that I’m complaining. You look great. What did I say to you when we were students?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: You said I’d be OK if I lost weight and bought some decent clothes. LOL.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: A writer of your calibre should not be tweeting LOL.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Do you know HAK or PAL?
DM from @FrJohnMisty: WOT?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Hugs & Kisses and Parent Are Listening. So funny.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Got to dash. HAK.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: HAK.
She always listened to Misty, even though she pretended to him that she never did. Heeding his warning, she stopped posting so many selfies. She found another way of putting images into Sean’s head, an innocent kind of sex
ting. She was the Fashion Mistress, an expert in lingerie. So it was part of her job to keep abreast of the latest trends. She began retweeting pictures of lingerie, always classy, never erotic. Just the perfect combination of sexy and innocent.
Her favourite company was Fleur of England, which specialized in luxury British design. Lingerie of the softest gossamer silk, and handmade French lace, with names like Belle de Nuit, Delphine, and Golden Hour, in oyster, champagne, powder blue. Lisa tweeted a sensuous picture of the Delphine set, which boasted a delicate eyelash edge, allowing for an alluring glimpse of skin. The cheeky derrière peephole design on the briefs, and the silk side ties added the perfect touch of erotica, without being vulgar.
The Venetian-based designer Rosamosario was another favourite. Her designs seemed to belong to another world; of Old Hollywood. Robes in antique-rose silk georgette panelled with shimmering silver Venetian lace, lavender crêpe de Chine, cream and white meringue satin. Lisa tweeted them all.
The only trouble was, @charlieboy retweeted them, adding his own comment.
HokeyCokey @charlieboy
PHWOAR!
CHAPTER 14
The Cabinet of Curiosities
There was a difficult start to the summer term, known in Blagsford as the Corpus Christi Term, or CCT for short.
‘The Bertie story has hit the press. Well, I guess it was bound to happen.’
‘The Blagsford Times?’
‘Yes, have a look. It’s only a matter of time before the Daily Mail picks it up. Any excuse to have a go at over-privileged public-school kids.’
‘I’m sorry. Have you made a statement?’
‘Yes, the usual spiel: “The school conducted proper investigations in accordance with its policies and legal obligations. We have a clear substance abuse policy which leaves pupils in no doubt that anyone found to be supplying, possessing, or using drugs must expect to be permanently excluded with immediate effect”.’
‘Well, you’ve shown a hard line, which is the important thing. It’s a shame, though. I rather adored Bertie. Can’t believe the gang of five boasted about it on social media. Some of the comments on the article in the Blagsford Times are hilarious. “The parents are in shock? Have they not got a clue about the culture today?” And listen to this one: “Talking about A-class drugs on social media? Shocking! Worse still, their parents have NO CLUE.”’
‘Lisa, stop sounding like you’re enjoying this. No parent wants to hear this about their child. Especially when they’re spending 35k a year.’
‘I know, but everyone scrolls down to the comments. Just to test the temperature, so to speak.’
‘Well, frankly, I don’t approve of anyone who takes this rag seriously.’
‘There’s no harm in knowing what middle England is thinking, Edward. You’ve got to live in the real world. Don’t you always say that you need to apply the Daily Mail test when making any decision that might affect the public reputation of a school?’
‘Social media is not the real world. Which reminds me, have you gone easy on Twitter?’
‘On Twitter? I didn’t know you knew I had started tweeting.’
‘I didn’t, until someone in the staffroom mentioned it.’
‘Do you have a problem with that, Edward?’
‘No.’
‘So why should I go easy on my tweets? I’m enjoying letting myself go there, which I certainly can’t here.’
‘It’s just that I had a glance at your followers. There’s all sorts of people – everyone from that Freddie, Bertie’s mother, to a surgeon in Birmingham. I think it might even be the one who operated on Emma all those years ago. God knows how he stumbled on your tweets. Wouldn’t have imagined a surgeon to be a dedicated follower of fashion. And look, half the staff are following you, and those that aren’t are probably snooping at your tweets. I don’t like the way Twitter allows anyone to see anyone, even if they’re not registered themselves. Apparently there’s a setting that lets you “protect” your tweets, so you can screen out unwanted followers. Maybe you should try that. I really think you should be a bit more circumspect.’
‘Oh, so now you’re stalking me on Twitter? For God’s sake. Why are you doing that? I thought you hated social media.’
‘Well, having looked at Twitter for the first time, after I was told you were using it, I’m beginning to see the point of it. People retweet some very interesting articles that one would not otherwise see. I’ve set up an account for myself. It could be a good PR vehicle for the school. In fact, I’m following you.’
Lisa could not help laughing. Dr Edward Chamberlain, Tudor historian and distinguished headmaster, tweeting. It was just so incongruous. But she would have to be careful with Twitter from now on. Especially as he had mentioned Emma’s surgeon.
Maybe Edward was right, she needed to embrace a bit of ‘Twilence’. But then, how would Sean know that she was all right? The only reason she tweeted was to tell him what she was doing, what she was feeling, how she was. And she wasn’t having anyone, especially not her husband, telling her to protect her tweets.
*
LoveLaurieLee @AsIWalkedOut
Others may need a War, you’ve got one here (Lorna Garman to Laurie Lee).
*
‘Does your wife use social media, Sean?’
‘No! She loathes Twitter. Posts the occasional Facebook photo, but that’s about it.’
‘Sensible woman. Good for her. Does she ever check your Twitter account?’
‘Don’t think so. And if so, it would only be boring medical stuff. She doesn’t know about my fantasy secret account, obviously.’
‘Are you on Facebook?’
‘No.’
‘Nor me. I can’t get on with it. I can just about cope with Twitter, but not Facebook. I leave that to the teens in the school, or to the sad adults who feel the need to post photographs of their holidays in Mauritius just to advertise how wonderful their lives are.’
She paused, and looked around The Coffee Bean. She was always afraid that a teacher might drift in, or a parent, or even a sixth-former with a free period. Just once, the matron of School House had seen them together, hunched over their coffees. ‘Hullo, doctor – remember me? I brought that Blagsford boy in to hospital when he’d had a rugby injury, and you had to do emergency surgery to remove a blood clot. What are you doing here with Mrs Head?’ Sean had explained that he had been one of the team who had dealt with Emma’s heart problem, and he always tried to keep in touch with the families of special patients. ‘Sweet,’ Matron had said. Without suspicion, Lisa thought. Or hoped.
In her heart, she knew that the affair was escalating. She had joked on Twitter that spring was coming and the temperature was getting higher and higher. But now was the moment to pull back. That was the sign from above, communicated via the fox and the chickens.
‘I’ve got something to say. You’re not going to like hearing it. But I think we need to let the temperature cool a little, doctor.’
‘Mister,’ Sean corrected her. Their standing joke. But he agreed. He saw the danger. Though she wasn’t a patient, she was the parent of a former patient, and that would be enough to get him struck off, or at the very least reprimanded. They made a pact. No Twitter, no texting. No contact. Sean was concerned that one of his sons was going off the rails. That was his sign. They decided to cool things down. It was for the best. Radio silence from now on.
As soon as she got home, she checked her phone. Nothing. He was keeping to his word. She cooked chicken and pesto, and then switched on her laptop. Don’t go on Twitter, she told herself. Don’t go on Twitter.
LoveLaurieLee @AsIWalkedOut
I lay with my face in the grass, or with my mouth to hers.
LoveLaurieLee @AsIWalkedOut
The act of kissing in public seemed to increase our pleasure. I know she is mine by the smell of her mouth … 1/2
LoveLaurieLee @AsIWalkedOut
2/2 … the shape of her arms, and that intangible, free
flow of her soft body when she embraces me.
LoveLaurieLee @AsIWalkedOut
I want to feed amongst the lilies … I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
He had lasted all of forty minutes.
*
She texted:
O’Connor. Stop tweeting. Whatever happened to Radio Silence?
I’ve done really well, Lady C. I left it at least one hour.
LOL. Forty minutes by my reckoning. It’s lovely to be in touch again … I love the Laurie Lee quotes.
*
Before bed, she took a selfie in front of her bedroom mirror. She uploaded it to Twitter.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
Just taking off my hot pink dress before bed. Love that colour: must find out which designer invented it.
DM from @MrOCon: I wish it was me undoing the zip that goes all the way down the back.
*
Things went quieter as the CCT progressed, with the boys knuckling down to exams, and the teachers growing less uptight as the weather became warmer. The Daily Mail didn’t pick up the Bertie story. No more publicity about drugs and exclusions. To her delight, Lisa was asked to write a review for a national newspaper of an Alexander McQueen retrospective in London. She was sent two tickets for the private viewing.
‘Edward, I’ve got to review this fashion thing in London. You’d hate it. You OK for me to go alone?’
‘Of course, I’ve got to prepare the papers for the next governors’ meeting.’
She asked Sean to be her plus one.
It was a stunning exhibition. Lisa had wandered around in tears. Room after room after room of exquisitely tailored clothes, from eighteenth-century frock coats in satin silk, lined with human hair, to dresses made of the finest chiffon, shells, feathers, plywood, and flowers. The oyster dress was a confection of millefeuille – endless circles of silk organza. She felt like Alice stepping into a wonderland of unimaginable pleasure and delight. Grace was the word that she kept repeating in her head. It was the embodiment of grace, combined with pain.
