by Jules Smith
“I also have to inform you that Mr. Fothergill has decided that due to the nature and defiance regarding the computer incident, Brendon will now be moved straight onto governors report.” Mr. Locks looked seriously toward Brendon.
This was the last thing he needed. He sat with his head in his hands breathing rapidly and staring down at the table. I felt utterly drained bar the faint onset of palpitations and it was only 9.30 am.
“You will be getting a letter from Mr. Fothergill stating that he has now moved up from deputy headmasters report onto governors report and a meeting with the governors will be called.” Mr. Locks addressed me this time.
“Do I not get a say in this? How has he gone straight from deputy head to governors and missed out on headmaster report?” My words were coming out breathlessly.
“It’s Mr. Fothergill’s decision,” Mr. Locks shrugged and tightened his lips into a non smiling, smile, “We have to get this under control because it’s GCSE year and it’s very important to all year elevens.”
Governors report was like the last chance saloon. Three strikes and you’re out. Brendon could get three strikes in half an hour. Mess that up and you’re expelled. Forever. Education over.
Chapter 6
I finally made it to work an hour and a half after I should have been there but my boss, Colin, was cool. He really didn’t look like a Colin. Colins were sensible and plaid and he was… well he was a bit edgy and soulful.
“Hey - nice of you to make it,” said Johnno, the sports writer for the collective city magazines.
I fished my iPad and iPhone from my bag before I chucked it down at the leg of my desk. “Yeah well, the thing is is Johnno, I can produce ten articles in the time it takes you to do one.”
I actually liked Johnno, (AKA John Smith) he was ten years my junior and I loved teasing him. He always tried to retaliate but failed. Sometimes age was a good thing. He was a great sports lover, writer and deep down, the sweetest of people. He always bought me a present from his holidays which I found endearing.
I walked up to his desk to see what he was working on and began to read it out loud to the office. “Chelsea striker, Frank Lampard reached a milestone wearing his number 8 jersey for the boys in blue when he scored his 200th goal against West Ham…”
I looked at him and faked a yawn. “That’s so boring. How about spicing it up a bit? Maybe something like this: When Frank Lampard scored his 200th goal for Chelsea I was unable to peel my eyes from his bulging thigh muscles. As Torres ran over to hug him I only wished I could have been in between them like a sandwich filling. Walking from the pitch, Frank deftly removed his shirt to reveal the sweat glistening on his rippling abs and I was forced to grab the arms of my chair as my knickers were so wet, I feared sliding off the fine Natuzzi leather.”
“Oh my God!” he looked shocked, “Its about SPORT not shit for wannabe WAGS!”
“I’m all for it.” Monica piped up.
“Hear, Hear,” said the gaggle of girls in the entertainment section.
“Keep going.” Monica urged, leaning forward and sucking on her pen.
“See!” I waved my arms across the group of girls, “you’re missing a whole section of readers out. I think we should swap for a week. I’ll do sport and you can write about the upcoming interior trends. You need to be more creative Johnno and stop making people fall to sleep.” I winked at him as I sat down and checked my phone. I noticed an indication next to my word game. I opened it up and saw ‘The Voice’ had played a word and left another message. I opened up the little green chat bubble.
Despot. Is that the best you can do?
Was the one I had already read. The next one said:
THE VOICE: Do you talk?
“Arsehole.” I said out loud to my phone.
“Who is?” Johnno looked over at me.
“Not you. This rude person on my game.” I said placing my tiles for the best possible play. I was going to nail this bastard.
“What are you playing?” Johnno stood up stretching from his hard labour on Franks milestone achievement.
“Just an online word game. Words with friends.” I replied, concentrating on placing my V on the triple letter score.
“What friends?” He laughed, trying to have a dig back.
“Virtual ones. I’d introduce you but you’re too boring and they probably wouldn’t like you.”
I placed my word for 26 points, sated in the fact that I was still in the lead. “I bet you can’t even think of a seven letter word off the top of your head can you Johnno. Except for Lampard…go on say one…hurry up…well?” I kept pushing, not giving him time to answer and purposely throwing his concentration.
“Err…I don’t know …there’s loads.” His eyes rolled up to the left searching his sporty little brain for answers.
“I’ve got one for you.” He stared at me with a smirk, waiting for my retort.
“Dullard.” The office cracked up and Johnno mouthed a “Fuck you” at me as he returned to his desk.
I went back to my game and replied to ‘The Voice’ in the chat message:
SOPHISTICATION: Yes I do talk, as it happens but I usually save my wit and repartee for those not wishing to deliberately provoke me into trivial conversation. I think you don’t care for the word despot because you are one.
I pressed send and felt vitriolic.
My desk phone buzzed. It was Colin. “Soph, you got a minute…?”
Colin was the only one with his own office since he was the Editor but he always had his door open and you could often hear his collection of comedy podcasts playing from within.
“Sit down babe.” He fussed through some papers on his desk. He looked particularly swag today in an eclectic mix of what looked like Armani meets All Saints of Spittlefields.
“Sorry about this morning. You know how it is.” I gushed whilst getting comfortable in his Eames leather chair.
“It’s fine Soph, come on, you know that. How’re you doing?” He looked at me with his big, soulful blue eyes.
“My life sucks. He’s now on governors report for breaking into the school computer system. Sometimes I feel like letting him get chucked out of the school and learning the hard way. It’s so goddam draining but I’m his Mum and it’s my job is to make everything OK.”
“Maybe he should work here. Could use some hackers.”
“LOL” I replied sarcastically.
“Look - I need you to cover the Coconut Lounge opening tonight - Loads of people, food, wine, beer, celebs, local business - the usual. Take a friend…and I’ll need some photos too and a piece from Simms the owner. I’d go with you but I’ve got to meet Trudie.”
“Who’s Trudie?”
“Ah… Some girl I met at the races event. She’s nice…” he offered weakly.
“What happened to Simone? I mean, she was gorgeous!”
“You know how it is Soph.” He gave a lopsided smile and tilted his head.
Colin went through girls like an addict on coke. They were always stunning and devastatingly perfect but didn’t last very long. He couldn’t seem to strike that magical bond with anyone.
“OK, I’ll cover it. What time does it start and will Frank Lampard be there?” I asked.
“7.30 pm. Be there a bit earlier and talk to everyone. I want a a couple of pages on this. And no I doubt it…why?”
“Shame…could have taken Johnno.”
We talked about the rest of the weeks magazine interior placements and I went back to my desk to see my mobile lit up. Three missed calls from Hillfields School.
“Oh God…” I groaned. I pressed return call and waited to be answered.
“Mrs. Armitage, please,” I said quickly to the receptionist before she could finish her scripted delivery.
“Hi it’s Sophie,” I said when Janice answered.
“Oh thanks for coming back so quickly. We have a bit of a problem. He’s just been removed from business studies for accessing the teachers laptop.” I h
eard her exhale a weary sigh. “He changed the screen and then went into the teachers private documents to get information about another pupil. Furthermore he left the lesson stating he was hungry and couldn’t cope and was then upset with the canteen staff for not having any bacon cobs available. He banged the finger scanner on the counter and shouted. ‘For fucks sake’ and frightened the canteen lady on duty. Afterwards he came to Base and demanded that I call you because he can’t deal with this place.” There was a pause and I felt the cramp evolving in the tightened hand around my mobile phone. “So… he’s here in Base with me and very distressed. We really need you to fetch him if you can?”
I let out my breath, heavily. I really, really didn’t need this. “Give me half an hour and I’ll be there.”
“Everything alright?” asked a concerned Johnno.
“Not really. See if you can get me a date with Frank Lampard, that might help.” I patted his shoulder as I walked by him back towards Colin’s office.
“Colin,” He looked up from his computer and paused a Ricky Gervais podcast. “I’ve got to go. Schools rang… I’ll need to work from home if I can?… and I can still do tonight no problem.”
“Just go babe, go on. I’ll call you later.” He smiled sincerely. He was an awesome boss, he really was.
I arrived at Hillfields school forty minutes later and rushed through reception holding up my visitors pass from this morning. Why I needed a visitors pass anyway was beyond me. I was there that often I should be invited to the bloody Christmas party.
Brendon was sat in The Base, head down, like earlier this morning. Janice spotted me in the corridor and rushed up to me before I opened the door and ushered me into her office.
“Thanks for coming so quickly. He seems very stressed and agitated. I think it’s best he goes home. He’s only going to get into more trouble and now that he’s been moved onto governors report…”
“It’s fine, I understand. No sleep last night won’t have helped but it’s impossible to make him do as he’s told.”
“OH I KNOW!” she gave an empathetic smile, “look, there’s a governors meeting tomorrow night and Mr. Fothergill has insisted that you and Brendon attend. It’s after school about 4.30pm. Brendon needs to realise how serious this is and maybe this will be the thing that makes him stop and think.”
“Right. No problem. See you again tomorrow!” I replied with obvious, fake joy.
She squeezed my arm in a friendly ‘I-totally-know-what-you’re-going-through’ way and opened the door to Brendon. When he saw me he jumped up and ran to hug me, holding on for way longer than people usually hugged for.
“Get me out of this hell hole, Mum.”
Chapter 7
On the way home Brendon stared at the floor of the car and began to try and verbalise his feelings.
“No one understands me or how I feel. They don’t tell you everything Mum, you know. It’s so hard for me when they don’t listen or understand and they start shouting. I don’t belong and I feel awkward and it makes me angry.”
“We all understand that,” I said softly, “Mrs. Armitage certainly does because that’s her job.”
“NO! She might understand it a bit but SHE doesn’t have Aspergers or PDA and neither do you. How can anyone know how I feel? Plus she’s in Mr. Fothergill’s gang and has to do what he says anyway. Sometimes I feel like killing myself. I fucking hate my life.”
I stopped the car. The sentence, “I want to kill myself” are not words you want to hear coming from your troubled, teenage son.
“Brendon. If you ever feel like that you must promise to talk to me. Remember you are deeply loved and cared for by your family and friends and people around you are just trying to help you. It’s going to take time. You have to find a way of fitting into the rules of life ‘cos the world isn’t going to change for you. I’ll always be here for you. Always.”
“And they go on about not swearing. Like every kid swears. It’s just a goddam word. They care more about that than they do about bullying or racism or drugs or starvation. The worlds fucked up man.”
He had a point. Sometimes I found the way he thought refreshing and challenging. “Yes, but it’s disrespectful and people find it offensive. You should be mindful not to upset other people.”
We arrived home and I made him some scrambled eggs on toast and a glass of milk. He only ever drank milk.
“I’m working from home today now but I have to go out for a few hours tonight to cover an event. Are you OK with that?”
“Yo fam. Don’t want your bossman givin’ ya da flip homie. Dat be peak.” Brendon slipped into the chav talk of his peers. He often did this just to take the piss out of people he referred to as ‘wanna be gangsters and wanna be black.’
He went willingly to bed before I suggested it and I moved to my study to try and actually do some work. I emailed Colin to thank him for his understanding and that I was at my desk an on it. Then I went to try and phone Karl. It was time that Daddy gave me a hand. His phone went straight to his answer machine, “Hi this is Rhodes, Karl Rhodes, please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you ay-sap.” Really? He now said it on his voice message?
“Karl its Rhodes, Sophie Rhodes. Governors meeting for your son tomorrow at 4.30pm. I’d like you to be there.”
With Brendon asleep it was actually quite peaceful and easy to work from home without all the distractions and I got way more done than usual. I was kept entertained by Johnno with the occasional iMessage:
JOHN SMITH: Frank say’s he’s busy and he doesn’t really like blondes.
SOPHIE RHODES: What a knob. Ok, try Torres.
JOHN SMITH: He’s just a baby. Can you speak Spanish?
SOPHIE RHODES: He needs guidance. I don’t want to talk to him.
I texted my best friend Karen to see if she wanted to come out to the Coco Lounge later and enjoy the fruits of free wine and fodder. She responded with a “I’ll be at yours for 6pm and I’m gonna get pissed.” Of course she was. She was a nurse, so that was a given.
I worked like a demon until 3.30 pm when Bryony and her friend Paige came home from school. She was surprised to see me back and gave me a big hug. Bryony was as bonkers as I was and probably the one person in my family who actually ‘got me.’
“It’s OK if Paige stays for tea, right?”
“Sure,” I gave Paige a hug, “I’m going out later but I’ll get you a Dominoes pizza if you like? Your brother’s in bed because he got sent home so be quiet-ish.”
“I heard. Didn’t he smash a finger scanner in the canteen?” Paige laughed at this.
“Not quite but…along those lines. He’s a bit low so be careful around him.”
I felt for Bryony. Whilst she had a great bond with Brendon, an unbreakable connection, she was also subject to his wrath at any given moment. It was important that I made her free time as fun and easy as possible.
The girls helped me get ready for the party which was annoying. One was straightening my hair and the other was laying various attire on my bed. My whole wardrobe was coming out. It was decided: Skinny black jeans, Irregular Choice shoes, a nice little top from French Connection, a pale pink silk scarf and a tight leather jacket.
When I came downstairs Brendon was up and at his computer watching a Youtube video with some American guy ranting on about something.
“Your pizza will be here in about twenty minutes. Don’t be long on games, you’ve got to be in bed at a normal time tonight, OK?”
“What time will you be back?”
“About 10pm.” I heard Karen arrive in a taxi and said my goodbye’s telling Bryony to call me straight away if there were any problems.
Seeing Karen was a relief. She was my oldest school friend and we reverted to stupid teenagers as soon as we met. We caught up on both our lives on the way to the Coco Lounge and I gave her a little notepad and pen and told her to listen out for any gossip whilst she was there and write it down.
We arrived outside a
round 7pm and the place was already filling up. I recognised some of the usual faces from other openings and suchlike. Local business men and women, magazine and newspaper journos’, spies from other establishments and so on. The place was gorgeous with a simplistic rustic vibe, open brick and dark leather. The bar swept through the middle in a gentle curve of rich oak and glass and was accessible from both sides. Waiters wandered round with vol-au-vents and other pretentious finger foods and the bar was sparkling with shiny champagne glasses waiting to be filled. I took out my camera and began taking some shots before it got too crowded. The lighting was perfect and I captured some great pictures from the reflections in the huge, Italian designed, faceted mirrors.
“Champagne’s out!’ Karen whispered in my ear.
“Go get my friend!” I turned and watched her expertly slip through the gathering throng of merrymakers to lift the glasses.
I spied Simms, the owner talking to the Paul Hymes, director at Ferrari near the end of the bar. I mooched over ready to get in and ask him some questions. I knew Paul as did most people in the city, noted for his Ferrari 458 Spider adorned with his ‘HYM3S’ private number plate and the fact he was a lecherous old sod.
“Sophie darling!” he shmoozed as I approached. He held out his arm to collect me into his space. He smelt of Bollinger and Davidoff Cool Water.
“Paul my darling,” I sang with as much pathetic gushiness as I could muster. I tried not to visibly cringe as he ran his hand down my back. Whilst I thought he was a prick I had to resist from saying so. Firstly I would lose my job and secondly you never knew if there was chance of a Ferrari in the offing. Having said that, I doubted you would get one without shagging him in the back seat of his. We made small talk and enthused about the venue and Paul kept filling my glass as I tried to ask Simms about the bar and his forthcoming ideas. Suddenly a group of promotion girls from the local radio came over dressed in black leather, with smoky eyes and tousled locks. It was like an audition for Cat Woman. Fortuitously, it took Paul’s attention away from me and I was able to slip away unnoticed and join my nearly plastered friend. I found her talking to some guys from the nearby vodka bar. Though I’d joined the conversation late I already ascertained that they’d figured out she was a nurse and were telling her tales of their mate getting his bollocks stuck in his flies and ending up at A&E.
