Head Over Heels

by Sara Downing

  ‘Let's have a quick chat after school then, shall we? Quarter past three in my office? Great, see you then.’ He doesn't wait for a reply, and as it’s only a few minutes from the bell going, I have to scoot off back to my classroom, again wondering about what his real agenda is. But then he has enlisted my help on numerous pieces of work like this, and I've never normally given it a second thought before jumping in and offering my assistance. Why should today be any different?

  The day passes busily but without incident and three o'clock comes all too fast. Luckily for me and my addled emotions, I barely have time to give Tom a second thought all day, and our paths haven’t actually crossed much. Six full hours packed with literacy, a bit of history, numeracy and spelling tests, a visiting governor to entertain, and I am exhausted but satisfied. I love my job and I love days like today, where the children have been warm and responsive, fresh back after the weekend and ready to learn; all the things I love about teaching and find so fulfilling. Days like today made me feel like the brilliant teacher I know I am.

  All children departed, the school enters into that quietly eerie state of limbo that I find so comforting. I sidle into Tom's office and plant myself on one of his two comfy chairs. He is on the phone, to what sounds like a parent, so I tune out and gaze out of the window as the last few stragglers leave the playground.

  ‘Hi Grace,’ he says, freeing himself up and focussing his attention on me. The intense blue of his eyes is unnerving. They seem to bore into me as he smiles, and it’s a very warm smile. It lights up his whole face. ‘Good day?’ he asks.

  ‘Great. The kids were fantastic today,’ I reply. ‘I love days like today when it all seems so worth it.’ Keep talking, girl, just keep talking and it will all be fine, I tell myself, and then there won’t be any time to think or to spend gazing at him in awe like a love-struck teenager.

  ‘I know what you mean. Sometimes I wish I was still in the classroom more, not tied up with all this admin and bureaucracy,’ he confesses, waving an arm to gesture at the piles of paperwork forming mountainous peaks on his desk. ‘Still, it's all in the name of career progression, I suppose. Do you think you'll want to move up the ladder, Grace? Do you fancy being a head in a few years time?’

  ‘I don't know really, part of me would love to, but I do get such a kick out of teaching, I think I would miss it too much. And I'm spoilt too, I suppose. Mark's salary means I don't have to earn megabucks. So I suppose all the time I'm still happy doing it, I'll carry on, and deal with it when the urge takes me.’

  At the mention of urges there is a twinkle in Tom's eye. Or am I imagining it? Perhaps this whole attraction thing really is all in my head. I certainly hope so as I need to put it completely and utterly out of my mind and concentrate on what it is he wants me to help him with this afternoon.

  But that’s easier said than done. As Tom talks me through his ideas for the presentation, I find myself drifting off and staring at his arms. He has rolled his sleeves up and removed his tie; a more casual look now that pupils and parents are no longer around. I have always had a thing about men's arms, and find a good well-formed forearm more erotic than some of the more obvious erogenous zones. His are muscular and sinewy, and covered in a fine blond down, not the sort of wiry, dark hair that men usually sport on their bodies. He clearly works out, as the muscle definition is perfect. As he gestures with pen in one hand, I can see the sinews and tendons moving and working, and I wonder what it would be like to stroke them. How soft would they be? Or to have those hands stroke me.

  His hands are large and strong, I don't know why I haven't noticed before, and perfectly groomed. They are soft, office-boy's hands; clearly he doesn't spend too much of his spare time doing the garden or chopping logs. His nails are smooth and clean, and cut neatly, and the skin on the backs of his hands is totally unblemished. How have I managed to work with this man for so many years without noticing how physically perfect he is? The trouble is, now that I have noticed, it’s just staring me in the face and it won’t leave me alone.

  I can’t help but wonder what his chest is like. There is no sign of any hair peeping out the top of his unbuttoned shirt. Probably just as smooth and soft as his arms. And as muscular and defined? Probably. I wonder what it would be like to run my hand over it, feel the muscles flexing, stroke that broad expanse of hairless skin. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, trying to disguise just how sexy I find this man sitting in front of me and how turned on he is making me feel. For goodness sake, I am an engaged woman, and far from starved in the passion department. Anyone would think I was a lonely housewife, in need of a good romp, eyeing up any handsome male who happens to be in the vicinity.

  ‘Grace?’ he asks. ‘Are you OK?’ I snap out of my reverie.

  ‘Sorry, I'm fine,’ I mutter. ‘Just a bit tired.’

  ‘I lost you there for a moment. You seemed to glaze over. Everything alright?’

  Does he really think that now we have shared a few confidences at Alex's, I am going to pour my heart out to him just like that? My new confidant? I wonder what he would make of me saying ‘Actually, if you really want to know, I was just gazing absentmindedly at your beautifully honed physique and wondering what it would be like to touch you.’

  Maybe not. I wouldn’t like to guess at who would be more terrified, me or him. The odd thing is, I don't want to be unfaithful to Mark. I have never spent time ogling other men or checking out what else is out there. It just isn’t me. I’ve always been content in the knowledge that Mark is mine, he is gorgeous and everything I could want, and we are together forever. My eyes have never strayed beyond the two of us. But something has rocked that world though, and I find it hard to reconcile to the idea that Mark's proposition about having children has been the only catalyst to spark this progression from devoted fiancée to potential adulterer. It makes me question how strong our relationship was in the first place or whether there is some underlying layer of dissatisfaction that has now been uprooted, after only a very small amount of digging.

  Somehow I manage to get through the rest of the meeting, and grasp the gist of what Tom wants me to do. I am tasked with writing the first draft of the presentation and we will get together again in a couple of days to go over it and bash out ideas. When we finish, I hastily gather together my things and beat a speedy retreat out of his office and back to my classroom. I have quite a lot I still need to do, loose ends to tie up from today and material to prepare for tomorrow. I need to get them done as quickly as I can and head back to the relative safety of my home, remind myself that that is where my life is, that Mark will be home from work in a couple of hours, and that life is totally normal. And put some distance between myself and temptation.

  Mark comes home that evening in a vile mood, after a horrendous day in the office. When he’s like this I find the best thing is to offer comfort and provide a sounding board if that’s what he wants, or keep well out of the way if he just wants space, which he does sometimes. Apparently there had been a serious hitch with one of his contracts, and it looks like they potentially stand to lose one of their larger clients. So fairly major, really, I can't blame him for being a bear with a sore head.

  He doesn't want to talk, though. What he does want is a stiff drink; he manages to knock back half a bottle of wine within ten minutes of arriving home. The first glass disappears without touching the sides and he quickly refills his glass and carries on, sitting at the kitchen table and staring into space. I try to be supportive, try to offer a shoulder to cry on, but my efforts are rejected. He doesn't mean to be nasty, or to push me away deliberately, I'm sure; it’s just his way of dealing with tough times. He will bottle it all up and stew on it for a bit, drink a lot, get a sore head, then maybe talk it all through with me tomorrow when he's had a chance to calm down.

  I've had a brilliant day at work, and despite the meeting with Tom and my mixed emotions when I left his office, I am still on a high from my day. I know Mark is suffering though, and it’s diff
icult not to be dragged down by his all-pervasive foul mood. But it will pass. He will be fine and he’ll talk to me when he feels he needs to. In the meantime, there isn't much point my going to a lot of trouble over dinner, as undoubtedly he won't touch it, and will later slope off to his study with the bottle of wine (and possibly a second one too) to drown his sorrows. I don't feel that hungry myself; my stomach is still churning from earlier, with that strange feeling of not needing to eat that I remember when I first met Mark. Almost as though I am on an adrenaline drip; excitement buzzing through my veins and overriding the need for food. I settle on some cheese and biscuits for myself, check Mark doesn't want me, or sustenance, or anything else, and leave him to it. I take myself off to watch a bit of early evening TV, plate of food in one hand and glass of wine in the other, feeling a bit guilty that I have abandoned him in his hour of need, but I’ve tried. What else am I supposed to do?

  ‘Beep beep’. My phone is going off again – another text. I seem to spend my life texting. Most of our social life is arranged via text; I wonder now how we coped in the days when all we could do was pick up the phone and speak to someone, or, heaven forbid, send a letter.

  ‘Thx 4 ur help this pm, have a luvly eve xxx’. It was from Tom. Prior to all this, we’ve never texted each other much. Generally it would only be for something work-related, such as a meeting reminder, and that would have been sent to the other teachers too, not just me. And now he is sending me messages out of school hours. AND with three kisses too. Those kisses suddenly seemed to jump out of my phone at me, flashing ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! This is more than just a professional thank you, isn't it? Besides which, I don't feel I have done anything exceptional this afternoon, above and beyond what is expected of me in the name of my job. A thank you isn't really necessary. So why all the attention all of a sudden? It doesn't really help with my attempts to rationalise what’s going on between the two of us. Well, what is going on exactly? So far the trail of events as I see it looks like this:

  • boss sits next to me at a supper party and flirts heavily

  • he gives off lots of signs that he fancies me, even though he knows I am happily engaged, AND trying for a baby

  • he sends me texts whilst he is out for the day with MY partner

  • back to normal at school on Monday and is professional and detached again

  • he asks for my assistance on a project and I spend the meeting ogling him

  • he texts me to say thank you for my help and adds three kisses

  So nothing that condemning there then? Nothing that could in any way be considered especially naughty or dangerous. Is there? The trouble is that I have never suffered this kind of conflict in my adult life before. I am usually a paragon of virtue, a steadfast ‘one-man-woman’. So why am I feeling so up and down and all over the place, unable to concentrate in the face of his physical presence, analysing everything he says, trying to interpret his feelings from his words and actions? I can only equate it to being a teenager again, only this time I already have one man, and I’m going through all this soul-searching over another. Something isn't right here and it’s starting to worry me just a bit.

  Now I have a choice; either to ignore Tom's text, or send a reply. Well, that’s an easy decision. I pick up my phone and type ‘No probs, will get to work on it 2moz, have a nice eve.’ Now, do I add kisses as he has done or just go for the nice but professional approach? I normally end almost every text with just one ‘x’, and never think twice about it, so it seems odd not to put one in here. It’s just a friendly way to end a message, after all, as text messages can sound so blunt sometimes, especially with all those shortened words. OK, bite the bullet then. In goes the ‘x’ and I hit ‘send’ quickly before I can change my mind. Done. Sent off into the ether with no turning back. Let him make of that what he will. Somehow I doubt he will even give it a second thought. Men don't tend to analyse all the various nuances of expression in the same way as women do, they just take it all at face value. It’s just one little kiss after all.

  Mark emerges from his study around ten o'clock, looking a little worse for wear. Clutching an empty bottle of wine and holding his glass, he makes for the kitchen and flicks the kettle on. I offer to make him a coffee; God knows he looks like he needs it. I put out my arms and he comes across for a hug, that universal cure-all with the ability to make us feel so much better about anything. He nuzzles into my neck. People all over the world and of all rank and file can hug and it’s a fabulous thing, takes no time at all, costs nothing and yet makes all the difference. I can imagine Dennis Thatcher giving Maggie a big hug just after she declared we were at war with the Falklands, and even Prince Phillip giving the Queen lots of hugs when she was suffering her ‘annus horribilis’. But I struggle with the thought of ANYONE wanting to hug Gordon Brown, although I'm sure the poor chap must get his fair share too. Sarah is a brave woman.

  ‘Sorry Grace, I'm a grumpy old git sometimes’ he mutters into my neck. His hands are roaming and starting to find my bottom, pulling me close, and I can feel his arousal through the fabric of his trousers. A drunken fumble is the last thing I fancy; there is nothing worse than snogging someone who has had far more to drink than you have, and smells like a pub during happy hour. He is a bit stinky; usually he will come home from work and jump in the shower, changing into something fresh and comfortable. He is not the most enticing proposition at this moment in time. I offer to make him something to eat, hoping that he can be distracted from my physical attributes by the rumbling of his stomach. Fortunately for me, it works. He is clearly starving, and the prospect of a sandwich, which he doesn't have to make himself (someone that drunk should never be put in charge of a bread knife), seems to cool his ardour. He struggles over to the table to watch me and wait whilst I prepare his supper.

  And finally Mark talks to me. He takes me through the day's events, how things all started to go pear-shaped, and what is at stake. The wine seems to have done wonders for his thinking power, amazingly enough; whilst he was ensconced in his study, he devised a plan of action for the following day, so suddenly things aren’t looking so bad after all. Or at least he can see a way in which the problem might be overcome. He has such an amazing brain on him; he always astounds me at the schemes he can cook up from nowhere, but then he isn't paid a London lawyer's salary for nothing. He is a superstar. Suddenly I feel really proud of him and a huge surge of warmth runs through me. I know we have had our ups and downs recently, but he is still my Mark and I have an awful lot of love and affection for him.

  I go into work the next day feeling like I have sorted everything out in my head. Mark and I had talked for about an hour; he had straightened himself out a bit and we felt so close it had helped to dispel the wandering paths in my mind about Tom. I have packed Mark off to work this morning with a bit more of a spring in his step than he’d come home with, and that makes me feel a lot better about our relationship. I feel we have a bit more direction as a couple, and we are gelling more than of late. Sometimes you just need a big upset like last night to force you to sit down and have a really good talk, and listen properly to each other.

  As I pull into our road later that day, there is an ambulance parked outside Frannie's house, lights flashing. A sense of panic and foreboding taking hold of me, I hurriedly park my car and run over to her house. I can't bare the thought of her collapsing, or having a fall, and the poor old lady being carted off to hospital with no one to hold her hand in the ambulance. Bracing myself for the worst I approach one of the paramedics, to try to find out what has happened. As I am about to open my mouth, Frannie suddenly appears on her doorstep and I heave a sigh of relief to see her still alive and well, if a little pale and dishevelled. And in her dressing gown.

  ‘Frannie, are you OK? What happened? What's the ambulance for?’ The questions tumble out as I struggle to overcome the panic that had taken hold only a few minutes earlier.

  ‘It's Mr Pearson, poor, poor man,’ she utters, a sob catchin
g in her throat. ‘He just popped in for a cup of tea, and well, we got a bit carried away, you know, in the bedroom.’ This last she proclaims in a loud stage whisper, behind her hand, discretion getting the better of her, although all the emergency personnel present clearly know the circumstances that have brought about Mr Pearson's collapse.

  ‘It's his heart, you know,’ she continues. ‘There we were, going at it like a couple of rabbits,’ I have to take time out here to compose myself. It’s more information than my brain can handle. Good on her, though. I hope I still have the inclination and the energy at her age. As she explains what had happened, I consider the dazed expressions the paramedics were wearing when I arrived. No wonder they all look a bit shell-shocked. They must see some sights in their line of business, but it’s not every day you have to prise a pair of septuagenarian lovers apart because one of them has had a heart attack, pinning the other to the bed. Fortunately for Frannie, her phone had been on the bedside table and she had been able to reach across and call for help.

  Poor Mr Pearson is now in the back of the ambulance, his departure to hospital imminent, and I ask Frannie if she would like me to take her into town, so she can be at his bedside when he wakes up.

  ‘No, dear, it's very kind of you to offer, but actually I don't think his wife would be too pleased, do you?’ Despite everything, she can't help letting out a giggle at the thought of this, and she puts her hand up to her mouth to stifle her ill-timed mirth. The elderly wife and mistress, standing by the bedside, waiting for their husband/lover to wake up. What a thought. It could be enough to give the poor man another attack if he sees the two of them hovering over him. He’d probably think he’d died and gone to hell, to face his come-uppance for eternity, with the two of them fighting over him. I’d assumed, wrongly now it would seem, that Mr Pearson is a lonely old widower, seeking solace and a bit of company with Frannie. Not that she has been having an affair with a man who still has a living wife! She is amazing. I just hope everything turns out OK for Mr Pearson, and I wonder how he will explain it all to the current Mrs Pearson. That’s village life for you, never a dull moment.