Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  “Did anybody see our new school pin-up today?” asks Janey, putting her e-reader back into her bag and gathering up her nipple clamp samples.

  I’m immediately on high alert. There’s only one teacher in the school who gets that title.

  Fi replies, “Will Darby. Haven’t seen him but it’s the special teacher’s meeting tomorrow so we might get an eyeful.”

  “Anyone know what that’s about?” I ask.

  “Rumors abound, but they’re saying some reality show has made an approach to Netherfield.” Fiona’s eyes are so big at this prospect they’re screaming for matching teacups.

  I take a double gulp of wine. “As if exams, short staffing and a maniac head aren’t enough challenge.” I keep mute on the man in question as I don’t want to relive my handbag ‘show and tell’ humiliation in the car park and can’t bear admitting the scene.

  Janey butts back into the conversation. “He’s lovely—I talked to him myself. I think he’ll make a great teacher.”

  “Spurs can’t have rubbed off too much then.” None of the others understands my Arsenal FC passion. I often feel like my mad, elderly uncle Cyril at a party—my foibles ignored like an embarrassing affliction.

  “He’s nice as well as dishy, sounds promising. But surely he’ll have a bit of an ego after all the years in the limelight, Janey?” Mo speaks through a mouthful of nachos. Somebody’s opened up Mo’s chocolates and the heady scent of darkest, freshly crafted cocoa magic makes us moan in appreciation. Mo’s good—she knows it too.

  “He’s not stuck up or into himself at all,” Janey continues. “Quite the opposite. Rogerson asked him to pose for some local paper pictures and talk to the kids in additional support. He was kind and patient and did some football tricks. He stayed ages—what a cool guy.”

  “She means she’s hot for him,” Mo adds.

  Janey resists the jibes. “Not my type but three women in special ed fancy the pants off him. They’re menopausal so maybe it’s hot flushes.”

  “He played for Spurs. Once stained, forever blemished,” I add, stabbing at the veggie nachos, but the others take no heed. Uncle Cyril strikes again.

  I’m frankly flabbergasted. He can have a fit arse and a cute wit, plus all the physical trimmings, but I don’t want him to be nice and generous with his time. Or kind to disabled children. I want buckets of reasons to stay suspicious.

  “So how’s your book coming along?” Mo asks me, flipping topics like an acrobat chameleon.

  “Slowly. You don’t write a bestseller overnight.” The erotica book I’m writing as a hobby is a topic close to my heart. As much as the others think it’s just for fun, I’ve got surprisingly serious about it.

  Fi snorts. “Come on, we want to read some.”

  I give a non-smiling stare. “In between marking and prepping kids for their exams, I don’t have time. Plus there’s my Arsenal commitments.”

  I shudder. Why did I divulge my deep secret longing to write erotica and first flailing attempts to try?

  Oh yes, I recall. It was pinot grigio followed by shots and loose lips. Even though they’re my great friends, I don’t want to share my naked, sensual side. Laughing about other people’s books is okay, but mine? Not so sure. And now here’s a double scoop of pressure to go with my unpalatable scrutiny pie.

  As much as I want to do this—write saucy, glue your tongue to the floor books—putting it out there for people I know to read is a pole vault of a leap too far—I’m not exactly experienced. Writing your first erotica book when you’ve never performed such antics in the bedroom yourself is like writing Moby Dick without having held a fishing rod.

  My lack of rod experience is the toughest issue. My past boyfriends have, in truth, been crap lovers. In fact, I’ve barely left land, let alone chartered passion’s stormy waters or faced my serpent of deepest desire.

  In the bedroom domain, all has been relatively tame. Okay, we’ve got off. I’ve achieved the big O in a few ways. But more in a groping, brisk as a security frisk at Gatwick fashion, than a ‘let’s play slow-mo sex games into the dawn’ way. Sad to admit and, worst of all, true.

  As much as I love my friends, I’ve never shared my lack of sexual adventure. Maybe it’s because they always assume I’m well versed in bedroom arts. And now that we’re erotica fans, I’m too far down the line to fess up. I know Fiona’s not had many boyfriends either, but even she’s had sex in a cupboard at a party. Which puts her one further up the wild scale than me. Maybe I need to think about coming clean about hidden truths?

  I stare at the nachos, now reduced to smeared crumbs. Fi picks up her dad’s cane and tests it on her twitching palm, then giggles.

  “From now on this is the ceremonial book club cane. We’ll pass it around for the number of chapters in the book we’ve read. Whoever is left with the cane must do a forfeit.”

  She thwacks the cane hard on her hand for emphasis and we all laugh or shriek or both when it swoops through the air.

  Fiona passes it clockwise. Twenty is the magic number and we hand the cane to one another like a strange twist on pass the parcel. As we count, twenty approaches. We’re teachers—we know damn well twenty is going to land on me.

  “You have been remiss, Izzy.” Fiona’s tone is dark. “Your forfeit will be decided by the group. Leave the room now. Stand at the door, head bowed.”

  I’m a tad incensed as this is my flat but I play along in the name of fun. When I’m summoned back, I head straight for my wine glass and ask, “Can I keep the cane for my month? It’ll be useful for getting that missing sock under the cooker and the thong behind the radiator.”

  Fiona hands me the cane. “Just make sure you bring us three chapters of your book. Or have a new fling to report on by next meeting. It’s been a while since you got action. We expect developments one way or another.”

  I laugh at their crassness. “Right. Course. Nothing else you want to add? Remember, it could be your turn next month so don’t go getting too Russian roulette trigger happy.”

  “Stand before me, head bowed. Do you accept your challenge?”

  “Yes. But what if I fail?”

  “You won’t. Or there will be extreme penalties.”

  They’ve no idea that my book’s first draft is complete. I need to edit and polish it and to go back over every sex scene and oomph them all. But the characters are formed. There’s a structure, it’s complete in draft. But I’m not ready to share it. Or write the blatantly erotic sex it needs. How will I change that in a matter of weeks?

  “I will obey.”

  Like Lord of the Flies, our book club has cast a slightly sinister shadow tonight. But on the plus side—that sock and the hot pink thong are coming back! It’s been a weird night but one with definite fringe benefits for my knicker drawer. Result!

  * * * *

  The following lunch break we herd into Netherfield’s dirty-beige staffroom over the library for the much anticipated teacher’s special meeting. It’s reminiscent of when the Bingleys arrive next door to the Bennets’ in Pride and Prejudice. And they all get hyped and hyperventilate and the smelling salts are on stand-by. Today there’s a definite frisson of expectation on the breeze—either that or they’ve changed the cleaning chemicals in the lavatories.

  But when I enter and see a long trestle table erected at one side of the room, with three smiling strangers sitting behind it, I sense something thoroughly out of the ordinary is afoot. Especially when I note that caterers are providing a selection of teas and sandwiches on platters—there’s even small cakes and petits fours. In a climate of stringent budget cuts, this screams proverbial jamboree.

  Color me intrigued and I’m on my marks to claim a mini éclair.

  Behind the table sit three official-looking strangers. One guy has a dashing mustache. The woman in the middle with a BBC lanyard has a bun so tight it was designed for the sole use of international gymnasts. The man at the end is wearing a cravat and large spectacles. I stare at his crested BBC bad
ge with awe.

  If that doesn’t say ‘sit and drink in events like a double margarita’, then I’m not a crochet expert with a cupboard full of doilies—strictly confidential info on my handicrafts pedigree, by the way.

  Cravat Man smiles at me as I sit and I feel ungracious not reciprocating, so I half smile then look around me as if waiting for a bus. If this were a dating club and I’d been smiled at by a man in a cravat, I’d be crawling along the floor and calling a cab. Though I think it’s his will.i.am specs that unsettle me the most.

  Our esteemed headmaster Rogerson comes into the room. Francis Rogerson may be our leader but he causes me issues. One, his malignant halitosis and two, his nasal voice that sounds like a persistent unfriendly wasp.

  “Izzy.”

  “Hello, Francis.”

  “May I introduce you to Tarquin?”

  Hell’s teeth—did he just say Tarquin?

  Cravat Man responds with an even wider smile then gets up, walks over and grabs my hand for an Etonian shake. It feels like a robotic sea behemoth’s grabbed me.

  “Tarquin Endermann.” It must be hard to face the world sharing a name with a monster from Minecraft. He’s still shaking my hand. I might need paramedics.

  “I’m Izzy Tennant. English department.”

  “Oh yes. We know about you. You’re on my list.”

  List? Now I’m worried. Rogerson says nothing so I’m guessing he is the author. Fiona sits beside me and stares at Tarquin hopefully.

  “This is Tarquin. From the BBC.”

  “BBC Entertainment Documentaries.” He nods.

  Entertainment? If he’s looking for that, he’s stuck his sack down the wrong chimney. I’m riveted to find out what awful, heinous plans he has.

  When I gaze at the doorway, I glance straight at Will Darby and he doesn’t smile, he maintains a blank stare. Will walks with effortless ease, grace and marked hotness. A man with a body for sculpture and a profile I’d like to lick. I remind myself—ex-Spurs striker. He is tantamount to toxic. Licking prohibited and might need an antidote.

  Rogerson leaves us and leads Will to the front row. Will’s so close when he passes by I can see his trousers are inky blue cord, and his shirt is a downy plaid, his shoes brogue style. All he needs is an Irish wolfhound, walking stick and a sensible cap. In a photo shoot on a mountainside, we’d all sign up for mantelpiece prints.

  Fiona has caught me watching. She winks at me. “New man promise, remember?”

  I ignore her because Rogerson brings the throng to order, clanking a spoon on his mug. I perk up like a meerkat—I can’t wait for the show to begin.

  Rogerson smiles and joy brims from his buttonholes. “I’m delighted to introduce you to the team from Class Wars at the BBC. I’m sure you all saw the last series of the hit show where students are mentored in subjects they’re failing. Then teachers are mentored to compete against one another in a talent spot finale.”

  There’s a rumble around the room as we all digest this snippet. Frankly it makes me shudder. God. I’d rather watch polar bears shag in a snowstorm. I only hope Rogerson’s getting oodles of cash for this crazy number.

  Our leader progresses his crusade. “We’ve been lucky enough to have been approached by director Tarquin Endermann and his talented team. In a weeks’ time, we intend to have cameras rolling on a daily basis in Netherfield. Five pupil groups plus a teacher will be mentored, nine additional teachers selected for three mentoring teacher groups. It’s a phenomenal opportunity for the school! This year we’re upping the numbers of teachers involved due to prior success.”

  A rabble of excited chatter crescendos. Rogerson soon has to settle the masses. “I’m sure you have lots of questions and Tarquin is on hand to handle all your queries—please, Tarquin, come enlighten us.”

  We all clap as Tarquin takes over. “For those who missed out, and didn’t see our show, where the heck were you? Living in a cave? Seriously, though—our program has earned acclaim and backing for two more series. We want our Netherfield series to be our best. We think you can deliver. We aim to make that happen.” He grins like the pro presentation front man he clearly is. “So here’s some clips from last year’s headline-stealing show. This year we plan to find the stars of your school…” He presses a remote and if this were a timeshare scam set up by marketing monkeys, we’d all be signing our life’s cash up because it’s that well packaged.

  It does look like a great idea, with several real-life characters, some heart-tugging stories and even some highly entertaining moments. Various pupils are chosen—from the troublemaker to the teacher’s pet. All are given surprising subjects and inspiring mentors. Two mentors are downright dictator crazy-heads. Each has two months to impress and progress.

  The teaching mentoring element usually gets the biggest laughs. Teachers are combined—often with disastrous results. The science teacher who became a belly dancer in the last series caused viral online fuss. He has his own show on Channel Five now.

  Tarquin pushes his specs up the bridge of his nose like a trombonist honing his instrument and going for the big notes. He proceeds to explain the show’s ins and outs and his big plans for this series. Apparently, he missed out on an award last year and he’s hell-bent on getting it this time.

  I can see my fellow staffers are pretty happy and impressed by the furore. I, on the other hand, am thinking—please don’t let it involve or prey on anyone remotely close to me.

  I imagine Dibian Hicks will be a prime contender for the spotlight. There are also a few teachers of a narcissistic disposition—Awesome Annie the music teacher springs to mind. If she were made of chocolate, she’d lick herself to death and go back for seconds.

  “We’ll be in and around the school from now on and this week we intend to sit in on classes. All pupils will be given permission slips to take home. We will draw up a draft list for our central mentor and mentee roles by the end of the week.”

  There’s a gaggle of questions from around the room. Dibian puts her hand up and says as head of English she’d like to be mentored for a part on the next series of Poldark. But she’s only having a laugh because she’s a big fan of the show. To my knowledge she has every item of Aidan Turner merchandise the BBC has produced. So while her comedy may be coated in a lighthearted chocolate shell, there’s a lonely, obsessive kernel of concern at its center.

  We’re each handed out pamphlets about proceedings. As I’m about to leave, new boy Will Darby stands and smiles at the group.

  “I’d like to add, since I’m new here, I’m having a party-cum-initiation ceremony. I’d like you all as my guests at my new home. Next Friday night. I’ll put flyers on the coffee tables. I’ve spoken to Tarquin and his team and they’ll be coming along—seems like an opportunity for everybody to get acquainted. Free bar, free food, come casual, dressed up or fancy dress if you want—just hope you all can be there. I’m pleased to be at Netherfield and looking forward to meeting you all properly.”

  As Will scans the room, I briefly feel—albeit for about five seconds—his green gaze fall on me. Yes, truly, no lie.

  He’s probably remembering all that Arsenal stuff in my bag and figuring out a way to bar me from the party. I feel heat radiate from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Its ignition flashes and burns my body like a sparkler taking light.

  I don’t want to hold eye contact but I don’t want to be a prat either. So I raise my eyebrows and use the pen between my fingers to tap on my upper lip. I’m aiming for unimpressed but I suspect I look like a nutter.

  I glance back and he’s still watching. His stare makes me shiver and I tear my gaze away. I know I’m blushing now and am confused. So right after I’ve turned away again, I peek and he’s still watching. Crap. Oh why did I start this? Now he’s walking over.

  “Hi, Will.”

  “Izzy. Sorry if we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for helping out.”

  “Coming to m
y party?” Will’s question throws me farther than a steroid high shot-putter.

  “I don’t think so. Prior engagement.”

  “I’d like you to be there. If only for the sake of someone to laugh at.” He grins and it’s a ‘knock you back on your heels’ number. I’m not even wearing my wedges today.

  “You’d only want to show me your collection of handbags. I might get jealous.”

  He’s grinning widely now. And there, in an instant, even in this crowded room full of colleagues, the air has somehow become taut with frisky sexual tension. I don’t know how we manage to create this. Like some scary baby we clone together out of football angst and charged hormones and repressed competitive sparks. ¡Ay caramba!, together we’re hot. And that’s scary.

  He doesn’t look at me but says softly by my ear, “I lied. I’d like you to come. Punishing you is my guilty pleasure and it’s constantly on my mind.”

  I gulp at those words. Surely he didn’t mean…?

  I don’t even know what to say. The Comeback Queen is sucker-punched. How intolerable!

  “Making sure you’re at the party is a little personal challenge I’ve set myself. Let me try,” he adds. His grin is so boyish it needs an action figure and a catapult. “Come along and wear your Arsenal strip. I’ll get Arsene Wenger there to try you out. I hear he’s desperate enough. I do have his private number so it could be arranged.”

  “I can’t risk it, Shady. You and me would only end up doing a shots to the death contest. Or underwater arm wrestling. Let’s be sensible and choose to avoid revelry gone wrong.”

  Will stares at me hard. I watch his Adam’s apple move above my eye level. “You can deny all you like but you will be there. I’m good at persuasion. You’re something, Izzy the English teacher.”

  And I’m figuring it’s ‘something’ meaning extraterrestrial. Rather than splendid and worthy of applause and a badge.

  “The feeling’s mutual. You’re something to avoid at all costs.”

  I do a ‘Destiny’s Child in a video’ pivot and swiftly walk away. Touché.