by Judy Jarvie
Chapter Seventeen
I have to admit it—filming reality docudramas isn’t half as bad as I’d thought it would be. I’m ignoring the camera and getting on with it—getting lost in the text and the students’ experience.
The kids are progressing through our Pride and Prejudice study pretty well. I’ve had no bad attitude—interested, motivated girls. Who could’ve guessed?
I overheard that Rogerson had a prior word with all our young mentees, promising a celebrity party conclusion as wrap celebration, complete with a boy band and celeb DJ, so I’m guessing this tactic has worked. Or at least had a sobering effect.
Even Sophie is sounding interested and as if she’s done her homework. The last time we achieved that was a one-page essay about ‘My Favorite Things’ in which she talked ceaselessly about her affection for false boobs and nail art. I’m feeling we’ve turned a corner. We’re only covering Chapter Eight and I have high hopes for how they’ll progress by the book’s conclusion.
Ellen, a girl whose idea of a good read is the cover of HotFussOMG magazine, tells me, “I’ve finished the book. I like that Mr. Darcy is ashamed of his ’orrible aunt’s rudeness. You can tell he’s falling for Lizzie and he’s not as stuck up as she finks, miss. Lady Cafrin is talking down to Lizzie and he hates it. You can tell he’s a good suitor for her.”
“Well done, Ellen. Exactly right.”
If teachers had medals for breakthroughs, I’d be polishing mine now and shouting for joy.
I look up because I’m so taken with my moment of teacher’s pride and it’s straight into the shining, smiling eyes of Andy Regis. Shit, I’d forgotten about him—but he’s taken my inner joy as a come-on. I’ll have to put him right later.
He slides up to me when the break bell rings and after the crew have packed and are leaving.
“Hey. How’s tricks?”
“Good. Busy.”
“Enjoying the limelight? The camera loves you. Takes all my strength to keep from zooming onto your tits. That bra is epic.”
“Hardly. I’d forgotten you’re here.”
“That’s not flattering. I hoped I had more of an effect on you than that. Fancy doing lunch?”
“I can’t. I’m backed up. And we’re doing prep for our football mentoring lessons later.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Jeez. This guy is thicker than a corrugated iron windcheater when it comes to brush-offs.
“Andy, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“It’s only lunch. And, if it helps, I’ll bring colleagues. So it’s not you and me. Call it peace-making.”
“We’re not at war.”
“We’re not in a place of love, that’s for sure. I want to start over. Lunch, on the BBC expenses? We have a tab at the local five-star hotel? How about a gastro feast? How often do you get such offers?”
I smile. He does his smolder eyes. He’s a great-looking guy. He’s not my type at all. “Lunch only. Nothing further, ever.”
“Just friends,” he says.
“Friends. Deal.”
So why do I feel like I’m going to regret it as soon as I’ve agreed, especially when he’s whistling happily as he packs up his kit, then winks at me on the way out.
Mistake. Neon sign. Mistake.
* * * *
I bump into Dibian on my way to the canteen. We pass like ships in the night—ships that hold hands and gabble at each other as we move in opposite directions.
“Need to see you.”
“Back at you! When?”
“Ten minutes. Behind the stage?”
“Sounds like a tryst, boss lady.”
“It is. Lots to tell.”
I see Will in the distance as I’m queuing for my salad pitta. I’m ready to go heavy on the jalapeños today. Salad and low-cal carbs are all well and good for the waistline, but a girl needs a bit of gusto to go. I hope I don’t regret this move in the flatulence department later. Farting on camera isn’t cool. And could lead to YouTube fame.
“Hey,” says Sam the porter, as he passes with a trolley full of toilet roll. He picks his time for school comestibles logistics that’s for sure. “How’s Jack, Izzy?”
“I hear he’s a bit improved. I’m going to see him after school.”
“Send our wishes. And there’s a couple of cards at reception—we did a whip round collection as well.”
I smile at Sam. He’s covered in tattoos and is built like a bulldog, but when it comes to heart, his is a thumping great marshmallow of soft mush.
“Take a selfie wiv ’im and send us a copy, will ya?”
“Course, Sam. Laters.”
We may be a weird bunch at Netherfield but we’re a weird bunch with love. Then I see Annie James standing in the queue to pay for her enormous hot dog—figures. She’s wearing a spray-on dress with a split that cuts thigh high. Anyway—what I was saying before? With the exception of one mad whore with a sausage fixation. But, in the main, we aren’t bad.
I look over and see that Will is seated at a table and talking animatedly with Tarquin. I wonder what they’re discussing. I also wonder about the slick guy in the suit? He’s handsome. He looks city chic metro sexual. He can’t possibly be new staff—that suit looks pricey. I vow to ask later.
When dinner diva Doreen hands me my napkin-wrapped dinner and I get through the pay queue in record time, I dash down the corridor intent on maximum time with Dibs.
But when I get there—nothing preps me for her surprise.
* * * *
The lights click on, but it’s still dim because we’re in the darkened wings of the school stage. It’s eerily quiet and I’m looking at something that makes my eyes widen.
“Hell’s fiery pashmina! What the heck?”
“Look,” says Dibian. “I wanted undisturbed. Top secret. What do you reckon, lady authoress?”
For a head of English—is that a word? “Digital imprint writer will do.”
“Either way. You’re up on Omazod. Get used to this! E-readers around the globe are accessing your novel as we speak. Speaking of which, you ought to get on to writing the next one. Time’s a ticking. This is a new career and you have to spend time with hands on keys to feed the machine.”
I hold my hand in front of my mouth and get nearer still for a close-up. “My—the cover’s very racy.”
“Your book is too, Iz. Are you sure you’ve read it? I had to go to bed and lie down three chapters in. And so it went the whole way through. I’m sure it’s what’s turned me into a high-octane sex bomb with Jack. You fueled my lust reserves.”
“TMI.” I want a gag, blindfold and earmuffs immediately. The gag’s for Dibs. The others are for me. As for Jack, only a straitjacket or a chastity condom belt will do.
Dibian raises her eyes and bats those enormous lashes—they’ve grown. She’s done some kind of enhancement there, for sure. And there’s glitter dangling from each spider’s leg of eyelash. Not a good look. “Sorry. But it’s the truth. The man’s impressive. Even in a nursing gown, he’s got it.”
“He needs to get to the sexual health clinic and get cream then.”
I have never thought of Jack outside of his familiar janitor’s coat. Nor do I ever wish to. I squeeze my eyes shut to remove the image. But I have to open them again if only to see my incredible cover.
“Who designed it?”
“I have contacts in publishing. It wasn’t too expensive.”
“Did they read the book?”
“No. Though I’m well connected with editors, I resisted. I could’ve pulled strings but I’m reliably informed self-publishing is where the innovative voices are raking it in, darling. I have a big hunch you’ll do well financially out of this one. You’re going to make a killing and I wouldn’t want you to miss out. I have a confession, though. I did change your title.” The cover is something to behold. The nude female figure has her back to the camera, but it’s demure yet sensual in every curve. Her hands are bound. Her face is in profile. Is s
he sad or in sublime pleasure? It’s hard to tell. There’s a tiny glimpse of side boob. Just enough to get the juices flowing, I’d imagine. And there are instruments laid out beside her. Her legs are open but nobody can see from this view. Instruments of pleasure gleam in the foreground.
The title—Pleasure’s Edge.
The writer—Raye C. Ryder.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I be?”
“I can’t believe you’ve called me that.”
“You needed an attention-grabbing moniker. I got you a peach.”
I laugh nervously. My God. If my mother ever saw this, she’d disown me and opt for deed poll.
“Kara!” Dibian laughs low in her throat.
“You’re a total slut.”
“You’re up already. There’s been eight hundred pre-order sales since ten a.m.”
“Fuck.”
“You even have great reviews. Do you know how hard that is to achieve?”
“I deserve the reviews. For my new name alone. We’re breaking boundaries. If Rogerson ever finds out, I’m toast!”
“Jack’s ultra-keen to give it a read too. He’s sworn to secrecy.”
I fix Dibian with a warning stare—my friend and crazy boss with fingers in too many publishing pies. As much as this makes me falter and cringe, she’s done an impressive job. I’d already approved mock-up graphics in an email but this is all so much more professional than I’d imagined. The book will garner attention. “Don’t you bloody dare or the deal’s off and I’m taking it down.”
“Don’t worry. I’m using it as bait. I’ll spin it out as long as I possibly can. I’m enjoying piquing Jack’s interest.”
She takes down the glossy covers and puts them in a black leather artist’s case. “If anybody asks to see my etchings, I plan to run for the car. Bye Ms. Ryder, you minx you!”
Something about this is worrying me. I’m on Omazod. I’m a published erotica author.
“Catch you later, Svengali Hicks.””
Holy orgasms.
* * * *
Jack is sitting up in bed in his paisley pajamas and he’s wearing reading specs that make him look like an Oxbridge prof, while reading the sports pages with a hooded gaze. He’s probably got a hotline set up with the local bookmaker’s already.
“Jacko!”
“Izzy.”
“You gave us all such a bloody fright.”
“Meself included, girl. I thought I was going up to that big goal mouth in the sky. And it was nearly an own goal and an automatic suspension.”
“Jack. Do you ever not think in football terms?”
He takes off his glasses and moves the papers to the bedside cabinet. “When Lady Dibian is around, it’s rather hard to think straight or get a word in edgewise. Why the hell did you let her take over visiting duty? Were you trying to teach me a lesson, girl? That woman… I nearly called the nurses.”
I’m laughing so hard now I nearly need a nurse button. Or a bedpan.
“Shit, Jack. I was under the impression you were keen.”
“The woman doesn’t stop for breath. And she rams those bosoms in places they aren’t always welcome. Can’t a man have peace even while convalescing? I missed all the races at Kempton thanks to her heavy breathing and hair stroking. It was intolerable.”
“Sorry, Jack. Any news from the quacks yet?”
“Still a lot of tests to be done. But it’s some sort of heart condition. They think medication will help but I’ll need time off from work and to take it slow. My sister and her friend have told me they’ll come and look after me for a bit.”
“That’s good.”
“Dibian doesn’t think so, but I’m pleased as punch they’re coming—it’s like the cavalry to stall her unwanted advances. She made it pretty damn clear she planned moving in for the kill. Kept suggesting she’d come and stay and keep me ship shape. Mata Bloody Hari, that one. I left her in little doubt it wouldn’t work. But she insisted on going to mine to tidy for me getting home.”
“And when are you getting back?”
“Tomorrow, maybe day after. I’ll need to come back and forth for visits with the consultant but I’m okay to try going home. My sister’s coming from Southend tonight.”
He certainly looks more like himself.
“She’s bringing her friend, Ada. She’s the woman I told you about that makes the fish pie from heaven itself. She’s won cake-baking awards five years on the trot and her Battenberg recipe has been patented via official channels.”
“I have every faith you’ll be in great hands, Jack. I wish you’d been honest about going to the docs. You didn’t tell me the truth, did you? And it could’ve cost you dearly.”
Jack’s gaze skirts off and he fiddles with the sheets. “Sorry, duck. I don’t do doctors. They never tell you good news. Gets me out of sorts.”
“Sometimes they’re essential, Jacko.”
I hug him, enjoying the contact and the feel of him alive and vitally himself and his old ticker continuing to beat a steady rhythm.
“I ain’t going anywhere yet. As long as you keep that ruddy Dibian out of my hair, I’ll see a few summers out before I’m through.”
I hand him the cards and presents sent by the staff and get out my phone.
“Selfie for Sam,” I say.
And we both hug and do rabbit ears with gusto.
* * * *
Mum’s at Uncle Cyril’s care home, and he’s in a wheelchair waiting when I get there. I’m late and can read in my mother’s face that she’s displeased but not owning up.
“Okay? Traffic was a nightmare.”
“Can you bring round the car?” she instructs.
“Course.”
Already I’ve missed her precise marker. God, I do love my mother but she makes me do a marathon of effort to meet her standards. Where my dad was a solid saint and savior with a heart of gold, Mum wields a heart of iron and rules from the highest shelf, where the ladder won’t reach.
I fetch the car, and five minutes on we’re settled for the trip. The journey is pretty hard going and quiet. Mum’s lips are set in a hard line but it’s worry, not a bad mood. She worries about Cyril—he’s prone to occasional confused episodes, so taking him out of his supervised surroundings stresses her.
“Did you see the game last week, Unc?”
Uncle Cyril grins at me, but while at first I think he’s got my meaning, I realize he’s missed the lift and gone back to the basement.
“Sweets. Sure. They’re in my pocket. Want a caramel or a mint, Izzy love?”
He still thinks I’m five. But he’s the sweetest man alive—it breaks my heart to see his memory diminish and dim so.
In the confines of this situation—and even though I’m an adult and the one behind the wheel—I do feel like I am five. I could cry as easily.
“You still follow the Arsenal, girl?” he asks.
“Course, Uncle Cyril. Who else would I ever go to see? Still got my season ticket. Same seat. Same scarf and I wear it proudly.”
“George Graham still doing us proud as manager?”
Shit. Just when I think we’re on a level memory playing field, it happens again. Arsene Wenger’s been time-machined out of the picture.
“Don’t tire your uncle, Izzy. Keep the conversation simple and short.”
Fucking Mother. She drains me. And it makes me sad to recognize that she’s become an emotional vampire without meaning to. She’s too stressed, too closed, too rigid. Will I end up that way? Is this what closing up your heart space does? Did losing Dad when she needed him most make her this way? Was she once free and easy? I find I can’t remember.
We’re at the cemetery in Barnet before too long.
It’s tiny and packed. Grave after grave and so close together, it depresses me at every visit. No sense of space here. It’s Cram-a-Corpse in action. I can’t believe I’ve admitted that out loud in my head either. This is my father’s final resting place. If I could
I’d bring an excavator and dig him up and take him somewhere nice—with space and a view. And birdsong—Dad would love that.
We find his tiny plot at the back left.
There’s dead flowers. From my last visit. I recognize the carnations.
“Izzy. Get rid of that old mess,” orders Mother. I’ve barely got there. She can see my heels aren’t the greatest for traversing the ground.
“Trust you to wear inappropriate shoes.”
“Sorry. Hold Uncle Cyril for me and I’ll sort it.”
I get rid of the decayed relics and lay out the new array of floral tribute, in their plastic wrapping, on the ground and my mother tuts.
“What?”
“Do you have to be so messy?”
“It may be messy but it’s organized. And I don’t tend to bring along a pop-up floristry table everywhere I go. Look away if it offends you. I’m getting it ready for when I bring back the water.”
I march to the wall tap and retrieve an empty plastic milk bottle to fill. I take my ire out by turning the tap on too hard and end up with water spraying over my tights and shoes.
“Shit!”
I can’t believe I’ve sworn in a cemetery. On a visit to my dad’s grave. How disrespectful am I?
But my thoughts are stalled short when I get the fright and surprise of my life.
“Hey, beautiful. It’s only me.”
“Will.”
He’s standing, watching me. In a dark overcoat. He’s got on his suit from this morning—the overcoat is Daniel Craig in Skyfall and I feel my womb go wibbly. In a bloody cemetery—Izzy Tennant, thy name is harpy!
“What the hell are you doing here?” He’s staring over my head toward where my ever-critical mother is awaiting me. Hell. Not good timing.
“I could ask the same of you. But I think I can guess.”
“Now’s not a great time.”
“You want me to go?”
“My mother isn’t the easiest. Time on death row is preferable to ten minutes of her death glare.”
“I don’t want to cramp your style. I was worried earlier. Our connection. I thought you were flipping me off.”
