Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  Dan went in search of the local art gallery while Tessa introduced herself to Howard James, the proprietor of the bookshop. She was looking forward to the afternoon. It amused her to see herself smiling out from posters and fun to sit, surrounded by crisp, un-thumbed copies of her books, being treated as a minor celebrity.

  She’d been installed for half an hour and signed perhaps seven or eight books when she became conscious of being watched. It wasn’t unusual for an inquisitive customer, unwilling to make eye contact for fear of being shamed into forking out ten quid, to spy on her. Today’s observer was standing slightly behind her, to her right, half-hidden by a display of travel books.

  ‘Hello, Tessa.’

  She swung round. ‘Rundle.’

  His un-prefaced surname rang around the small shop as accusatorily as if she’d shouted ‘murder’.

  The customers froze, staring at her until she forced a smile, releasing them from their paralysis.

  She lowered her voice. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Didn’t you? You’ve been all over the local press.’ He held up a copy of the book, its dust jacket scuffed. ‘I bought it as soon as it came out. Not in this shop but I was hoping you’d sign it for me. Is that allowed?’

  Rundle must be over fifty but he had a full head of grey-flecked hair. He was neat and trim, lean without looking scrawny. An observer might put him down as a long distance runner or a swimmer.

  The proprietor bustled across, ready to sort out any trouble. ‘Anything you need, Tessa?’ He kept his gaze fixed on Rundle.

  ‘I’m fine thanks, Howard.’ James was a nosy man and she knew she couldn’t get away without some kind of explanation. ‘Rundle – Tony – is an old friend of mine.’

  Yes,’ Rundle smiled, transforming himself in to the irresistible young man she had stalked in the church hall, ‘but we’ve lost touch recently, haven’t we, Tess?’

  James seemed relieved that he wasn’t going to be called on to evict a difficult customer. ‘Can I bring you both a coffee?’

  Rundle looked at Tessa and raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Rundle. Sometimes customers are a bit shy about approaching an author. It helps to have a bit of activity. Milk and sugar?’ He disappeared in to his office.

  Rundle tapped the pile of books. ‘I enjoyed it. Weird, though, knowing how involved I was in your … research. Plot too, come to that.’

  A middle-aged woman edged hesitantly towards the table and Rundle stood back while Tessa signed her book and they exchanged a few words.

  ‘You’re doing quite well, by the look of it,’ Rundle said pointing at the stack of books on the table.

  ‘What d’you want?’ she asked quietly. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I want you to sign—’

  ‘I may be foolish but I’m not a fool,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t mess me about.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’m not messing you about. On the contrary, I came because I wanted to see you.’ He looked her square in the face. ‘I’ve missed you.’ There was no trace of mockery in his confession.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the Rundle I used to know.’ She waited for him to turn their exchange into a joke or revert to the sneering silence that was his speciality.

  ‘That’s because you never got to know me.’

  He was out of order, turning up like this, polite and reasonable – and sexy – scattering her good intentions like leaves in a gale.

  ‘Get to know you? How was that ever going to happen? Was I supposed to be a mind-reader or something? Anyway, you couldn’t have been that distraught to have left it this long.’

  ‘I was waiting for you to come back.’

  She stifled a laugh. ‘What, you waited five years for me to come back? I don’t believe you.’

  Another customer came to the table, interrupting their conversation. The woman confessed to being a fan and set out to prove that she had read every one of Tessa’s books by discussing them in detail.

  At last she went and Tessa tried again. ‘I told you that it was over between us and I meant it. I still mean it. How dare you come here,’ she waved her hand towards his navy suit and his red silk tie, using every ounce of willpower to keep from touching him, ‘all tarted up like this. What do you want from me?’

  Rundle might well be playing a spiteful game but something in his manner denied her suspicion.

  ‘I hoped you’d bring my watch back one day, so I needed to let you know that I’m moving. I was going to write but when I saw the poster I decided to come and tell you in person.’

  She’d forgotten about the watch.

  ‘Well you’ve told me now, haven’t you?’ She stood up and held out her hand as if ending a business meeting. ‘Goodbye, Rundle. And good luck with … whatever it is you’re doing.’

  He took her hand, gripping it tightly without shaking it and with his other hand slid a folded piece of paper across the table. ‘That’s where I’ll be.’

  The bell above the shop door tinkled. She glanced up and saw Dan. He winked at her and held the door open, nodding amiably at the edgy-looking man in the dark suit who pushed past him.

  ‘What on earth did you do to him?’ he asked, jerking his head towards Rundle who had raced across the road and was already way down the street.

  The wind had coaxed Dan’s longish hair into rough curls and pinked his cheeks. He looked handsome in a vigorous, boyish way, and Tessa wished with all her heart that Dan, not Rundle, was the one who made her sick with desire.

  Chapter 33

  The Rundle whom Tessa had resisted for five years was a cold-hearted loner. But suddenly here he was, vulnerable and confessional. Rundle reconstructed. It was too cruel. She had to talk to someone.

  Lewis? Her brother had always treated Dan as if he were her salvation, admiring him with the reverence of first former for Head Boy. There was no doubt what Lewis’s advice would be. If it came to the crunch, he would stand by her but disapproving support would do nothing for her self-esteem.

  Kirsty? She could be counted on for objectivity but it was impossible to imagine her sister-in-law empathising with her visceral desire for Rundle. Asking Kirsty how to deal with a sexual craving would be like asking a vegetarian how to make black pudding.

  Liza? Or even Jay? They were neither prudish nor judgemental but the three of them shared a delicate history. Too many skeletons lurked in their communal cupboard, ready to come clattering out and complicate things further.

  She moved on through the list of possibles, eventually arriving at Amelie Tanqueray.

  Amelie had moved on from Gallery Seven not long after Tessa left. In her case it was to marry a Tory politician twenty years her senior. Tessa and Dan had attended the wedding, a stultifyingly formal affair somewhere in rural Buckinghamshire. The women often met for lunch when Amelie came to London and Tessa had stayed with them several times. Dan was always included in the invitation but he and Amelie had never hit it off and he found a string of plausible reasons not to go. On these visits, Tessa saw little of Amelie’s husband, Sir Marcus Fellowes, who spent most of the time in his study, doing whatever members of parliament did at weekends. This suited everyone.

  On her most recent visit, Amelie had admitted that she’d married on a whim. ‘Marcus needed a presentable wife – the electorate are dubious about bachelors – and I needed a safe haven. Neither of us pretends that it’s a love match but, as long as we’re discreet, we’ve agreed that we can carry on as we wish.’ They were sitting on the terrace of the detached Georgian house in its several acres of landscaped garden. ‘Doesn’t he want an heir for all this?’ Tessa threw her arms wide. Amelie had shrugged. ‘We’re still negotiating on that one. I’ve got no real objection. For an ex-public schoolboy, he’s surprisingly good in bed. Money and status create a potent aphrodisiac, mind you.’

  Yes. Amelie was the one to confide in.

  They met in a Greek rest
aurant near the British Museum.

  ‘You were very cagey on the phone,’ Amelie said. ‘Secrets?’

  Tessa had never shared Rundle. He belonged solely to her. She hesitated, unsure, now, if this was a good idea.

  ‘Is everything okay? You look a bit … worn.’ Amelie leaned across the table and, placing a finger on Tessa’s chin, turned her face towards the light. ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping.’

  ‘You’re not ill?’

  Tessa attempted a smile. ‘There’s a strong possibility that I’m going mad. Does that count?’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  The temptation to offload was irresistible. Starting with her first glimpse of him on the school bus, she revealed her obsession with Tony Rundle. Everything. The ‘first time’; the miserable weekend when she’d run away from home and gone to him; their meeting in Trafalgar Square when it had all started up again; the furtive trips to Brighton. She tried to explain the thrill of their sexual encounters and how bad she felt afterwards; how she’d made the break, refusing to give in to her craving. Finally his reappearance – transformed and needy.

  ‘So there you have it, in all its squalid glory. Pathetic, isn’t it? Sordid, ridiculous and pathetic.’ She paused. ‘You’re allowed to agree with me.’

  Amelie pushed aside her plate and was silent for a moment, staring at the lunchtime crowd hurrying past the window. ‘It’s sad, actually.’

  ‘Sad. How d’you make that out?’

  ‘Well, for all those years, you and this man were having the most incredible sex, the sort of thing all women fantasise about, but you were completely isolated … insulated … from each other. It wasn’t even as if it were an amazing secret that you shared.’ She frowned. ‘There was no sharing.’

  ‘No, because neither of us was up for that sort of relationship.’

  ‘Really? In that case, why did he say that you’d never made an effort to get to know him?’

  Amelie was starting to annoy her.

  ‘You don’t know what he’s like,’ Tessa muttered.

  ‘Do you? Look, the man took advantage of you when you were eighteen. Losing one’s virginity is a massive thing, especially if it’s taken rather than given.’ She played with her linen napkin, rolling and unrolling it. ‘I had a similar experience. But I was only fifteen and he was … well, never mind. I can understand, too, why you got back in touch with him. Laying ghosts. Wiping the slate clean. But you should have had it out with him, there and then. Who knows, you might even have been able to start a viable relationship.’

  This superficial claptrap didn’t come within a million miles of explaining the hold Rundle had over her.

  ‘With a view to what, exactly? Life with a car mechanic?’

  On all sides, flawless women and loud men tucked into fancy food. Rundle’s broad accent echoed in her head and she pictured his pen holder knife grip. She couldn’t bring him to a place like this. Or take him down to Berkshire for the weekend. Or introduce him to people like Liza and Jay.

  Amelie pushed her plate aside. ‘Have you thought of telling Dan? At least you’d have cleared away all the crud that’s piled up between you.’

  ‘We’re not talking blocked drains. Dan’s a dear, sweet man. He’s never had any misconceptions about me, but to hit him with something so … brutal. I’m not that much of a cow.’

  Amelie’s raised eyebrows questioned Tessa’s assertion. ‘So what do you want me to say? Yes, it’s perfectly fine to go sneaking off to Brighton regularly for some S and M with your dysfunctional bit of rough. No. I’m not prepared to do that.’ There was concern in Amelie’s voice. ‘I don’t understand why you’re turning this into a problem. You did the hard bit years ago when you gave him up. Just forget the man and invest in a top of the range vibrator.’

  There was no point in going on with this. Amelie was probably jealous.

  Tessa drained the dregs of her red wine. ‘You’re right. I’m being stupid. I don’t know why you bother with me.’

  ‘Schadenfreude. The basis of most friendships.’ Amelie stood up. ‘Where are the loos? My bladder’s about to burst.’

  Amelie’s Armani jacket was looped over the back of her chair and, while she was away from the table, Tessa unpinned the sparkling brooch from its lapel and slid it into her bag.

  Schadenfreude the bones out of that, Mrs Smart Arse Fellowes.

  Lewis couldn’t remember an October as pleasant as this. Blue skies and balmy days had oiled the squeaky wheels of the new school year. The usual range of glitches peppered his working day – timetabling clashes, shortfalls in equipment, staff absences – but, on the whole, teachers and pupils seemed mellow and upbeat.

  He was halfway through a double period with Form One, trying to explain why algebra was useful whilst simultaneously watching the caretaker raking leaves off the tennis courts, when the school secretary tapped on the door.

  Doreen Lane had worked at the school for ever. She had weathered its transition from grammar to co-educational establishment, and worked for seven different head teachers. She was efficient, enthusiastic and kept her head when things went awry, but this morning she seemed jumpy.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Swinburne.’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Lane. What can I do for you?’ The formal charade played out whenever pupils were within earshot never failed to make Lewis feel ridiculous.

  ‘Could I have a word, please?’

  Instructing the class to get on with their work, he stepped into the corridor and pulled the door to.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The Head wants to see you. Right away. Linda’s on her way to cover your lesson.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until break? What’s the panic?’

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’

  Ken Anson was tidying his already immaculate desk when Lewis entered his office. Despite the heat, the man was wearing the black gown he donned for special occasions and which transformed him from pompous little man into gigantic crow.

  Lewis waited in silence.

  ‘Sit down, Lewis.’ Anson gestured to a chair. He looked uncomfortable. Shifty.

  ‘I’ll stand, if that’s okay with you, Headmaster.’

  Anson was a small man, no more than five foot six inches, and Lewis sensed that it would be wise to retain his height advantage.

  Anson’s discomfort turned to caginess. ‘I’ve … we’ve … received a complaint.’

  ‘About whom?’ Lewis already knew but he still had to ask. ‘Me?’

  ‘Well. Yes. Actually.’ Anson blew his nose and avoided Lewis’s gaze. ‘Do you have any idea why anyone would lodge a complaint against you?’

  My jokes are corny? I wear too much aftershave?

  ‘No.’

  Lewis had no clue why anyone would complain. He’d been doing the job long enough to know that he was a good teacher. The kids liked him and they achieved reasonable exam results. He set enough homework to satisfy parents yet not overburden his pupils. He ran the chess club and the jazz society. He was doing okay.

  Anson, in nylon shirt, navy blazer and bat-winged gown, was sweating. ‘Michelle Haldane. Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Of course. She’s in my maths set. Quiet girl. Average ability but, with a bit of encouragement—’

  ‘Her parents contacted me this morning.’

  The blood pumped in Lewis’s ears. His throat constricted and he couldn’t get rid of the spittle that was pooling beneath his tongue. He stared at Anson’s glistening face, noticing the flecks of scum at the corners of his mean mouth, the wayward hairs sprouting, like miniature antennae, across the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Michelle says … alleges … that you have made improper suggestions. Of a sexual nature.’

  What, that I wanted to run my fingers through that limp hair? Kiss those dry lips? Fondle those non-existent breasts?

  ‘Do you have anything to say before we go any further?’

  Lewis felt sick with f
ury. ‘Of course I have something to say. But I’d be stupid to say anything until I know exactly what I’m supposed to have “suggested”.’ It sounded slippery but one word out of place, one flippant comment, and he might be damned.

  ‘I can’t go into that at the moment but obviously you are suspended as from now. Temporarily, and on full pay, of course. I’ve informed Social Services. They’re sending someone to talk to Michelle. And … well, I’m sure you’re aware of the procedure.’

  ‘What about my classes—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s all in hand.’ Anson turned away and pretended to study his desk diary.

  As Lewis left the room, he glanced at the wall clock in the corridor. The interview with Anson had lasted four minutes. Long enough for a man to run a mile, or the world to end.

  ‘So you did spend time alone with this girl?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘Yes. She was never going to ask for help in front of the class. I was trying to give her a bit of a confidence boost. I felt sorry for her. I kept thinking that Sarah or Jane could be in the same position one day.’

  They were in bed, Lewis’s restlessness keeping them both awake. Kirsty was lying next to him but their bodies were not touching. Her demeanour was disturbingly neutral, as though she were a disinterested third party.

  ‘Teaching’s not just about imparting facts and information. It’s about exposing young minds to life’s possibilities.’

  She groaned. ‘I hope you’re not going to come out with that sort of thing to a tribunal. It sounds … suggestive.’

  He watched a shaft of light cast by a car’s headlights track across the ceiling and down the wall. ‘I’m sure that if I could just talk to Michelle—’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  Crazy, mad, demented – that was exactly how he felt. ‘The kid hasn’t got the gumption to dream up a story like this. She’s basically a wimp.’