by JL Merrow
“A bit.” I took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “What I don’t understand is how the wretched thing could have got in here in the first place. Wouldn’t I have noticed if there were holes in the walls?”
“Sometimes they just see a chance and take it. Did you maybe have the back door open today, let a bit of fresh air in the place?”
“No, of course—oh.” I remembered the baking incident. “Um. Maybe?”
“There you go, then. Opportunistic little sods, squirrels. Speaking of which, can I get a biscuit, here?”
“Just one,” I said, passing him the packet. “And no dropping any crumbs. I don’t want to encourage the rodent invasion. You know, I always used to like those Internet videos of resourceful squirrels getting into bird feeders. Now I have visions of them teaming up to find a way of picking my locks.” I shuddered.
Sean grinned and helped himself to two. “It’d give you an excuse to call me again, though, wouldn’t it? If you think you need one.”
All at once I felt a good bit hotter than the mug of tea in my hands could reasonably account for. “Um,” I said, my resolve wavering. Would it really be such a very bad idea to see Sean again? He wasn’t Crispin, after all.
“Look,” he said, gesturing with a biscuit. “That night at Badgers—”
“I’m so sorry about that,” I interrupted desperately. “Really I am. I just, well, it was all a misunderstanding, really. I mean, I know what I said, but…” I trailed off, my throat tight. In any case, I wasn’t entirely certain how I’d have finished the sentence without digging myself an even bigger hole.
Sean’s eyes were kind. “Well, maybe I overreacted, okay? I mean, I talked to Rose about it, and she reckoned we both got the wrong end of the stick, and, well, I thought we got on okay, didn’t we? So maybe we should give it another go? I know you just came out of a bad relationship, but you gotta get back on the horse sometime, right?”
I stared at him. Had Rose told him everything? I was intensely relieved I hadn’t shared any of the more painful—not to mention shameful—details of my breakup with Crispin. God, if Sean ever found out about Oliver… I swallowed.
Sean leaned towards me. He put a hand on my knee, sending a curious kind of tingling heat through the fabric of my trousers. “Look, I’m not a bad bloke. Honest. Whatever that git did, I promise you I won’t do that. I like you, okay? You’re funny.” He smiled. “And different. I like that. And I think you like me, even though you’re trying not to. So how about it?”
“I…” I took a delaying mouthful of tea. “What, precisely, are you proposing?”
“Bit soon for a proposal, innit? Hey, only joking,” he added as I spluttered on my tea. “How about this? The local am-drams are doing a production of Pygmalion this week in the village hall. Fancy going along? They mostly remember their lines, ones I’ve seen before, and some of ’em can even act.”
“Well…”
“Gotta support the local community, haven’t you?”
He had a point there. And really, what could be the harm in spending a couple of hours in the company of Sean, a hall full of villagers and a dubious interpretation of George Bernard Shaw’s comedy of class? “What day is it on?” I asked.
Not that my social calendar was exactly booked up. Or even existed, for that matter, outside of my own mind, but if it had had physical form, it would have been a pristine set of blank white pages.
“Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Saturday is their gala night, and you get a free cup of tea and a biccie in the interval. Tends to bring the grannies out in force, that does, so I was thinking maybe Friday if you’re free?”
“I…think I might be,” I said. After all, one should support local theatre. And accepting his invitation was hardly tantamount to throwing caution to the winds. It was barely even allowing it to be ruffled by a gentle spring zephyr. Moreover, Sean had been very understanding about the whole Badgers debacle, the memory of which was still tying my stomach in guilty knots. Not to mention the squirrel. One might almost think he was rather taken with me, a prospect that left me less alarmed and more gratified than I would have imagined.
At any rate, such generosity of spirit should, I thought, be encouraged. I smiled, pleased with my logical analysis of the question.
Sean smiled back. “Great. I’ll get the tickets, and I’ll see you about half past seven. We can walk up from here.”
Chapter Nine
“So how’d it go, then? Your rat date yesterday.” Rose mopped up some passanda sauce with her keema naan. She was round at my house for Sunday dinner, apparently determined to keep on widening my horizons with regard to takeaway food.
We’d passed Hanne on the way in. She’d sent me a smile of approval when she saw Rose, which had swiftly turned to a frown of displeasure when she saw our carrier bags full of unmistakeable rectangular plastic tubs. I had a sinking feeling I was going to be getting another cookery lesson in the near future.
“It wasn’t a date.” I blushed. “It wasn’t even a rat. It was a squirrel.” There was a Brussels sprout in my chicken biryani, which was not what I’d have considered a typical ingredient in Indian food. I poked it with my fork, then decided to hell with it, and bit, so to speak, the bullet. It actually tasted rather nice.
“See, you go on about my education,” Rose was saying, waving her naan at me, “but at least I can tell a rat from a bloody squirrel. Are you serious? I mean, every kid in reception can tell a rat from a squirrel. There are probably unborn babies who can tell a rat from a squirrel.”
“I only saw it out of the corner of my eye, the first time,” I protested. “And it was a little hard to see the second time, when it was running over the top of my head.”
“Ew. I hope you’ve washed your hair since.”
“God, yes. And scrubbed the kitchen so clean—”
“You could cook your dinner in there?”
“I was going to say, there’s absolutely nothing to tempt any more rodent raiders into the place. Not a crumb to be found. And no more boxes of cereal left where the little blighters can see them either.” I took a swallow of Tesco chardonnay. Again, not something I’d have associated with spicy food (or any food, to be honest) but Rose had insisted that cheap alcohol was an essential part of the Indian takeaway experience. Actually, she’d tried to persuade me to drink lager, but I explained firmly that although I loved her dearly, there were limits.
“Heh, now I’m imagining a gang of squirrels lined up on your windowsill, pressing their twitchy little noses to the glass while they stalk your breakfast.”
“Do squirrels even have twitchy noses? I thought that was bunnies.”
“There’d probably be some of them as well. Just make sure you don’t leave your carrot out where they can see it.” She sniggered. “Or your Brussels sprouts.”
“You know, it’s rather disturbing to have you use those vegetables as euphemisms while we’re actually eating them.”
“First time a woman’s ever had her lips round your meat and two veg, is it?” She took a large swig of chardonnay and grabbed the bottle to refill her glass, making a disappointed face when the wine ran out two-thirds through.
“You know, I’m going to have to start rationing your alcohol intake. Half a bottle of wine and—”
“I’m anybody’s?”
“I was going to say, a little inclined to vulgarity.”
Rose held up an admonitory finger. I could tell it was intended as an admonishment, as it was her middle finger. “That, darling, is sexist. Ah-ah-ah,” she added, cutting me off as I opened my mouth to defend myself. “See, you may not think you’re being sexist, but you are. If a bloke makes a dirty joke, everyone laughs. If a woman does, it’s vulgar.” She paused and then belched loudly. “God, your face. But if Sean had done that, you wouldn’t think anything of it, would you? It’s just double standards, innit?”
>
“Maybe,” I said cautiously. “Although I’m fairly certain I’d think I was being vulgar if I burped in public.” It was an interesting point, though. Was Sean the sort to do that sort of thing? And would I mind if he did?
Somehow, I couldn’t imagine myself having a problem with anything he might do. Which was a disturbing thought in itself.
Rose was speaking again. “Yeah, well, you’re you, aren’t you? Anyway, stop changing the subject.”
“I hadn’t realised I was. Changing the subject, I mean. I’m well aware I’m me.” I was beginning to wonder if the wine was stronger than I’d thought it was.
“So go on,” Rose continued, fixing me with a piercing gaze. “Have you ever done it with a girl?”
“No,” I muttered to my biryani. I lifted my head to give her a challenging look of my own. “Have you?”
“Ew. No.” She frowned. “It must be weird, liking both. I mean, do you think bisexuals ever wake up feeling frisky and go to grab a handful of boob, then think, Oh, bum, this one hasn’t got any?”
“I wouldn’t know, would I? Not exactly my area of expertise, breasts.” I stood, feeling suddenly depressed. “I’ll go get the other bottle of wine out of the fridge.”
“So what are you all mopey about?” Rose asked when I’d slumped back onto the sofa.
“Nothing.” Silently lamenting the lack of a proper cork—Peter would be quietly horrified—I opened the bottle of wine with a sharp twist to the screw top.
“And I’m a supermodel. Come on, what is it?”
I humphed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you so thoroughly dismissed the idea that anyone could have a successful long-term relationship with a bisexual?”
“So? It’s not like you’re actually going out with one.” Her eyes became piercing little slits. “Are you?”
“I. Um. I may just possibly be going out with Sean on Friday, yes. But we’re not necessarily going out,” I added quickly. “I mean, we’re just going to see a play together. It’s not really a date. Probably.”
“And you didn’t tell me? You cagey sod. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were going out with Sean.”
“Yes, how dare I keep you in ignorance of any aspect of my life for as long as, oh, twenty-four hours?” I rolled my eyes and topped up my glass.
“So what changed your mind, then? I mean, up till yesterday you were all oh no, I don’t want a boyfriend.”
I winced at her impersonation of me and sincerely hoped it wasn’t accurate. “I… Oh, hang it. I shouldn’t go, should I? I should ring him and cancel.”
“What? Screw that. Why the bloody hell would you want to cancel?” She grabbed the chardonnay from where I’d left it on the table and refilled her glass once more.
“Because you were right. Nothing’s changed. I just… I don’t know what I was thinking.” Mostly, I suspected, I hadn’t been thinking. Or at least, not with the appropriate organ.
“I still don’t get it. This Rice Crispin bloke was over half a year ago—did you take a vow of celibacy after him or something?” Rose ripped off another chunk of naan with casual savagery.
“It’s…complicated.” I took a swallow of wine. I’d rather lost my appetite for the food. Then I took a deep breath. “Rose, do you think people in a relationship should be totally honest with one another?”
“What about?”
“Well, you know. Everything. Say, one of the parties had done something—no, not done something, been suspected of something—that might lead the other party to despise the first party. If the second party found out about the suspicions surrounding the first party, and, obviously, believed the first party to be culpable.”
“What is this, a legal document?” Her eyes narrowed, and a drop of curry sauce teetered perilously on the bottom of the piece of naan that had stalled halfway to her mouth. “Why? What’ve you done?”
“Nothing!”
In an unprecedented move, Rose put the naan back on her plate, uneaten. “Oh my God, are you cheating on Sean? I can’t believe you’re cheating on Sean.”
“I’m not cheating on Sean! How could I possibly be cheating on someone I’m not even going out with?”
“You lied on your CV? Everyone does that, you don’t need to worry about it. Nobody ever checks up on GCSE grades.”
“I didn’t lie on my CV, either.”
“You didn’t? Why the hell not?” Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God—you’re really a woman?”
“That doesn’t even make sense with what I told you! And no, I’m not trans, all right? Please stop trying to guess.”
“So what is it, then?”
“I don’t want to say.”
She glared at me.
“I mean it, Rose. Stop pushing.”
“You realise whatever I’m imagining is probably worse, don’t you?”
It couldn’t be. “I’ll just have to live with that,” I said firmly.
“You’re no fun,” she muttered. “One last guess, and then I’ll leave you alone, all right?”
“I’d really prefer—”
“You had an affair with a pupil.”
Oh God. There was a rushing in my ears. You’d think I’d be used to the sound of my life collapsing.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t face it all happening again. Rose would despise me. Sean wouldn’t want anything to do with me. The Head would sack me, and the parents from the school would probably lynch me…
“Robert? Robert,” Rose was saying. “Come on, sweetie, just breathe.”
I slowly became aware that I was huddled on the sofa, Rose’s arms around me, crushing my face to her ample bosom in a way that made it almost impossible to obey her verbal instructions. She was patting my back as if I were a small child, which, given my near-foetal position was perhaps understandable. A few moments’ futile struggle on my part eventually ended with her relaxing her grip, and I gulped in air.
“Is that what they thought you’d done? It is, isn’t it? That’s why you stopped teaching secondary, isn’t it? Come on, you know I’d never believe you’d do anything like that.” She paused. “You didn’t actually have an affair with a pupil, did you?”
“No! No, I swear I didn’t.” I looked up at her then. “On my mother’s life.”
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips. “Swear it on your favourite bow tie, that black one with the pinstripes?”
I managed a weak smile. “That’s not my favourite. I just wear it a lot. It makes me look professional.”
Rose coughed. It sounded a lot like “You think?”
I ignored her. “And I swear to you on all my bow ties. Which, I’d like to point out, are not actually dearer to me than my mother’s life.”
“All right, all right, I believe you.” She stared thoughtfully at her plate. “So that’s why you split up with Crispy Crackling, then? He didn’t believe you hadn’t done it? And you’re worried Sean might find out and do the same?”
I nodded. It had been a bit more complicated than that, but, well, that was more or less the gist of it.
“Well, for one thing, I can’t believe Sean’s got one single thing in common with anyone called Crispin. Don’t interrupt,” she added as I opened my mouth to tell her they were actually of a rather similar height and build. “And for another, no one knows except me, do they? And I know the whole thing’s bollocks, so I’m not going to go spreading it around. So you’re sorted, aren’t you? Just forget about it.”
“Ea-easier said than done.” My traitorous voice cracked, calling me a liar.
“Look, you came here to make a fresh start, didn’t you? So sodding well make one.”
Chapter Ten
It was all right for Rose to talk about making a fresh start, I thought grumpily to myself as I sat down to a mountain of lesson planning on Monday morning. It wasn’t like she’d j
ust broken up with the man she’d thought to be the love of her life… Oh. Well, maybe she had, but at least I wasn’t bullying her into dating again already.
Although, come to think of it, her breakup was barely six weeks old, whereas mine was that many months. I sighed. Fine. I’d concede she had a right to bully me. It didn’t mean I had to actually do what she said.
Still… I’d looked out for Sean in the park while on my run this morning, but the only redhead I’d seen had been the alarmingly henna’d wife of the vicar, walking her Yorkshire terriers. When I’d thought about it afterwards, I’d realised that eight o’clock on a Monday morning in the school holidays was probably way earlier than any sane person would want to get the kids out and about. And, of course, there was the little matter of him having a job to go to.
He hadn’t mentioned taking any days off to look after the twins. It just seemed the sort of thing he might do, that was all. He was that sort of person. Caring. Affectionate. Hot as hell in that leather jacket of his…
And this was not getting my lesson plans done. I made myself a cup of coffee so strong the spoon practically melted, and settled back to work.
Feeling I deserved a break (and to be honest, at a bit of a loose end) I called Rose in the evening. “Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Why? Need me to go shopping with you for an outfit for your hot date with Sean?”
“Thanks, but I’ve been buying my own clothes for some years now.”
“Yeah, and look at the result. Can’t, anyway. I’m having a day out with the girls. I’d ask you along, but it’s been booked up for months.”
Oh. A spa day, I presumed. They seemed inexplicably popular among women. Even Mother had been on one of those recently, although I was sure she’d always used to say they were common. “I’ll try and contain my disappointment at not getting to spend a day having my toes nibbled by fish and getting my eyebrows threaded.”
“You know, you should think about it. The eyebrow thing. You don’t want to end up with a unibrow.”
