“Never a truer word spoken, my good man. She guessed right away you’d spoken to me.”
Tom rubbed at his forehead, eyes closed. “This situation isn’t good, Max. I hope Rebecca comes to her senses. She can’t afford to waste time antagonizing you. Not if she is serious about Oxford. She missed so much school as it is. If it had been any other pupil than Rebecca, I would have made her repeat the year, but she’s managed to catch up.”
Max groaned. “This teaching lark is turning out to be more complicated than I thought. Fancy a quick one down the pub?”
“You read my mind. And Max, give it time. She’ll soon get bored making waves.”
Chapter Five
Peering in the mirror above the sink, Rebecca recoiled from the red-rimmed eyes staring back at her. She glanced down at her hands, disgusted to see they trembled.
She couldn’t believe she’d said those things to him; she couldn’t believe he’d taken it. Gaze still trained on her reflection, she turned on the tap and allowed water to pool in her hands. Holding them to her face, she spread out her fingers and pushed against her skull, wanting to scream. She couldn’t do it. No way would she be able to sit in the same classroom as him and yet… Her stomach rolled as it did when she rode the big dipper; that sensation of being so scared and yet thrilled by the latent danger.
Head pressed against the mirror, she saw him again, his green eyes appraising her. Something in his expression scared her but not in a bowels-turning-to-liquid nightmare way as… Moaning, she scooped up more water and drenched her face, not caring she soaked her collar.
“Rebecca?” Emma’s concerned call seeped through the door, dragging her back to earth.
“I’m coming. Can’t I even pee in peace? You’re worse than my bloody mother.” Banging on the dryer unit button with her elbow, she turned her face to the warm air.
* * * *
“So, you got out alive then.”
“Emma, as I have been walking by your side for the best part of ten minutes, I would say yes—unless, of course, I am a figment of your imagination, but then, we both know you do not possess much of that.”
Immune to years of her sarcasm, Emma just grinned. “Did you let him have it? Did he let you have it?”
“No one had any ‘it.’” Rebecca kept her irritation in check. Emma meant well, and she had to admit, her restraint had been impressive.
“Are you going to ask to be moved from his class?”
“Yes…no. Actually, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Staring down at Thamesford Common footpath, Rebecca kept her tone neutral. “Maybe he isn’t worth doing anything about.”
“Crap.” Emma snorted her disbelief. “When have you ever gone down without a fight? You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.” Rebecca conceded. “But in this case, I will have to be Machiavellian about it.”
“Maky who?” Emma tripped over a daisy clump. “Shit…bloody path.”
“Bloody path?” Rebecca smirked. “Not bloody stupid four inch heels? Serves you right for trying to impress the wild man of the Outback.”
Emma giggled. “Oh, but isn’t he simply too delectable for words? Do you think he’s married?”
“Well if he is, his wife must be an idiot. Who would want to be married to him?”
“Moi. I’m trying to remember if he wears a ring.”
“He doesn’t, I—” Rebecca shut up. Funny how every little detail about him lay imprinted on her brain. “Please stop talking about him. I feel quite sick thinking about him.”
“Me, too.” Emma sighed. “Luuuurve-sick. Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Seriously, what are you going to do about him? You can’t spend a year arguing with him, fun as it may be for the rest of us, especially when he gets the better of you—”
“Emma, I would quit while ahead, if I were you.” Rebecca stopped in her tracks. “For your information, your lover-boy wants a truce. He actually grovelled.”
Emma peered at her. “You made that up. He doesn’t look the type to grovel.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Rebecca continued walking. “I told him where to stuff his grovel. Anyway…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, I so hate it when you do that,” Emma wailed.
“That’s why I do it. Come on, let’s go home.” Running at the turnstile, Rebecca leap-frogged over it.
“I can’t believe you still have to do that.” Emma clicked open the gate. “You’re not five anymore.”
“More’s the pity.” Rebecca stuffed her hands in her front pockets. “Coming for tea? It’s Tuesday.”
“Er…”
Fascinated, Rebecca watched Emma’s round cheeks turn from crisp breeze pink to Arctic red glow.
“Oh, Becs. Do you mind? I sort of said I’d meet Andy in Shakes.”
Rebecca’s anti-boyfriend guns loaded. “Sort of? You either did or you didn’t, and I suppose you’re talking about Andy Stone?”
“Yes.” Emma warmed to her theme. “Don’t you think he’s cute? Brendon’s coming too. You know, Brendon Turner—our revered head boy, the one every female in the school is nuts about, including a few of the sex-starved teachers, I suspect.”
“Emma, I get it. He is God’s gift to women.”
“And he wants you. Andy says he has this thing for you.”
Emma looked so smug Rebecca wanted to laugh except it was too ludicrous for words. “The boy is an idiot. He is only head boy because his equally idiotic father is on the board. Andy is an idiot also. I would rather contract a dose of herpes than share a cup of coffee with them. My God, Em, where is your self respect? I can understand your liking the colonial. At least he is educated but that pair? They’ve had more girls than Russell Brand.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Emma glared at her.
“Too right. So what’s it to be? My mum’s Tuesday chocolate cake, or Neanderthals R Us?”
“Er, what you said second.” Emma pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Will you be pissed off if I don’t come? It’s just that—”
“Fine. Do what you want. Run and play with the little boys.” Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, Rebecca turned for home as Emma’s “oh don’t be like that” bounced off her back.
Tears pricked her eyes, at once making her despise herself. She hated this new vulnerability, but Emma’s ‘defection’ unnerved her. Unfair, she knew and silly. Of course, she blamed him. He made her feel emotionally exposed. “Damn you, Mr. bloody Jackson.” Kicking out a discarded cola can, she thought about her strategy. She’d lied to Emma. She didn’t have a plan at all.
* * * *
“What’s up with you?” Her mother looked up from the ironing. “Where’s Emma?”
Rebecca wrenched open the fridge door with such force that a carton of milk bounced to the floor. Lucky for her it was nearly empty. “No Emma today, and nothing’s wrong with me.” Grabbing the dishcloth from the sink, she got on her hands and knees and mopped at the spilled milk with angry, exaggerated strokes and then threw the sopping cloth into the sink. With her mother’s curiosity burning a hole in the back of her neck, she set about preparing a doorstop of a sandwich. She braced herself. Her mother ran true to form.
“You haven’t fallen out again have you?”
“We’re not children, Mum.” Rebecca shot her a scathing look. “We don’t ‘fall out.’ We have differences of opinion.”
“And what ‘difference of opinion’ have you had this week?”
Rebecca bit into her sandwich. “She’s gone to Shakes with a couple of morons. It’s no big deal.”
“Well obviously it is, or you wouldn’t be in such a foul mood. You really do take things too seriously.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Rebecca stared at her mother with growing resentment.
“You’re peeved, aren’t you? Because Emma is off doing something on her own.”
“If you must know, I was invited also. It’s hardly my thing, is it?”
Her mother’s sigh raised the alarm.
“Listen, dear. It’s perfectly understandable if you don’t feel ready for...for socialising with boys. After—”
“Mum, you are so predictable.” Rebecca threw her sandwich onto the island. “This has nothing to do with…with you know what. I am not walking around harbouring a psychotic hatred of men. Why do you always have to try and psychoanalyze me?”
“I am not doing that.”
To her surprise, tears glistened in her mother’s eyes.
“I am just so angry. Angry that animal turned you into a—”
“A what, Mum? Someone who doesn’t know how to have fun? Go on, say it.”
“You’re a teenager, for goodness sake! You should be out having fun.”
“Really, Mother dear. What are you suggesting? You should be pleased I am not out having unprotected sex and popping Ecstasy pills.”
The iron hit the ironing board with force.
“Now you’re being childish. That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. All I meant is it’s perfectly normal if Emma wants to go out and meet other people. And yes, find a boyfriend. It’s a natural process, and I don’t want you to be left behind. Life is for living, and I feel… I don’t want you to be lonely.”
“Why is it such a disaster that I don’t like clubbing and going to parties? I am sorry, but I’m just not the requisite bimbo material. For a start, my hair’s the wrong colour.”
“You make me want to scream with frustration. You have a brain. You know what I’m trying to say.”
“Yes, I do.” Rebecca bent to pick up her bag, grateful her hair fell forward and hid her burning cheeks. She didn’t want to fight with her mother. “I know where you’re going with this, and my answer is still no. I do not want to be hypnotised. I don’t care what Dr. Small says. He’s an idiot. I don’t need to remember, and I don’t want to. Dad agrees with me.”
“You father is being a father.” Her mother clasped her hands in front of her ample bosom. “You are his little girl. He thinks he’s protecting you from the truth, but sometimes the truth must be faced in order to move on.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I knew it was a mistake teaching you how to surf the Net.” Whistling to Wally, she stormed from the room. Her mother’s shriek of “Shit—I’ve burnt Jack’s favourite football shirt” filtered after her.
By the time, she reached her room, her anger dissipated. Guilt nagged at her inherent sense of fair play. Her mother meant well. Rebecca knew how much she worried, but why couldn’t she understand she just wanted to be left alone with her past. It was her past, no one else’s. Bad enough she’d gone through it without sharing.
Stretched out on her bed, she thought of Emma. She didn’t understand this new pre-occupation with boys and sex. So what if they were the only remaining virgins in the year. Rebecca punched her pillow in frustration, wishing desperately their world would stay as it was, but she was intelligent enough to understand it wasn’t going to. But then…Emma hadn’t had her experience of male ‘intimacy.’ The old, familiar nausea rolled in her stomach.
Deciding this depressing train of thought warranted a nice, relaxing bath, she jumped up. She hoped Vicky wasn’t hogging the bathroom.
Sure enough, she opened her bedroom door in time to catch Victoria tip-toeing out.
“Oh, my God.” Rebecca gaped in awe. “Dad is going to kill you. I got to hand it to you. You certainly do have courage.” Vicky’s chestnut brown hair was now a white Jean Harlow blonde. “Mmm…a tad too much peroxide, don’t you think?” she added with a dry laugh.
“Please don’t tell him,” Vicky pleaded. “It was a mistake.”
“I’ll say. But don’t you think he just might notice?”
With a sob, Vicky pushed her out of the way and ran to her room. Teatime was going to be so much fun.
Still giggling, Rebecca turned on the taps and emptied the remains of her mother’s lavender essence into the running water. Poor Vicky. It wasn’t that the ‘dumb’ act hurt anyone, but she was just so damn shallow. How could the breaking of a nail or an eruption of pimples possibly compare with world globalisation?
Stripping off her clothes, Rebecca studied herself in the full-length mirror. She wasn’t falsely modest; she knew boys found her attractive, but she had no interest in any of them—even before… Pouting at her reflection, she struck a Tyra Banks pose. She wondered if Mr. Jackson thought her pretty. Her heart gave a jolt. What a stupid train of thought.
“Sex.” Rebecca sank into the warm, scented water. “It’s always about sex.”
* * * *
“Rebecca, darling, take my hand. I won’t let him hurt you anymore. Trust me. Please, trust me.”
His fingers curled around her palm, and he gently helped her to her feet. A sob catching at the back of her throat, she fell into the warm, safe embrace of his arms. His heartbeat sounded against her ear, a soft lullaby, against the tempest raging in her soul.
“Hold me. Don’t ever let me go.”
“I won’t. Ever.”
With a gasp, Rebecca jerked awake and sat up. A fine film of sweat coated her body. Trembling, she reached for the semi-comatose Wally and pulled him close to her chest. Sensing her distress, he licked her hand.
“It’s happened. I’ve finally gone insane.”
Chapter Six
Soaking his weary bones in the too small tub, Max went over the events of the day. Rebecca. He pulled the steaming facecloth over his face and closed his eyes. Always Rebecca. Okay, Tom sympathised, but Max wished he’d listened to him. He should have guessed Rebecca wouldn’t accept his olive branch. Still, her anger shocked him. No, it was more than that. He sensed her inner pain, and he very much wanted to ease it. Why, he didn’t know. All he understood was Miss Harding played on his mind far too much. If Kate had been there, she would have laughed. She called him the original bleeding heart.
The bath water grew cold, and he stepped out. His growling stomach reminded him that, apart from Fiona’s curry, he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days. “Oh well, mate—” He chuckled to himself. “Tea and toast it is.”
His meagre supper over, he sat at the kitchen table in boxers and T-shirt, ruthlessly drawing a red pen through the all-too-many, hideous spelling mistakes. Maybe Tom wasn’t joking? While trying to make sense out of Clive Moore’s enthusiastic account of life as a dedicated Manchester United supporter, his thoughts switched back to Kate.
It was incredible they were still together, never mind engaged. He’d loved her so much once. His pen hovered over the page. Loved? He shook his head. What was he thinking? He still loved her; she was, after all, everything a man could wish for in a woman: intelligent, sometimes witty (although, she could be cruel and cutting), and her striking blonde beauty made him the envy of every virile male in their social circle. The sex had always been good, but was it enough?
Closing the last of the jotters, Max chewed at his lower lip. Just when had it all gone tits up? He supposed after graduation. With Kate spending more and more of her time out in the field, she buried (literally) herself in her work, leaving him alone in the city in a job he hated and at the mercy of his father’s ever-scathing diatribes.
Max felt the old familiar resentment clawing its way back to the surface. Sensitivity had never been Kate’s strong point. Kate got on well with Mr. Jackson senior and couldn’t understand why he and his father didn’t. She’d accused him of over-reacting to his father’s constant belittling. They argued. Max closed his eyes, the ugly scene, the acrimonious words still so vivid in his mind.
“I wonder if you’d still love me if the Great Robert Jackson wasn’t my father and funding you.”
“Why can’t you be more supportive? If it were the other way around, you’d expect me to support you. I suppose you’d rather I stay at home and knit socks?”
“You can’t knit.”
“Oh, you are such a chauvinist at times, Max!”
; “Why? Because I’d like to see my fiancée for maybe more than—what—four weeks out of the year?”
“You’re exaggerating. Besides, what about when you went off on ‘the finding yourself’ trip around Europe with that crowd of so-called actor misfits?”
“I seem to recall your siding with my father on that one. The only thing of mine you support is my dick.”
Max winced. Not one of his finest moments. She’d slapped him hard. They’d raged at each other for the best part of the night, and then he’d driven her to the airport, both of them wrapped in angry silence. With hindsight, his timing hadn’t been great. Walking her through to passport control had not been the best way to drop his little bombshell. Always controlled, she’d nodded and agreed to his year’s separation plan, but he’d caught the tears welling in her eyes. She’d left him without as much as a peck on the cheek.
Stacking the exercise books, he wondered if they’d ever get back on track. Did he want them to? Fingers tapping against his mug, he stared at the phone. Of course he did. He missed her. Breath on hold, he picked up and dialled.
“Hey you.”
“Hey you back.”
Her sultry tone caressed his ear, evoking memories of balmy beach nights, easy conversation, and amazing sex.
“So, how’s it going?”
“It’s going well, Max. We’re nearly through to the burial chamber. I wish you could see some of this stuff. It’s amazing. Oh, listen to me going on. What about you? Coping with the brats?”
Kate can’t help herself. As always, the ever-present cynicism laced her tone.
“Actually, they’re not brats. Well, not all of them.” He toyed with the idea of telling her about Rebecca, but for some strange reason, it didn’t seem fair to Rebecca to do so; as if it would betray her trust. “It’s a nice school, Kate. I’m enjoying it.”
“And Tom and Fiona? How are they?”
Max wasn’t deaf to the edge in her tone. “They’ve been kind. They send their love.” A white lie but the best he could manage.
“I doubt that—at least not Princess Fiona.”
A Little Crushed Page 5
