On Thursday, I will be conducting tours of our school. We do these on alternate Thursdays. This is my favourite thing to do as it doesn’t feel at all like work. Principal Peter says I have more gravitas than him, so he happily delegates the walking tours and coffee mornings to me. I think the truth is that he’s bored with saying he’s not an American. He leads the assemblies. And he is very good at them. Apropos of my busy schedule, I mark out the new route, taking in the refurbished classrooms; the airy and spacious art room; the modern laboratories and our new café area. I make a point of avoiding all the scruffy classrooms and don’t want to take prospective parents up and down too many stairs. After all, they’re not going to be doing them. I decide to email my designated route, complete with approximate stopping times, to “all staff” and mark it “important”. No one needs to be caught with their pants down.
I’m just about to tackle a few more of my emails when Emily’s neat little figure pops her head round the door. She is dressed for an interview. I think this is respectful. I push the doorstop away with my right foot and close the door behind me with the other. I gesture towards one of the two Victorian antique armchairs facing my desk and she sits down quickly, folding both her arms and legs simultaneously. She is wearing a navy suit with a fitted white shirt. She’s all buttoned up. I ask her an open question about how she thinks she’s getting on, especially with Years 7 and 8. She is obviously new to this game. Somewhat breathlessly and with overwhelming honesty, she admits to all her failings. I was only aware of one. I make a few notes and listen sympathetically. I offer to make her a cup of tea. I can’t offer her a cappuccino as someone has broken the coffee machine. Selfish! Emily is rather tearful and on the verge of resigning. I strongly discourage her. This is not what we want at the beginning of term. I’m going to observe one of her Year 7 lessons (the bottom set) and Liam will have to do the same with Year 8. I tell her about some disastrous lesson I had when I was in my first year of teaching. She laughs. I think I have won her over. She leaves with her dignity intact and I am relieved that I am not twenty-three anymore.
We have a weekly staff meeting at 4.15 pm designed to flush out the teachers that escape from the building before the pupils do. There are various apologies from teachers with young children. I used to be one of those. I remain sympathetic to the working mother. Liam makes a list of all the attendees which he will dutifully add to the notes of the meeting. Absentees will also be conspicuously noted. Tea, coffee (instant) and a packet of plain digestive biscuits are placed on the large oak table in the Randolph Room; this is the only place that’s suitable for staff meetings so we always have them in there. Principal Peter has been for a lunch time swim and looks a bit dishevelled. He ploughs his way through a very long agenda in which he calls on his key staff, including me, to give our input. At least there is no AOB. It all takes ages. Whilst I am not speaking, I take a moment to observe my colleagues.
Benedict is sitting next to Emily. They’re the two fast-track graduates. Both are good looking. It didn’t take them long to find each other. Their knees are almost touching. The whole science department is present – good show on their part – but they’re all huddled together. I can’t quite make out whether they’re being subversive. Abbas is sitting quietly at the back so that he can make eye contact with me, and I notice that only three members of the English department are present. We finish at 6.15 on the dot. I don’t think this is too late but everyone else is grumbling and grousing. Oxford Circus and Bond Street will be horribly overcrowded and teeming with people of all ages, shades and denominations. No one can gain entry or exit after 6 pm I don’t miss it.
Eventually I go outside and find the front wheel of my bicycle missing. I feel deflated and disproportionately upset. It’s an inconvenience, not a disaster. I need to show more resilience. One day, I might need it.
There are no brightly coloured Lime bikes in sight – they’re always loitering around street corners when you don’t need them – so I return to my office and take off my cycling garb; change back into my work clothes and start walking towards the bus stop. The 13 will take me to Swiss Cottage and I can easily walk home from there. The queues for the bus are dreadful. I can’t get on the 13 or the 113. Eventually I walk home. But not before making several purchases along the way: a new purse from Accessorize; a pair of sensible shoes from Clarke’s (which I change into) and a very expensive bottle of water from Starbucks.
When home, I am surprised to find Michael unloading the Ocado order which I had completely forgotten about. He puts things away – though mainly in random places – but I’m just grateful someone was in to open the door. We go through our usual routine; watch the ten o’clock news and collapse into bed. I don’t feel like talking and neither does Michael. He falls asleep straight away. I don’t. I decide to go down to the kitchen and switch on my laptop. It’s midnight. I already have 37 unread emails. Some of them seem quite important and I dash off responses. I know that I should be more circumspect. Our mews house is eerily quiet at this time. Normally, we can hear people dragging their wheelie bins out on Wednesday night but today there’s nothing but solitude. I should cherish it. We never have this at school. I decide to sit downstairs, in our kitchen, and read. There’s a framed photograph of the four of us, in Croatia, which the twins gave us before they left for Australia. We all look so happy. It’s as if we’re mortgage free, which alas, we are not. I sit for quite a long time until I feel drunk with exhaustion.
I decide to take two Night Nurse capsules; they’re easy to swallow. I return to bed. Michael is snoring quietly and regularly. He’s in a diagonal position now, right across my side. I squeeze in behind him, and drag the pillow towards me and rest it under my neck. Although he is asleep, he stretches his arm out towards me, and pulls me in next to him. I’m not sure if he thinks I’m the spare pillow or his wife. He is definitely asleep.
I regret taking Night Nurse at 1 am. I feel as though I am completely hungover. I’m up and out of the house at 6 am. I catch the 13 and sit at the front on the top deck. I have the whole bus to myself. I am the first person to arrive at Bond Street School. I poke my nose through Liam’s door, just to check that there isn’t a camp bed in situ. Although I have conducted many tours over the years, I always have a rush of adrenalin a minute or two before I commence. It’s as though I am appearing in a West End production. We start at 9.15 a.m. so that all the pupils, even those that are slightly late, aren’t out of breath. And, more importantly, the subject teachers have had time to demonstrate their ICT skills. I send out a reminder: school tour this a.m. No need to blow up the science laboratory. Do parents really expect to see Bunsen burners these days?
I look around at the tour group. There are twelve people, mostly couples, including two handsome gay men, also a couple. There’s one woman in an expensive Chanel suit. I think she might be a grandma but it is impossible to tell these days. Her forehead is rigid. I’ve learned not to assume anything. When Michael and I did the data analysis on who was paying our fees, we found that a fifth were either entirely paid by grandparents and another 10% of these were making significant contributions. The Grandparents’ tea is a new date in our annual calendar. I overruled the initial title: The Vintage Tea. Some of the grandparents are only in their sixties.
We set off on my golden route. Lots of “oohs” an “aghs” as we pass the splendid and vibrant art room and the well-designed modern science laboratories. I avoid the nasty spiral staircase and stick to the royal blue carpeted one. “Feels like a hotel” and “Gosh, it’s like a Tardis inside, isn’t it?” are the most frequent comments. People are so predictable. I laugh politely. I would have said the same thing in their position. I deliberately end the tour in our twenty-first century, state-of-the-art STEM laboratory. It has literally just opened. And it’s massive. It is our USP for now. I am obliged to mention our sponsors – a leading Biotec company – but none of the parents care two hoots. They’re looking forwards to their co
ffee and biscuits. I generally refrain from imbibing on these occasions, just in case I drop something down my expensive suit.
I explain the registration procedure; remind everyone that we have a waiting list and escort them back into the Randolph Room where they’re greeted with tea, coffee and biscuits from Fortnum & Mason’s. I ask Linda, our Admissions Registrar, if she’s retained the tins. The morning ends well. Lots of parents fill in a registration form and part with the fee of £125. The Chanel suit fills in a form sitting down. I can see now that her ankles are a little swollen and her hands have tiny little age spots. “For my grandson,” she says. I smile at her and we shake hands; they’re soft and clammy but her handshake is firm, like her forehead.
Friday comes and goes. The vast majority of the teaching staff, even the ones with small children, make it to Jak’s bar in South Molton Street. It’s this term’s new haunt and last term’s summer party venue. The DJ was one of our former students. Wayward but fun. South Molton Street is heaving.
I stumble into the house to find Michael slumped on our blue sofa. His navy-blue suit camouflages him well, and I have to switch the light on to see him more clearly. He’s visibly upset. I sit next to him and nuzzle myself up against his left shoulder. He admits to making a terrible mistake at work. The firm’s best client has sacked him from his account. Everyone in his team is aware of his error: total humiliation. I can’t quite believe it. I am married to one of the most capable mathematicians in the country. Michael doesn’t make mistakes. Not thus far, anyway. On the other hand, I am not sure I would know. I am no mathematician. Perhaps I should check the spreadsheet he drafted for me after all?
Silence switches into a full-blown crisis of confidence. The last time I saw him in a state was when his parents died. I look at him. He is trembling and tearful. I am afraid. I tell Michael that we can and will cancel our plans for the weekend. It hasn’t been the same since our twins went to Australia for their gap year. I already miss them. We miss them. But it’s not that. Michael seems a bit depressed. Less organised than usual. Rather confused. Is this a new thing? Perhaps I have missed something. We have all been so busy. I try not to overanalyse him. I will be kind. I won’t ask too many questions. Men don’t always want to talk about their problems. I know that in the same situation, he would be supportive to me. He’s a caring and loyal husband. I must be the kind and loyal wife back.
We don’t go to our friends’ dinner party in Notting Hill Gate. I was rather looking forwards to it but I hide my disappointment. I have to make up some lame excuse about us both having food poisoning. We venture out to Retsina, the unashamedly all-things-Greek restaurant in Belsize Lane; it’s literally two minutes from our tiny house. Neither of us eats much. We drink quite a lot instead. We go to bed. Neither of us can fall asleep. I tell Michael not to worry, just as I did Emily earlier this week. He has an excellent reputation. One small mistake isn’t going to wreck his career. I spend the next hour reassuring him. He thanks me. He admits to losing control at work. This is out of character for him. I don’t probe him further. I wonder whether he should become a consultant: advise rather than work. He doesn’t need to work under pressure anymore. We aren’t badly off. My parents are well off.
Chapter 2
The Vortex
On Monday morning, Michael appears to be quite cheerful. He isn’t visibly depressed at all. I’m relieved. “Thanks, Sophie,” he says, quite casually, and we part company at 6.45 a.m. He doesn’t call me by my real name very often. He has an embarrassing nickname for me which dates back to when we were eighteen.
I’ve had the audacity to take the whole weekend off. No emails. No small talk about school. I feel worryingly detached. I enter the staff room to check my pigeon hole for post; take what there is, and make myself a cup of tea. Everyone is talking. I can’t quite make out the main topic of conversation but I know that there is one. Abbas and I leave the staff room together conspiratorially and walk to my office. I tell him about Michael. He tells me about his wife.
I return to my office where the end of the queue for the photocopier is occupying my space. I don’t comment. I switch on my computer and immediately punch in the password. I’ve recently had to change it to include weird symbols and numbers to meet the school’s security requirements. I have 137 emails. All unread. I swear out loud, much to the amusement of the queue in front of my office. I have been told by a friend-of-a-friend that Highwood School have issued an edict to parents: that under no circumstances should parents expect to receive a reply from staff after 7 pm and before 7 am. In fact, the staff are banned from sending emails in the evenings, unless they’re strictly on duty. Neither Liam nor I would ever be able to adhere to it.
There’s one email that particularly alarms me; it’s entitled “My Resignation” and it’s from Jack Baldwin. I never thought he would leave. He has been offered the position of Deputy Head at one of our competitors in town. Damn. He knows all my PR tricks and is bound to actively use them at his new school. I immediately wonder whom he used as his referee. We need to find a replacement for January. My old Principal used to taunt me all the time, saying that English teachers were ten a penny. We will see. Perhaps we should have an internal promotion? But none of the others are committed enough.
I find it extremely difficult to achieve anything today other than just teach. I am anxious about Michael and worried about the twins; the text I received from them was very brief. Teaching is a welcome distraction from my family and also from the demands of management. I’m a natural communicator and a good listener. I’m not one of those teachers who have to go on an ego trip. I think Michael and the twins knocked me off my pedestal years ago. I just love literature and want my pupils to as well. I regret setting homework so early on in the term. Year 7 pupils are so keen. I have issued an edict that all subjects (except for maths) must use file paper instead of oversized exercise books. Last year, the two most common reasons for staff absence were neckache and backache. We can no longer expect teachers to lug half a tonne of books around with them. We could all do with being more environmentally friendly: less paper, more electronic attachments.
We are a Central London school. No one can have the luxury of driving in and out. We don’t have a playground, let alone a car park. Besides, marking everything in school is unrealistic. Part of me hopes that the whole batch of Year 7’s mini-autobiographies will accidentally fall into the recycle bin. Part of me is desperate to read them though; their honesty is so revealing at this age. Last year’s Year 7 cohort included several celebrities’ children, all of whom admitted to having swanky apartments all over the world.
I text Michael to see how he is faring. He doesn’t reply until 3.40 pm and does so somewhat nonchalantly. He appears to have recovered well from Friday’s disaster though I suspect this is probably male bravado. After nearly twenty-two years of marriage, I still don’t fully understand my husband. I am not sure I need to: we have a mutual misunderstanding of each other; that’s how we have lasted.
Once again, Michael is home before I am. He is busy making us a colourful salad. He has meticulously chopped up three different types of lettuce; red onions; cherry tomatoes; baby carrots and mini cucumbers. There’s no protein. There’s a started bottle of Pinot Grigio on the table and two glasses. There are four sets of cutlery strewn across the work surface. He has forgotten that the twins aren’t here. Force of habit, I guess. I sprinkle a few pine nuts onto the salad, add some dressing and we sit down to eat. I put a small basket of bread next to the salad alongside a saucer of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. He asks me why I added the pine nuts. And why have I disturbed him in the kitchen? We have “cooked” together for twenty-years. I appear to have invaded his territory. Michael is normally so mild-mannered. An English gentleman. But this evening, he is different: moody, depressed and rather sarcastic. If my father were sitting here, he would condemn him on the grounds of coming from the Midlands. We sit at the table without
talking. It’s not pleasant. I miss the camaraderie that we have when the children are here. I don’t want to get used to this marked change in our relationship with each other. Something doesn’t feel right.
I dread going to bed. I wonder whether to use one of the twins’ bedrooms. Michael reappears an hour later. He is drunk. He doesn’t know why he’s lashing out at people at the office (this is news to me) and he doesn’t know why he feels so angry all the time (this is new to him). I ask him if he might lose his job. Tempers flare up. I massively regret the whole conversation. I retreat like a wounded lioness. There was no sign of this distress on our holiday: how can he be so different here? I want the old Michael back and I tell him this.
The next morning, I wake up early as Olivia’s bedroom doesn’t have blackout blinds like we do. It has only been a few days since she slept in this bed. She has a lovely room. The walls are covered in striking postcards of famous book jackets including A Clockwork Orange, Brighton Rock and The Room, besides many others. She has a small desk under the window; this has a large ceramic bowl on it, full of makeup and cotton wool buds. She also has a noticeboard with silly photographs of herself, mainly posing with friends in photo booths. There’s a sweet one of her with her twin, Eddie. I miss him too. He is a foot taller than her. Only her head is visible in the picture whereas his whole torso is. They complement one another. There’s a Chinese-style dressing gown hanging from a hook on the back of the door, and a pink old-school hoodie draped on her desk chair. I clutch it and raise it to my nostrils, breathing in her scent. I wish she was back in the UK. I send her a text suggesting when we could Facetime. I resent the time difference.
Within minutes, I creep out of our house like a thief and mount my bicycle which has been repaired by the Bike Fairies. It is nearly light but no one else is up and about. My journey to work is cathartic. Liam (the other Deputy Head) is already at his desk, and invites me into his office. We chat a bit. He doesn’t have a partner at the moment though I know that won’t last. He is quite attractive. I’m noticeably distracted but try to distance myself from home. It was only one silly argument. I’ll apologise later and Michael will too. Everything will return to normal. Liam is updating today’s cover; it’s an awful job and makes him unpopular. Two members of staff are “off sick”. I think it’s a bit early for absenteeism. He agrees. We listen to the answering machine in his office. Both the offenders appear to have lost their voices; anyone would have thought they had hours to live. The first offender is Tim Brown, a fifty-something maths teacher. The second offender is Alison, our drama teacher. She is only thirty. Between them, there are sixteen lessons to cover. Deputies don’t do much of this chore, to be honest, but sometimes we have to. I offer to do Tim’s Year 10 maths lesson. Liam raises an arched eyebrow but I insist. Anything is better than teaching drama. I am so busy that I forget about Michael. The feeling appears to be mutual.
Imprisoned by Love Page 3
