The Chateau

by Catherine Cooper

56

  February, London

  Nick

  ‘Nick, thank you for coming,’ Mike says, indicating the seat opposite his desk. ‘Please sit down. Emma Lovelace is here as our designated safeguarding officer. I hope we can have a chat now and sort all this out, but if you’d rather reschedule for a time when a representative from your union can be here, that is your right and we can do that. However, should you take that route, as you probably know, you would need to be suspended in the meantime in a case like this.’

  ‘No, no need for a union rep,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘This is all a misunderstanding and I’d rather get it sorted and out in the open right away.’

  Mike nods. ‘Good. I hoped you’d say that. Have you seen the picture which has been posted on Instagram today by an account called skisneak? It would appear the account is already being followed by most of the school population, and the picture has also been sent by private message to many others too.’

  I try to ward off the rising panic, reminding myself to stay calm. ‘Yes. I saw the picture. I followed the account after the allusions he – or she – the account holder made yesterday. I wanted to keep an eye on what they were alleging.’

  ‘So you’ll have seen that the picture appears to show yourself and Year 12 student Ella Dooley in what can only be described as an embrace, alone in the snow.’

  I draw my hand across my face. Stay calm. Stay calm. ‘It wasn’t an embrace. Despite the best efforts of myself and my colleagues to prevent the students drinking alcohol, several of them were obviously inebriated that night, Ella Dooley in particular. I noticed her go outside by herself and I wanted to check she was OK. That she wasn’t feeling ill, or going off somewhere on her own in the snow. She was a student in my care, after all.’

  Mike nods and writes something on his pad. ‘I see. And you were touching her because …’

  ‘She was drunk and unsteady. She stumbled. That picture … it’s a lucky camera angle, that’s all. Someone messing about. Maybe even her boyfriend, perhaps they’d had a row. I don’t know.’

  I feel panic rising and sweat beading on my upper lip. I wipe it away and take a deep breath before I continue: ‘If anything untoward happened between Ella and me, or indeed between myself and any student, I would expect a formal complaint to be made and I would fully expect to be punished. I think you’ll agree that I have an unblemished record as a teacher, and it is no secret that I am hoping to apply for the department headship. I am also a happily married man with two young boys. Quite apart from the inherent wrongness of any liaison with a student, it is unthinkable that I would risk both my professional and personal life for … something like this.’

  Mike nods again. ‘Thank you for being so candid, Nick. I will, of course, need to speak to Ella before we can decide how to proceed. Once I’ve done that, I will let you know what course of action we will pursue. For now, I’d like you to return to the staffroom.’

  57

  February, London

  Ella

  I knock on Mr Atwood’s secretary’s door and she calls me in. She is shuffling some papers around her desk and a flicker of something – embarrassment? Outrage maybe? – crosses her face when I come in. ‘Ah, Ella, thank you for coming. Sit down, please, Mr Atwood is with Mr Dorian at the moment. I’m sure he won’t be long.’

  She waves vaguely at a couple of chairs and I sit down. Looks like we’re being questioned separately. To see if we say the same things, I guess.

  I go over the same words in my head.

  I felt sick.

  I went outside.

  He checked on me.

  I was fine.

  I went back in.

  Nothing happened.

  The door to Mr Atwood’s door opens and Mr Dorian comes out, closing the door behind him.

  He runs his fingers through his hair and glances at me. I smile at him but he doesn’t smile back. He walks out without a word, shutting the door behind him in a way that suggests he is being careful not to slam it.

  I glance at the secretary, who is staring at me but looks away and starts shuffling her papers again as soon as she catches my eye.

  Her phone buzzes. It’s on speakerphone and I hear Mr Atwood say, ‘Can you send Ella in now, please?’

  I get up, smooth my skirt down and open the door.

  ‘Ella, come in, sit down,’ Mr Atwood says, pointing to a chair on the other side of his huge desk next to Miss Lovelace, the school counsellor.

  I sit down. ‘Why is Miss Lovelace here?’ I ask.

  He clears his throat. ‘She is our safeguarding officer. It’s procedure. Plus it is better … in the circumstances … that we have someone else here. In case there are things you … want to say which have to be followed up later.’

  ‘You mean like a witness?’ I ask, horrified.

  He smiles tightly. ‘Not really. More to make sure that procedure is followed and that you are protected.’

  I nod. Stay calm, I tell myself. ‘OK. But I don’t think it’s necessary. This is all a lot of fuss about nothing.’

  ‘That’s as may be. Now then, I assume you are aware of the picture on Instagram? Posted by the person calling themselves skisneak? Concerning yourself?’

  I nod. ‘I am.’

  ‘And … can you tell me what was happening when that picture was taken? I can’t think of a way to put this delicately so I’m just going to come straight out with it: did anything of a sexual nature happen between you and Mr Dorian on the ski trip?’ When he says ‘sexual nature’ I notice the tips of his ears go pink.

  ‘No,’ I say as firmly as I can, shaking my head.

  ‘Or at any other time?’ Miss Lovelace interjects. I look at her. I bet she’s loving this. Usually she doesn’t get to deal with anything more interesting than some kid upset about their parents getting divorced, or ‘mediating’ between two boys caught fighting in the playground.

  ‘Of course not,’ I reply steadily. ‘He’s my teacher.’

  Mr Atwood and Miss Lovelace glance at each other. ‘So can you think of any reason why someone would post a picture to deliberately spread a rumour of this nature?’ he asks.

  I shrug. ‘For a joke? I’ve got no idea. You’d need to ask skisneak, I guess.’

  ‘Do you know who skisneak is?’ Mr Atwood presses.

  I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘No ideas?’

  I pause. It can’t be Molly, surely? And even if it is, there’s no way I’d want to drop her in it. Things are already bad enough between us.

  I shake my head again. ‘No idea. None. I’m new here. I don’t even know that many people.’

  ‘OK.’ There is a pause before Mr Atwood continues: ‘Let me ask you this. Was there ever a time during the ski holiday when you and Mr Dorian were alone? That could have led to someone surmising that something improper might be going on?’

  ‘No,’ I say automatically, but my mind whirrs. Obviously they have seen the picture and we agreed the story about him coming out to check on me.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Mr Atwood presses.

  ‘Oh, wait. I guess …’ I add, my heart starting to hammer in my chest as I silently pray that this is the right thing to do, ‘the picture you’re talking about was taken on the last night when we had the party. There was a point when I wasn’t feeling that well – I was a bit hot.’

  I see Miss Lovelace roll her eyes, I guess meaning that she knows or at least supposes that I was drunk. Maybe Mr Dorian told her I was. Hopefully that means I’m doing the right thing.

  ‘So I went outside to get some fresh air. Mr Dorian came out to check I was OK. He said he was worried I was going to fall asleep in the snow or something. I was feeling a little dizzy at first, but once I’d been outside for a minute or two I felt a lot better so I told him I was fine and went back inside. That’s what the picture shows. I slipped on some ice, he steadied me. He was checking I was OK. Nothing else. So I guess we were alone, briefly, but not alone alone. I
f you see what I mean. And we weren’t actually alone even then, because someone took the picture. Some of the other students may have been outside too,’ I embellish, improvising now. ‘I can’t remember. Obviously, you can’t see them in the picture, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.’

  ‘I see,’ says Mr Atwood. ‘So you weren’t alone together at any time? Other than for a few minutes when this picture was taken, for the reasons you have already explained. Am I understanding correctly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He scribbles something in a pad.

  Miss Lovelace reaches over to me and puts her hand on my arm. ‘Ella, if Mr Dorian – or anyone else for that matter – asked you to do anything you didn’t want to do, it’s very important that you tell us. Even if you didn’t do anything. We need to know. You wouldn’t be in trouble, I promise.’

  She stares into my eyes and I have an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh but manage to fight it down. ‘No. He didn’t. No one did. Nothing happened. This whole thing is just a picture of something which looks like something else and someone’s lame idea of a joke.’

  Miss Lovelace gives my arm a little squeeze and then lets go.

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  ‘Can I go now?’ I ask.

  Mr Atwood nods. ‘Yes, you can. Thank you for coming. If there’s really nothing else you want to tell us, I think we can draw a line under this and hope it’s the end of the matter.’

  I feel relief wash through me. ‘You mean nothing is going to happen?’

  He gives me a quizzical look. ‘I meant I hope this skisneak isn’t thinking about kicking any more hornets’ nests.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I meant too,’ I babble, and as I barge out through the door I feel like I am walking out into the sun. I think he believed me.

  By the time I get back to my classroom everyone’s gone, so I grab my books to head to my next class. I wonder what they asked Mr Dorian, and what he said. I wonder if he will teach his afternoon classes, or if he’ll have been told to take the day off.

  Will he have been suspended? Sacked, even?

  Surely not. They have no proof. Mr Atwood seemed to believe me. And as long as I don’t tell anyone, no one can be sure what happened. Can they?

  Unless there are more pictures, of course.

  I text Mr Dorian several times that evening to ask what Mr Atwood said to him and what was going to happen now, but he doesn’t reply. Oh God. Oh God. I’ve ruined his life. I literally don’t sleep a wink.

  58

  February, London

  Ella

  The next morning I leave it until the last minute to go to the classroom. I pretend to be rummaging for something in my bag so that I don’t have to see everyone giving me pointed looks and also so I don’t stare at the door. I now understand the term sick with nerves – I actually feel like I might throw up for worrying if Mr Dorian is going to be coming back, or if I’ve wrecked everything for him forever because of one drunken kiss.

  ‘OK, class, simmer down,’ he says. It’s Mr Dorian. He’s still here. Thank God.

  I straighten up, looking directly at him, avoiding catching the eye of any of my classmates. He’s fiddling with some papers on his desk, deliberately looking down. I look away, grab a pen and start writing something in my rough book. Anything. Nothing. My face grows hot as I sense people staring at me.

  I hear Mr Dorian clear his throat. ‘Right, before I take the register, I’ve got an announcement to make.’

  Oh God. He’s going to tell us he’s been sacked. That this is his last day. That we’re never going to see him again. That his career is over. My eyes fill with tears. Luckily by now everyone has turned to look at Mr Dorian.

  ‘As I’m sure you are all aware, there has been a picture on Instagram of myself and one of your classmates, Ella Dooley.’

  The entire class turns to look at me again. I stare at my fingernails as I blink the tears away, hoping no one can see.

  ‘The picture is entirely innocent. Ella wasn’t feeling well that night on the ski trip, and I was checking that she was OK. Ella and myself have both spoken at length to Mr Atwood and Miss Lovelace about the matter. A note is to go out to reassure all your parents as a precaution in case any of them have seen or heard any rumours, which again, I stress, are entirely unfounded.’

  Oh God. Mum’s going to know.

  ‘Any follow-up pictures or remarks alluding to the rumours will result in instant detention as a minimum. Is that understood? I would also recommend that if any of you knows who skisneak is, you tell them to shut down the account immediately, otherwise the school will be forced to take action.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mumbles the class.

  ‘Good. Right then,’ Mr Dorian says briskly, opening the register. ‘Jason Addison?’

  Mr Dorian doesn’t look at me once.

  59

  February, London

  Ella

  I’m surprised to see Ethan waiting for me at the school gate at the end of the day. I look around for Molly or Jack, but they’re not there – he seems to be waiting for me.

  ‘Hey,’ he says.

  I smile back. ‘Hey.’

  ‘OK if I walk with you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, almost formally. He falls into step beside me and for a few seconds we walk side by side in silence. Ethan’s very loyal to Jack and, in his way, to Molly too, so I wonder what he wants from me. I haven’t spoken to any of them properly for days. Does he want to join Jack and Molly in telling me what a bitch I’ve been?

  A few moments later, just as the silence is starting to become awkward, Ethan breaks it, saying: ‘Jack’s pretty cut up about all the Mr Dorian stuff, you know.’

  I sigh. ‘Yeah. I know. But nothing happened, so it’s not as if I can do anything about it.’ I pause. ‘I wish he’d believe me.’

  ‘Molly’s upset too,’ he adds. ‘She thinks you’re keeping stuff from her. But I could have a word with her, if you like. She listens to me, even if she pretends not to.’

  I turn to him and smile. ‘Thanks, Ethan, I’d really appreciate that. This whole thing’s been a nightmare. I feel terrible that they’re upset about it. I wish I could make them see it’s not my fault.’

  He shrugs. ‘I think, deep down, Molly knows that. She’d never say it, but it’s obvious she misses hanging out with you – she’s been moping around at home in a right mood. Jack, though … I’m not so sure about him. He might be trickier.’ He pauses. ‘He really likes you, you know.’

  ‘I know. I like him a lot too, but—’ I stop dead. I can’t say ‘but not in that way’ to Ethan, he’s Jack’s best friend and will probably tell him. ‘I just think a relationship of any kind for me is tricky at the moment with all this stuff going on. I need a bit of time and space, for now at least.’

  ‘But do you think you might get back together in time?’ he presses.

  I stop walking. Has Jack asked him to ask me this? ‘I don’t know, Ethan. Can we talk about something else?’

  He shrugs again. ‘Sure. You going to the après-ski party on Saturday?’ he asks.

  With all that’s been going on this week, I’d pretty much forgotten about the party, or maybe simply put it out of my head as none of my friends was speaking to me. But I should probably go. Act as if nothing’s happened. Maybe people will have forgotten about all this by then anyway.

  I nod. ‘Should think so. You?’

  ‘Planning to.’

  ‘Great. And Jack and Molly?’

  ‘Hope so. I’ll talk to them both. See if they can call a truce with you. Put us all back on the right track. After all, we had fun together, didn’t we, the four of us? I miss that.’

  He looks down at the ground and blushes. I kiss him on the cheek and we start walking again. ‘Thanks, Ethan. That would be great.’

  60

  February, London

  Nick

  My conversation with Mike went way better than I expected. I felt like he was on my side, that he
wanted to believe me, that he didn’t want the allegations to be true. In fact, he seemed to have so much faith in me that I almost felt bad lying to him. But really, the whole thing is a storm in a teacup. It was a consensual kiss between adults when we were both too drunk to know better. I’m not some kind of predator and Ella is in no way traumatized by what happened. Both times, in fact, she initiated the kiss. I understand that I shouldn’t have succumbed, given my position but … well. It’s not the end of the world – no real harm done. But I need to make sure I distance myself fully from her now, to avoid any more rumours. Ella texted me but I didn’t reply and also deleted her number. I need to tell her, gently, not to contact me.

  But my conversation with Mike is likely to be child’s play compared to the one I’m going to have to have with Aura. As the parents are going to be told about the skisneak thing, there’s no way I can risk trying to keep this from her – she’s almost bound to find out at some point.

  If we were a normal couple, I would book a babysitter, take her to a nice restaurant where she would be less likely to make a scene than at home and tell her there. But we never go out together without the children, so we don’t know any babysitters. Even if we did, Aura would be so on edge about leaving the boys it would defeat the objective.

  Instead, I buy clams, parsley and a couple of decent bottles of white wine on the way home. I’ll get the boys settled nice and early and hope they stay asleep for a few hours for a change. I’ll make spaghetti vongole, one of Aura’s favourite meals, and tell her what’s happened then.

  Neither of the boys can go to nursery at the moment because of their measles, so Aura is staying at home with them. After a day with both of them, not even able to go out to the park or whatever, she’s not going to be in the best of moods. Sorrel still has a rash but seems a bit better in himself, while Bay’s rash is just coming out. So having to break the news that there’s a rumour going round school that I’ve got something going on with one of the sixth formers could hardly have come at a worse time – plus I’m still not entirely forgiven for going on the ski trip.