Two miles across the countryside in the library at St. Cecilia’s, Tally turned a page of Othello and squinted at the text through her forest of markings. Not wanting to miss a word that Mr. Logan said, she’d written all over the play in different colors and now could barely read a thing.
She tumbled her pen onto the desk in exasperation. This essay was going absolutely nowhere and it was due tomorrow afternoon. Disaster. If Tally handed in something bad, Mr. Logan’s opinion of her would plummet. He might hate her as much as he hated Alice. But how was she meant to concentrate when Alice’s words from Saturday night—“Just so you know, he’s shagging someone else”—kept rolling round and round like marbles inside her head? It would have been enough to drive even Mother Teresa completely insane.
Tally cast a wistful glance at the poetry shelves across the aisle from her desk. She must have done that five thousand times over the past few days. She knew it was desperate, but the reason she’d planted herself exactly here, near the K section (K for Keats, of course), was the constant hope that Mr. Logan would materialize, just as he’d done that revelatory afternoon two weeks ago. Maybe he’d read her more romantic verses. Or praise her for being so diligent. Or make her tingle all over with one of his smiles. He might even ask her to dinner if he caught her when no one else was around. They could slip off to the new Thai place in town and stare into each other’s candlelit eyes while rubbing chopsticks inside the vermicelli.
Just so you know, he’s shagging someone else.
That was it. She had to find out.
Noisily, Tally piled her books on top of each other and snatched her gray school cardigan off the back of her chair. Zanna Balfour and Emilia Charles, sweating over French exercises together, looked up in curiosity, but Tally didn’t stop to chat. She tramped over to the shelves where the girls had to leave their bags (in case they were tempted to nick any of the library’s books) and headed off on her mission.
She knew exactly where Mr. Logan would be. Most of the St. Cecilia’s teachers had small offices tacked onto their living suites, where they planned lessons, marked prep, and met with students. However, since Mr. Logan was a man surrounded by hot teenage girls, that arrangement was off-limits—he couldn’t very well hold tutorials within striking distance of his bed. Instead, he’d been given a tiny room in Quad. Till this evening, Tally had been too nervous to disturb him there without a specific invitation, but often, passing by after supper, she’d seen a lone lamp burning up in his third-floor window. Now, as she climbed the narrow stairs, she thought how that light was like a beacon, symbolizing his dedication and passion as an intellectual.
The top floor of Quad was silent. The rooms weren’t used all that often because of chronic problems with central heating and dampness. Her pulse racing, Tally stopped in front of Mr. Logan’s wooden door. She took a deep breath, then knocked.
“Yes? Come in.”
“It’s Tally. Natalya.”
Tally had no idea why she was still hovering out here when he’d clearly told her to enter. She pushed open the door. Warm, stuffy air rushed out to meet her. It smelled of books and coffee, and of something darker and masculine.
Maybe she shouldn’t have come.
“Natalya.” Mr. Logan swiped a hand through his hair.
“Yep, here I am.” She forced a smile, feeling the butterflies in her tummy get worse.
“You’re a welcome surprise. I caught a glimpse of you galloping off to gym this morning, but you didn’t see me.”
He was sitting in a cushy but dilapidated office chair, his feet up on the desk in front of him. A green reading lamp gave the oak-paneled room a cozy glow.
“I came to chat about my Othello essay,” Tally said, trying not to catch Mr. Logan’s eye in case he could tell she was lying. For some reason she looked at his shoes instead, noticing that there were blades of grass crushed on the soles.
“Fine. Let’s talk. As I told you, my door is always open to talented students.” Mr. Logan flashed a smile. He didn’t seem the least bit nervous. He grabbed a Daily Mirror off a battered armchair and chucked it onto his desk, then motioned for her to sit.
“So, what do you think of my kingdom?”
Tally drank in the dog-eared books scattered about the room, the Fulham FC scarf flung over the radiator, the bottle of John Varvatos cologne on a shelf. So that was Mr. Logan’s scent. She shrugged as if she couldn’t care less. “Not bad.”
“Needs a woman’s touch, doesn’t it?” He winked. Then he looked at Tally for a moment. “I was just about to open some wine. It’s seven o’clock. Refreshment time. What do you say?”
“Cool.” Tally crossed her legs so Mr. Logan wouldn’t see the ladder in her tights. Boozing with a teacher in the middle of the week was almost unheard of. Perhaps Mr. Logan considered her his equal. Would that be so impossible?
She watched as he brought down a bottle of red from the top shelf above his desk, unfolded a corkscrew, and sank its tip into the bottle’s soft neck. The metal spiral bit in deeply. Then the cork came free with a ripe popping sound. Mr. Logan laid out two mismatched wine glasses and poured, the thick ruby liquid tumbling over itself.
“Here you go.” He handed her one. “To you.”
“Oh.” Tally had no idea what to say. “No, to us!” She blushed. “I mean… not like that.”
Mr. Logan caught her eye. “Why not like that?” His voice had that same milky tone as when she’d first bumped into him in the library. Tally stared at him wide-eyed.
Mr. Logan laughed. “What’s that look for? I’m only joking.” Offhandedly, he jerked his chin toward the gold, dagger-shaped pendant she was wearing. “That’s a pretty necklace. Don’t think I’ve seen it before. Very unusual craftsmanship.”
Tally put her hand to her throat and lifted the chain. It was long, plunging down between the buttons of her yellow school blouse.
“Thanks. I got it in Paris this weekend.” She stopped abruptly. Idiot! Mr. Logan wasn’t supposed to know that she and Alice had run off on the Eurostar. Playing truant was against all the most important school rules. She gulped a mouthful of wine.
But Mr. Logan didn’t seem to have noticed. In fact, he wasn’t even listening. He’d turned to his computer and was scrolling through iTunes.
“Right, what shall we listen to?” He chose Coldplay without waiting for a reply, and sipped from his glass as the first strains of “Yellow” started up.
“When I was younger, I wished that my parents could afford to send me to boarding school,” Mr. Logan confided, leaning forward in his chair. It creaked under his manly weight. “But now I’m here, I don’t know how you girls survive. There’s nothing for miles about. Don’t you get bored out of your pretty little heads, trapped in the countryside?”
Tally straightened a pen and notepad on the coffee table next to her. She noticed that the title on the notepad’s cover was Jottings. What a romantic word.
“Of course,” she said. “Boarding school can be a total hassle. But then again, being around your friends day in, day out is such a laugh. It’s like having a giant sleepover party every night.” She winced. Great. That was the way to make Mr. Logan like her: talk like she was twelve years old.
“Anyway, my crew and I try to get to London as often as possible.” She flicked a piece of hair over her head. “We’ve got good connections. Between us, we can get in pretty much anywhere.”
“How about Hasted?”
“Hasted? There’s nowhere worth getting in there. Not if you have any taste.”
Mr. Logan laughed. “Come on, you can’t fool me, I know what goes on with you girls. I know you sneak off to town whenever you can. Tell me, what are the good places?”
Tally ran her finger round the rim of her glass. If there was ever going to be a chance to hit him with the other woman question, it was now. She swallowed.
“Surely you must know. Haven’t you been out anywhere yet? I thought I saw you the other day.”
“Really? I’ve strolled round a couple of times. Only in the afternoons though. Didn’t find anything earth-shattering.”
“There are some lovely pubs,” Tally offered, observing him closely. “You must have been to one or two. Right?”
“Pubs?” Mr. Logan’s face didn’t twitch. “No, I’ve only seen them from the outside. You’ll have to show me.” He winked. “During half-term or something.”
Was he serious? Tally wondered. Alice really must have been wrong about spotting him the other day. He was totally flirting with her. He must be interested.
“I’m sure the other teachers can take you,” she said archly. “You and I might not like the same sort of place.”
“Only one way to find out. And what would I want with the other teachers when I could have company like this?” Mr. Logan looked at his watch. “Anyway, enough messing about. Let’s get to Othello.”
Tally’s mind started racing. She’d better think of something to ask him. But before she could say anything, Mr. Logan rolled his chair closer to hers.
“Listen, Natalya, I’ve been thinking. Can I pass an idea by you?”
Tally gripped her copy of the play, half ecstatic, half terrified. Could this be it?
“I love talking with you.” Mr. Logan was gazing at her fixedly. “I think you have such talent. I’d like to nurture it.” He wrapped his fingers round the other side of her book. “Why don’t we start doing regular tutorials?”
Tally blinked. “What?”
“You come to me up here once or twice a week. We’ll read things together, drink a bit of wine, talk about literature, immerse ourselves in poetry. I can’t think of a better use of both our time. Will you think about it?”
Tally nodded, even though she didn’t have to think about anything. She already knew the answer was yes.