Chapter Ten

 

 

 

I have a whole weekend to fester and wonder. About Will and how everything blew apart. And yes, there’s a whispering shroud of guilt that jabs me at regular intervals to make me uncomfortable about how things turned so wrong so fast.

What a bitch you were, the shroud reminds me. For a shroud it’s got an annoying voice and it’s quick to judge.

The man has a problem but you didn’t need to force him to confront it immediately. I pause for thought on this because it’s true—erectile problems go hand in hand with questions about male identity and virility. Why were you such an aggressive harpy about it?

I have no answers except yes, I was wrong and too fast to force things. Will Darby’s gone. He nursed me back to health, hand-orchestrated my biggest ever orgasms most splendidly—twice. Then took off like the proverbial bat from the abyss because I had the audacity to question his most private privates.

As scenarios in life go, nobody could have guessed at this one. Now we’ll work in the same building while trying to avoid contact. I’ll have to see him at meetings. Face my nemesis with him as a mentor. Shit karma or what?

I have, in my defense, tried to text him. Twice. I kept them brief and light but there has been no answer or reply. So I’ve stayed home. Read two books cover to Kindle cover. Almost considered going over there to speak with him then totally talked myself down. Then I’ve done what I needed to do most. I’ve written erotic sex scenes.

Just like I’ve experienced with Will. And a few more that are purely from my fantasy erotic imagination and yes, he’s the starring hero. My keyboard’s been smoking and I hasten to admit I’ve been in a pretty high state of thrill through fiction alone. And all the while my guilty conscience smarts and snaps like a poorly put out campfire with the latent potential to take out an eye. Or at least maim me irreparably in the groin region for life.

I pay homage to his skills as a lover by writing about them on my laptop. I write about sex with Will because it has changed me. I never expected what I could become.

 

* * * *

 

Next day I’m gobsmacked to find out we’ve a new addition in the Netherfield car park. It’s a small gaggle of photographers bedecked with lenses and cameras and flasks of coffee. They’re waiting by the car park gates with menacing portent.

As I’m wracking my brains on why—well, I have been off for a few days and a lot can happen in a short time—I realize the answer and it bugs me to swearing point. Janey. Shit. Kill the fuckers.

They’re here to catch the pole dancing diva. As I lock the car, I’m about to go and give them a mouthful until Jack shows up with one other burly junior janitor called Phil. I assume they’re going to tell them to get off school property sharpish—they’ll likely use data protection to cover a myriad of ills.

I can’t see Janey’s car in the car park. I’m thinking she’s not in yet—either that or maybe Ben’s dropped her off? Good job.

And as I’m walking through the car park searching for Janey, I spy Dibian in her car. Now, call it my Spidey Sense but something’s not right. She’s eating doughnuts. One in each hand. Something jars. I reverse walk to stand beside her Volvo and tap on the window. She rolls it down. I see the mascara tracks telling a story all of their own.

“Bollocks, Dibs.”

“Don’t be nice to me, I’ll only cry more.” Her voice is a tired squeak.

“Let me the fuck in. What the hell’s up?” She may be my boss but we know each other well enough by this length of time working together. We’ve weathered sufficient Christmas parties and private bitching sessions to ably know gritty reality’s swearword-infested tundra.

She may be a crap head of department but her heart’s in the right place. “You don’t want to know, darling.” She’s sniffing—it isn’t hay fever season.

“Course I want to know. Fess up.”

“I can’t bear it.”

“I won’t budge until you do.” I give her my death glare. “And I don’t care if I’m late for class or if we sit here all morning and I lose my job but you’re going to confide.”

“Oh, fucking all right but it’s totally dire. I’d rather not go there. Online arsing dating, that’s what! I’ve been duped by a charlatan and he’s ripped me off big time. Taken my money, promised me a Christmas wedding and now he’s left with half my heirloom jewels.” And now her tears and her nose are running afresh and she looks like a makeup counter car crash, straight through the decency central reservation.

Dibian pulls a hanky from the top pocket of her ruby tweed suit and blows her nose with sufficient gusto for a cruise liner blast. “Met him months ago. Marios. Thought I’d met The One. Of course I believed his sweet lines and didn’t for a minute question why somebody as gorgeous and young as him wanted an old boiler with bingo wings like me. He had the cutest arse in the galaxy, darling, and I don’t even want to talk about how well hung he was. Anyway, that’s history. He’s dumped me, nicked my money. He’s not even called Marios at all.”

“The bastard!” I interject, but she’s still going strong.

“He’s a ruddy Ronald and there’s another six women he’s scammed. The police came last night. He’s made off with my building society savings and two credit cards. I haven’t slept a wink. The bugger even adopted an elephant in my name—I’m thinking it was a cruel joke. It’s virtually all I’m left with. A virtual elephant called Whopper.” She howls. Proper gusto.

I feel like a plumber who dared to press the bowed ceiling and got the whole deluge of flood—rafters and all—upon his sorry head. But Dibian is golden-hearted and doesn’t deserve this sorry situation.

“Shit, Dibs!” I pull her for the hug she needs. It proves to be a sticky hug. She’s eaten a heck of a lot of therapeutic doughnuts. Most of them double glazed and supersized.

“Don’t dare tell a soul.”

“As if. But you’re going home,” I tell her.

“I can’t. Work is all I have!” Another wail escapes her peony lips, one that’s so bad I need ear defenders to withstand it.

“I’ll see Rogerson. I’ll tell him you’re ill with the bug and I’ll come and see you later. Can you drive?”

I look at her. It’s a rhetorical question. She could drive but I might have a pile-up and a roundabout multi-catastrophe news bulletin on my conscience. “I’ll get Jack. He’ll drive you. That bastard Marios…”

“Ronald! Ronald Brown! Rhymes with clown,” she corrects. “I’ll never face a drive-through McDonald’s again!”

“Whoever the hell he is—as God is my witness, he will pay. Because Ronald’s a rogue. But for now, you’re going to watch the Comedy Channel, eat ice cream and think about booking a cheap holiday online to somewhere hot very soon.”

I dial Jack’s number. What would I do without my superhero, situation savior janitor? Answer? I’d be in a lot more shit more regularly than I could cope with.

He answers my call, and Jack can’t contain a long sentence about how he and Will Darby have been getting to know each other and went out for a coffee, but I have to stall him. I don’t even go there with the tiny needle stab of pain in my heart when he mentions Will’s name. I block it out.

“I’m so sorry, Jack, now’s not the time. We’ll talk later. Dibian’s unwell and needs a lift, can you oblige? We’re in her car in the car park. Come pronto.”

“Mistress Hicks taken poorly? Of course—on my way.”

“And if Rogerson asks, she’s green and you had to stop in lay-bys.”

“Copy that. Over and out.”

He’s with us in less than a minute, willing to oblige, and the relief in Dibian’s tear-stained face is ample reward. Now I’ll have a speedy, impromptu meeting with Rogerson. There are several things I need to handle. My own mentoring slot being the most pressing.

 

* * * *

 

I catch the esteemed headmaster of Netherfield Secondary School at his desk, thumbing through a copy of Candle Making Weekly. Who knew? I think he may even have gone up in my estimations.

“Izzy, what can I help with?” He hides the magazine in the desk drawer before I’m fully through the door.

“Dibian’s ill. I took the liberty of sending her home. After last week I have a good eye for the signs and she’s definitely got my bug.”

“Diligently spotted.” Rogerson sits as far back in his chair as possible as if remembering I recently had a deadly plague. “Are you quite well? Sure you should be back? I heard stories, a pretty grim affair.”

I’m taken aback. Mostly because he makes it sound like I’d turned half zombie and I’m eyeing his limbs as a snack. It was nothing that a rest and a bucket of bleach didn’t put right.

“I’m well. And Dibian’s classes need covering. I’ve two free periods later so I’ll gladly step in.”

“Very good.” Francis steeples his fingers. “Anything else?” He’s gagging to get back to that candle how-to—he was probably in the middle of Wick Trimming for Dummies and I’m detaining him.

“I also want to talk about football skills. Will Darby mentioned you may be amenable to me taking a leave of absence?”

Francis gives away nothing. I wonder for a flicker of a moment if Will’s made it up. “We had a conversation. But things have moved apace. You will have seen Janey’s predicament in the newspapers?”

“Yes—crazy business. I came by to say I will do the football skills mentor participation. I’ve thought long and hard and I realize part of the point of the exercise is for people to face demons. Playing football is mine. I love the beautiful game and I hate the fact that I can’t do it justice. But I should try. I think appreciating Will’s skill on the pitch will do me good.”

“A very wise move.” Francis dons his predatory feline smile. “Just as well as I can’t spare you. I need you in the slot and Tarquin agreed.”

“Oh.” I’d thought I was being magnanimous. I thought this would help me put things right with Will.

Turns out he wouldn’t have let me leave anyway. Am I annoyed or am I perturbed? And either way, does anybody care? So much for Will’s assurances. I’m more piqued than a very piqued person. I have held a grudge with Rogerson since he set me up with Tarquin the Terrible’s ominous campaign of reality TV humiliation in the first place. I’d make an impassioned plea but I sense it’s pointless.

“You like candle-making, Francis?”

“I do indeed. It’s something of a fascination.”

I nod. “I can imagine. In fact I have experience.”

Francis looks up and over the top of his half-rim specs. “You do?”

“Yes, and you’d make an exceptional chandler. My nana used to make candles so I picked up a lot of tips.”

His radiance glows in response. “Why thank you, Isabella. Perhaps you could help me out with a project or two?”

“Perhaps you could tell Will Darby to be lenient on me and cut the football footage time?”

“I’ll certainly have a word.”

“And perhaps you could ask Tarquin to tone down the football mentoring slot and then I’d have more time for private tuition in Nana’s candle secrets? I’ll show you how my gran’s famous magic wish candles are created.”

He smiles. “A phenomenal suggestion—I’ll speak to Tarquin. I’ll make sure it’s agreed.”

I keep quiet on my real opinions on why candle-making suits him. Mostly because he gets right on everybody’s wick and we’d happily watch him burn. Preferably slowly.

Taking on private lessons will be okay if I have Rogerson on my side. And if I have to use my candle-making craft ken to lure a good deal, I’m willing to go there. Sometimes you have to set light to the only taper you’ve got.

 

* * * *

 

I plan to seek Will out at lunch break. It’s time to confront our deadlock. But when I venture to the PE department—and, shit, this is becoming a far too regular habit—he’s not there.

Due to the fact that I still haven’t got my appetite back, I didn’t bring any lunch. So I detour via the canteen. I’d been thinking salad roll or healthy pitta but when I walk in, the fatty fug of freshly made French fries hits me like a welcome but waistline-damaging wave. The simmering pot of slutty temptress baked beans in their steel serving dish winks and hypnotizes me into submission.

“Beans and chips please. Double portion, Rita.”

Dinner belle Rita scoops but doesn’t comment—she knows when to keep the lips zipped.

My stomach growls like Bigfoot in the wilderness. Or at the very least Chewbacca grizzling at Han Solo. I’m carrying my fries-and-beans-laden plate to the checkout when I see Will and my stomach freefalls.

He’s sitting at a table, looking stellar, relaxed, gorgeous. Way more sexy than Han Solo ever could, and he was damn fine. But he’s opposite a glammed-up, eyelids batting, blonde hair swishing empire threat of the very worst kind. Nympho Annie from music and it looks like she’s practicing her prelude to praying mantis. My inner Jedi is mortally wounded and I stagger back to regroup.

Then I scream inside my head—fuck, fuck. No. Something twists within my ribcage and my deepest emotions crash and commit GBH on my heart. It’s beating crazy fast. I think the string basket that holds my coronary organ snapped under the weight of what happened this weekend.

It’s carnage. My pulse is staging a mutiny that’s telling my brain to march over and take action. But I ignore the bloodstream rush. If she wants him and he wants her—I have to live with that. The dark forces will overcome and I’ll hand my lightsaber in for confiscation.

Even though my insides are staging a protest that the man I’m kinda attached to is sitting with another woman and my body wants to revolt, I cannot take action. I made him walk away.

They’re laughing, smiling. Eating pesto pasta salad together as if they’re on a Tuscan veranda, having made thunder love in a pink-walled villa.

I can’t smile through it. I try but I have to put down my tray and plate because my hands are shaking.

Even Doreen behind the tills is looking at me oddly and repeating, “One pound twenty, love,” over again at me as if I’m dense. I scrabble for the money and drop it on my tray.

“You all right, duck?”

“Fine.”

“’Eard you were ill, love. You still don’t look right if you ask me. Peaky,” she tells me. “’Eard Darby the hunk saved ya. Lovely chap. Such nice manners and soft hands. Sexy eyes too!” She winks.

“I’ll put in a word for you.”

She cackles and blushes like a girl. “Please do. I’d trade in my Stan for that new model any day! And those fingers can hold my hand anytime—amongst other things.”

I have to stifle a gasp. Even Doreen’s noticed my personal hidden fave thing about Will. His hands. And he’ll never touch me again.

I splutter out a gasp and I can tell from her face that she’s worried I’m going to puke.

“Are you all right?” she asks over and over and over like an echoey dream.

I’m not right. I may never be again. I’m in love with Will Darby. Or at least my heart is. And how the hell am I ever going to live with that or put that right in a month of Sundays? I may as well put my chips and beans in the bin. It’s not the sick bug, it’s being heart sore and it hurts.

I walk from the canteen and I have to stop the tears. How ruddy ridiculous am I? Crying over a boy. And he’s not even an Arsenal supporter. He’s the enemy. Tottenham Darth Vader.

 

* * * *

 

When the home time bell rings, I almost sing in relief and thanks. It’s been a very long day.

As the kids pour out, I bid them goodbye and stand on a chair to close the top windows I’d opened when it got too muggy.

“Hey, Izzy.”

I almost fall off the chair when I see Will. “Hi.” I get down, hoping I don’t land in a heap.

“How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Likewise. Actually… That’s a lie. I’m shit.”

I shrug. “Me too. Kinda.”

“Rogerson tells me that they’re downplaying football in Class Wars. Thought you should know. He tells me you told him you wanted to go ahead.” His eyes are solemn when he holds my gaze.

“I did. You made me realize that facing things can be a good thing.” I shrug. “I have to open up, quit opposing, and move on.”

Will stalks to me and, in a matter of seconds, he grabs my hands. “Yes. I get the point.”

“What point?”

“Facing things. You made your unspoken point fully heard. I need to change. I shouldn’t preach to you when I hide and evade myself.”

Shit! I hadn’t even meant to do that but if it works and we’re talking and he’s smiling—which he is now—and holding my hand then I’m all for it.

“I was wrong to bring things to a head…um… I mean… Sorry. I was wrong to press the point. Shite! Kinda hard not to use double entendres.”

He smiles and my heart wobbles. “You weren’t wrong. I shouldn’t have walked out. But it has forced me to think and examine my beliefs. I needed to do that and had avoided it. I know I need more time with you.”

Inside me, the bouncy balls are going crazy and it’s good. It could knock me off my feet but it’s definitely good. I smile at the man I now know I’m extremely fond of. Who am I kidding? I hang on his every word. “So we’re good?”

Will leans in to kiss me gently on the lips. In my class. On a school day. Fucking hell, it’s great! “We’re way more than good. Can you come to mine later?”

“School night?”

“If I promise a curfew?”

“Do you hafta?”

He grins. “Can you meet me at the pagoda?”

“Um. What?”

“Paul’s fancy oriental garden building. It’s lovely inside—a house in its own right. Can you come via the back lane in Waggon Way and meet me there? I have visitors I’ll need to evade. Come say nine?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Good.” He kisses me again and, wow. I’m in a fog of total lust and happiness. I brush his cheek with my hand and stare into his eyes.

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. Save it for after. Laters.”