15.

Alison turned sharply and darted out of the toilet before Miss Jordan or B.W. saw her.

‘You assholes let them know I was here and you’ll live to regret it. Got it?’

She glared at Bryan and Tim, who were still reeling from the sight of some real live breasts. They nodded obediently. There was no chance they’d tell anyway. If Jordan and Bloody Weirdo hadn’t seen Alison, then they were off the hook. Come to think of it, though, they had been in there for quite a long time.

‘Ah, is everything OK in there?’ Bryan nodded to the toilet door.

‘Oh yes,’ smiled Alison slowly. ‘I would say everything was perfect. Gotta go boys. And remember what I said.’

And off she ran to seek out Julia, Jackie and Georgie. She couldn’t wait to tell them what she’d just witnessed. There was absolutely definitely something funny going on between Miss Jordan and Bloody Weirdo, and now she’d seen it with her very own eyes. The lezzie and the nutcase. What a scoop.

Alison hadn’t witnessed the whole scene, of course. She’d come in just at the point when Penny was touching up Biddy’s lips. But from her vantage point just inside the entrance, set back behind the cubicles, she saw the rest of the episode through the toilet mirror. And that was enough for her to conclude that the lesbian teacher was indeed having a fling with the fourth-year freak. She couldn’t believe her luck. When her mother had told her the rumours about Jordan being gay a couple of weeks before, she was repulsed. She didn’t really believe it, of course, not properly, but she had delighted in telling the others the next day in school.

‘I always knew there was something funny about her,’ she had said, screwing her face up in disgust.

‘Yeah,’ Georgina agreed. ‘I mean, the way she looks at you in the changing room. Yeuck,’ she shivered.

Julia and Jackie hadn’t noticed anything, but not to be left out they nodded in agreement.

‘Freaky,’ said Julia.

‘Bet Duncan doesn’t know,’ added Jackie. ‘She shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’

‘Oh, she won’t,’ Alison had sneered. ‘If it’s true, of course.’

Then just the other night, Clive had relayed the story of his sighting in the underwear department at Rankin and McMordie in the city. Alison had been furious. She’d been stewing for days, red with rage that Clive had taken his wife shopping to Rankin and McMordie – and for underwear at that. And he hadn’t even bought her a present. Even the thought of the disco hadn’t lifted her mood. They may have only been ‘seeing’ each other for a few weeks, but Clive had assured Alison that his marriage was stale, that his wife was a frigid bitch who didn’t understand him, that she turned a blind eye to his ‘extra-curricular’ activities. That had pissed her off too. It was well known amongst the pupils, and staff, at Ballybrock Grammar that Clive Patterson was a flirt, and as far back as the second year Alison had been aware of the rumours. Even then she’d been intrigued. Would a teacher really have a fling with a pupil? She’d felt a rush of admiration the first time one of the rumours was whispered to her harem in the playground one lunchtime by Georgie’s older sister, Victoria. The other girls had all been horrified, but Alison was more than a little bit in awe. Mr Patterson and Amanda Loughrin. Mr Patterson and Sonia O’Hara. Mr Patterson and Miss Courtney, the young French teacher they’d had in the third year. Amanda and Sonia had been sixth-form pupils, and whilst Clive had told Alison to mind her own business when she’d quizzed him about them, he had admitted that he’d never dated anyone as young or as gorgeous as her. Dated. Young. Gorgeous. Those three words were enough to keep her sweet. But his blatant reference to his lothario reputation had enraged her. And now this. Well, there would be no more ‘extra-curricular activities’, and no more shopping trips to the city with his bloody wife, especially to buy underwear. Now that she was Clive’s girlfriend, any little presents he’d be buying would be for her, and only her. She would make sure of that. OK, their ‘dates’ hadn’t actually progressed beyond drives to secluded spots in the hills in Clive’s new metallic blue 2.8 Ford Capri, but they would. Clive said so. He might be bringing her to the cinema in a couple of weeks to see Witness, that new film everyone was talking about, starring Harrison Ford. And maybe out for dinner too. They’d have to be careful, of course. They’d probably have to go to the city. But that was fine with her. All part of the fun; part of the thrill. And she had no trouble lying to her parents about her whereabouts: she was a professional in that department.

Although they hadn’t actually had full-blown sex yet, they’d done plenty of other things. She’d certainly gone further with Clive than she had with any of her other boyfriends. They might have talked the talk, but none of them walked the walk. Not even Craig Black, though she’d let Georgie, Jackie and Julia think otherwise. (Well, they’d guessed ‘it’ had happened, and whilst she didn’t confirm their assumption, she didn’t deny it either.) With Clive though, it was only a matter of time. And Alison was ready. So ready. She sometimes thought she’d been ready since the very first time she’d clapped eyes on Trevor Eve from her secret viewpoint at the top of the stairs in their house in the city. She was almost embarrassed that all these years later, at almost sixteen, she still hadn’t gone the whole way, despite the fact that none of the other girls in her year had either. But she must be the first. She absolutely must.

For a time, Alison thought Marcus would be the one to take her virginity, but B.W. had ruined that possibility for her. Bitch. She’d never forgive her of course, but maybe she’d inadvertently done her a favour, as losing it to Clive would be better. Way better. He was so much more attractive for a start. In fact, he had a look of Trevor Eve about him. And, obviously, he was experienced: a man of the world. He’d be an amazing lover. Far better to lose it to a man, a proper man, than a boy. She couldn’t be bothered with boys anymore. When she thought about it, she never really had. Older men had always been her thing. They were just so much more . . . interesting. Marcus had been dull; hadn’t she even said that at the time? And though she wasn’t in any way deluded into thinking that Clive would be a long-term catch, he was a hell of a short-term one. He had said he loved her, moaned it really, just the other night, as the car windows steamed up and Marvin Gaye crooned ‘Let’s get it on’ through the stereo system, and she’d muttered it back. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t; maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. But she doubted it. She didn’t really get love as a concept, and she suspected Clive felt the same, but ever since she’d caught him giving her ‘that glance’ as he’d asked her to deliver a letter to Mr Duncan during a Geography lesson back in March, the game had been on. She knew that day he wanted her, and she decided right there and then that she wanted him back.

Maybe tonight would be the night, she’d thought that afternoon, as she chose her outfit for the disco: her new white Bananarama-style dungarees, or her black Madonna ‘Holiday’ ensemble? She knew she looked sexier in the dungarees, and besides, there’d be loads of Madonna copycats there; rubbish ones, granted, but all the same, if ever there was a night she needed to make an impression, it was tonight. This afternoon in his store room, Clive had told Alison to meet him there at 9.15 p.m. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ he’d said, stroking her cheek, ‘and if you’re a good girl, I might just have a surprise for you.’ She was suddenly looking forward to the disco after all.

As she carefully and skilfully applied her make-up, Alison decided to forgive Clive for the shopping trip, which gave her the headspace to think about his other revelation: B.W. and Miss Jordan, shopping together for bras. She had been so consumed by rage and jealousy towards Clive’s pathetic wife, that she really hadn’t given this incredibly juicy piece of gossip any proper consideration. Part of her did think that Clive had somehow been mistaken, in the same way she thought her mother was mistaken too. The notion was frankly too absurd.

Well, now she knew for sure that it was true, absurd or not, she’d absolutely have to do something about it. And though she would never, ever admit it, a tiny part of her was jealous. Not because she fancied Miss Jordan, or had a thing about girls. Not in the slightest. But she couldn’t stomach the glaringly obvious fact that Miss Jordan and Biddy Weirdo had some form of – oh, she didn’t know quite what – connection? They did things together. They’d been spotted by her own mother in a café. They’d been caught buying underwear together by her boyfriend. She’d seen Miss Jordan touching B.W. in a sort of comfortable, intimate way with her very own eyes; the kind of comfortable intimate way in which she longed to be touched herself by Clive, or her mother, or father, or, well, anyone really. Not that she’d ever admit it. And she’d heard Miss Jordan, with her very own ears, tell Biddy that she had a present for her, a hairclip, and that she’d give it to her next time she was in her house, to bake. Miss Jordan had the fucking weirdo in her own home, and baked with her, and gave her presents. Clive wouldn’t even be seen in public with Alison, never mind invite her to his house. And, so far, he hadn’t bought her so much as a can of Coke. She knew he was embarrassed by their relationship, ashamed of it even. She knew he was. Not that she’d ever admit it.

As she made her way through the throng in the assembly hall, looking for the girls, she spotted Miss Jordan and B.W. on the dance floor. They were dancing. Together. Rage swept through her like a tornado. Bloody fucking Weirdo and Miss pretendy-goody-two-shoes-sweet-and-not-so-fucking-innocent Jordan were dancing, together, at the school fucking disco. Until that second she had been directing some of her anger at Clive. But now she realised it wasn’t his fault at all. Not even remotely. He was as much a victim of their illicit love as she was. He was married, even though he didn’t want to be. He was a teacher. He held a position of responsibility, for God’s sake. He had to be careful. He had to be secretive. Of course he had to. He had no choice. But here were B.W. and Penny Jordan flaunting themselves in front of her fucking face. Well, she’d be fucked if a dyke teacher and the bane of her life school weirdo were going to have something she couldn’t.

By the time she’d rounded up her gang from around the dance floor, Alison’s plan was fully formed. It was a brilliant plan. Her best yet. Tonight was going to be even better than she’d hoped. Tonight she was finally going to get her own back on that bitch for screwing up her chance with Marcus Baxter, and for daring to be so blatantly close to a teacher, and for, well, for simply existing. She caught Clive looking at her as she strode along the back of the assembly hall, and held his gaze for a few seconds, slowly moving her tongue over her lips, both of them locked in a sheath of light from the disco. He looked gorgeous tonight. Even more like Trevor Eve than usual. Yes, she thought, tonight will be a brilliant night. My night.

She glanced at her watch but it was too dark in the hall to see the time properly. She looked up at the clock, illuminated by the disco lights. Ten to nine. Their rendezvous was at a quarter past nine. She’d have to work fast.