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I DID NO MORE THAN pick at my breakfast next day, setting a bad example to the girls. I was hoping to catch Oriana straight after breakfast to apologise for invading her private space, but she dismissed her table and slipped out of the dining hall long before my girls and I were done. They all seemed ravenous this morning, offering each other extras of everything, and were still chomping when the bell went.
I also failed to catch Oriana when we walked across to the classroom quad for the first lesson, glimpsing her only as she closed her classroom door behind her. She didn’t appear in the staffroom for morning coffee, either.
Nicolette touched my arm as I queued for my turn at Old Faithful.
“Ah, ma belle, you do not look happy,” she said gently. “Qu’est-ce que ce?”
I didn’t mean to be so transparent, nor did I want to involve anyone else in my tale of embarrassment. But when Nicolette fixed her kind eyes on mine, I couldn’t help but want to confide in her. I looked back imploringly.
“Bring your coffee over to my corner where no-one will hear us,” she said in a low voice, watching me pour in the milk.
Nicolette normally shared a battered old two-seater sofa with her handbag, occasionally inviting another teacher to join her there for a confidential chat. Present at St Bride’s simply because she needed a live-in post while teaching in a foreign country, rather than because she was running away from something, she was in the best position to counsel the rest of us on our woes. As a result, she was the staffroom’s unofficial agony aunt.
She waited patiently while I took a few sips of coffee to moisten my parched mouth before I spoke.
“Nicolette, I’m worried that I upset Oriana last night. I did something foolish.”
“Last night? Her night off? Ah oui! You cover for her in the Poorhouse. What happened? I hope the girls did not themselves misbehave?”
I took another sip. “Oh no, the girls were as good as gold. In fact, I enjoyed spending the evening with them, getting to know them better.” I hadn’t realised this until I said it, but it was true.
She waited for me to continue in my own time, sipping her black coffee elegantly.
“But after lights out, when I went back to my flat, I saw Oriana’s door was open and I thought perhaps a girl had come to find her in her absence and might need my help. So I went in to look, but the sitting room was empty, and Oriana was still out. Then I was scared there might be intruders, what with the door being left open, so I sent for Max. When Oriana got back, she was livid to find I’d been in her flat.”
“Perhaps she did not have a good evening with your boyfriend?”
So Oriana’s date with Steven was common knowledge.
“Ex-boyfriend. How did you know about that?”
Nicolette bit back a smile. “When I look at how she dresses just now, and her lighter, prettier hair –” She cast her eyes over me from head to toe. “I do not need to be the genius. So did she have a good evening? Do you know?”
She touched my hand where it gripped the handle of my now empty cup.
“I – I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask. To be honest, I was too distracted by the foreign currency all over her walls.” I moved closer to her and lowered my voice. “Did you know about all her money? Talk about putting temptation in people’s way!”
Nicolette sat back and laughed, not unkindly. “Ma belle, do not imagine a burglar would break in with a machine of steam to remove Oriana’s money from her walls. It is not worth it.”
“Why not?” Was Nicolette another of Joe’s TFBs, too comfortably off to be covetous of others’ wealth? “But there are hundreds of banknotes on her walls. If she’s that ostentatious with her money, how much more might she have tucked away out of sight?”
Nicolette smiled. “Ma chérie, did you notice the currency? Were they your pounds of sterling? Non. My own Euros? Mais non.”
“No, they were something in Spanish or possibly Portuguese. As Spain and Portugal are in the Eurozone, I assumed they must be South American. Bolivian, I think. Yes, they are Bolivars.”
Nicolette smiled. “Venezuelan. The Bolivars of Venezuela. A souvenir of the very big inflation. Like the Reichsmark in Germany before the war. In those days, you needed a wheelbarrow full of money to buy a loaf of bread.”
I considered for a moment. “I wonder how much money it would have taken to pay for a wheelbarrow.”
Nicolette laughed. “Oriana is playing a joke. She is trying hard to laugh at herself, and at Señor Escobar, the Venezuelan gentleman who broke her heart. When his daughter was at St Bride’s, he took a fancy to Oriana, but he let her down badly.”
Uninvited, Joe came to perch beside me on the arm of Nicolette’s sofa. “Oriana’s also putting two fingers up to the Bursar for changing her savings into Bolivars in the first place. Honestly, Oriana can twist the Bursar round her little finger, but for her own good he ought to have stood up to her and refused. He must have known the Bolivars would soon be worthless.”
“Worthless? Really?” I gasped. Poor Oriana.
“Just like the Reichsmark,” said Nicolette, nodding. “That’s why Escobar hadn’t paid his daughter’s fees. In Bolivars, Escobar was a billionaire – but the Bolivars were worth no more than toilet paper.”
“In Venezuela, sheet for sheet, toilet paper was probably worth more.” Joe grinned at his own joke. “Poor old Miss Bliss didn’t realise. She believed what she wanted to believe, until too late. Wretched buzzard did a bunk, taking his daughter with him, leaving her school fees unpaid, and just an apologetic farewell note for Oriana, saying he was going on the run to avoid his creditors. God knows where he and his poor daughter are now.”
I gasped again. “Never mind poor daughter. Poor Oriana! What kind of heel dumps his girlfriend with a note and goes into hiding?”
Joe bit back a smile, but chivalrously did not mention my treatment of Steven.
“And poor Bursar,” said Nicolette. “She was very cold to him for months. It made him very sad.”
“And Oriana was broken-hearted for at least a week,” said Joe, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“But Oriana, she is strong,” said Nicolette. “She is hard to break.”
“Like a self-healing phone screen,” said Joe cheerily. “Easily dropped and cracked, but rights itself in no time at all. At least your Steven operates in pounds sterling.”
“Joscelyn, you are a teaspoon,” said Nicolette, lightly slapping Joe’s bare thigh.
“You mean a stirrer,” he replied.
“But I do not think Oriana behaves well. She should not be unkind to Gemma, and she should not take her boyfriend. Oriana herself embarrasses.”
I was touched by Nicolette’s concern for us all.
“Don’t worry, Nicolette, I’ll be fine. And to be honest, Oriana’s welcome to Steven. I think she’s a better match for him than I could ever be. And thank you for telling me about Mr Escobar. I understand Oriana better now.”
Taking Nicolette’s cup and saucer from her hand, I returned it with mine to the trolley, gathered up my papers for the next lesson, and left the staffroom feeling far better than when I’d come in.
* * *
AS I SAT MARKING ESSAYS at my classroom desk, I tried to tell myself that I really didn’t mind about Oriana and Steven. A young British businessman on the upward trajectory of his career might be glad of an elegant and accomplished girlfriend, or even a wife. Far healthier for her to latch on to an unattached, independent childless man of around her own age than the widowed fathers of teenagers, incapable of providing enough care at home to educate their daughters locally. Besides, who knew what baggage they had? The only baggage Steven had was me. Yes, Oriana would be much better for him than I could ever be.
I felt something warm brush against my ankles, a comforting touch. I leaned into it and lowered my hand to stroke my furry visitor.
“Hello, McPhee.” I tickled him, or rather her, behind the ears. “You’re quite right, I shouldn’t be thinking of myself as Steven’s baggage, even if he did call me that – and worse – enough times.”
A hurtful flashback to one of Steven’s unsolicited torrents of abuse jolted me upright. McPhee nudged me again, wanting me to continue to stroke her. But my thoughts were far away.
What was I thinking to let Oriana pursue this awful man? Of course, he might not be as hateful to her as he had been to me. Perhaps it was my fault that he’d been that way – my fault for letting him get away with it. Oriana would never stand for unwarranted personal insults. But then she’d probably never attract them in the first place.
Should I warn Oriana off him, tell her about some of the unkind things he’d said and done to me? She probably wouldn’t believe me. After all, he could be all charm, and usually was to most people but me. There was also a danger she might tell him what I’d said, making a joke of it, and I couldn’t bear the thought of the two of them laughing at me behind my back.
But did Steven even know that I was here? Did he know that Oriana knew me? I suddenly realised I had no idea. I’d just presumed she hadn’t told him in case my presence distracted him from her. No, better leave well alone and keep a low profile.
And it really was none of my business. I should do the decent thing and tactically withdraw, leaving them the best possible chance to build a new relationship together. My priority now was to concentrate on making a go of this job – and keeping my staff flat.
