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THE CONCEALED CORRIDOR behind the library marked what was once the start of the servants’ quarters. Now it was lined with panoramic photos of the pupils, taken throughout the school’s history. In each one, the Head, flanked by her staff, sat proudly at the centre of the first seated row, while the youngest girls knelt in front of them. Three rows of taller girls stood on benches behind the staff. The photos had been taken every seven years since St Bride’s was founded back in 1897 to include all pupils who’d completed their education at the school.
I stopped to peer at each picture in turn. Each face was no bigger than a penny piece, but large enough to recognise. It was clear that most of the staff stayed at least seven years as they featured in more than one photo. I wondered how many photos would include me. I was already assuming I’d be here far longer than the year I’d planned as my springboard to escape Steven.
“Only the last photo’s worth spending any time over,” said Joe. “Because that’s the only one I’m in.”
He laid his hands lightly on my shoulders to steer me along to it.
After a few seconds’ perusal, I put my finger on his tiny face in the photo, then wriggled free of his hands still on my shoulders to move back to the previous one.
“It’s like travelling through time, don’t you think?” I mused. “I wonder how the teachers feel about having the evidence of their ageing process displayed for all to see?”
Joe grinned. “Why do you think the photos have been relegated to this out-of-the-way corridor?”
I walked slowly back down the row of photos from newest to oldest, rejuvenating Miss Harnett by seven years with every shot.
“She was beautiful when she was young, wasn’t she? Very poised.”
Joe was standing in front of the second most recent.
“Look, and here’s Oriana, looking as if she wants to be the next headmistress.”
I went to join him.
“Ooh, yes, and she’s wearing glasses. I’ve never seen her in glasses before.”
“Probably fake glasses with plain lenses to try to make herself look clever.” Joe laughed. “Either that or she was targeting some rich optician whose daughter had just joined the school. Still cute, though.”
I wandered back to the earlier photos, wondering how Joe felt about Oriana’s new relationship with Steven. Jealous, I suppose. Although Mavis claimed Oriana had dumped Joe, there still seemed to be a spark between them.
I sighed. Just my luck to discover the only eligible man in the place was besotted with someone else. And the Bursar was, too, though he clearly didn’t stand a chance with her.
Then Joe put his hand in the small of my back to coax me along.
“Come on, then, my time-travelling friend. Let’s take the Tardis back to lunchtime. I’m starving.”
* * *
JOE WAS RIGHT. HIS omelette was sublime. I’d expected him as a former professional athlete used to carb-loading to rustle up something stodgy, but his creation was feather-light and subtle. He whipped egg whites to stiff peaks before folding them into beaten yolks, then tipped them into a pan of sizzling butter, delicately snipped fresh chives and parsley from the kitchen window box, scattered them across the slowly setting surface and ground on a hint of sea salt. His hands, like the rest of him, may have been firm and muscular, but they were sensitive too.
“That looks delicious,” I said, as he flipped the omelette closed and slipped it on to a serving dish.
He grinned. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
We sat in the small anteroom of the kitchen where the domestic staff usually ate.
“It’s such a treat to be cooked for,” I said after savouring the first mouthful, which tasted even better than it looked.
Joe picked up his knife and fork. “You’ve had meals cooked for you all term.”
I couldn’t resist another mouthful before replying.
“I mean by a man. Steven never cooked a thing. I did it all. And the washing up. Not that I minded. It was one area where I wanted to be in charge.”
“I hear he’s cooking for Oriana this weekend.” Aware he was watching me, I focused on my plate. “Bet he’s not as good a cook as I am.”
I looked up. “You’re worried about the competition?”
“Competition is my middle name. You don’t get far in the world of cycling without it.”
I welcomed the chance to find out more about his former career – and to steer the conversation away from Steven.
“So how far did you get?”
He looked away. “Far enough. And now I can’t get far enough away from it.”
“Why would you want to? It sounds like an exciting life. Assuming you retired for medical reasons, weren’t you tempted to stay in the same world and become a sports coach or a commentator? You’ve the aptitude to do either of those things, from what I’ve seen of you so far.”
He hesitated. “Professional cycling is a claustrophobic world.”
“And boarding school life isn’t?”
“That’s different. Besides, it’s not like the experience was wasted. I can apply skills I’ve learned in my sporting career here. Staying power, positive thinking and determination, quite apart from physical sports techniques.”
There was an edge in his voice, as if he didn’t believe his own words, so I decided not to press him any further.
We ate the rest of the omelette in silence, then I took the plates and cutlery to the small sink in the corner of the room to wash them, ignoring the industrial-sized dishwasher that lay empty in the scullery next door.
Joe picked up a tea towel to dry them.
“So, what next, Miss Lamb? Back to your dusty pursuits in the library? You’re brave, treading on Miss Brook’s territory.”
“I’m only valuing the books, not selling them.”
It slipped out before I realised he’d been referring only to my presence in the library, not to what I was doing there. He stared at me for a minute, leaving me unsure whether he knew what I was talking about.
“An English teacher who did not value books would not be much of an English teacher,” he said at last, standing up. “Come on, let’s go for that walk.”
After collecting our coats from our flats, we met back at the library, entering the rear gardens via the heavy French doors. The chilly air in the weak afternoon sunshine made me gasp, and Joe laughed.
“You wimp! You’re as bad as the girls. Come on, a bit of outdoor oxygen will do you good. You’ll soon warm up once we get moving. Let’s go down to the lake.”
The lake lay a few minutes’ walk away, beyond the mausoleum. As we approached, Joe pulled from his jacket pocket a paper bag of stale bread.
“Look what I liberated from the kitchen.” He smiled, holding the bag open for me to help myself.
I rummaged inside to grab a handful, my fingers brushing against Joe’s warm palm through the paper. Even in this cold air, his hands were glowing. All that cycling must have boosted his circulation permanently.
The school swans flocked towards us as we approached the lake, Joe following a couple of steps behind me.
“You know we’re about to break school rules?”
I wondered what he thought we were about to do.
“Feeding the swans, I mean. The girls aren’t allowed to, or the swans would soon be fit to burst.”
We watched the big white birds gobble up every last scrap, including the stray crumbs Joe shook from the bag. He returned it to his pocket, as they were threatening to snaffle the bag too. Standing still for so long in the damp lakeside air, I began to feel the cold, and I shivered, wrapping my arms about my body for warmth. When Joe rested a hand on my shoulder, it felt like he’d applied a hot water bottle.
“How about we go back inside and watch a film? There are tons of DVDs in the girls’ common rooms, and not all of them are dreadful. You can choose.”
I beamed. Next, he’d be giving me control of the remote. I’d never had the chance to learn how to use Steven’s. What had I been thinking to put up with him for so long?
* * *
IN THE POORHOUSE COMMON room, I slipped The African Queen into the DVD player and was about to sit in the armchair beside the sofa, where Joe had installed himself, when he reached out a hand to me.
“Come on, you can sit next to me, I won’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”
Just then, the common room door flew open, making us both jump.
“Well, this is cosy,” snapped Oriana, storming in and flinging herself down in the centre of the sofa where I’d been about to sit. Joe immediately shrank back, withdrawing his arm from where he’d laid it along the back of the sofa. He crossed his legs away from her, and I made for the armchair.
“Oriana, you’re back!”
“Well, obviously.”
She folded her arms.
“Lover boy stood you up?” said Joe tersely, before turning to me. I suspected he might be jealous. “Sorry, Gemma.”
“What are you apologising to her for? It’s me that’s been slighted.”
“Slighted? How? What did he do?”
My stomach churned at the thought of what Steven might have said to her.
She pouted. “I thought you said he was well off, Gemma.” She picked at her immaculate nails. “But his supposed apartment was barely bigger than a bedsit. And the furniture! Flat-pack, every last piece of it, shiny, new and soulless.”
I didn’t intend to defend him, but I couldn’t help myself. “Steven doesn’t like second-hand stuff. He thinks it’s demeaning. Not that I agree with him.” I patted the old armchair affectionately.
Oriana rolled her eyes. “Second-hand? Second-hand? Oh, God forbid one might soil one’s apartment –” She said the word sarcastically “– with antiques or family heirlooms. No, much better to have cheap plastic stuff turned out by the gazillion to be just the same as everyone else’s.” She picked up a faded needlepoint scatter cushion, the work of a former housemistress, and hugged it to her chest. “Oh no, give me nylon and MDF any day. Not.”
I was almost starting to feel sorry for Steven. “That’s how he was brought up, Oriana. His parents are the same. And why shouldn’t he buy new? He can afford it. He’s got a good job.”
Oriana punched the cushion. “Not that good a job. I thought from his car that he was seriously rich. Not IKEA rich.”
Joe smirked. “And that matters because?”
She bashed him over the head with her cushion, then flung it on his lap.
“Oh, Joe, don’t be so mean. You know the type I go for.”
Then she turned to me. “Honestly, Gemma, you might have told me that man’s a fraud.”
“What do you mean?”
“Driving a flash car like that when his flat’s no bigger than mine.”
Joe winked at me.
“Size isn’t everything, is it, Gemma?”
She swivelled round to look daggers at him. “Well, you should know.” She stalked across to perch on the arm of my chair.
“It’s a nice enough flat,” I protested. “In a convenient position, with its own off-street parking.”
“What are you now, his estate agent?”
Her anger trumped her usually good manners.
“But it’s a bachelor flat and he’s a bachelor.”
“Yes, but it’s hardly the residential equivalent of the car he drives. I thought it would have to be a penthouse at least. And have furniture passed down by his family.”
In principle, I agreed with her. I had been horrified when Steven announced he was spending the equivalent of a deposit on a house on his new car. After all, I’d told him, you spend a lot more time in your home than in your car. Wouldn’t that money be better spent upgrading your flat?
Steven had been unbending. “My parents think it’s a great idea. My dad said he was proud to have a son driving a car like that.”
And therein lay the problem: Steven’s parents, who, if offered the gift of the Midas touch, would seize it with both hands.
“The man’s nothing but trouble,” declared Oriana. “I’m going to tell Max to bar him from the grounds.”
A wave of relief rushed through my whole body.
Then she got to her feet, brushed herself down and straightened her skirt. “Now I’m off to have a shower to slough off the whole experience. I’ll see you in the kitchen at suppertime, if you’re dining in.”
After giving a silent wave, Joe turned his attention to the television screen. I sank back in my armchair and pressed play.
