I don’t let myself think about her until late in the afternoon. I have learned over time to put on different hats, compartmentalize. When you teach, lines and boundaries are the most important things. You can look attractive, but you can’t flirt. You can be friendly, but can’t be friends. You can comfort, but can’t touch. You keep what’s in here very much apart from what’s out there.
During afternoon break, I have a pile of books to mark, so instead of going to the staffroom in search of caffeine and someone to chat to, I find a quiet classroom and sit in a pool of sunshine, closing my eyes for a moment. And that’s when I allow myself to think of her.
Pale, thin-lipped. I guessed who she was the minute she appeared—knew that her energy was out of place in the Tadpoles car park. She was there because of the letter, a real flesh-and-blood person manifesting from the ink of those dreadful words. I should have known that an accusation like that wasn’t going to die in the shredder.
I didn’t like leaving her there, as though she were a wounded bird about to be crushed by tires. She looked distraught, unhinged even, and I was worried that she might follow me to school. So I was relieved to get to St. Saviour’s without glimpsing her in my rearview mirror.
I didn’t sleep last night, but couldn’t let her know that. She wanted an acknowledgment—a small nod, or a huge breakdown—that we were both feeling the same thing: shock, fear. And I’d have liked to have given her what she needed; a moment of my time, the promise of a text message, at least. Yet I sensed that even eye contact would have sparked something I wouldn’t have been able to handle.
I’m sorry if something traumatic or catastrophic may or may not have happened thirty years ago, but I care more about what’s happening now, about what I could lose.
We’re complete strangers. I saw her glance at my butterfly tattoo, trying to get my measure. She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know that I will do anything to protect Andy. I don’t believe he’s capable of doing what the letter said he did, but I know that allegations like this ruin lives. I did the right thing by destroying it.
Great. Now the bell’s ringing and I haven’t marked a single book.
I gather my things and go along to C4, where I’m teaching next. It’s PSHE for the last period of the day, always a challenge. And it’s only as I sit down and open my desk planner that I realize that today—of all days—the lesson is on consent.
The boys don’t want to take lessons in Personal, Social, Health and Economic education. Well, not the academic ones or those with pushy parents. There’s no exam, for a start. We don’t even get a table at parents’ evening. Even with RPE, which does have an exam, no one wants to visit my table, unless they feel sorry for me or there’s a queue for math. We don’t prioritize ethics, values or personal well-being as a society. I’d say it was a Western thing, but my parents—Sikh Indians, originating from Punjab—are just as bad. My mother wept when I chose flaky philosophy for my degree.
There’s always a group of boys who enjoy my lessons, though, bundling in, shouting whassup. These are the boys who aren’t going to be doing exams and see my lessons as a space to be themselves. They like that the format is mostly discussion-based, with videos too, and they light up when we talk about violence, drugs, gangs, anything controversial, bloody. These are the boys who watch murder documentaries in their spare time, play Doom Eternal on Xbox, fill their heads with the dark stuff. It’s part of my job to try to make them less lit by gore.
I have to lower the blinds because the sun’s streaming in and I need to show them a video. I’ve seen it so many times, it’s not funny. But the boys will think it is. They always do.
“Miss, what happened to Saffron?”
I’m finding the YouTube file on the laptop. It was made by the police and talks about wanting a cup of tea as a euphemism for sex. It’s lighthearted. Maybe too much so. It doesn’t take much to make fourteen-year-olds laugh at sex. But then I have to trust the system, trust that the police and the Department for Education know what they’re doing.
So much of teaching is about toeing the line, trying not to create ripples. Perhaps that’s what being a grown-up is, though, no matter the profession: having the maturity to accept conditions and infrastructures without complaint. It’s what we’re primed to do from an early age, especially women: get on with it, be quiet.
It’s so hard doing anything else. Who has the energy?
“Did Saffron get expelled, Miss?”
“Yes.” I’ve found the video. I stand in my usual spot, perching on the desk, facing them. “He got enough warnings, and now he’s gone.”
There’s a cackle of laughter at the back and someone says something that I don’t catch and there’s more laughter, louder.
I can guess what it’s about. Saffron pulled down a girl’s bra at a party, took a photo and circulated it among his friends. The girl—St. Saviour’s admits girls aged sixteen—was drunk at the time and is the head of geography’s daughter.
I see it all here. Perhaps I should say that I hear it all, especially because the boys let down their guards with me. I have to stay impartial but alert.
It was me who reported Saffron. I knew about the photo, knew that he was on his third and final warning and that if I went to the Head, it would result in permanent expulsion. But I had to protect the girl, as well as the school.
The sad thing is that he comes from a good home. Both his parents are solicitors and always make a point of visiting me at the RPE table on parents’ evening. Sometimes it amazes me that the people you’d most expect to talk to their kids about accountability and acceptable behavior are the last to do so. I’m not going to judge them, though. Saffron was a complicated character; it takes one to know one. I feel bad for reporting him, but I had no choice.
The boys don’t know it was me. I’d like to keep it that way.
“So, listen up. Today, we’re going to watch a short video, and then we’re going to discuss it. Try to take it seriously, please. Even though it’s supposed to be a little bit funny.”
“That don’t make sense, Miss,” one of the boys shouts.
“Just watch it.” I’m snippy, irritable. Maybe they notice; maybe they don’t. As the video plays, I go to the window and watch as a small boy crosses the yard, late for class. From this angle, he looks like Beau, and I feel too warm suddenly, the sunshine on my face.
I turn back to the class. The boys are sprawled over the desks, elbows out, legs splayed. Some of them are laughing. Most of them are. But there are a few who look overwhelmed, Adam’s apples wobbling.
I wonder, not for the first time, what the best age is to talk to boys about sex—about how no means no, no matter the context. Beyond the humor, the light touch, the video makes that very clear. You can be dating someone and no means no. You can be in the middle of having sex and no means no. You can be doing it the night before and no means no.
It always means no. You’d think it would be universally understood, but somehow, it’s not.
I think of Saffron, my stomach churning. I reported him, yet I shredded that letter last night.
“Miss, you ever been raped?”
The video is over. I perch on the edge of the desk again and look this particular boy in the eye. He always likes to push the boundaries. “No.”
“Sometimes I think that girls want it, but don’t wanna look like they want it because they don’t wanna be called sluts. Do you think that, Miss?”
“That’s an interesting question, and I think you’re right in that that’s what boys can think. But it’s quite clear from the video you’ve just watched, Ethan, that girls will tell you in lots of ways when they mean no. They’ll either verbalize it or they’ll show you with their body language.”
“What’s that look like, then, Miss?” There’s some laughter. Ethan is staring at me seriously, fronting it out.
“It looks like someone saying no, Ethan.”
I get into the car slowly, all of my energy drained from me. The boys will do that if you let them. I usually don’t. But today, they’ve got to me and I feel as though I can’t even drive home.
Yet it’s not them. I know it’s not. It’s the letter.
I’m about to start the engine when I see something on the windscreen, underneath the wipers. Undoing my seat belt, I grab it, getting back behind the wheel with a sinking feeling.
I stare at the business card, its corners sharp, pricking my fingers.
Jessica Jackson.
Senior Account Handler.
Moon & Co.
I look about the car park, leaves scuttling across the concrete, a French teacher carrying a rucksack packed full of books and Tupperware. I smile at him, pressing the card until it hurts.
She knows where I live; the letter would have told her that. And somehow, she knows where Beau goes to day care, and now where I work. That’s what she wants this little white card to tell me.
Pushing it into the pocket of my dress, I drive to Tadpoles, feeling as though someone’s sitting on my chest.
Beau is waiting for me by the wooden gate, his cheeks bitten by the cold air. I grab my coat and put it on as I walk toward him, my boots feeling heavier than usual. I look downward, avoiding conversation with the other mums. I’m worried they’ll see straight through me—will know that I’m barely keeping it together.
In the car, I try to make an effort for Beau’s sake, but the sensation in my chest is getting worse and my breathing feels tight. We sit in silence and he doesn’t ask why. Why would he? He’s three. He’s too busy looking up at the trees and peeling glue from his fingers.
At home, I won’t have to face Andy yet. He’s in the office today. I can see to Beau, focus on one thing at a time.
Unstrapping Beau from his seat, I carry him up to the house. He plays with my nose stud as I open the door. “Blue eyes today, Mummy,” he says, gently touching the spikes of my eyelashes.
I kiss him, my chest feeling lighter. “Yes, my little cherub. Blue eyes today.”
“Any more problems with Saffron?” Andy asks, forking his pasta hungrily. He’s still wearing his suit, a piece of paper towel tucked into his collar to protect his shirt. He always takes a genuine interest in my day at school, and normally, I enjoy telling him. In return, I know everything about his digital marketing company: his eccentric receptionist, how the ivy threatens to block the light from the windows, the throngs of tourists taking photos of the square, the Turkish deli that delivers his daily pita sandwich.
So many details that we know about each other, insignificant trivia that makes you think you know the person you married.
“Pree?”
“Huh?” I look at him.
“About Saffron.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, he’s gone and that’s it.” I nudge Beau’s plate away from the edge of the table. He’s just upgraded his toddler seat to a proper dining chair. I spend half my life picking up peas from the floor. “End of story.”
Andy glances up from his plate. “I just wondered if the parents had got involved. Didn’t you say they were solicitors? I thought they might—”
“Nothing they can do. Besides, they should have thought about that before they raised a disgusting boy like him.”
I didn’t mean to say that. Andy will know something’s off.
Sure enough, he lowers his fork, raises an eyebrow. “I thought you liked him?”
I stare at my plate, the farfalle bows seeming huge. “I did. I do. I just don’t want to talk about it. What’s done is done.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you usually like to chat about these things.”
“Well, not this time.”
“Okay. Duly noted.”
So polite. I don’t think I know anyone else who says duly. And so considerate. He really will note it too and won’t mention Saffron again. It’s that easy with him. I tell him what I need and he obliges, not because he’s weak or under my thumb, but because he loves me.
How can I think of him as a...a...?
The crushing sensation is back in my chest. I can’t eat, can’t swallow. Maybe I misread the letter. Maybe he was an innocent bystander, or wasn’t even there and it’s a case of mistaken identity. Andy’s a quiet man with a small social circle. It’s very doubtful he was involved. He wears Argyle socks and drinks Earl Grey tea, for goodness’ sake.
I gaze at him, guiltily, lovingly. His lips are stained with red wine, another one of those details a wife knows and that I’d try to cover up if we had guests. We look out for each other. That’s why I shredded the letter, isn’t it? For him? Or was it for me?
He takes another drink of wine, unaware that I’m watching him. His mother once told me that all he ever wanted was to get married and have children. He’s so easy to live with, happiest when doing something menial; building a train track with Beau, cooking supper with me. I’m sick with shame for having thought even for a second that he could have been involved in a sexual assault.
I can’t even say the r word, not even silently. Not in front of Beau, who’s trying to compete with Andy as to who can get the most pasta on their fork.
I need some air, some space.
“Excuse me a sec...” I push back my chair.
Out in the hallway, I inhale jerkily, my gaze resting on my phone on the side table. Slipping through to the downstairs bathroom, I rest my back against the cold wall, taking the business card from my pocket.
I key the number into my phone.
18.13 P.M. >
OK. Let’s talk.
I listen for the beep of the sent message. Have I done the right thing? I don’t know. But I’m used to having people around me to bounce problems off—family at home, colleagues at school. I can’t figure this thing out on my own, and she’s the only one currently in the frame.
Hiding the card at the bottom of my bag, I wipe my clammy hands on my dress as I return to the dining room.
“Sorry about that.” I nudge Beau’s plate away from the edge again.
“Everything okay?” Andy has finished eating and is sitting with his hands clasped behind his head, a thoughtful look on his face.
“Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just been a long day. I’ll be glad when it’s bedtime.”
“Me too,” he says, winking cheekily, pouring me another glass of wine. Ordinarily, I’d have found this titillating, but tonight I can barely muster a smile.
It’s so temperamental, sexual interplay. One word, one look can alter things dramatically. I’ve never considered it before, yet it occurs to me then that attraction is just smoke and mirrors.
So fragile, desire can vanish at any moment. And then all you’re left with is this dark, empty thing, this doubt.