Ten

‘Were you going to tell me?’

Geoffrey had barely walked in the front door before his mother ambushed him. Ever since the ill-advised conversation about selling the Rectory she had been noticeably frosty.

‘Tell you what?’

‘That Edward was in some sort of trouble.’

She looked at him and waited. When Geoffrey didn’t immediately respond – busy checking his pockets, taking off his jacket, finding a place for it on the coat stand – his mother ploughed on.

‘Fighting?’ she said. ‘Like some sort of delinquent. What on earth has got into him?’

Geoffrey was trying hard not to think about what might have got into him. He dropped his keys on the heavy walnut sideboard. Family heirloom – ugly thing.

‘Claire Heather, I assume. So much for confidentiality.’

He had no idea if school secretaries were bound by a code of confidentiality but felt they should be. His mother sniffed defensively.

‘I called her about the village newsletter and she mentioned you and Olivia had been in to see the headmaster.’

‘It’s all been sorted out,’ said Geoffrey.

No thanks to him. That Olivia had dealt with it was particularly emasculating. Geoffrey should have been the one squaring up to Freddie Burton’s bully-boy father, man to man.

In the quiet solitude of the study, Geoffrey brooded. The question of how to dig himself out of the shit had consumed him for months and he always came up with the same answer – money. But it was starting to dawn on him that it wasn’t that simple. Even a huge lottery win wouldn’t magically heal his damaged reputation, his friendships, his relationship with Olivia. It wouldn’t bring his father back.

Geoffrey had finally begun to realise that material concerns and emotional concerns were qualitatively different. With money he could pay his debts, get another house and end the physical separation from Olivia. But what about their emotional separation? They hardly spoke – although that wasn’t usually through choice – and hadn’t made love in three months. Would money mend their marriage? And if it did, what did that say about their marriage?

A black and white photograph of his parents on their wedding day hung on the opposite wall. It was hard to imagine them young and in love. He barely recognised them. His mother was thirty-seven when she gave birth; his father two years older. On his first day at school, Geoffrey came running out with a drawing he’d done and scanned the group of waiting mothers for his own. He distinctly remembered thinking she looked old and rather stern, and wondering what it would be like to go home with one of the young, smiley mothers instead.

The days when his father collected him were a rare and wonderful treat. His father wasn’t young either but he was smiley. Geoffrey would gabble on about what lessons he’d had, what he’d eaten for lunch, who he’d played with at break, his father supremely interested in the minutiae of his day. As a boy, the way Geoffrey loved his father was so real and immediate it felt big inside him, like when he stuffed himself with ice cream and fizzy pop. Even at a very young age, Geoffrey sensed his mother’s presence enforced a subtle form of restraint: don’t laugh too loud, don’t run too fast, don’t love too much. With his father, there was no restraint. Sometimes missing him felt like being underwater: the weight, the silence, the lack of air.

Not everything could be solved with money.

*

A swirl of snow had fallen on ice, rendering the lanes glassy and lethal. The car skidded twice before Geoffrey adjusted his speed to match the conditions. What was the hurry anyway? He wished he had never agreed to coach the rugby team, now captained by the perfidious Freddie Burton while Edward was exiled to the library.

Geoffrey managed to swallow his feelings, though, and other than a bad tackle by Finn Harding, who remonstrated aggressively when Geoffrey threatened to take him off, the training session was uneventful. Geoffrey spent the last five minutes talking them through their positions for Saturday’s match against Colstons, then dismissed them. It was as they made their way towards the school building that he overheard Ben Scott-Lessing ask Freddie how he would feel next week when Goldilocks was back in the team. Geoffrey didn’t catch Freddie’s reply but it made the other boys howl with laughter. An incensed Geoffrey was about to tear into them when he spotted Olivia heading in their direction. It took a lot of restraint for him to walk straight past the ingrates laughing at his son, and the anger must have shown in his face because Olivia mouthed ‘What’s wrong?’ as she approached.

‘Freddie fucking Burton.’

‘Geoffrey,’ she hissed. ‘You can’t use that language here. Suppose someone heard you?’

He took a lungful of air, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He’s just the most insufferable little cunt.’

‘Geoffrey!’

‘Sorry, sorry. You’re right.’

‘You can’t say that, especially about a child.’

He nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry. He winds me up.’

Olivia took his arm. ‘Tell me over coffee,’ she said, turning back towards the school.

It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in the staffroom, so he told her as they walked.

‘You know they call Edward “Goldilocks”,’ he said.

Olivia huffed. ‘Leo promised he had put a stop to this bullying.’

‘Well, it’s not bullying, is it? And anyway, Edward can look after himself. Burton should remember that.’

The cold began to creep into Geoffrey’s bones. He blew on his hands to try and warm them up a bit.

‘What do you mean?’ said Olivia. ‘You don’t want them to get into another fight?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I’m going to speak to Leo.’

‘For God’s sake, Olivia. It’s a bit of name-calling – don’t make a fuss.’

She stopped walking and stared at him, genuinely aggrieved. ‘You were the one making a fuss.’

‘I don’t like them calling Edward “Goldilocks”, that’s all.’

‘Well, compared to what you just called Freddie Burton –’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘No, what you called Freddie was much worse.’

The sky had darkened to the colour of steel. Geoffrey’s toes were starting to go numb and he stamped on the frozen ground to get the circulation moving.

‘He called him a “fag” as well, you know, when Edward pushed him in the showers and Freddie’s towel fell off.’

‘Oh, his father said something about a towel. I didn’t know what he was talking about.’ She shook her head, frowning. ‘Those Burton men are real charmers. I’m a MILF – Edward’s a fag.’

Hearing Olivia say it made it sound worse, as if it were a statement of fact rather than just an insult hurled on the spur of the moment.

‘That Freddie should watch what he’s saying – going round implying Edward’s gay or something.’

Olivia took a step back and stared up at him. ‘Is that why you’re angry?’

Her tone was accusatory, as if he wasn’t allowed to be upset. In Geoffrey’s day it was the weak boys, the crybabies, the boys who weren’t boyish enough, who were called fags. Not boys like Edward.

Olivia was on a different trajectory; more concerned with the ‘bullying that wasn’t.’ ‘Well, I don’t care what you think,’ she said. ‘I’m going to talk to Leo.’

‘Christ, will you stop mollycoddling him. The last thing he needs is his mummy telling on the other boys for calling him names.’

Olivia’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Mollycoddling?’

She looked like she had been slapped and opened her mouth to speak, but huffed loudly and shook her head. Geoffrey hadn’t meant to blame her but now that he thought about it, yes, she did mollycoddle Edward. Look how overprotective she was when he played rugby. Boys needed a bit of rough and tumble. What they didn’t need was their mothers fretting about them all the time. That was one of the reasons Geoffrey had quietly encouraged Edward to board. If Olivia had her way, he would be a proper little mummy’s boy.

‘So it’s my fault,’ she said, close to tears. ‘Edward’s being bullied because of me.’

Geoffrey knew he should have toned it down, backtracked, said he didn’t mean it, but he did. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Olivia – he’s not being bullied. Just leave him alone to sort it out.’

Sleet had seeped into Geoffrey’s tracksuit and it clung to him. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes at all. ‘Are you coming?’ he said, turning towards the school.

He needed to warm up, but Olivia didn’t move – just fixed him with a wounded stare.

‘Please yourself,’ he said, and left her there.

*

Three days of sulking, introspection and self-justification followed. It was unlike Geoffrey, who usually dealt with problems by going to the pub, having four or five pints, engaging in a bit of superficial banter about sport, cars or work, then walking home unburdened and refreshed.

He had meant to tell Olivia that Johnny was going to London but was too busy berating her about Edward. When his mobile had rung and Johnny’s name flashed on to the screen, Geoffrey’s reaction had been one of blind optimism. Johnny wanted to meet for a pint – an oasis in Geoffrey’s arid social life. He could casually ask how Lily and Josh were doing, if Lorna fussed over Josh like Olivia did Edward? He might mention the name-calling but only to point out that Edward had stood up for himself; given the other boy a bloody good hiding, in fact.

It turned out Johnny had wanted a reference, not a pint. He had been offered a welding job on the Crossrail project. ‘How does Lorna feel about it?’ Geoffrey had asked. ‘Not thrilled,’ was the answer, ‘but there’s nothing round here and we need the money.’ That told him.

*

First thing Saturday, Geoffrey relented and called Olivia. Mornings were when he missed her the most – those amnesic seconds between sleeping and waking before all the bad stuff came rushing at him. He would punch her pillow a few times so it looked as though she had slept there. Stupid really. The call went to voicemail. He would have left a message but couldn’t think what to say.

His mother had cooked bacon, eggs, black pudding and mushrooms. The smell lured him downstairs even though he didn’t have much of an appetite. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, his skin itchy under rough dense bristle.

‘You look tired,’ she said, concerned, indicating that her frostiness towards him had finally thawed.

He padded over to the sink, scratching his chin.

‘Kettle’s full,’ she said. ‘And I’ve walked the dogs.’

He checked his watch. Eight fifteen. ‘You have been busy. What time were you up?’

She put on her rubber gloves and started the washing up. No fancy dishwashers at the Rectory. Complete waste of money when you had a perfectly good pair of hands.

‘Seven,’ she said. ‘Same as always.’

Geoffrey used to rise at six thirty and be at his desk an hour later. These days there wasn’t much to get up for. Not much to go to bed for either. No warm body to cuddle up to. No sex. Even self-gratification seemed beyond him now, his dick limp in his ineffectual hand. Porn, it turned out, had been a temporary pleasure, like everything else in his life. He ate his breakfast in silence, his mother at the sink, Radio Four in the background, just like when he was a child. All that was missing was his father.

*

The Colstons team piled off the minibus looking fit, keen and confident. Their coach shook hands with Geoffrey and they wished each other good luck. So far so civilised. He showed them to their spot in the changing room and then gave his team what would have been a rousing pep talk if his heart had been in it. Without Edward, there seemed little to get excited about. He had been their friend, their captain, and now he was the butt of their jokes. With a bit of luck Colstons would kick their sorry arses.

It was a good turnout, as many Colstons parents as there were St Bede’s. In between bellowing instructions to his players, Geoffrey scanned the crowd for Olivia, but there was no sign of her. No sign of Edward either, even though he was banned from practice sessions, not from watching matches. Toby Burton was there, though, shouting louder than Geoffrey, a tall, inappropriately dressed blonde by his side. Who wore high heels and fur to a rugby match? Big, blingy sunglasses too, despite the absence of sun. Burton probably thought he’d traded up, but the second Mrs Burton looked like a Russian hooker.

Colstons were winning twelve–three when the referee blew the whistle for half-time. That was when Geoffrey spotted Edward on the far side of the pitch, slightly apart from everyone else. Geoffrey beckoned to him, but he hung back. While the players scoffed oranges and Lucozade, Geoffrey jogged over to him.

‘All right, son?’

Edward’s nod was non-committal and he had the look of a sullen teenager again. Geoffrey was keen to have a father–son chat, but not here.

‘Have you seen Mum?’ he asked.

Geoffrey had hoped she would come along to the match. It was difficult to move past an argument when they hardly ever saw each other. But then he thought back to half-term, when they saw each other for ten days straight, and that hadn’t been an advert for marital bliss.

Edward shrugged. ‘Not today.’

The Colstons coach was on the pitch, talking to his players – lots of hand and arm gestures, the odd slow-motion kick. Geoffrey’s lot stood around looking lost.

‘I’d better go,’ he said to Edward, and jogged back over to try to rally his players.

He had three pieces of advice: remember everything we’ve done in training; remember you’re a team, which means working together; and remember we have the home advantage, so use it.

The second half was no better. A marked improvement in St Bede’s quality of play didn’t translate into points. The final score was fifteen–three. Geoffrey told them ‘good effort’, before dismissing them to get showered. He intended to head back himself but was intercepted by Toby Burton.

‘That was a bit of a shambles,’ said Burton.

He pulled a cigarette from a packet, put it between his lips and lit up. Christ, Geoffrey missed smoking. It was as much as he could do not to ask Burton if he could cadge one.

‘Colstons are a good team,’ said Geoffrey, savouring an intoxicating whiff of tobacco.

‘Freddie’s not suited to the wing,’ said Burton, taking a long, luxurious drag.

Geoffrey was in no mood to defend his team selection. He looked around for Edward.

‘It’s almost as if you wanted him to play badly,’ said Burton. ‘Maybe even wanted them to lose.’

‘Why would I want them to lose?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘To make your boy look better when he’s back on the team. I saw him skulking around.’

‘He wasn’t skulking,’ said Geoffrey, not quite managing to hide his irritation.

Olivia’s voice was in his head, irritation present and correct, telling him not to upset the sleazeball who had agreed to drop criminal charges. She was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Geoffrey wanting to tell him to go fuck himself. The blonde tottered towards them, spiky heels sinking into the sodden grass, fur coat pulled around her spindly frame. How absurd did she look?

‘Darling,’ she said, slipping her arm into Burton’s. Not Russian after all.

‘When can we leave?’ Estuary vowels – flat and nasal.

Burton dropped his half-smoked cigarette and let it smoulder at his feet. ‘Quick cup of tea and we’re out of here,’ he said, still glaring at Geoffrey.

The blonde pouted. More of a champagne and canapés girl than a tea and sandwiches girl, presumably. They set off across the pitch, the blonde hanging on to Burton’s arm for balance, and for the first time that day – many days, actually – Geoffrey laughed.

*

Ruth Rutherford was playing tea lady again, the atmosphere lively considering the trouncing St Bede’s had received. Geoffrey joined the queue and accepted good-natured commiserations, which were probably more than he deserved. When he reached the front, Ruth cocked her head to one side.

‘Scotch, is it?’

He played along. ‘Double.’

She handed him a cup of tea and told him it would have to do.

‘Olivia not here?’

‘Netball over at Millfield.’

Geoffrey’s memories of playing against Millfield centred on the conviction that it was never a fair fight. First-rate facilities and a huge number of players to choose from – many selected and offered bursaries on the basis of their sporting ability – meant opponents were rarely victorious. Geoffrey didn’t imagine the St Bede’s netball team would prove to be the exception.

‘Yes. Sorry. Forgot.’

The next person in the queue moved forward and Geoffrey stepped aside. He scanned the room for someone interesting to talk to but Toby Burton collared him again, the blonde still hanging on his arm. Her coat had been discarded, revealing expensive clothes and improbably generous breasts. Had he seen her on an internet porn site? Those girls had all started to look the same.

‘Didn’t finish our conversation,’ said Burton.

‘Thought we had,’ said Geoffrey.

Finn Harding’s father patted him on the back. ‘Tough match,’ he said. ‘Colstons were bloody good.’

‘Certainly were,’ said Geoffrey.

Harding disappeared into the throng.

‘Our conversation,’ said Burton.

Geoffrey had had enough of this. He hadn’t asked for the job as coach: a poisoned chalice if ever there was one.

‘What is it you want?’ he said.

Burton dispatched the blonde to fetch her coat.

‘I want you to be grateful I’m not pressing charges. I want Freddie to stay as captain and play in the position of his choice.’ Burton lowered his voice. ‘And I want your son to keep his filthy hands off my son. Is that clear enough for you?’

His rugby days aside, Geoffrey considered himself a placid sort of chap. Not a pushover, but someone who didn’t court confrontation; who preferred to sort things out reasonably over a pint and a chat, rather than go steaming in with his fists. Until now. A hot plume of anger rose up from his gut.

‘Outside,’ he said.

Burton’s expression changed instantly he registered the threat. ‘Like father like son,’ he said, smirking.

Geoffrey moved towards the door, jaw clenched, face burning. He had taken only a few steps when someone gripped his arm.

‘Can I borrow you for a moment?’ said Ruth.

‘What?’

‘Problem with the tea urn. Need a strong pair of hands.’

He stared at her, baffled. ‘We’re in the middle of something here.’

Ruth put her mouth to his ear. ‘I know,’ she said quietly, her grip on his arm tightening. She turned to Burton. ‘Excuse us, would you,’ she said, and led Geoffrey away.

The kitchen was empty. A faint but familiar odour hung in the air: boiled greens, floor polish, mince. His anger had dissipated enough to realise he had been about to make a huge mistake.

‘Why am I here?’ he asked.

Ruth leaned back against the stainless-steel counter, a hand resting on either side, white blouse straining over her breasts. ‘I could see something was going on with that prick Toby Burton. Word of advice – never play poker.’

‘Was it that obvious?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought you were going to combust. What did he say to get you so fired up?’

Geoffrey rubbed his forehead. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

It was her turn to speak but she fixed him with her pale grey eyes and allowed a sensuous silence to settle on them. She was sizing him up – trying to decide what to do with him. Hunter and prey. He could hear himself breathe.

Using her forefinger and thumb, Ruth deftly undid the top three buttons of her blouse. They sprang apart, as if grateful to be released. Geoffrey didn’t move. He flashed back to the dinner party, to how outrageously she had flirted with him, how aroused he had been, how desperately he had wanted sex, how Olivia had turned him down.

Ruth waited for a reaction. Geoffrey took in the gaping blouse, the small red bow on her bra, the stuck-up expression of supreme confidence. In the space between them – six, maybe seven feet – lay their lives: marriages, families, futures. He went to her, trampling all of it underfoot.

In his uncensored imagination he had fucked her countless times. Reality was different, enhanced by all five senses. Risk too. In some still lucid recess of his brain, not addled by muscle-burning lust, he knew they could be caught at any moment, but that only intensified the experience.

He unzipped her jeans and yanked them down with a single tug. Her flimsy knickers had a red bow that matched the one on her bra. She slid her hand into his sweatpants, took hold of his dick and applied expert pressure and rhythm. He could have come there and then but was loath to waste the opportunity that had so unexpectedly presented itself. The way Ruth smiled inferred triumph, victory, dominance: look what I can do; look what I can make you do. Fuck that. Geoffrey wasn’t some toy-boy conquest. He spun her round so her back was to him, and lowered her face on to the cold metal surface, his hand on her head. She complied without protest and for the first time since she had led him away from a punch-up with Toby Burton, Geoffrey was in control.

When he entered her she cried out and he pressed his palm over her open mouth, a gesture that seemed to excite her more. She gripped the edge of the counter and pushed hard against his groin, bringing him deeper inside her. It was all over in a dozen thrusts, but still a most satisfying fuck. He fell forward, dizzy and breathless, until the sound of a woman singing brought him bolt upright. The sound came closer – a hymn Geoffrey vaguely remembered from his school days. Ruth dressed and tidied her hair with impressive speed, while Geoffrey went to the sink for a glass of water.

‘There you are.’ Ruth’s helper – Linda, Lisa? – bustled in holding an empty milk jug. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’

Ruth smiled casually, her air of control effortlessly re-established. Geoffrey had to admire her cool. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

‘Mr Parry said he’d take a look at that wretched tap,’ she said.

Geoffrey turned the tap on and off, which seemed to satisfy the helper’s curiosity.

‘It’s thinning out now,’ she said. ‘Colstons’ lot are leaving.’

‘Excellent,’ said Ruth. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

The helper replenished the milk jug and left, humming the hymn.

Geoffrey had no prior experience to guide him through this situation. What was the etiquette when one has just fucked the headmaster’s wife? Surely she was the expert in this regard. Right on cue, she spoke.

‘A promising start, Mr Parry, but next time I’ll expect rather less haste.’