Page 10

Adam

‘How bad was it exactly, on a scale of one to ten?’ Ollie scoops up a can of beer from the side of the armchair and cracks it open. ‘Give me a number.’

It had completely slipped my mind we’d arranged to meet tonight, thanks to my dismal calendar skills.

I tried to cancel, but Ollie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I have form, apparently, for being a terrible friend and bailing last minute, repeatedly postponing or forgetting to turn up.

He ignored my excuse that it had been the day from hell and brought the pub to me with a box of Beavertown Neck Oil and monster packets of crisps.

‘Erm, are we talking linear or the logarithmic scale?’ I groan, rubbing my face.

‘Preferably something in plain English my last few brain cells will grasp without being fried.’

‘In that case, it’s a ten on the Richter scale... it was city-destroying, earthquake bad. Wren wishes I was dead, and a motorcyclist almost made her dream come true this morning.’

‘Wow! The Make-A-Wish Foundation turned dark suddenly.’

I laugh, catching the can he tosses over.

‘Oh, and I forgot to add... I’m a crap teacher. It’s a lot harder than I thought.’

‘I could have told you that during training and saved you all that time and money. Being a Stanford maths genius is one thing, but dragging everything out of your superhuman brain and explaining it to small, non-cooperative mere mortals is a totally different matter.’

I suppress a sigh and take a swig of beer. Ollie and I met on our PGCE placement and bonded straightaway as we’ve both come from academia. He’d had enough of his history postgrad at Birmingham uni and wanted to ‘make a difference in the real world’, whereas this is a stopgap for me.

I have to finish my dissertation, even if it kills me. Then I’ll finally get my PhD, apply for a postdoc position and return to Stanford with Wren, working my way up to a professorship, as Dad had wanted. That’s if I’m not eaten alive first by the kids at my academy or the mums at Wren’s school.

‘I spend hours writing lesson plans, but the year 9s distract me and everything goes to pot,’ I admit.

Ollie frowns. ‘Is that someone at the front door?’

‘Really? I think it’s just Wren going to the loo.’ I jump up and open the sitting-room door. I’m about to walk into the hall when I catch the smirk on his freckly face.

‘Bastard.’

I throw myself back down on to the sofa as the toilet upstairs flushes. The floorboards creak above our heads.

‘I don’t think any of the kids respect me,’ I admit. ‘Wren hates me most of all and I can’t blame her... I keep messing up. She cried herself to sleep earlier.’

Ollie throws his hands in the air. ‘I can’t help you with being a dad, I’m afraid. That’s beyond my area of expertise. I’d say be yourself, but that’s probably a bit much for anyone, let alone an eight-year-old girl.’

‘Thanks!’

He stuffs a handful of crisps into his mouth, crunching thoughtfully, as I knock back my drink. My head swims. I’m a notorious lightweight, but my alcohol tolerance has dropped by at least a third since starting full-time work.

‘I’m joking, mate.’ Ollie shoots me a sympathetic look. ‘Give it time. It’s early days. You’ve taken on more than most people our age would ever agree to – and you’re on your own. I know I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t want to either.’

‘Well, I didn’t exactly have a choice! Carley and I never had a back-up plan.’

The beer has loosened my inhibitions but guilt claws at my throat.

‘I want to do this, want Wren,’ I clarify quickly. ‘It was my decision. I just wish she came with an up-to-date manual. I wouldn’t scrape 20 per cent in Dad exams.’

‘Except this isn’t an exam,’ Ollie observes. ‘And Wren isn’t a car!’

‘ Now you tell me!’

Everything I’ve said is true, but I’ve explained it clumsily.

I couldn’t turn down Carley, obviously.

.. that option never crossed my mind . Decision-making is never usually my forte, but I knew instantly I had to, wanted to , bring up Wren.

I’d promised Carley without hesitation, however days like this make me doubt myself even more than usual.

My phone pings with a message.

‘Anyone exciting?’

‘Hmmm?’

I read Anna’s message, heart sinking.

Sorry about washing the clothes. They smelt musty!

It’s followed by another: When will I get my ￡￡￡ rise?

I tap out: Next month?

‘It’s the nanny,’ I explain. ‘I’m bribing her to stay with us after Wren called her a bitch. And tomorrow, I’m buying Wren a toy, preferably a panda, in a desperate attempt to make the I-hate-Adam-meter dip below 75 per cent for the first time ever.’

I checked Carley’s file before Ollie arrived and her notes mentioned that Wren loves anything ‘panda related’ and a gift shop in Clifton Village in particular.

I’ve been thinking about organising a day out with Wren at the suspension bridge and the downs, but I’ll drive over by myself after work and choose a gift.

Ollie raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, I see! It’s the classic rich boy “throw money at problems to make them go away” approach.’

‘Will you leave if I give you a tenner? I have to get on with my paper, pay for a trip to the Science Museum, top up Wren’s dinner money and basically everything else I’ve forgotten to do this week, including finding out how my daughter’s Show and Tell went.’

A familiar pressure builds in my chest, squeezing out the air, as I realise I never asked Wren about her talk.

I think of the lesson plans I need to check over before trying to make sense of my algebraic geometry notes; it’s doubtful anything I’ve written over the last few weeks is usable in my dissertation.

My stomach twists into sharp knots and my pulse quickens.

‘It will cost a lot more to bribe me. We haven’t got through these yet.’ He points at the remaining cans on the carpet.

‘I’m absolutely not getting drunk with you. I’ve got too much to do tonight.’

‘Are you trying to get rid of me so you can do Claire?’

I frown, checking my phone. Dr Hunt has forwarded his previous email, enquiring about the progress of my paper (snail pace) and when he might see my final draft (sometime between now and eternity). I tap out an optimistically vague reply to hold him off.

‘Hmmm? What was that?’

‘I said, are you still seeing Claire?’

I’d briefly hooked up with a fellow postgrad student on our PGCE course and had paid Mrs Cook from next door to babysit Wren when we met at her flat after Christmas. She came over here a few times late at night when Wren was fast asleep.

‘Erm, no.’ I run a hand through my hair. ‘That didn’t work out. I don’t have time for a relationship and it’s too soon to introduce a third person into this set-up.’

‘You mean, family,’ he corrects.

‘That’s what I said.’

Ollie arches his eyebrow and leans forward in his chair, interviewer-style. ‘So it has nothing to do with the fact you repeatedly said another girl’s name in your sleep after you had sex with Claire? Bastard!’

My heart sinks. ‘You heard about that?’

‘Everyone has,’ he says, sniggering. ‘It’s on the group WhatsApp. We’ve all offered opinions on your post-coital etiquette, or rather lack of it.’

‘Great! I’ve always wanted to be famous.’

‘Infamous, more like.’

The PGCE WhatsApp is another group I’ve muted forever. I pick up a second can, debating whether to throw caution to the wind.

‘Who’s the lucky girl you were dreaming about?’ Ollie asks.

I pull the tab and take a large slurp before sinking back into the sofa.

‘Pardon?’ I ask, playing for time.

‘You heard me. Do you want me to shout out the question for Wren to hear?’

‘Sophie,’ I say quietly.

‘Please tell me she’s not one of your year 9s?’

‘You’re disgusting!’ I throw a cushion at him. ‘She was my childhood sweetheart... the love of my life, really.’

‘Aw, that’s sweet! You sound like you’re in a Hallmark movie. Are you still in touch?’

‘No, I messed that up too. She refused to see me again. It was brutal.’

‘Teenage break-ups are the worst! It’s carnage in my year 12 class – Romeo and Juliet on speed. But you’ll be okay. You’re the golden boy who always lands on his feet. If you beg for forgiveness, Claire will probably get back with you.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘Why not? She’s clever, hot and funny. Plus, she finds maths geeks a massive turn-on for some bizarre reason and she’s probably open to bribery.’

‘But she’s not Sophie,’ I murmur.