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TWELVE

Suzie

I fucking love laminating. There is something immensely satisfying about placing the paper in the plastic pocket and the slightly acrid smell it makes as it passes through the machine to become all glazed, shiny and wipe clean.

I don’t know why anyone would need to wipe clean the months of the year in French but maybe it’s because they’re so turned on by the standard of my laminating skills.

I laugh to myself as I think this and then realise how sad that is as this classroom is empty.

Ever since Lee told me to decorate my classroom and make it my own, I’ve thrown myself into it and let my crafting fetish loose onto the walls, my desk and basically every part of my room where I can stick something.

It felt like a project to stick my teeth into because I wanted this room to feel like my own but I also just needed distraction.

It’s been a tumultuous six months or so.

From leaving Paul to coming to London, to Mallorca to Charlie and a new job, I’ve not really come up for air.

So this is my way of finding peace and throwing all my good energy into something primary-coloured and orderly.

I go over to my stationery trolley and place a stack of biros into a pot.

As they all fall into place, I feel a shiver go down my spine, that is a good sound.

Again, it’s a little sad that that’s where I get my kicks now.

From super-hot holiday sex to fun with pens.

‘You absolute motherfrigging donkey…’ A familiar voice echoes through the wall suddenly and I jump a little.

God, it’s like he knows I’m thinking about him.

It’s not a good tone or volume but I do laugh a little at the word donkey.

My mind races – what is he talking about?

I’ve only ever used that turn of phrase for a photocopier or students.

It’s four fifteen so at least he’s not talking to actual kids.

I hear some fumbles in the room and something falling.

It doesn’t sound loud enough to be him. Maybe I’ll just leave him be.

That’s the safer option. We’ve managed to avoid each other thus far quite successfully.

The new school term has hit us both for six, which has helped us to avoid any sort of management of our relationship.

‘Seriously, I hate you…you cocking piece of…’

I go over to my door and look through the panel of glass at the top.

I see something fly out of the next-door classroom.

Was that a shoe? Don’t go out there. Stay in here where it’s safe and keep laminating, Suzie.

Colour-code the highlighters. Label your drawers.

But I ignore my own advice, open my door and edge down the corridor towards his room.

This is just me ensuring a colleague is safe.

He may have been attacked by a dictionary or something and could be bleeding out.

As I approach the room, I hear a Bluetooth speaker blasting out music and peer round the doorway to see Charlie stood on one of the desks, no shoes, trying his best to hang some Spanish flag bunting on to his ceiling tiles.

He seems to be tangled up in it like a Christmas tree and I’m not really sure how he’s achieved that.

He reaches up, revealing a slice of stomach. I shouldn’t look at that.

‘Hola, ?senor? All OK?’ I call up to him.

He sees me at the door and freezes for a moment.

I don’t know if it’s because he has a hole in the big toe of his sock or because I’m clearly struggling not to laugh.

‘It’s looking very Spanish in here,’ I say politely, looking up and around at the badly hung bunting and the massive Spanish flag that he’s hung at the back of the room, in the same way one would hang curtains in student digs.

On one wall, he’s stuck on a lot of Spanish style fans, the ones with lace that your nan would bring back from Malaga as a souvenir, a very sad-looking novelty tea towel and a picture of a Real Madrid shirt printed out on A4 paper obviously meant to give the boys of this school aspirations for how they could use the Spanish language.

‘No, it’s not. It looks like shite. Remind me to stop buying all my teacher stuff from Temu,’ he says.

I try my best to hold in my laughter. I think the sombrero on his desk may have been stolen from a Mexican restaurant.

‘Was the swearing loud?’ he apologises, dropping down from the desk he was standing on, and readjusting himself.

‘Quite loud,’ I say, putting the sombrero on. ‘I thought I’d better check to see if you were OK.’ He smiles and I panic a little. ‘Do you wear this to teach Spanish, then?’ I ask him, taking the sombrero off again.

‘Au contraire. I make the naughty kids wear it as punishment and we all laugh and point…’

‘Really?’

He shrugs. ‘No. I just thought I could hang it somewhere.’

I smile. His room is a little different to mine.

Dictionaries are piled like mountains at the front of the room, the pens, glue sticks and highlighters are all in one big box so you have to lean in and pull out what you want, like a lucky dip.

I hope there aren’t scissors in there. Around his monitor are Post-it notes with little reminders to himself about things he has to do.

I spot one that says DRINK MORE WATER. I look up at the bunting and the unevenness of the hang makes my eye twitch.

‘Your bunting is wonky,’ I point out. ‘Do you need a hand?’

‘Will the kids notice though?’ he says, a little defeated.

‘No, but I will every time I walk past this room,’ I smile. ‘Give me a minute.’ I head back to my room to get supplies and return. As I do, Charlie looks at what’s in my hands with an eyebrow raised. ‘Is that a…’

‘Stationery caddy…’ I tell him. It’s a purple storage box for all my pens, pins, glue and tape.

He’d better not be mocking this because this is one of my few sources of joy.

He’s laughing, I can tell. ‘The problem with your bunting is that you’re trying to hang it with Blu Tack.

We need…pins…’ I say holding them up into the air.

I unzip my ankle boots, take them off and climb on top of a table, hitching my midi skirt up to my knee.

He watches me curiously. ‘I’m not doing this alone. Come on…’

I smile as he steps up on top of the table opposite mine and I reach up to attach a length of string to the ceiling tiles. ‘I’m not sure if this meets with Health and Safety standards, Miss Callaghan,’ he tells me, trying to unravel bits of Spanish flag.

‘I’ve done worse. In my old school, I had to hang my own blinds once, nearly fell out of a third-floor window,’ I tell him.

He laughs, skipping across to my table to meet me.

He’s very close to me now and I’m aware of his face, just centimetres from mine.

He also has very good pores. I put two pins into his hand and he jumps back across to his table.

‘It’s already looking miles better,’ he says, fixing the strand in place and looking up.

‘Tell me honestly though, are the fans a bit naff?’ he says looking over to the wall as one of them falls off.

‘Yeah? I mean you could do an adjective word bank there? Some grammar stuff?’ I suggest.

‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘That might be a project for further down the line.’

‘Is that tea towel used?’ I ask him, looking at the slight grubbiness that’s more apparent now I’m closer up.

‘Only once or twice. But look at the front with the Madrid stuff and the bull, the flamenco, the pictures of the tapas. I want kids to come in here and immerse themselves in…’

‘Patatas bravas.’

We both look at each other and grin. It’s the lightest flicker of banter but I don’t think I can go there, not now. Instead, I look up. At least the bunting is straight. ‘I have a staple gun for that flag if you want?’

‘Now that sounds fun,’ he says, jumping off the desk. I let him follow me into my classroom and his eyes widen as he comes through the door. ‘Holy shit, seriously?’

I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud but I confess I like this part of my job – the laminating, the organising, the creativity. ‘Did you make that Eiffel Tower yourself?’

‘Out of tin foil and a Sharpie,’ I tell him. I went home and laid it out on my kitchen table. I coloured it in while I watched Korean soap operas and attached fairy lights to it for authenticity.

‘And your baguettes. They have faces?’

‘Yes. They have outfits too.’ I decorated baguettes with faces, Breton berets and gave them speech bubbles with essential phrases for giving opinions and justifications.

He stops to take it all in. If ever there was a reason to just stop any romantic interest in me, this is it, right here and now.

I am slightly unhinged and unfunny when it comes to decorating my classroom.

Half the kids won’t get it but it will keep me amused at least. I look at him and can see he’s suppressing a smile.

He wanders over to my desk and goes through my pen pot. ‘And you name your pens?’

‘Yes. It is proven that if you name your pens then it’s more likely they’ll be returned to you.’

He stops, trying to hold in his laughter. ‘Are you mocking my baguettes?’ I joke.

‘Never,’ he says, those blue eyes far too intense again. And then he exhales gently, grinning, almost as if to compose himself. He walks over and I put my staple gun in his hands, our fingers brushing momentarily. Does he feel that too? Am I imagining this?

‘I’ll remember to return this.’

‘It’s all good. Come knock whenever you need help.’

‘Will do, Suzie.’

I don’t know what we do now? Should we hug?

I don’t quite know so I put a hand out to wave to him but I put it a little too high and he comes to high-five it.

I panic and move my arm, and he ends up putting a hand to my shoulder.

We freeze, his hand resting there. I flinch but when I look up at him, I read a softness in his eyes, his hand doesn’t move.

‘Suzie…’