Page 14

Fuck you, Clive.

I really needed that job. Properly, massively, actually needed it. My house costs more to heat than Buckingham bloody Palace, I don’t have next month’s mortgage in the bank and I have to pay the rest of the deposit for Grace’s place at Shottsford House this term, or we forfeit the scholarship. And to have to go with my begging bowl to Clive bastard Baxendale for Grace’s residential . . . But I’ll do it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my girls.

Nothing.

So screw you, Baxendale. And screw you too, Hattie. If you’re happy with your nothing life in this nothing town with your nothing ambition, have a fucking cookie. I’m not. And I’m not seeing my girls trapped in this shithole like I’ve been. If that’s spoiling them, then I don’t give a fuck. Screw St Nonnatus, screw Flatford and SCREW EVERYONE!

I’m alone in the art cupboard, inside the main hall – it’s the only place I can get some peace. I say art cupboard – there’s hardly anything in it now – years ago we used to have coloured paper and glitter and crepe. Now Pritt Sticks have become more precious than palladium – yeah, the government can go screw itself as well. It’s just . . . It’s all just so unfair . . . AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!

In my rage, I kick what looks like a big rock, only to discover that it is in fact made from papier-maché, which promptly implodes at my feet.

‘Fuck!’ I grunt as I think of all the work I’m now going to have to do to salvage this poor kid’s prized art and make it look like they did it. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . !’

I push the door to the cupboard open to get some air – it’s stifling in here. But, as I open the door, it becomes clear I’m not alone.

‘You’ve been spending too much time with Year 1,’ comes the only voice I actually want to hear. ‘You’re picking up on their potty mouths.’

I laugh – partly because I think it’s funny. But mostly because I don’t want Ben to see me being a psychotic freak.

‘You’ve come to beg for forgiveness?’ I ask, pointing to Creepy Jesus in his hands.

Ben winces at the hideous statue.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ he says, putting it back on the table and walking towards the cupboard. ‘I noticed in assembly the other day that I glued his crown of thorns on wonkily. I was hoping to fix it before anyone noticed.’

‘Too late,’ I say, pointing to the sky. ‘The all-seeing one knows your sins.’

‘I hope that God has better things to watch than my shonky DIY,’ Ben smiles. ‘There’s The Traitors for one . . .’

‘I wasn’t talking about God,’ I whisper, moving back into the cupboard. ‘I was talking about Stitchwell.’

This time he doesn’t laugh. That probably wasn’t in the best possible taste. And I should be more careful.

‘You okay?’ he asks gently, moving into the cupboard and pulling the door to before hesitating. ‘Okay if I shut this? I’ve just read thirty-six Powerpoint slides about making female colleagues feel at ease. Here, I’ve been practising my least domineering face. How is it? Does it make you feel easier?’

He sticks out his bottom lip and widens his gorgeous eyes. He looks absurd. Absurdly hot. But absurd.

I laugh. In truth, the thought of being in this small space with Ben makes me want to be as easy as all hell.

‘You’re a natural,’ I quip. ‘And you’re right. It’s probably as well the Bumblebees don’t hear me. If you think the “clucking duck” song was bad, just wait until you hear their rendition of We’re Going on a Bear Hunt .’

This time he does laugh. We’re back. And he’s just what I need right now.

‘Having a day, are we?’ he says, leaning against the shelving and folding his toned arms. I’ve always had a thing for men’s arms. And Ben’s are, of course, perfect. Lightly tanned, muscular, strong. It mystifies me that men persist in sending unsolicited pictures of the least attractive part of their bodies. Send me a sexy forearm and you’ve got a shot. A ropey selfie of your balding Mr Snuffleupagus and you’re always going to lose out to Poldark and a couple of AAA batteries.

‘And a half,’ I say, trying to pause the soft-porn reel of what Ben could do to me in a secluded stationery cupboard with his Pritt Stick . . .

‘Anything I can do?’ he offers. He takes a step forward and a colourful range of possibilities crosses my mind. We are thrillingly close. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear coquettishly and make my eyes as big as possible. I know I shouldn’t. But I need this today. I need . . . something.

‘That depends, Andrews,’ I say, huskily I hope. ‘What else have you picked up from those PowerPoints?’

It’s meant as a joke – mostly. But it somehow reacts with the atmosphere to become an unequivocal come on.

Shit.

I’ve gone too far. He’s my boss. I’ve made it weird, shit, shit, shit . . .

But he laughs that gentle laugh, looks at the floor and then locks his eyes with mine.

‘I think the best lessons are learned through practice, don’t you?’ he says softly.

Jesus Christ.

I’m hornier than a herd of rhinos.

We stand there, frozen. No one is laughing now. We’re here. It’s that moment. The one that has been fermenting for months. One move from either of us and we go through the looking glass. I want him to cross the threshold. And I don’t trust myself not to do it. He’s looking to me for any sign of invitation, any licence to throw his bloody PowerPoint in the trash, envelop me in those sexy arms and pin me up against this shelving right now. I want him. I want him so much. Our lips move closer. Closer. So close . . .

Bollocks!

My ringtone shatters the silence and the moment. The girls love to mess with my phone and it appears they’ve been at it again. I’ll tell you this much. They never get interrupted by the Crazy Frog in Bridgerton . . .

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and groan. I feel Ben stand down. It’s probably as well. No good would have come from that.

Even if I might have.

‘Shit – it’s Taylor’s school,’ I lie, clearing my throat. ‘I’d better . . .’

‘Of course,’ he croaks with a sheepish smile. ‘You know where I am if . . . You know where I am.’

He opens the cupboard door and the harsh strip lighting of the hall casts an ugly sheen on the moment as he hurries away.

I wait until he’s out of earshot and answer the call I’ve been ignoring for days. I can’t avoid it forever.

‘Yes,’ I say stiffly.

‘Mrs Fisher?’ comes the condescending tone on the end of the line, as if he doesn’t know who he’s just phoned. ‘I hope you’re well. It’s Nigel Carter here from Savings First Bank. We’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘Congratulations,’ I sass. ‘You succeeded.’

He laughs out of his nose. ‘I trust you’re having a good day. Did you receive our letter? Or, indeed, letters?’

He deliberately over-pronounces the plural, the prick.

‘I did,’ I reply archly. ‘Which has made it increasingly difficult to have good days.’

‘Then you are aware you are in mortgage arrears?’ he says, not waiting for my response to continue. ‘Here at Savings First, we have a range of support available for any of our customers experiencing financial difficulties.’

‘Do they include not having interest rates higher than my knicker size so that working people have a decent chance of making repayments?’

Nasal Nigel laughs through his nose again. Did I mention he’s a prick?

‘I see from your file that earlier this year you took a payment holiday? And requested to be transferred to an interest-only product?’ he says, as if we don’t both know that’s the case. ‘But you have missed the past two months’ payments regardless.’

‘Look . . . it’s just been a really expensive time,’ I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘You know what it’s like – food, fuel, school fees – everything’s so expensive right now . . .’

‘School fees? You’re educating your children privately?’

Nigel leaps on my stupid tongue slip like a hungry lizard. Why did I say that . . . ?

‘Child, not children,’ I say, like that’s going to make it better. ‘And it’s just the deposit at this stage – most of it will be covered by her scholarship.’

‘Mrs Fisher,’ he says, without a hint of amusement in his nostrils, ‘you are ￡986 in arrears. If this money is not credited back to your account within fifteen days, we will have no alternative but to issue a claim for possession of property and commence court proceedings—’

‘Wait . . . what the hell?’ I shout ‘You’re going to repossess our house? We’ve not missed a single repayment in ten years before now!’

I can’t keep the panic out of my voice. Matt and I nearly killed ourselves to get the deposit together for that house – and these days we wouldn’t get near it. I thought we had the caretaker cottage coming our way, so I didn’t pay this month . . . I can’t lose my home. I just can’t.

‘We are authorised to take whatever steps are required to bring your account with us back into credit,’ he says, not one hint of sympathy in his voice.

‘Steps like throwing little girls out onto the street?’ I say dramatically. ‘Does that square your account, you heartless git?’

Nigel pauses and I hear him slowly exhale at the end of the phone.

‘At least they’ll have their education,’ he says unpleasantly. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fisher.’

The phone goes dead and I clock the time – I need to get home. I leave the papier-maché where it is and make a mental note to sort it tomorrow. Yet another mess I have to clear up.

Although, thinking about that dangerous moment with Ben . . . to be fair to Nasal Nige, that call might just have stopped me from making an even bigger one.

Grace does clubs most nights after school, so when I get home only Taylor has beaten me to it. As I switch the oven on for tea, I can hear she’s in her room with her best mates, Tilly, Jul— Sorry . . . Sebastian and Tilly. Sorry . . . Matilda. Sorry . . . Leif? The three of them have been thick as thieves since primary and they all spend more time in my house than their own. None of them have it easy – Tilly’s (screw it) mum and dad, Karl and Flo, are going through a shitty divorce after Karl left them for his colleague, the git . . . My mind flits to Ben. But that’s totally different – I haven’t done anything. Yet.

Sebastian’s mum, Leanne, is a low-level junkie/dealer who has inexplicably managed to persuade social services to let her raise her kids. Leanne came up the hard way too – we were briefly in the same care home. Which is why I have precisely zero sympathy for her. You can use your past as an accelerant or as an excuse. Mine has made me more determined to make a decent life for my kids. Leanne has used her past to justify the shitty one she gives hers. So Seb’s always hung around mine and I’ve been happy to have them. They need a safe space to be. I know I did.

‘Hi, girls!’ I chirp, walking into the council tip that serves as my teenage daughter’s bedroom. ‘Shall I get the pizza on?’

‘MUM!’ Taylor screams, whipping her phone out of sight, as if it’s not permanently glued to her appendages. ‘How many times? Bloody knock! And we’re not all girls, FFS! And Sebastian is gluten intolerant! Could you get one sentence any more wrong?’

‘Sorry,’ I say as Sebastian jumps up to give me a hug. ‘I will get my head around it. Takes this old mouth a while to learn new words.’

‘Don’t sweat it, Kier, we love you,’ says Sebastian from inside my arms. I don’t think they get very many hugs at home, so I’m happy to issue double when they’re here. And it’s not like Taylor ever wants one. ‘And, Tay – don’t be such a bitch to your mum.’

‘I really like your hair,’ I say, admiring Sebastian’s new, shorter crop. It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago I was French-braiding these three in their princess dresses. ‘And I’ve never seen this outfit before – someone’s been on a shopping spree! You won the pools?! It all really suits you.’

‘Oh my God!’ Taylor huffs. ‘Could you be any more bloody obvious? Well done, Mum. Have a medal from Stonewall—’

‘Tay!’ Sebastian chides again. ‘Thanks, . And don’t worry about the pizza – Mum said she’d cook tonight.’

I try to smile. Leanne often says she’ll cook. I’m not sure how often it actually happens. But at least she’s buying her kid some new clothes. She must have grown some sense of shame. Or upped her prices.

‘I’m in!’ Tilly pipes up. ‘Mum took the microwave off Dad because he didn’t pay for my guitar lessons. And he’s doing keto and I cannot eat any more meat.’

‘No worries,’ I say as Sebastian skips back to the girls. ‘I’ll bring it up.’

‘Thanks!’ say the two children upon whom I didn’t waste fourteen hours and a perfectly good vagina to bring them into this world.

‘Oh – and, Taylor – we need to talk about your Shakespeare coursework,’ I say, hoping that her friends’ presence will either prevent a scene or provide witnesses. ‘I got an email from Mr Geary this morning. He’s not happy . . .’

‘That’s because he’s too busy looking at porn on his phone to teach us properly,’ Taylor reports.

I hope to God this is teenage hyperbole. I don’t get a chance to ask.

‘I’ll help her!’ Sebastian chirps like a happy budgie. ‘I’m a bit of a Shakespeare geek – I love The Two Gentlemen of Verona. ’

‘You are such a nerd,’ says Taylor with a grin, throwing a cushion at her friend.

‘Better than a dropout,’ Sebastian laughs, chucking it back.

I try to smile at their bants as I back out of the room. But the truth is that Taylor is dropping out. As soon as I’ve got Gracie sorted, Taylor’s next on the hitlist. Perhaps they do a massive sibling discount at Shottsford . . .

By the time I get downstairs, Matt and Gracie are coming through the door.

‘Hey, baby!’ I cry as she runs past me on the stairs. ‘How was tap?’

‘Good!’ she calls back. ‘Got a maths test tomorrow, gotta revise, bye!’

‘There’s something wrong with that bloody kid,’ says her father with a grin. ‘Why isn’t she off smoking and snogging with the rest of the kids? No good can come of all this maths, I tell ya.’

‘Maybe if you’d spent more time on maths and less time smoking and snogging you’d have made more of yourself,’ I scoff, throwing pizzas in the oven. I wince as the words come out. That was crueller than I intended. Matt’s another one who seems happy with a small life. It was comforting when we first met. But these days? My mind drifts back to the art cupboard . . . No. Stop it, Fisher. It’s not Matt’s fault he’s not Ben. It’s not fair to punish him for it.

I turn round and give him a kiss to make amends, trying to push the thought of Ben’s arms out of my mind.

‘Mmmm,’ he says when I pull away. ‘I might not’ve been any good at Maths. But I weren’t half bad at Biology. Fancy studying later?’

‘Period,’ I lie quickly. If Matt had any actual grasp of biology, he’d know it’s been only two weeks. But his Maths really isn’t that good. ‘Sorry, babe.’

‘No worries,’ he says with an amiable smile. ‘It’s me birthday soon. Can’t wait to unwrap my pressie . . .’

He pats me gently on the bum as he goes to hang his coat up. I try not to audibly sigh. Urgh. Birthday sex. Why can’t men just be happy with an Amazon voucher and a mid-week madras? I do love Matt. I still like Matt. But I can’t often be arsed to sleep with Matt. It’s not that the sex isn’t good – far from it. Many women would be grateful to have a man who is as insatiable for them as Matt is for me – when the girls went to his mum’s in the summer, Mrs Hodgkins next door thought we were being burgled. But we’ve been together a long time and things are bound to taper off amongst the daily grind. Sex with my husband these days is like the Christmas tree on the fourth of January – it’s just not as exciting as when he first put it up.

‘I spoke to the bank today,’ I announce as he returns to the kitchen and opens a beer. ‘It’s not good.’

‘Babe . . . we can’t keep fannying around this,’ he says, taking a sip. ‘If the caretaker job ain’t there – thanks for that phone call by the way, Foghorn Leghorn, me eardrums are still ringing – it’s simple. Poshford House or the mortgage. We can’t do both.’

‘So what’s that supposed to mean?’ I snap at him for committing the crime of telling the actual truth. ‘We just chuck Grace into Flatford High and let her rot?’

‘She ain’t gonna rot – she’s a good kid,’ he says. ‘She’ll do fine anywhere.’

‘She’s going to do better at Shottsford House! You don’t understand—’

‘Yeah, I do,’ he says calmly. One of things that drives me crazy about Matt is that he never loses his temper. ‘I get that you want the best for our kid—’

‘Well done. Have the maths prize,’ I spit.

‘But that’s our job, not any bloody school’s,’ he says. ‘And killing ourselves for summit else we can’t afford is just . . .’

‘Just what?’ I shout, happy for the excuse to have a go at him. ‘Just good parenting? Just aspirational? Just makes sense?’

‘Just fucking nuts,’ he says plainly. ‘Grace is a good girl. She works hard. She’ll get to where she wants to go any road. You know that really.’

‘No, Matt! No, I don’t!’ I yell, sick of having this conversation on repeat. ‘I know that I don’t want her stuck in this dead-end town! I know that I don’t want her to go to Flatford High! I know what that place does! I sent them a good kid last time, for fuck’s sake. Look what happened there!’

‘Wow,’ comes the quiet, dark voice behind Matt.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

‘Tay . . .’ I sigh. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t . . .’

‘I was just coming to see if the pizza was ready,’ she says, a horrible, hateful sadness in her eyes. ‘But look what happened there.’

She turns round and stomps back upstairs. There’s no point in going after her. It’ll only end up in a screaming match.

‘Brilliant. Well done,’ I snarl at Matt.

‘What the bloody hell have I done?’ he asks, choking on his beer.

‘It’s fine – I’ll sort it out,’ I grumble as the oven pings. ‘Just for a change.’

I throw the pizzas onto plates and attack them with the pizza wheel.

‘Take this up to the girls . . . people . . . humans – argh!’ I shout. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

I push past him and grab my coat. I know it’s not his fault – I know it’s not anyone’s fault – but I’m sick of impossible choices. I’ve made enough lately . . .

‘Mum,’ I hear a little voice peep as I yank open the door. ‘Where are you going?’

I turn to see my little Gracie looking worried at the top of the stairs. I give her a reassuring smile and blow her a kiss.

‘I just need some air, baby,’ I say. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m in a bad mood.’

‘It’s late,’ she says nervously. ‘Don’t be long.’

‘I won’t,’ I promise, and I’m glad of the reminder. Because if it wasn’t for my Grace, right now, I’d probably just keep on walking.

I try not to slam the door as I head out into the darkness. It’s cold and drizzling and suddenly this feels like a stupid idea. I don’t want to go back in. But maybe a little drive would clear my head? I’m just figuring out how to slope back in to get the keys and keep my dignity intact when I notice a note on the windscreen. If it’s Mrs Hodgkins moaning about us not putting our bins back, I’m going to go round there and tell her where to stick her composting . . .

Shit.

It’s not Mrs Hodgkins.

The handwritten note has clearly been here for a while – the ink has started to run in the rain. Yet I can understand it perfectly. I look around in case whoever left it is nearby to relish my response. But the street is empty.

Empty except for me and this single word.

A piece of paper that simply reads:

CHEAT