Page 17

I am so bloody furious there’s no way I can go back to class. The Tigers are learning about the suffragettes and no one wants to hear my opinion on men right now. I storm through the corridors, trying not to hit anything or anyone. That man is fucking evil. Who takes pleasure in denying a little girl a school trip? What is wrong with him? What have I ever done to him? Apart from the odd petition, constant denigration and maybe, just maybe, when I was pissed at last year’s staff Christmas party, slipping an anonymous photocopy of my arse on his desk?

I’m so enraged I storm round a corner . . . and slam square into Ben.

‘Er . . . no running in the corridors, Mrs Fisher,’ he chides, holding my shoulders to help me regain my balance after rebounding off his astonishingly solid chest. ‘You’re lucky we’re not doing mauvais points any more . . .’

One look at my face informs him I’m not playing today.

‘?’ he says softly, his face full of concern. ‘Are you okay? Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about last week. I’m so sorry if I—’

‘It’s Clive,’ I interrupt. ‘He’s rejected Gracie’s application for the Year 6 residential and I’ve got no idea how I’m going to . . .’

I stop. I can feel the heat of tears and I’m not doing this in front of Ben.

‘Hey,’ he says softly. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

‘I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna bloody kill him,’ I rage.

‘Well, that’s a lot of mauvais points,’ he smiles. I feel myself softening. That smile . . . ‘And listen – Clive doesn’t have the final word on all these things. Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

I melt into his concerned, caring face.

‘Really?’ I ask him.

‘Really,’ he confirms with a wink. ‘But I need you on playground duty. Khadija and Anya have started a chapter of Women’s Lib, which largely involves imprisoning the boys under the climbing frame for their contribution to the patriarchy . . .’

I laugh. But then I think of that note.

CHEAT

Someone’s watching me. I have to be careful.

‘On my way,’ I say as Marcia rushes towards us. The way that woman covers ground is astonishing. But maybe not surprising in a former parkour champion.

‘Oh God,’ says Ben. ‘Ofsted?’

‘Stand down,’ she smiles.

‘Thank Christ,’ Ben sighs. Ofsted is the tax audit, or megapixel camera, or eighties TV presenter of the education world. Not something you ever want looking at you too closely.

‘ – it’s you I’m looking for,’ she says kindly as Ben takes a quiet step backwards. ‘I’ve got a phone call for you.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Marcia – I forgot my mobile at home. If it’s Matt asking what to get for dinner, tell him it’s Fridge Surprise tonight.’

‘No,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’s Lucy Ellis from Flatford High.’

Shit. The head. Taylor.

‘You go,’ says Ben before I even have to ask. ‘I’ll go and liberate the lads. I hope everything’s okay.’

I’m already racing towards the office before he can finish.

‘Hello?’ I say quickly as I snatch up the office phone. Calls from the school are never good. Especially from Taylor’s.

‘Hello, Mrs Fisher – Mrs Ellis here, Taylor is fine,’ says the Flatford High headteacher smoothly. She must make this call twenty times a day – she’s a pro.

‘Phew!’ I say with faux relief. If she’s physically fine, that means something else is wrong. Secondary schools rarely call with good news.

‘I’m afraid to say there’s been a bullying incident,’ she says. ‘We’re going to need you to come and collect Taylor.’

‘Shit – sorry – I mean, oh my God – is she okay?’ I garble.

‘As I said, she’s fine,’ Mrs Ellis reassures. ‘But I’m going to need you or your husband to come in.’

‘Of course,’ I say obediently. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes – leaving now.’

‘Drive safely,’ she says, reminding me that Matt has the bloody car today. ‘We’ll see you shortly.’

I race through the drizzle to Flatford High School, another institution in which it feels like I’ve been imprisoned for a lifetime. St Nonnatus has at least tried to modernise in the past twenty years – FHS doesn’t even pretend. It knows that no one from here will ever amount to anything, so there’s little point in investing in either its buildings or its students. To say it’s a bog-standard comprehensive would be deeply unfair to a lot of bogs.

I desperately didn’t want Taylor to come here. I tried to prep her for the 11+ so she could go to Westmouth Grammar. But she didn’t get in, even after I appealed. Tay doesn’t haven’t Grace’s artistic talents, isn’t sporty and has the musical sense of a spoon, so a scholarship to Shottsford House wasn’t an option. When she started here, she was in all the top sets, winning prizes and doing really well. Every day I looked forward to her bringing home some certificate or accolade. Now I just pray she doesn’t bring home a positive pregnancy test or crabs. I only managed to avoid one . . .

But if she’s being bullied, maybe that’s why she’s being so difficult? Hurt people hurt people, right? And you can bet your ass I’m going to hurt whoever’s been hurting my little girl. Because somewhere, underneath the acne and attitude, I know she’s still there. My Tayta Tot. My baby girl. Empty nesters bemoan their kids leaving home, but the truth is you lose them long before they leave. Screens. Friends. Crushes. Shopping centres. There are any number of things competing for your teens’ attention, and they have one helluva marketing campaign. I remember wishing when she was tiny that she’d let me have a moment’s peace. And now I’d give anything for her to demand I take her to the park, or that I watch her favourite show, or we make cupcakes together.

Although it is quite nice having a wee by myself.

I wind easily through the school’s nondescript corridors to the head’s office – the layout also hasn’t changed in twenty years, so I can find the route on autopilot. I knock, but the door is ajar and I can see Taylor sitting in one of the chairs with her arms crossed defiantly. She’s putting on her game face – she gets that from me – but her eyeliner is smudged. She’s been crying. A woman around my age is sitting across the room with what must be her son. They both look rough as fifty bears. Life has given me every excuse to look and act like crap, so I have no time for anyone else not making the effort. The woman’s barely got dressed and her son’s uniform is filthy. So that’s the little shit, is it? Brace yourself, sunshine. You picked on the wrong kid.

‘Mrs Fisher, thank you for coming,’ says Mrs Ellis, gesturing to the empty chair. ‘Do have a seat . . .’

Vicky Pollard is straight off her chair and in my face.

‘WHAT THE HELL’S YOUR LITTLE SLAG DOING MAKING UP SHIT ABOUT MY NATE?’ she yells, jabbing her finger in my chest.

I’ve been told a few times that I have an anger problem. I don’t have any problems with my anger.

But this bitch is about to.

‘Get your hands off me,’ I snarl, pushing her away. I lived a lot of places growing up and evolution teaches you to fight back pretty fast. ‘And you say one more thing about my daughter and you’ll be eating your dinner through a straw.’

‘Don’t you fucking freaten my mum!’ says darling Nate, knocking back his chair and getting right up in my grill. ‘Someone needs to teach you and your gobby slut to keep your filthy mouths shut!’

‘You touch her, we’ll end you both!’ Taylor screams, lunging at him.

It’s not really the time nor place.

But kinda nice to note that my daughter still wants to do something with me.

‘Everyone! Enough!’ Mrs Ellis barks. ‘Any more of that language or behaviour and I will be calling the police!’

This isn’t the first of these situations she’s dealt with in this school, so I know she means it – Marie Tintell spent a night in the cells after laying out Jason Forbes’s dad in the car park over his son’s Instagram posts. This rough bint isn’t worth it.

And the last thing I need right now is attention from the police.

I stare Vicky Pollard down and wait for her to back off. I’m not going to start a fight. But I’m not ending it either. She curls her lip at me and drops back into her chair, pulling her son with her. I smile reassuringly at Taylor and we both take our seats.

‘Now,’ says Mrs Ellis with a calming breath, ‘there has been a serious breach of the school’s anti-bullying rules and we are all here to try to find a constructive way forward.’

Pollard scoffs, but I don’t take the bait. Let her look like an arse. By the time I’m done here, her Nate’s going to be out of this school faster than you can say, ‘Do you want fries with that?’

Mrs Ellis draws a breath.

‘As everyone is aware, we have recently had to amend our bullying policy to include cyber activity, such is the extent of the challenges we are facing from unacceptable behaviour online.’

I give Nate a look that could set concrete. I hope he understands it. It’s saying, ‘Anything you’ve sent a picture of to my child does not leave this building with you today.’

‘We keep impressing upon our students that not only is anything posted online subject to the same laws around defamation and slander as any other media,’ Mrs Ellis continues, ‘but that the impression left by these words – technically and emotionally – is entirely indelible.’

‘She’s a fucking liar!’ Nate’s mum rages again, pointing at Taylor. ‘My boy ain’t done nuffin!’

‘Wind your neck in,’ I tell her, ‘or I’ll do it for you.’

‘Both of you!’ Mrs Ellis snaps in a cautionary tone. ‘Final warning.’

Vicky Pollard gets back in her box. I look over at Taylor. She’s staring doggedly forward. She gets that move from me too. What has this shitbag done to her? I admire her standing up to him, but why didn’t she tell me?

Mrs Ellis pulls out a phone and places it on the desk. It’s Taylor’s . . . Why?

‘We have been investigating a social media account that goes by the name of “Themis”,’ Mrs Ellis continues. ‘It has been broadcasting incendiary allegations about a number of students and staff and has caused a great deal of upset.’

Oh shit. Themis. I’ve heard about this. Lots of people are talking about it, even kids at St Nonn’s. And this rancid chav has been posting about my girl?

This is serious. Enough already.

‘What the hell did you say?’ I spit at him. ‘Because I will come after you with the police, lawyers, Satan incarnate himself if you’ve been—’

‘Mrs Fisher,’ Mrs Ellis speaks over me, ‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood. Taylor is not the victim here. Nathan is.’

But . . . what . . . ? I look at Taylor, who is still refusing to turn my way. But it’s a red rag to Vicky Pollard.

‘Yeah – that shut you up, dinnit, you mouthy cow!’ she rants. ‘Your little tart has been saying that my boy’s been taking pictures of all the girls’ fannies—’

‘“Upskirting” is the term, Ms Roberts . . .’ Mrs Ellis interjects.

‘Yeah, well, whatever – he ain’t done it. My Nate’s a good boy. He’s got a trial with Easthampton Rovers – he’s gonna be in the Premiership; he’s going places. And this shit sticks! The club saw the post and called him in! He ain’t done nuffin!’

Taylor mutters something quietly. I’m sitting next to her and even I can’t hear it.

‘You have something to say, Taylor?’ Mrs Ellis asks firmly.

‘Tay?’ I ask.

Taylor looks hatefully at Nate.

‘I said,’ she growls, ‘yes he has. He’s been upskirting all of us. He doesn’t even try to hide it. He even comes into the girls’ toilets – says he’s a “tranny” like Seb and no one can stop him – then he takes pictures under the cubicle doors. It’s disgusting.’

‘You little perv!’ I hiss at Nate.

‘He ain’t no perv!’ his mum screams. ‘Your girl’s a lying little—’

‘Taylor, this is a very serious accusation,’ Mrs Ellis shouts over us all. ‘Why haven’t you raised it through official channels?’

‘Because what’s the point?’ Taylor shouts back, raising her hands. ‘What did you do when we complained that Kyle kept showing us all his dick? Or when we tried to tell you that Mr Falston keeps staring at our tits? Or when Ryan Smith told Olivia Jacobs that he’d post naked deepfakes of her online unless she sucked him off! We have told you all of this! No one DOES ANYTHING!’

I still can’t speak. I’m Taylor twenty years ago. In this school. In this state. How has nothing changed?

‘Taylor, none of these allegations have been proven and I can assure you that I would have treated them with the utmost gravity if they had,’ Mrs Ellis says. ‘But what we are discussing right now are the damaging claims made on Themis. And Ms Roberts has reason to believe that you are responsible for them.’

‘They all know it’s her,’ Nate’s mum chimes in. ‘She and her freak mates . . .’

I look to my daughter for clues. Taylor holds her nerve, but I can see her fingers trembling.

‘And so, Taylor, now your mother is here, I’m going to ask you formally,’ Mrs Ellis says quietly. ‘Are you responsible for Themis?’

There is a long, long pause. I try to hold her hand, but she snatches her fingers out the way.

‘No,’ says Taylor quietly.

‘What a crock of shit!’ Mother of the Year pipes up. ‘Prove it! Unlock her phone! Make her show us what’s on there!’

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if Taylor is innocent. And if she isn’t I sure as hell don’t want it played out in this room. What should I do . . . ?

‘Fine,’ Taylor shoots back suddenly, taking the decision away from me. She’s looking Nate’s mum straight in the eye. ‘I will.’

‘Thank you, Taylor,’ says Mrs Ellis, sounding relieved. ‘I’m sure that’s the most efficient way of clearing all this—’

‘But only if Nate shows us all what’s in his photo library.’

Vicky Pollard looks at her beloved son triumphantly. But it’s a short victory.

Because Nate looks like he’s going to crap himself.

And there it is. The little creep.

There is a stand-off that would make a spaghetti western weep. I don’t know if Taylor is Themis or not.

But I’m not sure I’ve ever been prouder of her.

‘Just leave it, Mum,’ Nate mutters eventually, standing up. ‘Let’s get out of here. She’s not worth it. She’s just a psycho lezzer.’

‘No, I’m not,’ says Taylor, a treacherous tear leaking down her face. ‘You’re a sick, predatory arsehole. And I hope you get what’s coming to you.’

‘Whatever . . .’

Nate walks towards the door, leaving his mum as lost for words as I am.

‘So . . . am I to understand that you are withdrawing your complaint against Taylor?’ Mrs Ellis asks her.

‘S’pose,’ she replies, dragging herself towards the door. ‘But you stay the fuck away from my boy.’

‘You tell him to stay the fuck away from our bodies,’ Taylor shoots back.

‘Before you all leave,’ Mrs Ellis says in a tone and at a volume that gives none of us a choice, ‘let me be abundantly clear. If all parties are agreed, we will leave this here. But if I catch wind of any of the behaviour discussed in this room today, the perpetrators will face immediate exclusion and I will be referring them to the police. Do you understand?’

No one says a word.

‘Do. You. Understand?’ Mrs Ellis barks.

‘Yes, miss,’ Taylor and Nate both mutter back.

‘Good,’ she replies. ‘I suggest you both go home now and regroup – I’ll see you at school tomorrow.’

We all walk out of the office, but I instinctively hang back. I’d go there with Roberts. But I don’t have the energy today. We eventually get outside and Taylor starts to stride off towards home.

‘Hey!’ I say, practically jogging to catch up with her. ‘I think we need to talk, don’t you?’

‘Leave me alone!’ Taylor shouts back, freely crying now.

‘Taylor! Tay!’ I shout after her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this? How long has this been going on? Is it you? Are you Themis?’

This stops her in her tracks. She turns to me, her face a blotchy collage of burning rage and liquid eyeliner.

‘And what if I am?’ she says. ‘What do you care?’

‘What does that mean?’ I ask her. ‘Of course I care! I care if you’re getting hurt! I care if you’re getting in trouble! I care if—’

‘Oh, please,’ she says bitterly. ‘You don’t care about me! No one does . . .’

‘How can you say that!’ I shout after her, my own tears starting to flow. ‘You’re my Tayta Tot! You’re my baby girl! You’re my greatest joy!’

‘You mean I’m your biggest mistake!’ she shouts back at me. ‘I’m the reason you’re stuck in this stupid town in your stupid job with your stupid husband! I’m the kid you never wanted! And I’m why you never got the life you wanted! That’s what you think!’

‘Tay . . . no,’ I beg her. ‘You’ve got it all wrong! You’re everything . . .’

She stares at me with a hatred I never thought my own flesh could produce.

‘No I’m not,’ she spits. ‘I’m not Grace.’

And, with that, she spins on her heel and storms away.

I chase around Flatford for hours trying to find Taylor. But, if you want to, it’s possible to hide, even in this small town. By the time I get back to St Nonn’s, the school is deserted, everyone long gone. I head straight for Ben’s office. I know he’ll still be there – he works crazy hours.

‘Hi,’ I say, knocking softly on the door. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been gone all day . . .’

‘Don’t even think on it,’ he says, jumping up to greet me. ‘What happened? Are you okay? Is Taylor okay?’

I take one look into his worried face. And I burst into tears.

The whole sorry saga comes dribbling out in a snotty soliloquy, my heart spilling into his office and his Kleenex. Eventually, my words exhausted, I breathlessly start to pull myself together. This is mortifying.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I sniff. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’

‘Hey,’ he says softly, handing over another tissue. ‘Hey – it’s okay. No need to be embarrassed. I’ve had a few good sobs in this place myself over the past few months, believe me.’

‘I bet,’ I sob harder, trying to steady my breath. ‘The break-up must have been so hard.’

‘Christ, I don’t even have time to cry about Elena,’ he says. ‘Have you tried to talk to Hattie about the sugar content of her treacle tart? The menace that woman can convey with a garlic crusher . . .’

I laugh and the emotional pressure valve is released. I dab at my eyes and hope that my mascara hasn’t run. I’ve been putting more effort into my make-up lately. I don’t want to blow it all now.

‘Look,’ he says, coming round the desk and perching in front of me. Christ, he smells so good. ‘I wish I could take it all away for you, . But let me at least help with one thing. I have been looking into my headteacher’s discretionary funds. Grace won’t miss out on the residential. Not on my watch.’

I go to argue with him, to say I don’t need it. But I do. Grace does. Hattie keeps saying I need to accept help. And this time I really do. So instead I start to cry again.

‘That’s . . . You’re . . . Ben, I . . .’ I stutter, new tears breaking loose.

‘Oh, ,’ he says, standing up and pulling me into a hug. ‘Come on, now. It’s all going to be okay, I promise.’

He wraps those strong, gorgeous arms around me and it’s the first time I’ve felt safe in I don’t know how long. Something about the way my small frame fits inside his broad one, something about the way he’s holding my head so gently, yet so protectively, something . . . something primal takes hold. This man is going to take care of me. And Christ knows I need it.

We stand there for I don’t know how long, until the hand that has been supporting my head starts to gently stroke my hair. It feels tender and loving and . . . oh, so goddamn sexy. I daren’t move. I don’t want to break the moment. I don’t want him to stop. I want to go through the looking glass . . .

‘Is this okay?’ he whispers, and I nod my head against his chest. I unfurl the arms I’ve been crossing against myself and gently wrap them round him, slowly pulling our bodies into alignment. My contours start to mould into his and I feel every part of our bodies connect. Our arms. Our chests. Our hips . . .

Christ on a bicycle!

The man’s harder than a Russian Wordle . . .

I peel my head away from his chest and look up into his face. I must be a mess – but his eyes don’t say so. He smiles down at me and rubs his thumb gently along each cheekbone, wiping away my tears.

It’s so beautifully intimate.

It’s so fucking hot.

The thumb travels down my cheek, tracing the side of my face until it reaches my mouth. He runs it lightly over my bottom lip and it’s the sexiest thing any man has done since Mr Darcy fancied a quick dip. I open my mouth, drawing his thumb between my lips so I can flick it lightly with my tongue and graze it with my teeth . . .

‘Ow!’ he gasps, drawing it away sharply.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry – what did I do?’ I panic. Am I that out of practice? Did I bite him?

He pulls the thumb to his own mouth and sucks it with a smile.

‘Paper cut,’ he laughs softly. ‘I was helping the Ladybirds make paper chains today.’

We look at each other.

And burst out laughing.

It’s actually a relief. We might be heading for Wonderland.

But we’re still and Ben.

We let the laughter run its course before the tension beneath it pulls taut again. He looks at me with a smile.

‘So. What now?’ he whispers.

He’s putting the ball in my court. He’s offering me the choice. He’s giving me the way out.

And I know what to do.

I touch his arm.

I walk towards his door.

And I turn the key in his lock.

I move to go to him, but his eager steps have already devoured the space between us and I’m back in his arms in two seconds. I tilt my head up to him – our eyes lock again . . . and then he meets my lips with a kiss that I thought only existed in the movies.

By Christ I’ve missed kissing. I mean real, proper snogging. Like matching underwear and morning breath protocols, kissing doesn’t survive long-term love. I love it. It is the bruschetta of the sexual menu – if the chef can make something this exquisite for a starter, you know you’re in for a great main course. And based on this I’m ordering the chateaubriand. Ben’s kiss is passionate and longing and feels so good . . .

Shit.

I had tuna for lunch.

What if I have Billingsgate breath?

Would it be weird to ask him for a Smint?

But if he’s bothered he’s not showing it. Our kissing is ferocious now, but his lips instinctively mirror mine in every movement, our mouths hungrily melding as his hands explore my curves, running beneath my right thigh before he pulls my leg with sexy urgency round his hip, pressing himself closer into me. I have never wanted anything as much as I want this man right now.

Except maybe that Smint.

He tears his mouth from mine and starts kissing the length of my neck. Oh holy Jesus. My neck is the undisputed most erogenous part of my body. Nigel Farage could nuzzle it and I’d go back and vote for Brexit. Foreplay with Matt these days is a bag of chips and a power cut, but this . . . this is truly electric. I throw my head back and moan as Ben’s mouth works its way down me, kissing and nibbling gently along my collar bone, his fingers starting to work the buttons of my blouse as he pulls it off my shoulders . . .

Oh crap.

What bra am I wearing today?

Not that it makes much difference. All my underwear is older than the cast of High School Musical .

Bugger, it’s a really shitty skin-tone one. I picked it because it doesn’t show through my white blouse, but it’s the colour of cold tea and . . .

All right, then.

He’s taking it off anyway.

I feel his hands work at the clasp. It feels so good to have his fingers on parts of my body that can’t wait to surrender their secrets to him . . .

‘Er . . . it’s a bit stiff,’ I tell him as he struggles with the ancient hooks.

‘You’re telling me,’ he whispers sexily in my ear, demonstrating his point with a gentle nudge of his pelvis. I feel like I should be doing something – he’s putting in most of the leg work here. So I start on the buttons of his shirt, kissing the bronzed, smooth skin revealed with every button. I yank the shirt out of his trousers and run my fingers lightly around his waistband, eliciting a soft moan as he continues to work at my bra. I pull the shirt off his shoulders – but between him still struggling with my bra clasp and my having neglected the buttons on his cuffs, we end up slightly . . . stuck.

‘Seriously – is there a passcode or something?’ he asks with a smile in his voice as we stand there clumsily intertwined. I giggle softly, reach behind my back and unclasp it in a single motion as he takes off his shirt.

Dear God, the man is gorgeous.

Buff, muscular, tanned.

I’m going to have sex with the Highlands answer to the Hemsworths.

I’m living my best Bridgerton life.

He gently peels off my bra straps and steps back to look at me. I suddenly feel shy. Other than my doctor and our window-cleaner, no man except Matt has seen my boobs since my twenties. And, frankly, they’re not quite where I left them. Two pregnancies and thirty-four years on the clock haven’t been kind. What was once at quarter past three is now more like twenty-five past five . . .

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he gasps. And for a moment I believe him. He reaches out to me again, slowly this time, and scoops my head back to his for a kiss that could make a girl see God. Our naked chests graze against one another, denoting the point of no return. The looking glass is now the rear-view mirror. His fingers move gently down from my shoulders and . . .

Oh thank God.

Finally.

A man who understands that female nipples don’t function like an X-box controller.

Our kissing is becoming more urgent again and his hands travel down my spine until he has swept me up and is carrying me towards his desk, my legs wrapped round his. We kiss tenderly until he places me down and . . .

‘Jesus!’ I shriek as something very cold bites the back of my thigh.

‘What? What is it? You okay? Did I do something wrong?’ Ben gabbles in a panic.

I snort. And remove his stapler from my left bum cheek.

We laugh again. This is how sex should be. Intimate and sexy and funny and . . .

‘I’d better just move these spreadsheets,’ he says, pulling a file out from under my other buttock. ‘Oh – and this health-and-safety stuff . . .’

He starts clearing his desk and I hover there awkwardly.

Okay. This isn’t how they do it on Bridgerton .

We smile shyly and he starts kissing me again. He’s so damn good I briefly wonder how many women he’s been with. I mucked around a bit as a kid, but I’ve only actually slept with three men. Barney Johnson at the Year 11 prom, Taylor’s dad and Matt. And it sure wasn’t like this with any of them.

Oh God.

He’s pulling down my trousers. We’re moving to DEFCON 1.

I return the gesture, unbuckling his belt and easing my fingers under the elastic of his boxers. I – carefully – pull them down his legs and oh my God the man is . . .

‘Shoes,’ he whispers, his pants and trousers now around his knees. ‘I need to take my shoes off.’

‘Me too,’ I giggle, my own trousers stuck round my hips. We both tend to the practical matter of removing our own footwear. And I can now confirm that there is no sexy way to take off your shoes.

This is also not how they do it on Bridgerton .

We both pull off our shoes and socks (why the hell aren’t I wearing sexy hold-ups or something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting changed for PE?) and we stand in front of each other. Ben is totally naked, thank the Lord – I am one pair of knickers away from divorce proceedings.

Ben puts his hand on the small of my back and draws me to him again. He leans his forehead on mine and whispers down to me.

‘Do we need anything?’ he asks.

I look seductively south.

‘I think you’ve got it covered,’ I husk back at him. He laughs his soft, sexy laugh.

‘I mean . . . do we need protection?’ he qualifies.

For some weird reason, my mind goes straight to the yellow ponchos we have to wear when cleaning up puke. It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about contraception.

‘Oh – I’m on the pill,’ I tell him. This feels like an awkwardly administrative conversation to have topless. ‘And . . . I don’t have . . . anything. Nasty, I mean. Unless you count the occasional bout of thrush, but that’s more of a Lycra thing . . .’

What the . . . SHUT UP, KIERA!

‘Okay,’ he smiles with no small relief. He gently leans me back against the desk and his fingers hook into my knickers. He pushes them down my legs, dropping to his knees to follow their course, as he kisses his way down my belly and . . .

Shit, shit, shit!

When was the last time I had a bikini wax?!

I remember the beauty therapist was pregnant . . .

And I think her kid just started nursery.

Oh Christ.

I must look like Cousin Itt doing a handstand.

But, again, if it bothers Ben he doesn’t show it. And several of the most erotic, orgasmic minutes of my life follow. When I’m so turned on I’m not sure I can stand, Ben stands back up, pulls my leg around his hip again and looks deep into my eyes . . .

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, running the thumb over my cheek again.

I nod. I am incapable of human speech.

I just want him to . . .

Oh.

Oh my God.

Ohhhhhhhh.

Holy Jesus and all the saints in heaven . . .

Now this . . .

This is exactly how they do it on Bridgerton .

PARENTCHAT

Clearer Community Communication

ST NONNATUS CE PRIMARY

Ora et labora

Year 6 Tiger Class

click here for group info

Thursday 17 Nov

14.24

Stella

Hello everyone.

I just wanted to say. . .

It was so lovely to see so many of you at the interfaith community group this morning.

Really appreciate your time and donations.

They’ll make a real difference.

Tanya

Absolute pleasure.

Priya

Really enjoyed it.

You’re doing some incredible work.

Al

Sorry I couldn’t make it.

My sitter’s aunt died.

Again.

Sharon

Lovely morning, darlin.

Nice to meet some new faces.

Zofia

Loved it.

And I’ll get those Polish children’s books to you.

Annie

I’ve got a bag of clothes that Sasha has hardly worn.

Karl

And I’m talking to my work about donating kitchen equipment.

Karen

I’ve already spoken to our rabbi – he’s happy to host the group at the synagogue when the church roof is being repaired.

Stella

This is all wonderful, thank you so much.

And I was just wondering?

Does anyone have some orange socks William could borrow for tomorrow?