Page 70 of A Class Act

‘Hardly,’ I tried again, but Jess was having none of it.

‘In my opinion, take it for what it’s worth,’ she went on, squirting Pledge along every wooden surface within range, ‘Mason Donoghue knocks spots off your Bucks Barrister. And,’ she added, ‘Mason is more your tribe.’

‘Mytribe? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘You know exactly what I’m saying,’ Jess said, giving me one of her looks. ‘So don’t pretend you don’t. You go to the theatre with that gorgeous head teacher. Because, I tell you now, if you don’t,I’mdefinitely going to make a play for him, invite him here for a meal next time he’s visiting his grandmother at the home.’

‘How come his granny’s up here?’ I asked. ‘When Mason’s from the south?’

‘That’s just the sort of lovely caring man he is,’ Jess said, obviously determined to sing Mason’s praises. ‘I had a chat with him only a couple of weeks ago: his father’s working abroad, and his mother wasn’t prepared to take on the responsibility for her mother-in-law once she’d had a fall. So Mason brought her up here to Hudson House where he can visit her. I tell you, Robyn, he is one very lovely man.’

‘He’s married.’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘He is.’

‘Was.’

‘He still is. Petra said.’

‘Petra?’

‘The deputy head at school. She’s now told me she thinks he’s separated.’

‘Well, there you go, then. Don’t look a separated horse in the mouth.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You will be if you don’t go to the theatre with Mason.’ Jess turned. ‘Right, come on. Sorrel’s room. Get the bin bags.’

Despite telling both Jess and myself that I most certainlywasn’toff to the theatre with Mason and Petra, it was Sorrel who had me changing my mind about going.

‘Youcan’t,’ she said in horror. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re going out with the head teacher? On a date? No way!’

This was a red rag to a bull: ‘I most certainly am,’ I said, enjoying winding her up. She’d been particularly elusive andobnoxious this half-term holiday, staying in bed until midday, refusing to go and see Mum in hospital and sloping off, leaving the kitchen as if a bomb had hit it and not returning until the early hours of the morning. I’d tried gently reasoning with her but with little response, so reverted to wielding the metaphorical big stick with a warning that if she continued to stay out late again, I’d have social services, the police and whoever else I could think of out to find out what she was up to.

‘Oh, yes? The AA?’ she’d quipped through a mouthful of toast and jam. ‘The RSPCA? The Lifeboat Service? Ooh, probably not, seeing as how we’re around sixty miles from the nearest coastline at Blackpool.’

Well, at least her geography was on track: I’d had a fifteen-year-old in a geography GCSE class I was covering tell me: ‘Germany’s an island, miss, just off the south coast of France.’

I’d tried ignoring her, hoping that eventually she’d get through this phase relatively unscathed. Then I’d changed tack, pleading with her to tell me what the problem was and telling her that I could help her with whatever was worrying her. Before Jess had come over that morning to help clean Mum’s house, I’d actually done something I’d sworn I’d never do, and gone through her room, her bags and drawers looking for alcohol, for drugs, for weed, the contraceptive pill, for condoms, for rolls of banknotes: anything that might give me a clue what she was up to.

‘Been there, done that.’ Jess shrugged, later that afternoon when, sitting in her kitchen, I confessed to searching Sorrel’s room. ‘You don’t think I’ve not done that myself? And,’ she added, ‘I’d have read her diary if she’d had one.Andgone through her laptop, if I knew her password.’

‘Sheisalmost sixteen,’ I countered, slightly taken aback by what Jess was saying. ‘Old enough to be legally married, live apart from a parent, legally entitled to be sexually active…’

‘She’s a child, Robyn,’ Jess said, patting my arm and reaching for the kettle. ‘A vulnerable and unhappy child. Probably the same as quite a few of the kids you teach, who you appear to think are idle, bolshy, under-achieving layabouts.’

‘That about sums some of them up.’ I nodded, stung at what I saw as criticism of both my parenting and my teaching skills. ‘Not all of them, by any means. And I’m sorry if that’s the impression I’ve given you of my pupils. To be honest, I’m beginning to understand and empathise with them?—’

‘You’ve lived too long in the south, Robyn,’ Jess interrupted almost kindly. ‘With rather more privileged?—’

‘While you, Jessica,’ I interrupted in turn, ‘are on your way to becoming somewhat provincial and prejudiced. You need something to look forward to, to jolt you out of the rut you’ve got yourself into, now you’re thirty, for heaven’s sake. A Yorkshire cooking competition would do the trick nicely, I believe.’

Leaving Jess to tutt crossly, I headed back next door, going straight upstairs to the bathroom and running the full hot bath Jess said we couldn’t afford. I added a liberal dose of some of Mum’s bubble bath and climbed in, soaking for a long time while contemplating my injured knee. According to Maria, my physio, I’d not damaged the actual meniscus and, as such, it would eventually recover completely.

There was light at the end of the tunnel. I might yet find myself back dancing in the West End. My favourite fantasy scenario was that Fabian would be in the audience ofMamma Mia!, unaware not only that I’d returned to London, but that I was wowing audiences with my interpretation of Sophie, the free-spirited daughter of the protagonist, a part I’d long coveted. He was with Fish Face, of course, who’d persuaded Fabian to accompany her with the best possible box tickets. She would be leafing through the programme before turning to Fabian with a derisory chuckle, pointing out my photograph. ‘Darling,isn’t this the waitress you once had a bit of a thing for? The one Julius warned your parents was only after one thing…’ At which juncture, Fabian would snatch the programme from her, focusing on the action on stage before jumping up, startling those in the cheap seats below by yelling that he would always love me… always…

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