Page 73 of A Class Act

‘Ah, Jess? Of course, I forget that you and she meet up at Hudson House.’

‘And,’ Mason went on, briefly touching my hand once more, ‘how you two had to be taken into care when your mum was poorly again?’

I nodded, not wanting to remember. They hadn’t been good times: on one occasion Jess and I had been split up – her sent to one set of foster parents, while I was taken, shouting for Mum and particularly for Jess, with whom I’d always shared a bedroom, to another set. I’d been so homesick, so desperate to be with my mum and my sister. Luckily Jayden had returned from some gigs in the Caribbean to rescue and care for us the best he could. During our teens, Mum’s illness appeared to go into remission, but then she was pregnant with Sorrel and went downhill again when a bout of post-natal depression took hold. I think because Jayden seemed to me, at the age of four, to have rescued me from the foster family I’d not liked, of all three of us girls I was the one to have developed more of a relationship with him. Jess and Sorrel were always in agreement that he was a waste of space and Mum was better off without him.

And like Jayden I had performing in my blood. Now Mason and this wonderful production ofGreasehad gone some way to persuading me that I could after all be up for producing a showat St Mede’s. No way could we be up and running for Christmas, but maybe, just maybe, we could be ready for Easter. Did that mean, then, despite all my protestations, I was still going to be in Beddingfield and at St Mede’s until Easter? I spent the remaining second half of the production with ideas buzzing in my brain, simultaneously trying to work out how I could take such a mammoth task on board and what direction I would take.

By the time the production had come to its conclusion and Mason and I, along with the rest of the audience, jumped to our feet to join the standing ovation, I was feeling something akin to excitement. Anticipation at any rate.

‘Can I give you a lift home?’ Mason asked as we descended the theatre steps before facing the chilly evening outside.

‘Got my car,’ I said. ‘Well, Mum’s car.’ I held up the keys as proof. ‘Actually,’ I said, and, to this day, I don’t know why, added, ‘I’m really thirsty. Do you fancy a drink?’

Mason hesitated and I thought, oh, hell, what on earth was I thinking? A supply teacher asking her head teacher out for a drink?

‘OK.’ He smiled. ‘I could murder a pint.’

We walked in embarrassed silence, across the road from the theatre and into the warmth of The Albert, a traditional pub adjacent to the town’s library.

‘I’ll get them,’ I said purposefully. ‘I invited you. And you bought the tickets.’

‘I earn more than you.’ He grinned. ‘What do you fancy? Look, there’s a couple of seats over in the corner. Go and bag them before someone else does.’

Seeing as it was after ten and there were very few other drinkers in the pub, that seemed unlikely, but I did as I was told. I took off my jacket and sat, watching as Mason got into an easy conversation with the landlord before coming over with our drinks.

I was genuinely thirsty and, so it seemed, was Mason. We drank gratefully, putting our drinks down on the table at the same time.

Now what?

‘So…’ Mason began.

‘Have you…?’

We both started talking as one and had to stop, smiling inanely at each other.

‘OK,’ I said, leaning over the table and meeting his eye, ‘I reckon we could try it.’

‘Really?’ His eyes widened in pleasure, and I thought once again what a really gorgeous-looking man he was. Easy to be with, confident in his own abilities, determined against the odds to make a success out of his school.

‘Really. Although’ – I grimaced – ‘I must be mad even contemplating it.’

‘You know, taking on the direction and production of something like this would really enhance your status with the kids at school. They all want to be stars…’

‘Or footballers.’ I smiled.

‘Or footballers,’ he agreed. ‘The thing is, it won’t just be for those who can act, dance and sing. I want this to be a whole school and community production, with all staff, as well as mums and dads, helping with stage management, making costumes.’

‘I can’t see many of these kids’ mums with a sewing machine,’ I started. ‘And how many of their dads are actually around?’

‘Don’t stereotype,’ Mason warned. ‘Don’t let your prejudices make you think our kids’ parents won’t be around for them.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ I said with a raised eyebrow. And then, because I was nosy, or because I was beginning to feel some sort of warm glow in the presence of this man, I asked, ‘So, kids? Doyouhave any?’

‘Five hundred and sixty at the last count.’ He grinned.

‘You know what I mean.’ I tutted. ‘Although that’s probably more than enough.’

‘Actually, it isn’t,’ Mason said.

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