Page 84 of A Class Act

‘I know,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘That’s why I never asked you.’

‘So, what do you think?’ Mason asked as he folded tea towels and hung the dishcloth over the taps. Obviously house-trained.

‘About Jess? And her cooking?’

‘No, I meant about Sorrel.’ Mason raised an eyebrow.

‘I don’t know. It would be far too simplistic to think we’d rescued her from what was making her unhappy, and that everything is going to be wonderful from now on. She may have appeared fairly pliable today, but she’s no angel.’

‘She’s fifteen, Robyn. I’ve never yet come across an angelic fifteen-year-old.’ Mason laughed, holding up the kettle. ‘Can I make coffee?’

‘Sorry, of course, yes.’ I found mugs and the cafetière while Mason moved to the sink.

‘What Iwas alsoasking was what you thought about putting on a performance ofGrease.’

‘I think you’re absolutely mad.’ Any enthusiasm I might have garnered after the theatre visit last week was now beginning to wane when I thought of the hard work involved.

‘Very probably, but: “there is a pleasure sure, in being mad, which none but madmen know…”’

‘Samuel Johnson?’

‘John Dryden.’

‘Right.’

‘So?’

‘You’d never pull it off, Mason, not with the kids we have to work with at St Mede’s.’

‘You can’t see Sorrel as Sandy?’

‘Sorrel?’ I stared.

‘And you tell me Joel Sinclair can dance. Would he be up for Danny?’

‘Mason, I’ve no idea if Joel can dance. Or sing? Or act? Don’t forget, this isn’t just about dancing; you have to be able to stand up there and speak, remember lines, hold a tune. Yes, sure he can do fabulousjetésout of a room to impress Year 9, but that could be mere gymnastics. Mind you, if Peter Collinson was taking him in hand…’ I trailed off.

‘Not just for the cocaine the bastard’s addicted to, then?’

‘From what I remember of Peter Collinson, he was so arrogant he wouldn’t lower himself to teach anyone who didn’t have a great deal of talent…’ I trailed off once more, flushing slightly. ‘Sorry, that makes me sound like a total bighead, doesn’t it?’

‘You’ve answered your own question, Robyn.’ Mason grinned. ‘I reckon we’ve got our Sandy and Danny.’

‘Actually, I can just see Chardonnay Booth’s Year 9 gang as the Pink Ladies. They’re already halfway there.’ I laughed at the very thought. ‘And the T-Birds? And all the students at Rydell High…’ My eyes widened with excitement at the thought of how I’d somehow get these kids to take part.

‘There you go, then. Is that a modicum of enthusiasm?’ Mason came to join me at the ancient battered Aga where I was standing for warmth and, as he passed me a mug of coffee, I saw him hesitate. I looked across at him, taking in his height and incredibly toned arms underneath the cream cashmere sweater, before moving my eyes up to his face. Yep, this was one very handsome man, and I knew there was some connection between us other than the bloody Year 9s and this mad idea to put on a full-scale production ofGreaseby Easter.

‘Robyn?’ He put out a hand to my arm, and I felt a traitorous stirring of lust. OK, OK, I might be utterly heartbroken over Fabian, but, at the end of the day, I was a woman and here was this man – my boss – an exceptionally bloody gorgeous man about to make a pass… A pass? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robyn…

‘Could we…? D’you think…?’

This was the first time I’d seen Mason anything but totally sure of himself. In front of his staff, his kids in assembly, he was supremely confident. And yet, here, in Jess’s kitchen, I was seeing another side to him.

‘Could we…?’ Mason moved closer, but not in a creepy way. In a warm, friendly, loving way and I realised just how much I’d missed having a pair of strong male arms around me.

‘The thing is, Mason?—’

‘I know, I know.’

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