Page 3 of The Rest is History
‘Right. I understand.’
‘Miss Nolan, the teacher whose maternity leave you would be covering, will make her A Level class notes available to you.’
He says it with a gracious incline of his head, in the manner of an aristocrat bestowing great largesse upon some wretched, toothless peasant. Still, I can’t deny it’s a huge relief to hear. I hope Miss Nolan has good notes.
‘That sounds wonderful.’ I force myself to perk up. To ingratiate myself to this pompous arse. Because this really is the job of dreams for me right now, for all manner of personal reasons which I have no intention of disclosing to Mr The-Tudors-Are-All-Mine. ‘Honestly, I’m delighted to get stuck in and teach any period that’s required.’
He eyes me suspiciously, as if perkiness is distasteful and phony.
Judging me by his own standards, I assume.
‘Why do you intend to leave’—he consults my CV—‘StMichael’s?’
‘My personal circumstances require me to be in this part of Surrey for the next year or so.’ That’s all I’m willing to say, buthe looks at me like he requires more information, so I throw him another breadcrumb. ‘It’s a family thing.’
‘I see. And will this quote unquotefamily thingdetract from your ability to focus on the job at hand?’
He rakes a hand through thick, dark hair as he does, and I’m incensed and turned on in equal parts. Damn my regressive, anti-feminist libido. Show me a good-looking guy with piercing blue eyes and floppy dark hair, and I’m a puddle on the floor.
It’s infuriating and ridiculous.
I totally blame Pierce Brosnan for hard-wiring me from an early age.
Though where the attraction to arrogant arseholes comes in, I’m less clear. Probably something I should get therapy for.
Luckily for me, my need for this job and my desire to show him his dickish attitude doesn’t intimidate me work in my favour. I cross my legs again, just to piss him off, even though the skirt of my dress falls to at least mid-calf.
‘Of course it won’t.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘It just means I need to be in the area. I’m completely focused on being present for my students and my colleagues. I really am excited about the opportunity to teach at a school like Hampton Park, Charlie.’
There it is again. That tiny frisson when I say his name. His blue eyes widen a fraction, like he can’t believe I had the nerve to call his bluff and say it.
‘Glad to hear it,’ he mutters. From his tone, I could be forgiven for thinking he’s disappointed that I haven’t voiced the probability of being a hot mess.
‘I’d imagine a school like Hampton Park would be a big culture shock after an inner-city comprehensive,’ he continues.
Oh, please. I’m pretty sure he’s suggesting I’ll be out of my depth. If anything, it’s the opposite. A guy like this, in a place like this, has no clue what it’s like to teach kids who have no hope. No role models. And certainly no real advocates. His pupilsare probably over-privileged, entitled little shits whose parents complain if the salmon at lunch isn’t of the wild Alaskan variety.
Put it this way. I’d wipe the floor with this dude at St Michael’s. He wouldn’t last five minutes. And I’m confident I can teach these posh kids in my sleep.
CHAPTER 2
Charlie
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
It’s her neck that gets me, you see.
Every. Fucking. Time.
Not the indisputable fact that she’s classically beautiful. Nor the clear green of her eyes. Not her long, straight nose. Killer figure. Or even that dark, glossy hair—hair I’d kill to wrap around my fist.
Nope.
It’s her slim, pale, swanlike neck that does me in.
The rest of it is a bonus. The rest of it I can handle. I have a perfectly natural biological reaction to physical features we’re all hard-wired to crave.
The curve of a hip.
