Page 2 of Love Beyond Repair
“Your personal life is your own until it affects the school. Your behavior concerns me… and some parents.” I wince. “This image was shared around the PTA group by Sunday evening. I had no option but to investigate. One wrong move is all it takes to…”
I have no words, and he doesn’t need to say any more. The outcome of this meeting is obvious. Now I know what Ben and I did on Saturday night. We ruined my career.
His face softens slightly when he sees the distress in my eyes.
“I’m sure you can understand that I must take this information seriously. I’d suggest you take some time to consider your life choices.” He takes a deep breath. “Therefore, with immediate effect, you’re suspended from your post. Please hand in your pass and any sensitive files to Cynthia. There will be a full investigation into your conduct before any further action is taken. Your classroom is currently empty. Please clear out any belongings you require for the time being. You’ll be paid in full during this time.”
He stands, and it’s obvious the meeting is over. There’s nothing more to say. Jumping out of my seat, I bolt for the door, holding back the tears about to fall. Cynthia gives me a snide smile.
“See you later… maybe,” she purrs, enjoying the drama. No doubt she’ll regale her friends around the water cooler later.
I run down the long corridor back to my classroom, past the paintings of previous headmasters and key figures, andbeyond the bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. Four centuries of history watching silently as I throw my career into a bin marked ‘self-destruction.’
When I arrive at my classroom, it feels tiny, like all the walls are closing in. I throw what I can get my hands on into a waiting cardboard box. My colleagues knew this was going to happen. Someone was trying to be helpful—or twist the knife.
I sit behind my desk with my head in my hands and let the tears fall. Being a teacher is the best part of me. It’s the area of my life where I feel alive and strong. Desolation washes over me at the idea of entering a completely unknown stage, one where I need to get myself sorted out. Back on the straight and narrow.
There’s a rattle on my door, and Max, my colleague, pops his head around it. He hesitates before stepping inside. Of course it’s him. Even after what I said earlier, after the look on his face when I told him I couldn’t remember another Saturday night.
“Can I come in?” he asks gently. I nod, already softening. Max has always shown up for me, even when I make it hard.
“Of course. But I’m just leaving.” I gesture to the seat across from me.
“Bex, what’s going on? I heard your classes were covered. What are you doing here? I assumed you were at a training course or something. Then I saw your door open.” Theconcern on his face is obvious as he watches me. What does he know?
“You haven’t seen the photo?”
He shakes his head, but avoids my eyes, guilt written all over his face.
“No, but I heard about it. The PTA is up in arms.”
“Do you know who did this? You would tell me if you did, wouldn’t you?”
He doesn’t respond but his expression suggests that he’s warring with himself about what to say. I look at him pointedly, the stress of the past hour peaking. I push down the venom; he doesn’t deserve it. I’ve brought this on myself.
“You always do this,” he murmurs. “Burn what you have to the ground, then wonder why you’re standing in ashes.”
“So, you won’t tell me?” I snap, ignoring the comment and focusing on my own pity party. Fury bubbles at being left out of the loop. He knows more but isn’t saying. I know it.
“There’s nothing to tell.” He rises from his seat, leans in, and kisses my cheek. The warmth is fleeting but much needed. “I’m here if you need me,” he whispers, and just like that, he’s gone.
Back in my dingy little apartment, I sit in silence, looking around the cramped space and taking in the terrible, dated design. The cardboard box containing my life as a teacher sits on the kitchen countertop between the openbottle of wine and an enormous bar of chocolate. It’s 11:00 am and I’m on my second glass of Pinot Grigio.
Saturday night, alcohol cost me everything.
And still, I pour the wine.
Chapter two
Ben
Being an oncology consultant is a high-pressure job. Living with stress is something I’ve become accustomed to. Today’s stress, however, isn’t because of a patient with an inoperable tumor. My stress levels are through the roof because of the choices I’ve made. It’s my own fucking fault.
Sitting at my wide mahogany desk, drowning in patient files, I let my hands cradle my head as I rerun Saturday night. My slightly too-long hair flops over my forehead.
Even my hair is pissing me off today.
My friend Terry’s birthday always ends messily. Booze flows freely. The mood is always high. Usually, it’s a night Ilook forward to. One of the main events when I can let my hair down and be myself around the people I trust most.
