32
‘This really isn’t necessary … Honestly, it’ll blow over, like you said.’
‘Roisin,’ Wendy said, in an emollient tone, ‘this isn’t a vote of No Confidence in you. It’s valuing my staff’s wellbeing. I don’t want you to have a harder time than is necessary. It’s four days. Go enjoy yourself.’ She leaned back and waved her hand. ‘Plus, your partner’s show is on again, when? That ending was a cliff-hanger, wasn’t it?’
Roisin inwardly recoiled at the casual reveal that Wendy had seen it. She’d been so ridiculously naive. SEEN had generated catchphrases and memes. Sometimes, modesty was just a posh form of stupidity.
‘Next Saturday.’
‘There may be trailers and suchlike? Are they still called trailers? TikTok is a foreign land to me.’
‘When I come back next year, won’t it be a thing that I walked out?’
‘They’re fourteen. They were raised on social media. I can promise you that in September, the discussion points of July will be like recalling The Wars of the Roses to them.’
Roisin was not wholly convinced. But it was not wise or tactful to argue with a boss being nice to her, who had obviously made up her mind.
‘OK then. Thank you.’
‘Have a lovely six-week break,’ Wendy said, standing, and Roisin followed suit. ‘Going away at all?’
‘Ah, no plans yet. Was going to paint the sitting room but couldn’t agree on a colour,’ Roisin said. They’d talked of getting a last-minute dot com deal to somewhere in Europe. Now it would be The Summer She And Joe Split.
‘Sounds relaxing. See friends, eat and drink outdoors as much as you can, paint that sitting room, and we’ll hit the ground running in the autumn,’ Wendy said.
‘Wendy,’ Roisin said, as she showed her out, ‘Were you still able to expel the pupil? The one who saw you and Neil together?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘The devious little shit got so very lucky. It would’ve looked too much like revenge, and he had the kind of vocal parents who would’ve been straight on to the local rag. Guess where he is now?’
‘Prison?’
‘A rising-star Tory MP.’
Roisin groaned.
She hoped she’d convincingly feigned being both grateful and emotionally stable as she thanked Wendy and returned to her classroom to collect her things. She carefully made no eye contact with anyone in the corridors but felt numerous sidelong glances.
Oh God; the stories that would be doing the rounds, that they showed Miss Walters a clip of her bloke’s sex show, and she fainted. It caused a whiplash of embarrassment so strong that Roisin almost wailed aloud, recalling it.
Short of the students getting hold of nudes, she struggled to imagine what could feel more exposing. The only way it would have been survivable, dignity-wise, was if she’d played Hunter off as nothing. That option was not open to her any more.
In her abandoned classroom, Roisin saw a folded piece of lined A4 on her desk. She unfolded it with trepidation, to see crude blue biro art of a spurting cock and balls with YOUR BOYFREIND (sic) written underneath it.
Roisin balled it, threw it into the bin, and aggressively stuffed her bucket bag with the necessary bits from her cupboard and drawers. She hoisted her ruby pink-streaked Calathea into her arms, its leaves partly obscuring her face in a useful way. It was the only fucking thing thriving around here, she thought.
Chin up, she marched out to her car. If anyone dared speak to her, they were liable to get twatted with a tropical plant.
Outside the school building, she strapped the Calathea into the passenger seat like a small child made of foliage, before getting in the driver side. Roisin momentarily stared in disbelief through the windscreen of her Fiat while she processed what had happened.
Compassionate leave. Wow. Mr I Don’t Need Your Drama, Roisin had written a drama that officially publicly humiliated her: nothing notional about it now.
Here she was, in a car park, four days before the end of term, unable to function as a secondary schoolteacher in an era where kids had computers in their pockets.
There was a tap at the window and Roisin startled. Amir.
She lowered the window.
‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one fucking day?’ she said. The swear word was purposely intended to shock and intimidate him. It looked like it had worked; he was momentarily wide-eyed and speechless. They were more or less off school property here, and Roisin was a long way from caring.
‘I wanted to say sorry, Miss,’ he said, appearing genuinely quite stricken. ‘I was only being funny. I didn’t mean for it to get to you like that.’ He paused and said, solicitously, ‘I hope you are alright.’
Roisin appreciated the sentiment, though Amir was unintentionally rubbing it in. It was necessary but difficult to accept a sincere apology when the distress caused wildly outweighed the offence. She had an insight into how Gina had felt after StarkersGate.
She swallowed hard and summoned up her most altruistic teacherly qualities.
‘Thank you, Amir. It’s very good of you to apologise. You have to be aware that when you’re winding me up, you’re encouraging others, who may behave much worse.’
That was reasonable code for, giving Logan Hughes that cue was like handing a chimp a shotgun, she thought.
‘I know. I’m gonna apologise in front of the class tomorrow, too,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
Roisin wouldn’t see, but on balance, she decided not to warn Amir of that. His punishment was how guilty he’d feel at being told they were getting a supply in the morning. It was unfair, but it was worlds easier to punish any pupil with a conscience.
‘Thank you,’ Roisin said.
‘I really love your lessons, Miss.’
He stuck a hand through the window for Roisin to shake, a sweetly comical moment.
Sneaking around is rather exciting and becomes a bit of an art. It was very much part of what made it electrifying.
It was only as Roisin was sat gridlocked near Congleton, staring morosely at a bubble-gum pink BMW Z4 with a 100% THAT BITCH bumper sticker, replaying the conversation, that the thought came to Roisin.
Was there more than one reason why Wendy Copeland told her that story?
Of course, if you play the odds, sooner or later, you lose.