A Little Crushed (10 page)

For one too long moment, he studied her. “You really don’t like me, do you? No.” He held up his hand. “Don’t bother answering that. It doesn’t matter. I thought, perhaps, it was your stubborn pride, but it goes much deeper. I had hoped—forget it. I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation.”

“That makes two of us. Just for the record, it isn’t that I don’t like you. You are not important enough for me to like or dislike.”

“Is that so?”

The anger blazing in his eyes stripped her of all bravado. He looked as if he wanted to strike her.

“Okay. If that is how you want to play it. I feel sorry for you, Miss Harding and for all you have been through, but I will not put up with this any longer. Now you listen to how things are going to be. My responsibility as a teacher is to get you through this English course for the next year, and that I will do. What I will not do is tolerate infantile behaviour. Believe me, I will have no qualms about throwing you out of my class. You may be the brightest pupil in this school, but you really do need to grow up. It’s a shame because I believe under that rhino hide, you are a nice person. Good afternoon.” Straightening his tie, expression thunderous, he spun on his heel and walked to the door. He pushed at it so hard with both hands it swung back and crashed against the wall.

Trembling from head to foot, Rebecca leaned against the shelves of books and squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to cry. Why was it he always managed to make her feel so bad? She took a deep breath. Her temples pounded again. A thousand fingers clawed at her insides. A vision of her father’s face danced in her head. He’d be so ashamed of her.
She
was ashamed of her.

The bell rang, jerking her back to reality. Staving off the tears, she grabbed her bag and left the library. She groaned. She’d forgotten how close the staffroom was. Tired of confrontation, she didn’t want to be caught dawdling.

The coast was clear. Tiptoeing past the door, she was just about to congratulate herself on an expedient getaway, when Miss Holmes’s high-pitched laughter oozed through the walls. Rebecca stopped dead, curiosity overcoming her desire to get to maths on time. It was the general opinion that Miss Holmes was a man-eater, desperate to get her claws into any available man, or so Emma had told her. Usually Rebecca dismissed idle gossip as nothing more than her friend’s over-active imagination, but now, curiosity held her prisoner. Breath tight, she listened.

“It’s so nice having a male colleague under the age of forty. I bet he’s going to break a few teenage hearts this year, but sod the teenagers. That gorgeous man has my name on him. Did you see the shoulders?”

“Actually, it was his ‘lunch box’ that caught my eye.”

Rebecca stuffed her fist into her mouth to stave off the giggle struggling to break free. She couldn’t believe Miss Smythe from home economics still knew what a ‘lunch box’ was. The old biddy was sixty if she was a day.

“You know him, don’t you, Fiona? He is divine. Can you fix me up?”

Rebecca tensed. Miss Holmes and Mr. Jackson? An item? How scary.

“I suppose you could call him attractive, if you go for that type. Anyway, sorry to disappoint you both. He’s engaged.”

How bizarre. Rebecca wanted to cheer.

“You’re not eating again.”

“Mother, dearest, last I knew chewing and swallowing equated to eating.” Avoiding the too-savvy maternal probe, Rebecca concentrated on spooning sugar into her coffee.

“For you, one slice of toast is
not
eating.”

With no retort at the ready, Rebecca stared into her mug. Her mother was right. Lately, she had no appetite, and she’d lost weight. Her jeans were now more stick-thin than skinny. Pain stabbed between gritty eyes. Sleep remained elusive.

“You should have gone with Emma and that nice boy of hers.” Lips pulled into a thin line of reproof, her mother stacked the dishwasher.

Rebecca shook her head in despair. Her mother was a terrible judge of character. It had taken her six months to realize the boy she’d hired to take care of the garden had used the shed to smoke dope.

“I bumped into Emma’s mother yesterday.” She crashed saucepans down on the worktop, driving Rebecca’s headache to warp ten on the pain threshold. “She says they had a wonderful time in London. So much to see there, Becky.”

“Mum, I was museumed out by age nine, and I hate to shatter your illusions, but Brendon and Andy are not exactly
High School Musical
candidates. Such naivety in someone as old as you is rather sad.”

Jack spluttered his cereal all over the table.

“Don’t be rude, dear.” Her father’s distracted tone wafted over the top of his newspaper. “The correct term for your mother is mature. Ouch.” He ducked as a wet sponge flew through the air and hit the back sports page.

One eye on her, her dad folded his paper and removed his reading glasses. Rebecca recognised that look.

“Seriously, Becky.”

The final nail in the coffin. When he said, ‘seriously,’ a lecture usually followed.

“Your mother has a point. You’re looking very pale these days, and I know you’re not sleeping again. Don’t bother denying it.”

Rebecca clamped her mouth shut.

“I hear you pottering around in the study.”

“I’m fine.” She chewed on the end of her braid, an old habit she’d reconnected with in a big way.

“Oh Becky, why do you always have to tough it out?” Her mother poured herself a cup of coffee before joining the makeshift group therapy session. “It isn’t good for you to spend so much time alone. You’ve been stuck in the house for most of half-term.”

“You always exaggerate.” Rebecca forced down another morsel of toast. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been up and out at the crack of dawn, helping at Wood End Animal sanctuary. I think that rather beats hanging out with Em and crew, getting hammered in London pubs.”

“Always extremes with you, never any compromise.” Her mum sighed. “I’m sure Emma does not do that.”

“You don’t know Brendon Harwood.” Rebecca snorted in derision. “I don’t care if his father is a respected surgeon. The son is a prize wanker.”

“How come she’s allowed to swear?” Jack muttered, in between slurping chocolate milk from the cereal bowl. “Wanker wanker wanker. Brendon’s a wanker.”

The uniform cry of “Shut up, Jack” reverberated around the kitchen.

Leaning back in her chair, Rebecca took in the scene of modern family discord; life going on around her as normal—which was good, wasn’t it?

She wondered if it was time to spring her little bomb-shell on them all. She caught her dad’s eye, and they exchanged their ‘special’ look. At least, that’s what her mum said they did.
Enjoy it while you can, girl. You’re about to blow his world apart.

“Dad…Mum. I’ve decided…” She couldn’t do it. Not yet. “It’s time I was on my way.” Slipping her arms into the jacket draped behind her chair, she collected her bag and made her escape.

“That girl is seriously insane.” Vicky’s California wannabe drawl trailed her out into the hall. “She actually likes school.”

If only she knew
. Rebecca opened the front door to find Emma huddled on the step.

“What are you doing here?” Rebecca fumbled in her pocket, making sure she had her phone. “You told me you were walking in with Burke and Hare this morning.”

Emma’s strangled sob told her all was not well in Harlequin city. Plainly the romantic London jaunt night hadn’t quite gone to plan. Hardly surprising with Brendon tagging along.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” Emma sniffed, turning her mascara streaked glare on her. “It’s no big deal.”

“I beg to differ. You’re a wreck.” Rebecca held out her hand. Come on. Up. “Don’t tell me. You found out he wears Y-fronts.”

“You’re so funny. I dumped him and just in the nick of time, I might add. He’s a bastard. I’m so mad I could scream.”

“So what happened to the planned first big night of passion?”

Emma stood up. “I’ll tell you what happened. Andy bloody-I’m-a-juvenile-stupid-arsehole told everyone about it, that’s what. I heard him talking about it with Brendon. They thought I’d gone to the loo. Apparently all of our year knew. He might as well have broadcast it on CNN.
Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we report live from London where, in a few hours time, the great Andy Stone will shag one of the only two remaining virgins in the country—no—make that the world blah, blah, blah.
God, I don’t know why he didn’t just sell tickets.”

“The pig…” Rebecca said rather ineffectually. She didn’t know what else to say. She had never seen Emma quite so worked up.

“And to think I was going to lose my virginity to th-that moron. Anyway, he’s got B.O.” She blew her nose on a limp hanky. “Besides, I didn’t really fancy him.”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Rebecca worked hard to keep her expression sympathetic.

“No honestly I didn’t. Well, not really. I think I just liked the idea of having a boyfriend. Everyone else has one, except you of course, but you don’t count, which brings me to reason number two in favor of slicing off his balls and ramming them up his arse. Do you know why he asked me out in the first place? Brendon told him to—because he wanted to get close to you.”

“Oh, come on, Em.”

“Scoff all you want, but it’s true. I should so hate you right now, but I don’t. He’s a crappy kisser anyway. I didn’t feel anything. Let’s go.”

They walked in silence, with Emma kicking out at the pavement, head bent. Rebecca didn’t know what to say. She felt bad for Emma, but at the same time, she was relieved her wild and wonderful foray into the world of first love had come to an end.

“So, how was your week?” Emma broke the silence. “I suppose you had your head stuck in a book. You look awfully pale. Not sleeping again?”

“Yes. No.” Rebecca stared ahead, concentrating on black clouds gathering in the gloomy sky. Should she say more? Probably not. Emma would either think her insane, or read some Freudian meaning into her new and much improved dream scenario.

“Oh no.” Emma groaned. “Please don’t tell me you’re still planning the downfall of Mr. Jackson. You’ve made your point, Becs. We get it.
He
gets it. I’m only surprised he hasn’t booted you out of class. You haven’t turned in one of his assignments.”

“I’m not going to either.” Rebecca grunted. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him, or Andy, or bloody Brendon. Too much bad Karma.”

Emma shrieked with laughter. “And since when did the omnipotent Rebecca Harding believe in Karma?”

“Since never.” Rebecca grinned. “But I made you laugh. Anyway, I have the perfect solution to all your problems.”

“You do? Am I going to like this?”

“You’ll love it. This year, Miss Emma Brown, you are coming with me to drama club.”

* * * *

Life was good. Singing along to the latest Take That track, Max waited for the school lollipop lady to herd her lost sheep across the zebra crossing to the school entrance. He tapped out the tune on the steering wheel, squinting up at the drab grey sky.

London had been fun. His old uni pals were as juvenile as ever, but he’d enjoyed a couple of days of letting his hair down. He’d needed the relief. Two days into the half term week, a huge, fat wave of loneliness swamped him. Resisting the urge to decamp to Chez Black, he’d opted for three days of fast-paced city life. Energy levels now restored, he was ready to face the rest of the term. Or maybe not. There she was, his nemesis, Miss Rebecca Harding, sauntering across the road as if she owned it, not caring that she held up traffic. He groaned. Oh well, it had been nice while it lasted. Crunching the gears, he turned into the car park. A loud thunderclap added to the reality check. Here it came—the deluge the BBC weatherman had promised.

He parked next to Tom’s battered old Honda Civic and grabbed his briefcase from under a week’s debris of take-away boxes. Pulling on his pure wool black coat, he opened the door and made a run for it.

“Here he is.” Tom pounced on him. “Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Max winced; Tom still yielded a lot of power in those ex-rugby-player shoulders. “Okay, what have I done?”

“You tell me.” Tom grinned. “You’re the one who spent a debauched weekend in Knightsbridge. Come on, walk me to my office. I have a proposition for you. How
are
the boys, by the way?”

“The ‘boys’ are as juvenile as ever. Only now they are dangerous. They have money. Paul, however, is on death row. The wedding is in a couple of months, and she is a dragon. You know the type—all braying teeth and Daddy’s credit cards. Just as well he went into accountancy because he’ll need his maths degree just to work out her Harvey Nichols bill. Still…he’s in lurve.”

“Still so cynical. And Geoff?”

“He’s okay. Apparently he’s ‘something in the city,’ which basically means he gets pissed every lunchtime and then goes back to the office and bonks his secretary.”

“All right for some.” Tom sighed.

“What’s all right for some?”

Max grinned. Out of nowhere, Fiona came at them from behind and slipped her arm through her husband’s. She seemed to have the uncanny knack of appearing at the most inopportune moments.

“Your wonderful husband was discussing shagging his secretary,” Max said, aiming for a straight face.

“Really, Tom.” Fiona remained unperturbed. “Does Miss Jones know she is the object of your latent sexual fantasy? Do be gentle. I’d hate for her to have a heart attack on the job. See you at lunch, dear. That’s if you’re not too exhausted.” Blowing them a kiss, Fiona headed for her office.

“I swear that woman is scary.” Tom grinned. “But I love her. Come on, Jim Hurst is waiting for us outside my office. I want to discuss the drama club with you.”

On their way up to the top floor and Tom’s hallowed ground, Max listened whilst his chum begged, pleaded, and cajoled.

“So? What do you think, Max?” Tom pressed him. “Will you do it? I know it’s a lot to take on, but I’ve got the school board on my back about this. They are very keen to promote the image of the school. Jim needs help. He’s not been too well and—ah, Jim, just in time.” Extracting a bunch of keys the likes of which Max had last seen in
The Shankshaw Redemption
, Tom opened the door to his room and ushered the two men into his inner sanctum. “Coffee?” He dumped his briefcase on his desk and went to fill the coffee jug.