Amelia Grey's Fireside Dream (2 page)

‘You shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff, Amelia. Simple as that. Did you cancel your cards?’

‘Yeah, I sorted all that out at lunchtime. Luckily there was only a tenner in there in cash.’

‘And your phone?’

‘After the last one got nicked, I started taking my old Nokia into work. I’ve got my iPhone here.’

‘Good. What about getting it back, though? You said you knew who took it?’

‘I do. But it looks like Trey’s gone. Lewis and I spoke to his form tutor, but he didn’t turn up for afternoon registration. I’d be surprised if he turns up tomorrow. He’s been looking for an excuse not to come back and maybe this is it.’

‘You don’t want to report it to the police?’

‘Oh God, no. I mean, I’m furious with him, don’t get me wrong. But at the same time, I know what he goes home to every night. It’s a miracle he makes it into school at all. His brother left the school three years ago and went straight to prison. I don’t want him going the same way.’

‘You can’t fix everything,’ Jack said, ‘but you’re a good teacher.’

‘Thanks. I think I needed to hear that today.’ I smiled at him.

Dexter, our rescue tabby, wove his way through my chair legs, mewling gently. In our cramped kitchen, the three of us had got used to being at close quarters, and had learned how to work with and around each other. Dexter jumped up onto my lap and lay down, tilting his head towards me, inviting a stroke. A train passed by outside on its way to Dalston Junction, and the windows rattled a little in their frames. Another thing we’d all got used to.

Jack reached over to squeeze my hand. His touch – familiar, sure and steady – felt good.

‘Summer holidays are just around the corner,’ he said.
‘Just think – in a couple of weeks it’ll be lie-ins, picnics with Carly, ice creams, a chance to get perspective on it all.’

‘You’re right.’ Jack, an eternal optimist, had the knack of reminding me what really mattered. ‘Bring on the holidays.’

*

I left for St Catherine’s at 6.30 a.m. the next day, driving through the pre-rush hour morning. Even the usually smoggy city air was light and fresh with summer on the way. The early start would give me some quiet time to prepare my classes before the chaos of the school day. I parked our silver Corsa and went upstairs to the staffroom on the second floor of the 1960s school block, immediately spotting Carly over by the window as I entered. Against the morning light, the silhouette of her curvy figure and springy, shoulder-length curls was unmistakeable.

‘Hello stranger,’ she called out, her smile wide. Silver bangles jangled on her wrists.

‘Hi,’ I replied, walking over and giving her a hug.

She boiled the kettle, got my mug out of the cupboard and automatically filled it with coffee, topping it up with milk from the fridge. We never needed to ask: late nights studying for our qualifications, and now years of teaching together, meant we knew each other’s caffeine requirements pretty well. Long days in the classroom, then in and out of each other’s shared flats in the evenings, planning lessons
and chatting over coffee and toast. After qualifying, we’d both applied to St Catherine’s and held our breath – we knew how unlikely it was that we’d both score jobs at the same place, but we did – and it had cemented our friendship for good.

‘Heard about what happened to you yesterday, Amelia. That sucks.’

‘It does a bit. Second time this term too. But worse things happen at sea, today’s a new day … yadda yadda. Anyway, how are
you
?’ I lowered my voice to a whisper; although there were only couple of other teachers already in, you never knew who might be listening. ‘How was this weekend, seeing Alex?’

‘It was amazing. We met for coffee and spent the day walking by the canal. We just chatted, walked his dog, got ice creams.’

‘Nothing happened?’

‘Nope.’ Carly laughed. ‘Nothing. And that’s fine. We’re still getting to know each other. It isn’t right to move things on yet.’

‘And is he planning to say anything to Jules?’

‘Yes. At least he wants to. It’s just a matter of finding the right time, which isn’t now. A few more weeks.’

‘After exams?’

‘I think so. When Jules has officially left.’

I remembered how Carly had looked the day after she
met Alex, about a month ago. She’d come into the staffroom with a glow in her olive-skinned cheeks, something I hadn’t seen since she broke up with Ethan. Having met Alex myself, I could understand why. He was gorgeous – tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, a lilting Irish accent and a wicked sense of humour.

The only issue was how he and Carly had met – at parents’ evening. Alex’s son was Jules Garrehy, one of Carly’s A-level students, which meant they’d kept their friendship as just that, a friendship, so far.

‘You must be going out of your mind,’ I said.

‘Yes, a bit.’ Carly had a mischievous expression on her face. ‘It’s like he’s this close,’ she drew her fingers together so that they were almost touching, ‘but off limits at the same time. It’s frustrating. But then, I’m also happy.’

‘Good. That you’re happy, I mean. How do you think Jules is going to react?’

‘Who knows?’ Carly said, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never been good at predicting teenage boys’ behaviour. But Alex and Jules’s mum have been separated for years now, and she has a new partner …’

‘That’s positive.’ I took a sip of coffee. ‘Although I suppose your mum or dad getting a new partner is one thing. That partner being one of your teachers probably changes the situation a bit.’

‘True,’ Carly said, biting her lip.

‘Anyway, you’re right not to hurry things. I’m the one being impatient. I just think you guys would be great together.’

‘Thank you.’ Carly’s wide-set blue eyes lit up. ‘So do I. I hope we get a chance. For now I guess I should just try and enjoy what’s left of my twenties, being young, free and single.’

‘Don’t rub it in,’ I said, laughing. ‘A month, that’s all I’ve got! Then I’m practically middle-aged.’

‘Didn’t we make a bucket list together, back on the teaching course?’

‘God, you’re right.’ I smiled at the memory of Carly and me in the park, back when turning thirty seemed like something that would never happen to us. ‘I probably still have it somewhere. I guess now’s my last chance.’

‘A few weeks of threesomes, tequila and abseiling, then?’

I laughed. ‘Might kiss a policeman at Notting Hill Carnival. That was on there somewhere.’

Where had I expected to be at thirty? Married to Jack. Tick. Living in a flat where there was room to swing Dexter …

‘It’s only a number,’ Carly said, ‘and an excuse for a party. You’re having one, right?’

‘Yes.’ Actually, I hadn’t really thought about it. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Listen, I’d better shoot off.’ Carly gave me a hasty hug goodbye and grabbed a clear pencil case full of markers from the side. ‘Got to rearrange the desks for a debate the kids are having in period one.’

‘Oh yeah? What’s today’s topic?’ Carly’s sociology classes didn’t always adhere to the curriculum as strictly as the headmaster would have liked, but her students adored her.

‘“Women today have it easier than their mothers.” Discuss.’

‘No way,’ I said, laughing. ‘Things were a breeze back then.’

I thought of my mum, Rosie. When she was my age she was an air hostess with bright, bottle-blonde waves and a permanent tan, travelling the world. Grandma Niki and my grandpa looked after me – their brunette tomboy of a granddaughter – when Mum was away, down in their house in Streatham. One moment Mum was in Bali, the next in Tel Aviv, calling me up and filling me in on her adventures, occasionally taking me with her on longer trips. Mum’s working life had seemed effortless and glamorous. OK, so apart from Dad’s occasional visits she was practically a single parent – but Gran and Grandpa had helped out. And anyway, as far as I understood it, going it alone had really been her choice.

‘It’s Class 9F. So you can guarantee they’ll think they know the answer.’

‘Good luck. And let me know what they say.’

*

After lunch, I covered Isabel Humphries’ Year 12s, as I had been doing for three months now, since she started her chemotherapy treatment. I handed out the sample exam paper I’d chosen for practice that morning, and the students, calmer and quieter than in my other classes, were writing in silence. As they worked, I caught up with some marking.

When the bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, the students filed up to my desk to hand in their answer sheets.

‘Miss Grey,’ said Eloise, a tall girl with hair tied back in a tight ponytail and foundation a shade darker than her skin. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Is it true that Mrs Humphries is dying, Miss?’

A crowd had built up around my desk, waiting to hear my answer. ‘She’s not very well, but she’s getting the best treatment at the moment. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed for her.’

‘That means she’s going to die,’ Rob said, nudging Eloise in the side and then looking down at the ground. ‘She’s not coming back, is she? But she promised us, Miss. She said she’d help us prepare next year.’

I thought of the last time I’d seen Isabel Humphries, the
Head of English and the woman who’d mentored me since I was newly qualified. She’d come into the staffroom a month previously to meet me and check how her classes were doing. She had been thinner, her blonde hair patchy, and she’d looked older than her fifty-two years. But her voice and will were still strong and she was as matter-of-fact as ever, making sure I was following her lesson plans to the letter and doing enough exam practice to ensure her Year 12s would be ready for their A-levels the following year. When she’d got up to leave, she’d paused.

‘You’ll look after them for me, won’t you?’ she’d asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

‘Of course I will,’ I’d replied.

‘Good. Because I trust you, Amelia.’

She hadn’t told me then that the effects of the chemotherapy were so serious she’d decided not to return to work, but Lewis Garrett had let us know they’d be interviewing for a new Head of English.

‘The best thing you can do for Mrs Humphries,’ I said, looking at the small group of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds milling by my desk, ‘is work hard, and get the results you deserve. If Mrs Humphries isn’t able to come back, then I’ll be here to help you do that.’

‘Cool,’ Eloise said, her tone melancholy. ‘You’re all right, Miss Grey.’ She turned to the other students. ‘C’mon. Let’s go.’

The teenagers left the room, subdued. I put their exam papers into my bag ready to mark at home that night.

Carly put her head round the door of my empty classroom. ‘Fancy a drink, Amelia? Gorgeous hot evening out there. A few of us are heading over to the Kings Arms.’

‘I’d love to.’ I checked the time. ‘But I promised Jack dinner tonight. Plus I’ve got a lot of marking to do.’

‘You sure?’ Carly asked, one eyebrow raised.

‘Next time.’

*

Half an hour later, I was back at our flat. I turned the key in the lock and noticed a new graffittied tag along the top of our front door, in black marker pen. I’d have to get the paintbrushes out again.

Jack and I lived three floors up in an ex-local authority block a stone’s throw from Broadway Market in east London. It was near to friends, handy for both our jobs, and over time we’d warmed to the area. At weekends we’d have coffee or brunch nearby, or go for a walk along the canal to Victoria Park. My best friend from university, Sunita, and her husband, Nico, were practically neighbours, and Carly was only a bus ride away. But the graffiti, and the constant noise, had started to wear both of us down and it felt like time to move on. We had put the flat on the market a couple of months before, but the response had been underwhelming – just one offer under the asking price so far. The search
for somewhere new was proving just as tricky: while we’d had a mortgage agreed in principle, we’d yet to find a place we liked that was within our budget.

I put my bag down in the hallway and walked to the kitchen, passing framed stills from Jack’s first feature-length animation project,
Pupz
, the story of a Labrador who has a litter of robot puppies. He’d studied animation at college, and after a couple of years interning at an animation studio he’d been given a permanent job and from there had started coming up with his own project ideas.
Pupz
had been Jack’s career high to date – three years in the making and a hit at the box office in both Britain and the US. Since then, project commissions had slowed a bit, and at the start of the year he’d hit a creative block he hadn’t quite worked past yet – but he was on the cusp of coming up with something good, I knew it.

I fed Dexter and sat down at the kitchen table to mark exam papers. It was eight when Jack arrived home after football. His T-shirt and hair were ruffled, and there was colour in his cheeks.

‘Good game?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Great, thanks.’ He came over to give me a kiss.

‘Hey, sweaty,’ I said, pushing him away playfully.

‘All right, all right – I’ll jump in the shower to freshen up.’

‘Cool. I’ll get dinner on the go.’

When Jack came out of the shower, we sat down to eat the pasta salad I’d prepared.

‘Nico seems excited,’ he said, starting to eat. ‘He tells me he’s been painting the nursery. They’ve gone for yellow, given they don’t know the baby’s sex yet.’

‘This is what you guys talk about at football?’ I asked, smiling.

‘Not always. But this is kind of a big deal, isn’t it?’

Sunita and Nico were more than just close friends of ours – they were the reason Jack and I were together. At Sunita’s twenty-first birthday party, in our final year of uni at Manchester, she’d pointed Jack out to me, across the room, downing vodka jellies and shouting to a friend above the sound of the music. ‘Check out Nico’s friend from home,’ she’d whispered. ‘Hot, funny – and single.’

At that moment Jack had turned and looked at me, a smile in his brown eyes. After kissing a dozen frogs in the union bar, I knew him right away – Jack was the one.

Eight years on, Sunita and Nico’s lives were changing.