Teacher's Pet (11 page)

Time slipped past in a blur
of school runs, washing, packing and organising.  Allie was vaguely aware of collecting the boys from school on Friday, and of having a conversation with Jeremiah, during which he reassured her he would be able to let her have his final version of the assignment once Liz was better.  But it was as if these things had left no imprint on her consciousness.  Her mind had not been on the mechanics of everyday life.  The only thing she had been one hundred per cent sure of in the lead up to departure had been that she had kept an eye out for Paul at the school gate and had not seen him.  It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth.  Despite James’ urging, she had been too proud to phone him.  She had also noticed, with a sinking heart, that Melanie hadn’t been around either.

Now, as they stood in the chilly playground at an unearthly hour on Saturday morning, she decided that watching the bags being loaded and observing her sons was her best option.  Anything was better than keeping a constant look out for Paul.

The coach was an enormous, silver, two-decked affair, complete with toilets and a television.  She overheard Harry say that it was better than the new middle school teaching block.  The children were wide awake, in spite of the early start, and were chattering excitedly in groups.  Allie came to the conclusion that you could only gaze at your own offspring for so long, and her eyes were drawn again to the car park. 
Paul’s car was there, but where was he?

Suddenly, Miss Simpson’s sharp tone cut through the babble of voices:

“Right!  Children, line up.  We need to tick off your names!”

To Allie’s amaze
ment, the children did as they were told quickly and quietly.  Miss Simpson proceeded to take the register.  After a few names, her smooth brow furrowed slightly.

“Where’s Billy?”

“Here he comes, Miss.  With Mr. Richmond.”

Allie could feel her heart beginning to beat faster, and, despite herself, she glanced up.  Billy was being led across the playground from the main building by Paul on one side and Melanie on the other.  Visibly excited, he was jumping up and down as he walked, and Allie noticed Melanie’s eyes were swollen and red.  Paul was looking at Billy, talking softly to him. Billy was smiling to himself.

“Is everything OK, Mr. Richmond?”  Miss Simpson asked, cheerily.

“Fine thanks, Miss Simpson,” he said, keeping his eyes on Billy.  “I think we’re ready to get onto the coach now, are
n’t we, Billy?”  As if in answer to his question, Billy pulled away from him awkwardly, ran the last yard or so towards the open door of the coach, and bounded up the steps.  Paul smiled as he called after him.  “You choose a place, Billy, and I’ll sit with you.”

Allie moved towards Melanie and put her hand on her shoulder.

“Shall I sit next to you, Melanie?”

Melanie looked at her for a moment, eyes full of turmoil,
and then nodded.

“I’d like that.  Thanks.”

Paul’s voice rang out:  “Thanks, Mrs. Johnson.  It’s probably a good idea if you mums stick together.  This rabble look like they could turn nasty.”

A chorus of laughter erupted around them as the children piled onto the bus.  Allie glanced up at Paul and saw he was grinning directly at her.  She smiled back.  It was as if nothing had happened since their last kiss.  She could feel a warmth spreading through her body, and knew that despite any misunderstandings, nothing had changed in his desire for her, or hers for him.

“After you, ladies,” he said, stepping aside to let them pass.

“Thank you, Mr. Richmond,” replied Allie, aware of his eyes burning into her
back as she got onto the coach.

The journey to France was quick and relatively painless, considering all the things that could happen with a group of young schoolchildren on a plane.  They flew from Heathrow to Luxemburg, to avoid any possibility of last minute strikes by French air traffic controllers, then transferred onto another coach to take them to Nancy.  Apart from a slight initial hesitation on Billy’s part, getting onto the plane had been problem-free.  Only one child was sick on the flight, and the transfer at Luxemburg airport was easy, because, in stark contrast to London, it was the size of a sma
ll provincial station.  One smooth coach ride later, along well-maintained, empty motorways, and they had reached their destination.

Nancy
was a beautiful city.  Ornate golden gates gave onto a large cobbled square, the
Place Stanislas
, which marked the centre of the old town.  Four long, straight boulevards ran from its sides and ended in high stone arches, denoting its ancient boundaries.  Formerly covered in trees and farms, the land beyond the gates now contained urban sprawl
a la francaise
: rich, baroque town houses in small neighbourhoods.  Further out again, where in Britain you would have found leafy, prosperous suburbs, there were hideous examples of misguided 1960’s architects with too much state funding and no idea of how people really wanted to live.  High-rise blocks were grouped together, their gloom broken up by the occasional giant concrete rainbow or flower.  Old televisions, fridges, bottles and cans were regularly thrown out of windows or tossed off balconies, by residents too depressed by their surroundings to care.  There were two sides to this magnificent city, Allie explained to Melanie, as the coach chugged through the narrow streets.  The suburbs area was not a desirable one.

“So, how long did you live here?”  Melanie asked, pushing her long, thick hair back off her face.

“Five years,” said Allie, gazing out of the window at the familiar streets.  “And it was a long time ago, although it doesn’t seem to have changed much.”

“So, you won’t be looking up any old flames while you’re here?”  Paul asked.  He was sitting in front of them with Billy, and had turned to look at Allie through the gap in the seats. 

She felt her colour rise.

“There’ll b
e no time for that,” she said.  “Will there?”

He laughed.

“Not really.  This mob will take some looking after.”  His eyes twinkled.  “But I’m sure we’ll all manage to get some ‘grown up time’ at some stage.”

“Retail therapy was what I had in mind,” Melanie sa
id.  “If we’re allowed, that is?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”  Paul’s eyes were still on Allie.  He held her gaze.  Allie was aware that, from where Melanie was sitting, she couldn’t see him, as her area of vision cr
ossed to where Billy was, next to Paul.  His voice was low:

“And you, Mrs.
Johnson: what kind of therapy were you thinking of?”

Allie smiled slowly.  The intimacy of his gaze cut through everything and for an instant, all the noise, laughter and chattering seemed to fall away, leaving just her and him.

“I’m not sure, Mr. Richmond.  I’ll just go with the flow.”

“Go with the flow.  That sounds like a good idea.”

His expression changed as the coach juddered to a halt in front of a Baroque-style hotel on a small side street just off the
Place Stanislas
.  His professional persona took over and he stood up quickly.

“Nobody gets off until I say so,” he began.  “And Jordan, if you put your tongue out one more time at
passers-by, you’ll be on the next plane back to London.”

Allie caught Melanie’s eye and stifled a giggle.

“This is going to be interesting,” she mouthed.

Melanie smiled and nodded, then switched her gaze back to Billy, who was staring at the smooth grey stones of the hotel step.  Allie’s eyes followed Paul, as he made his way to the front of the coach, jumped off confidently and strode over to the hotel entrance.  As he spoke to the manageress, a well-groomed woman in her mid-fifties, she saw her eyes light up and a flirtatious smile spread across he
r harsh features.  Allie sat up suddenly. 
My God
, she thought. 
The first woman he speaks to thinks he’s coming on
to her.  Or am I going mad?
She glanced quickly at Melanie, who was smiling quizzically at her.

“The
French love the way we Canadians speak their language,” she said.  “Some of the words we use make them laugh.  I think Mr. Richmond’s going to be a very popular man.”

“Of course,” replied Allie. 
What was she supposed to say to that?
  Not only was he tall, charming and handsome, but he had the added bonus of a sexy accent for his perfect Canadian French.  The chic women of the town would be queuing up to get to know him, and Allie would fade into drabness in comparison.  “He’ll enjoy speaking French again, won’t he,” she added, trying to sound upbeat.

“That, he will,” answered Melan
ie, her eyes on Paul now. 

The first evening in Nancy started off relatively uneventfully.  After a
quick tour of the park and main square, the children were fed and assigned to their bedrooms, as were the adults, quickly and efficiently.  Once in her beautifully decorated room, sitting on her firm, starched linen-covered bed, Allie found herself staring at two small, bulging bags, one containing Miss Simpson’s make up, and the other her jewellery.

“You’ve got to keep up with the latest fashions, haven’t you?”  Miss Simpson had offered by way of explanation, as brightly-coloured beads, chains and bracelets spilled out onto the polished surface of the antique, Louis XIV dresser. 

Allie put her own compact make-up bag onto the small, carved oak bedside table and smiled.

“Of course you have,” she said.  “Especially in France.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Miss Simpson, pushing her dark hair off her face and starting to apply a new layer of powder.  “Those Frenchmen won’t know what’s hit them once we hit the clubs.” 
Clubs
.  Visions of hot, sweaty twenty-year-olds jumping up and down to pounding Euro-pop flashed through Allie’s mind. “Would you like to come out with us tonight?”  Miss Simpson asked, a warm smile on her face.

Suddenly Allie felt every month of her thirty-six years. 

“I don’t think so,” she said, forcing a yawn.  “It’s really nice of you to ask, but I think I’m a bit too old for that.”  She checked her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror.  She looked flushed.  Her light eyes were full of anticipation.  “Someone needs to be in the hotel.  In case there’s a problem with the kids.”

“Mr. Richmond said he’d stay here tonight.  So you needn’t worry.”

Inwardly, Allie felt herself perk up.

“I’ll stay close anyway.  Just in case.  Maybe go out for a coffee later, on the terrace.”

“OK.”  Miss Simpson stood up.  “I’ll keep my mobile on.  Paul… I mean Mr. Richmond’s got my number.”  She headed purposefully for the door, bangles jangling.  “Bye, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Call me Allie, please.”

“OK.  Bye, Allie.  Enjoy your evening.”

“Bye.  I’m sure I will.”

As the door closed slowly, Allie began to smile. 
She was determined to enjoy her evening.
With, or without Paul Richmond.

Once all the children had settled down for the night, Allie found herself downstairs in the lobby,
sipping a fruit juice at a low table with a rather fraught Melanie.  Paul was upstairs, calming Billy.  He had taken over, and was now reading Billy his favourite bedtime story for the sixth time.  Miss Simpson had finally managed to get a heavily made-up and giggling Miss O’Hara out of the cool hotel, into the evening heat.  Once outside, they had wasted no time.  Allie had caught sight of them briefly, sitting at a café across the road from the hotel, drinking cocktails and chatting to two swarthy-looking young locals.  Now, as she looked out again, she saw they had disappeared, leaving two empty glasses and an overflowing ashtray on the small round table in the middle of the busy, cobbled terrace area.  A bored-looking waiter, with a cigarette protruding from underneath a bushy, black moustache, was slowly wiping the table, shaking his head, presumably at the absence of a tip.

“They won’t be back until morning,” said Melanie, putting down her glass.

“And good luck to them,” laughed Allie.  “As long as Miss Simpson doesn’t wake me up, that’s OK by me.”  She took in Melanie’s gleaming dark hair, simple, elegant linen trousers and vest top, and asked: “Are you thinking of going out tonight?  Once Billy’s settled, that is?”

Melanie nodded, visibly more relaxed now.

“Yes.  I’m taking Mrs. Patel exploring.  Would you like to come and be our guide?  Paul said he’d keep an eye on the kids tonight.”

“Er, no thanks.”  Allie tried to keep her voice light.  “I’m whacked.  I’ll keep Paul company, I think.  I’ll probably have more energy tomorrow.”

Melanie looked thoughtful all of a sudden.

“You’re probably right.  It’s better to have two adults here.  Just in case.”

“It might actually be a legal requirement, ladies.”  A familiar, deep voice drifted over from behind Allie.  She turned to see Paul approaching with Mrs. Patel, who lent an air of exoticism to the lobby, in a pink satin top and skirt, jewelled sandals and large hoop earrings.  She immediately focused on her, to prevent herself from gawping at Paul, who was wearing his trademark jeans and short-sleeved shirt, emphasising the fact that a long coach ride had done nothing to alter his magnificent body.  He still looked like a Greek God in civvies.

“Wow!  Y
ou look fantastic,” gushed Allie, directing her gaze towards the embroidery on Mrs. Patel’s skirt.  “You’ll knock ‘em dead…”

“I won’t stand a chance,” added Melanie, standing up.

Mrs. Patel blushed.

“I hope they do vegetarian food somewhere,” she said.  “I’m fed up with baguettes and cheese.”

Allie racked her brains for a moment.

“Try
Le petit Gourmand
, on the main square,” she said.  “I think they have a vegetarian menu.  If they’re still there, that is.”

Melanie smiled first at Allie, then at Paul.

“Thanks, Allie.  That sounds good.  Any problems with Billy, just give me a call,” she said, as the two women turned to go.  “Have a good night.  Bye!”

“Bye,” replied Allie, brightly.  She was aware that Paul had sat down close beside her.

“I’m sure we will,” he said, softly, as they walked out.

Allie slowly turned to face him, picking up her glass again.  He was leaning back on the deep, leather sofa, smiling at her, as though nothing had happened.  She was caught slightly off guard by this. 
What was she supposed to do now?
  Pretend she was in charge.  That was what.

“Cheers,” she said, raising her glass with a confidence she didn’t quite feel.

“Cheers, Allie.”  He made no move to get a drink.  “Tell me,” he began, sitting forwards and looking down briefly.  “How did you feel about me walking out the other day?”

Bloody Hell
, she thought. 
You don’t beat about the bush
.

“Well,
I suppose…”

“Be honest, Allie.”  His eyes clouded over.  “Please.”

“Well.”  She swallowed hard, then put down her drink decisively.  If he wanted the truth, that was what he was going to get.  “I realised you were upset.  And I suppose I can understand it,” she began.  His dark gaze remained steady, unnerving her slightly.  “But you have to realise I had no idea James was in the house.  Really, no idea.”  Paul nodded, unsmiling.  “And he’ll be gone when we get back to London.  He promised me,” she added, attempting a smile.

“He will, will he?”

“I’m sorry, Paul.  The evening should have gone differently, shouldn’t it?”

He cleared his throat.

“I’m the one who should apologise.  Not you, Allie.  It was stupid of me to storm out.  I’m really sorry. 
I
ruined the evening, not you.”  He hesitated.  “I wish I’d stayed.”

“So do I,” she said, feeling her cheeks burning. 

“Why was he there anyway?” he asked abruptly.  “Had the Harpie thrown him out?”

Allie smiled, and felt the somewhat frosty atmosphere around them melt a little.

“In a word, yes.  He had nowhere to go.”

Paul sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“So, he came back to look at what he left behind?  And to mull over what a horrendous mistake he’d made?”  His tousled locks lent his expression a hurt, puzzled look.

“He just wanted somewhere to sleep, Paul.”

“Is that all?” he asked, quietly.

“Of course that’s all.  We talked, then
we went to bed.”  She noticed Paul’s colour rise as he clenched, and then unclenched his fists.  She continued hurriedly:  “He slept in the spare room, Paul.”