straw boater only stayed on my head thanks to a string of thick elastic, so tight that it created a deep dent beneath my chin. In the heart of a Berkshire village, the school’s main entrance stood regal like a medieval castle, with smaller Victorian houses dotted around the premises; a quaint village of premium education. The acoustics of the main hall created decadent sounds, lush with pure echo and vibrating a grand warmth, whether from the headmistress addressing the school on Monday mornings, or from choir practice in the build-up to the annual carol concert.
My imagination went wild at first. What a novelty – the Malory Towers dream. But it all wore off as quickly as chocolate pudding was devoured on a Friday lunchtime. Teachers were strict, girls could be mean. It became stifling, no room for escape. Whichever corner I turned, I was still in school.
One novelty, however, remained.
His name was Adam Jeffrey Blackmore, head of Art and Design in the lower school, known to the pupils as Mr Blackmore, but known to me as AJ. He wasn’t that old, late twenties at most. To a girl in Year Nine, that should be considered ancient, but when the majority of faculty were women with children old enough to be having children of their own, Mr Blackmore – with his thick blond curls and clean-shaven jaw – stood out like a fresh daisy amongst wilted daffodils.
All the girls looked forward to Mr Blackmore’s lessons, even the ones who couldn’t sketch a smiley face without it looking distorted. It became a game for us to vie for his attention, to get him to roll up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, lean on our desks and help us stroke our paintbrushes with a perfect water-to-paint ratio. The pretty girls, those who could pass for eighteen and smoked out of the dorm windows but never got caught, flirted unashamedly, undoing the top buttons of their white blouses to flash a dash of trainer bra, batting their eyelashes caked in clear mascara. Those who were awkward, riddled with acne or hanging onto much-loathed puppy fat, those with crooked teeth awaiting braces, or those who excelled in mathematics and found endless excuses to skip sport, oh how they blushed a deep purply rouge at Mr Blackmore’s very presence.
For a kid like me, I was neither one nor the other. Accepted by both the popular and unpopular, I hovered in the centre, not part of a group but not a clear outcast. I wasn’t attractive enough to be a part of Octavia Langford’s gang, but I wasn’t smart enough to keep up with the discussions that Ruth Gilbert’s clan had over cheese sandwiches and green apples. So, I never participated in outrageous flirting with Mr Blackmore, nor did I shy away behind the easels. Art happened to be the one subject I enjoyed. And I was good at.
‘Zara Khoury, I’d like to see you after class,’ Mr Blackmore said.
Whoops and laughter followed; a massive lack of subtlety.
‘You have a talent,’ he told me. ‘An eye for detail, for colour.’
‘Thank you.’ I beamed. Praise was quite alien to me, and I was forever seeking it, trying a little too hard in areas where I had never shone, such as drama or debate class, or tricking my parents into ruffling my hair, the way moms and dads do to their kids in movies. ‘I like art because I don’t have to think.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘How?’
‘You are thinking, you’re just utilising a different part of your brain.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. You choose what colour, what intensity, what stroke. It’s just coming to you effortlessly compared to other subjects, perhaps.’
Whether this happened to be true or not, I didn’t care. I was bowled over by his kindness, how he spoke to me like an equal, his clipped English accent crystal sharp. I joined the art club, and worked on an intricate lino print that required more hours than the weekly extra-curricular activity offered.
‘Can I work on this during lunch break?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ Mr Blackmore replied.
Lunch breaks progressed onto Saturday mornings, when I’d usually only be tagging along with other girls into town on the bus to buy clothes from Miss Selfridge. Many of the British girls went home for the weekend.
‘Zara Khoury is having an affair with Mr Blackmore,’ Octavia Langford announced to the dorm. ‘He makes the paint on her canvas ever so moist.’
‘You’re filthy,’ Ruth Gilbert stuttered, aiming at Octavia, but shooting a quick dash of disgust my