stood in her parents’ doorway.
‘You will stay at home, won’t you, gorgeous? You’ll stay at home and grow our babies and I will look after you so that you never have to worry about a thing, not one single thing.’
She smiled up at him.
‘Well, Mark, I will stay at home eventually, when I do have babies, but up until then, I definitely want to teach. I want to use my degree. I think I’ll be really good! I certainly love my subject and I’m very patient – unlike a certain someone I could name!’
‘Impatient, moi? It’s not my fault if most of the kids that get shoved in front of me are retards. I need a better calibre of child, one without the IQ of a pot plant!’
‘Ah, what is it they say? “A bad workman blames his tools.” Is it the same for bad teachers?’
Suddenly and without any warning, Mark grabbed her right wrist, lifted her hand up to her own face, and laughed.
‘Stop slapping yourself, you silly girl!’
He was laughing and smiling as he slapped her hand across her own face, hard. For a moment, she was too shocked to react. Then realisation dawned and she clenched her muscles and splayed her fingers taut. But he was much stronger and simply carried on making her hit herself in the face.
‘Stop it! Stop it, Kathryn! You silly girl!’
She cried and gulped air in surprise. It was some seconds before he stopped abruptly.
‘Oh my darling! Why are you crying?’
She looked into his beautiful pale blue eyes as her own pooled with tears.
‘Because you hurt me, Mark.’
He crushed her to him, folded his duffel coat around her and spoke softly into her scalp.
‘Baby, baby, it was just a joke! I love you and I would never hurt you intentionally. I would rather die than hurt you.’
She had been shaken when the mirror revealed an angry red mark across the side of her face.
As Kathryn positioned the table mats, coasters and the salt and pepper centrally on the table, she reflected that this, among many other things that Mark did and said, was a lie. He would not rather die than hurt her. This she knew for a fact.
At eight o’clock, with supper finished, the various masters began trickling in and making themselves comfortable in the kitchen. She circled the room, dispensing wine and mineral water into sparklingly clean glasses whilst nodding, smiling and commenting where appropriate or necessary.
‘Yes, it is unusually mild.’
‘Thank you, yes, I am well, very well.’
‘Dominic? Oh, you know, studying hard.’
‘The first eleven? Oh, it’s against Taunton School, I think.’
‘For aphides, I trust a mixture of vinegar and water, liberally sprayed.’
Kathryn looked at the rag-taggle group of old men clad in their fusty corduroy garments. Collectively they gave off the faintest whiff of decay. Thick tufts of hair sprouted from ears and noses – the kind of thing that an attentive wife would have taken care of. Their teeth were also neglected. She imagined them as a group of ageing penguins, squawking and jostling for position even though no one else in the world was the tiniest bit interested in anything they did or said.
At approximately ten past eight Mark made his grand entrance.
‘Good evening one and all!’
He stood by the opened door and Kathryn noticed a flicker of hesitation, correctly guessing that he considered bowing before deciding against it.
The assembled crowd nodded their heads and muttered incomprehensibly, honoured to be in the presence of their esteemed head, waiting to hear what wisdom would follow that dazzling smile and its flash of whitened, straightened teeth.
‘Right, gentlemen, shall we get started?’
Mark rubbed his palms together with Faginesque enthusiasm.
The masters took their positions around the kitchen table, each man’s status apparent by how close he sat to Mark.
‘Agenda item number one: the Excellence in Education Awards, which I may or may not have had a tip-off about today—’
Before he even finished the sentence there was a chorus of comment from around the table.
‘Oh well done, Headmaster!’
‘Bloody marvellous news, Mark!’
‘Much deserved, old chap, really much deserved!’
Kathryn, having heard enough, slipped into the sitting room and closed the door behind her. She crept silently over to the telephone table, opened the drawer and carefully removed the copy of Tom Jones that she had placed at the back, secreted away for just such an occasion. She picked up the novel and ran her fingers over its cover, feeling a small yet familiar surge of happiness, knowing that she could snatch a few minutes