The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,15

have plenty of school chaperones. Come on, you know you want to!’

He looked disappointed when I panicked and said a hasty ‘No, thank you.’ I fled, shoulders hunched, along the corridor and back down to the Lower School car park, cursing myself all the way.

What was the matter with me? A drink wouldn’t have hurt, would it? He was just overwhelming.

I thought about little else for the rest of the week, going over our short exchange in my head like a love-struck schoolgirl, thinking back to his poetry, his voice, his smile.

He said he thought then that he’d blown it, missed his one and only chance with me.

But he told me too that his spirits soared when I appeared again the following Tuesday evening. And the one after that.

Of course I was there. I counted down the days until Tuesday. I ticked off the hours to the end of the teaching day, hurried up the hill towards the Upper School classroom, then slowed, excited, shy, full of anticipation, as I approached the classroom and looked for the first glimpse of him, increasingly sure that, every time I glanced across at him, his eyes would be on my face.

His smile. It was utterly captivating.

Each time, he stole a word with me in the deserted corridor, once the others had headed home or to find the bar. We strung out the minutes, strolling together past empty classrooms, down towards the Lower School car park, relishing the tension, the flirting, the anticipation of what might be to come.

We fell into easy roles without knowing quite why. He was the admirer, the would-be seducer. I made a show of resisting him.

His enthusiasm was puppyish. ‘One drink. We can join the others if you like. Or not. Obviously, I’d prefer not. Come on, Laura. Live dangerously.’

I longed to. It wasn’t a lack of interest that made me hold out, it was the thrilling pleasure of being pursued with such determination. And trepidation, too. I sensed from the start that if I fell for Ralph, I’d fall long and hard. I’d lose myself all over again.

It was two years since Matthew had packed his bags and walked out on me, leaving me desperate and bereft. I’d finally adjusted to being alone. I’d learned to close myself off from other people, to protect and guard my heart.

I didn’t want my heart broken into pieces again so soon.

But Ralph didn’t give up. He charmed me. He persuaded me.

And, I know now, he also lied to me.

Eleven

The Monday after Ralph’s death, I dressed for school with care in my smartest dress and a pair of low-heeled shoes. My face in the bathroom mirror was pale and pinched. I outlined my eyes in kohl and tried to rub colour into my cheeks, darken my lips. Painted lady.

I practised in the mirror, thinking what to say if anyone asked.

‘I’ve had the flu. Dreadful. Hardly been out of bed all weekend.’

My eyes looked back at me, dull and lifeless.

The staffroom crackled with a low hum, an electric current of gossip, jumping from one person to the next.

Hilary Prior raised her eyes to me as I headed for my locker to gather the year twos’ exercise books.

‘Have you heard?’ she whispered. ‘Ralph Wilson. They’re saying it might be suicide.’

I started. ‘Who is?’

‘The police.’ She looked exasperated. ‘Don’t you remember? His wife reported him missing? Still no sign of him. Girl trouble, maybe?’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘Anyway, it’s nearly a week now since he went out. That’s the last she saw of him.’

The exercise book on the top of the pile in my arms slipped off and crashed to the floor. I stooped to pick it up, then tilted too far forwards and another three cascaded after it. Pages of crayoned drawings and unsteady lines of pencilled words flapped like dead fish.

Hilary ducked down beside me and helped me to pick them up, then stacked them back on the pile.

‘His wife’s in a real state. I mean… you wonder, don’t you? Was he really so depressed he’d… you know? Awful.’ She blinked. ‘Wonder if they’ll keep Anna home?’ Ralph’s daughter was in her class. ‘Poor thing. What can you do?’

In the corridor, Elaine Abbott hurried to catch up with me before I turned into my classroom. Another ten minutes and children would start streaming in from the playground, pushing and scurrying, bustling with sports kit and bookbags, amid fierce adult cries – Quiet, year two! Don’t run!

‘John’s composing a staff email,’ Elaine whispered.