The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,27

the room. I listened as the door clicked shut behind him.

I lay there on the floor, my body cooling, too crushed for a moment to stir myself and crawl into bed. Why wouldn’t he stay? Doubts gnawed at me. We’d talked so much – about poetry and film and teaching and school but very little about him, about his life. I just assumed… well, he’d seemed such a free spirit and so keen to pursue me.

I closed my eyes. I was imagining things. I should trust my heart, my instincts. He was a decent man. My man. I nodded to myself. He was just being sensitive, giving me space. That might be it. He was wary of rushing me.

I shifted my limbs, feeling the imprint of his fingers, his lips, still lingering there, and stretched, letting myself smile again.

As I finally stirred myself and went into the bathroom to drink some water, then clean my teeth, my phone pinged. I rushed to look, then sighed. It wasn’t from him after all. There was no listing, just the words: Number withheld.

I opened it up to find a short message: Missing you already. When can we meet again? X

I hesitated, confused.

Who’s this?

Romeo. Password: salmon en croûte.

Wherefore art thou using new number?

Juliet hotline.

That made me laugh.

I put down the phone and carried on cleaning my teeth. My head was fuzzy with wine and tiredness but euphoric.

It was time to move on and to trust again. Time to forget those final, bitter rows with Matthew about ‘needing his space’ and ‘feeling shut in’. To forget the silence after the door closed behind him, that final time. To forget the hurt and fear and the lifelessness of being alone.

I put away my toothbrush and picked up my phone again. Juliet hotline. Where did that come from?

It would be different this time. He wasn’t Matthew. He was Ralph. He was special.

My fingers typed back: Soonest. Miss you too. Juliet. xxx

That’s the thing about falling in love. By the time you realise, it’s already too late.

I brimmed with energy that weekend, buoyed up by constant thoughts about Ralph. I cleaned the flat, imagining the next time he’d come round. That October was golden, mellow with warmth and fading sunshine. I went for a long walk by the river, seeing the dying trees, the squirrels, the light flitting across the water, with new eyes. Imagined having him with me. Imagined being happy together there, hand in hand.

I shopped and cooked, wondering what he most liked, and kept my phone close, in case.

On Tuesday, I dressed for school with care and found myself humming as I pressed through the day, the duties, the teaching, the lesson preparation. As soon as Upper School ended, I hurried up the hill towards the writing group classroom. I’d hardly eaten. My stomach was too knotted with excitement. I scurried down the corridor. The classroom door stood open as people wandered in, chatting. I hurried inside and found a seat in the circle, then dared, at last, to raise my eyes properly and search him out, knowing his eyes would already be doing the same.

He wasn’t there.

I breathed deeply and steadied myself, trying not to let the anguish show on my face. Others took their seats. The science teacher with the beard stepped to the front.

‘I’m afraid Ralph can’t make it this evening, folks. Family crisis. He sends his apologies. So,’ he looked round the circle, expectantly, ‘who’d like to kick off?’

I stared at him in disbelief. Family crisis.

I shifted my weight, leaned forward, my body trembling. What was he talking about? What family? What the heck was going on? If I’d been calmer, I might have just got up and left, run down to the car park to call him. But I couldn’t move. I just sat there, flushed, struggling to think.

Already someone was opening a notebook and heading to the front to perch on the corner of the desk, as Ralph always did, clearing their throat and preparing to perform.

I don’t know how I got through it. I kept my eyes on my shoes, the new black shoes I’d chosen with such care that morning, wondering, as I picked them out of the wardrobe, if Ralph would like the spiked heels. That morning seemed a long time ago.

I tried to keep my face passive as they read, one after another. I had no idea what their work was about. All I could think about was Ralph. His eyes. His smile, so direct,