The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,49

particular care for school that first morning, picking out my best pencil skirt and a pink blouse. I had butterflies all day as I tried to keep my mind on teaching. Excited nerves, just as a woman should feel before a special date. Several times, I reached for my phone, thinking I’d message him. Every time, I ended up pushing it back into my bag, laughing at myself. I was so bad at surprises, but I was determined to keep this one!

After the final bell, I hung behind in the deserted classroom, instead of heading to the staffroom. The class smelled of glue and disinfectant, of wax crayons and paint. I closed the door, then tidied up the book corner and washed down the arts and crafts tables. Afterwards, I hid myself away at the teacher’s desk and tried to focus on marking a pile of year three’s stories until the Upper School too finally ended its day and I could head up the hill to join the group there.

I forced myself to drag my feet and make sure I’d only arrived at the classroom after the start of the first reading, usually an honour given to Ralph because it was his group. All the way along the corridor, my heart thudded. It was a painful nervousness. The tension of looking for someone you know to be hiding, someone who might jump out at you at any moment. But there was excitement too. I thought about that first time I’d come looking for the group and the way he’d broken off his reading and come to the door, called to me, with such a look of delight as he ushered me inside. Then read to me, just to me.

Several things happened all at once as I arrived at the classroom. As I reached for the handle, I realised with a jump that it wasn’t Ralph reading. It was a young woman, her blonde hair cut into a bob. She was sitting on the edge of the staff desk, wearing an absurdly short skirt, hitched up by her posture to reveal endlessly long legs dangling over the edge. Her feet, in low heels, rested jauntily on the seat of a wooden chair. Ralph, sitting right beside her, looked captivated. He was gazing at her with a rapt expression, akin to adoration.

As I entered, he turned to see but instead of delight, I saw a shadow of irritation cross his face. He gestured me to a seat impatiently, then turned back to pay homage to the young woman.

I slumped into a chair and scrutinised her. I hadn’t seen her before. A teaching assistant, perhaps, or a graduate student on teaching placement? Her voice was strong and confident as she read her poetry. Her skin was so clear that it looked translucent. It seemed bare of make-up. Her hands, shaking where she held her poem, showed long, slender fingers and neat nails. No nail varnish. No rings.

When she reached the end, she lowered the paper and looked round, half-smiling, her large blue eyes nervous.

Ralph lifted his hands at once and clapped. ‘Bravo!’

The six or so others in the room joined in with half-hearted applause. I shook my head, sickened and embarrassed for him. We never clapped at this group. Never.

Ralph reached out a hand and helped her jump down off the edge of the desk as if he were a knight guiding her down from a horse.

‘Amazing, Meg! Well done!’

Meg? My insides twisted.

He took care to settle her into a seat, close to Olivia, as if he were handing over a treasure for safekeeping. Why such a fuss?

When he read his own work, he addressed some spot at the back of the classroom, declaiming his unrequited love to somewhere north of year ten’s map of the United States of America. I sat, rigid, listening with misery, feeling utterly ignored. Even Olivia, whispering now and then to the young woman at her side, didn’t deign to look in my direction.

At the end of the session, I stayed in my seat and waited to see what would unfold. I wasn’t willing to walk away without seeing him and finding out who this young woman was.

Ralph was all attention, helping her on with her coat, asking what she’d thought of the session.

I watched and didn’t leave. As he ushered her towards the door, I followed him.

‘Ralph?’

He turned at last, forced to acknowledge me.

I put my hand out to the young woman. ‘Hi. Laura Dixon. I don’t