Good Me Bad Me(18)

‘Mike tells me you’re interested in art.’

‘I like drawing.’

‘I was always terrible at art, terrible at most things to be honest. Not like you, very smart I hear.’

‘I’m not really sure about the smart bit, but thanks. Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure, fire away.’

‘What do you do during the day when Mike’s at work and we’re at school?’

‘Lots of different things, I suppose.’

‘Like what, if you don’t mind me asking?’

I turn to face her, she clears her throat, looks away. An involuntary response to being in the hot seat, with something to hide, secretly she’s glad the school run’s only a couple of minutes.

‘Bits and bobs really. Online shopping for the house.’

Yes, which the housekeeper puts away.

‘Sometimes I get together with the other mums to discuss school stuff and before you know it the day’s gone and the house is full of you guys again.’

‘You forgot yoga. You love it, don’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right, silly of me to forget. I like it very much, do it most days.’

I wait a few seconds, then say, ‘And your teacher, you really like him.’

The creamy complexion of her face changes colour. Reddens. A tightening round her lips. She removes her left hand from the gear stick, flicks her nose a few times. Deceit. I’m not the only one withholding.

‘Yes, he’s excellent,’ she replies.

‘Was he over last night by any chance?’

She looks at me. I read her thought process easily. Surely not, she’s wondering. The house was empty, wasn’t it? She turns away before answering.

‘As a matter of fact, he was. I ordered a new mat and he decided to drop it in. He was passing by, I think.’

The pitch of her voice. Up a fraction. The car comes to a halt, traffic lights add pain. Hers. Pleasure, mine. Then guilt. I don’t know why I’m taunting her, why I’m enjoying it.

I tell Saskia that was nice of him, to deliver the mat. She nods, wary of what else is to come, but I stop there. I don’t tell her that before I closed the door to the basement last night, I heard noises. I don’t tell her I went down the steps to the gym and saw her being fucked on the floor by a man half her age. Slut. I don’t tell her because secrets, when handled carefully, can be useful.

‘This is about as close as I can get,’ she says and pulls the car into the kerb outside the newsagent across the road from school.

‘It’s fine, I’ll just grab my stuff from the boot.’

As I turn to open the car door, I see you on the front cover of a newspaper outside the shop. Saskia hurries me, says she’s holding up traffic. I climb out, shut the door, collect my portfolio case from the boot and, once I close it, Saskia toots her horn and drives off. I take as long as possible to load my things from the pavement into my arms, my eyes on you. Somebody behind me says, could you be any more in the way? I gather everything up and head for the zebra crossing. Tall orange lollipops, a stream of pupils in uniform.

I make my way to the common room, usually a place much like the ‘middle corridor’ I avoid, but a compulsory meeting for our year group’s school play, Lord of the Flies, is scheduled there first thing this morning. I open the door. Phoebe is the first person I see, already changed from her running gear into uniform. A handful of other girls lounge on the beanbags and sofas. Most of them don’t look up as I come in, heads bent over phones. Fingers tap. Scroll. Up. Down. The kidnapping of women and children in Nigeria is not what they read about. They obsess over the small things, the insignificant things. The celebrity break-ups. Make-ups. The babies. Divorce. Who cheated on who. She deserved it anyway, stupid cow. Comments thrown back and forth. Fingers pick up speed. Tap. Double tap. Tap again. Un-tap, because they change their minds. Fickle like that.

I leave my art case by the door and without thinking pick up a newspaper from the table closest to me and take a seat. My heart rate increases when I realize you’re on the front cover of this one too. Now is not the time to enjoy you, enjoy looking at you. I open the paper, doesn’t matter which page, can’t concentrate on the words anyway. A minute or so later Phoebe moves from her position on the window seat, walks towards me, grabs it from my hands. Shield. Armour. Gone. She has you, your face, in her right hand.

‘Thanks, dog-face, you know how much I love to keep up with the news.’

She flops into the chair opposite me. Her school skirt, rolled over at the waist, sits shorter than it should, reveals the remnants of a summer tan on her toned legs. Ankle-length socks, we’ll be switching to tights next week, I bet she’ll find a way to make them alluring. She draws up her legs, rests her feet on the table between us, knickers visible, newspaper on her thighs. Ink scribbled below her knee, a doodle of a love heart next to an old scar. Oval in shape. Looking at it reminds me of you, you loved to leave your mark on me. Conquered and claimed. I stare when I think about you, it’s a problem I have. Layers of thoughts, pinball speed in my head.

Don’t realize I’m doing it.

‘Like staring at girls’ knickers, do you?’

I look away, some of the girls laugh, others busy, engaged in their shallow cyber graves. Phoebe goes back to reading and out of the corner of my eye I see her shaking her head and when she says, fuck, I know she’s talking about you.