Teach Me Dirty(62)

She struggled but it was half-hearted. The tears, not so much.

“Please don’t take me home! They’ll be so upset with me!”

“Be quiet, Helen, just be quiet.” I slipped back in the driver’s seat, and closed the door. “I need to concentrate, I’m over the f*cking limit. So please be quiet.”

She stared at me with big, sad eyes. “You shouldn’t have come for me…”

“Like I had a choice.”

“You did…”

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and she took the hint. The car went quiet.

“Where are you taking me?” she said finally, and her voice was calmer.

“Home,” I said, then turned to her before she could object. “My home.”

***





Helen



I didn’t speak. Didn’t say another single word. Buttoning up my beak and letting the world slip past the window.

His home.

I wished it felt better. I wished it wasn’t under duress.

He was angry, I could tell. That felt worst of all.

I heard him sigh, and he turned the heater up full. It felt nice against my freezing legs.

“You could have caught your death out there.”

I shrugged. “I was upset.”

We turned up towards Deerton Heath and my tummy tickled with nerves. The road climbed, steeply, and turned bumpy, and there were no streetlights, no lights at all.

“Not far now,” he said and I hugged myself to steady my thumping heart. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Whisked away in the night to his home.

The track evened out, and twinkling lights came into view in the distance. He pulled up, and switched off the engine.

“This is us.”

Us.

If only.

I unclipped my seatbelt and let myself out, and he was already at the doorway, leading the way inside. The door was old, heavy and smooth, and the hallway beyond was old, too. You could tell by the walls, uneven and beamed and full of age. He flicked on the light, and I looked through to a dining room. It was cluttered, but artistically so, the table laden with canvases and palettes, and the walls were covered in prints and paintings, a faded terracotta colour peeping out through the gaps. I took off my heels and followed him through to the kitchen, another artistically cluttered affair, with jugs and jars and heavy pans, and a couple of strange looking houseplants. He ran the tap awhile before filling up a glass.

He handed it over.

“Drink.”

“Lizzie already made me…”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Drink.”

I propped myself against the side and forced some down, but I was still shaking, still cold. Still nervous.

I felt his eyes on me. “Heating is on.”

“Thanks.”

He brushed past me and took a door to the side, and I peered in after him. He was crouched on the floor by a fireplace, fumbling with some kindling. He set it alight, and my heart leapt, an unexpected moment of joy. My first in weeks. I love a real fire.

“Come through,” he said, and he was at the sofa — an old battered leather thing that had seen better days — making me a space amongst a load of art magazines. I sat down and pulled my legs up under me, and Mr Roberts fetched a soft woollen throw from a stool in the corner and draped it over my legs. “The fire will start kicking out some heat soon.”

“Thank you, I’m a bit warmer now.”

He sat on the arm at the opposite end, and watched the flames in the grate as they danced and crackled and sprang into life. “I wanted the best for you, Helen. That’s all I wanted.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“This whole thing… it was wrong. I knew it was wrong. I thought if I could just back away, just give you enough space…” He sighed. “It didn’t really go to plan, though, did it?”

“I… I just…” I slumped down in my seat. “I just wanted it so bad. It broke my heart.”

“Seeing you with Harry Sawbridge…” His brows were heavy, concentrated. “Helen, you’re better than that.”

“I didn’t feel it.” My heart hurt. “I don’t feel it. I feel like nothing. I just wanted it done.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. I feel like nothing. Just a stupid little girl. A weirdo. A stupid virgin.”

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

He moved so slowly. Dropping to the floor and closing the distance on his knees, and he was there, in front of me, warm hands on my knees through the throw. “That isn’t the truth.”

“You would say that. You have to say that. You’re my teacher.”

“I’m hardly acting like it.”

“You are.” And I was sad again. “You are acting like it.”

“I’ve been trying.”

I managed a small smile. “You’re not doing so bad.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” I said. “You should have left me there.”

“Yes,” he said. “I should have. I’m too drunk to drive.”