ONE DAY(71)

1996–2001

Early Thirties

‘Sometimes you are aware when your great moments are happening, and sometimes they rise from the past. Perhaps it’s the same with people.’



James Salter, Burning the Days





CHAPTER TEN


Carpe Diem


MONDAY 15 JULY 1996

Leytonstone and Walthamstow

Emma Morley lies on her back on the floor of the headmaster’s office, with her dress rucked up around her waist and exhales slowly through her mouth.

‘Oh, and by the way. Year Nine need new copies of Cider With Rosie.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ says the headmaster, buttoning up his shirt.

‘So while you’ve got me here on your carpet, is there anything else you’d like to discuss? Budget issues, Ofsted inspection? Anything you want to go over again?’

‘I’d like to go over you again,’ he says, laying down again and nuzzling her neck. It’s the kind of meaningless innuendo that Mr Godalming – Phil – specialises in.

‘What does that mean? That doesn’t mean anything.’ She tuts and shrugs him away and wonders why sex, even when enjoyable, leaves her so ill-tempered. They lie still for a moment. It’s six-thirty in the evening at the end of term and Cromwell Road Comprehensive has the eerie quiet of a school after hours. The cleaners have been round, the office door is closed and locked from the inside, but still she feels uneasy and anxious. Isn’t there meant to be some sort of afterglow, some sense of communion or well-being? For the last nine months she has been making love on institutional carpet, plastic chairs and laminated tables. Ever considerate of his staff, Phil has taken the foam cushion from the office armchair and it now rests beneath her hips, but even so she would one day like to have sex on furniture that doesn’t stack.

‘You know what?’ says the headmaster.

‘What?’

‘I think you’re sensational,’ and he squeezes her breast for emphasis. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without you for six weeks.’

‘At least it’ll give your carpet burn a chance to heal.’

‘Six whole weeks without you.’ His beard is scratching at her neck. ‘I’ll go crazy with desire—’

‘Well you’ve always got Mrs Godalming to fall back on,’ she says, hearing her own voice, sour and mean. She sits and pulls her dress down over her knees. ‘And anyway, I thought the long holidays were one of the perks of teaching. That’s what you told me. When I first applied . . .’

Hurt, he looks up at her from the carpet. ‘Don’t be like this, Em.’

‘What?’

‘The woman-scorned act.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t like it anymore than you do.’

‘Except I think you do.’

‘No I don’t. Let’s not spoil it, eh?’ He places one hand on her back, as if consoling her. ‘This is our last time ’til September.’

‘Alright, I said sorry, okay?’ To mark a change in subject, she twists at the waist and kisses him, and is about to pull away when he places one hand on the nape of her neck and kisses her again with a gentle scouring action.

‘Christ, I’m going to miss you.’

‘You know what I think you should do?’ she says, her mouth on his. ‘It’s quite radical.’

He looks at her anxiously. ‘Go on . . .’

‘This summer, soon as term’s over . . .’

‘Tell me.’

She places one finger on his chin. ‘I think you should shave this off.’

He goes to sit. ‘No way!’

‘All this time and I don’t know what you actually look like!’

‘This IS what I look like!’

‘But your face, your actual face. You might even be quite handsome.’ She puts her hand on his forearm, and pulls him back down. ‘Who’s behind the mask? Let me in, Phil. Let me know the real you.’

They laugh for a while, comfortable again. ‘You’d be disappointed,’ he says, rubbing it like a favoured pet. ‘Anyway, it’s either this or shave three times a day. I used to shave in the morning but I looked like a burglar by lunch time. So I thought I’d let it grow, let it be my trademark.’

‘Oh, a trademark.’

‘It’s informal. The kids like it. Makes me look anti-authority.’

Emma laughs again. ‘It’s not 1973, Phil. A beard means something different these days.’

He shrugs defensively. ‘Fiona likes it. Says I have a weak chin otherwise.’ A silence follows, as it always does when his wife is mentioned. To lighten things he says, self-deprecatingly: ‘Of course you know the kids all call me The Beard.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that, no.’ Phil laughs and Emma smiles. ‘And anyway it’s not The Beard, it’s just Beard. No definite article, Monkey Boy.’

He sits suddenly, frowning sternly. ‘Monkey Boy?’

‘That’s what they call you.’

‘Who?’

‘The kids.’

‘Monkey Boy?’

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No!’