Silent Victim(15)

‘Sir?’ she said, when I drew my hand away. ‘Why did you send me away at lunchtime? Have I done something wrong?’ She turned her dark liquid eyes upon me, and I was painfully aware of her leg touching mine.

I glanced up at the closed door, ensuring we were alone. ‘No, of course not,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s just that I don’t want people getting the wrong idea. People are beginning to notice how much time we’re spending together. I am your teacher, after all.’ In truth, the only person who had passed comment was her father. He may have expressed gratitude, but I had to remain on my guard.

‘But we’ve not done anything wrong,’ she said, heat rising from her collarbones to her cheeks. ‘Talking to you, it’s really helped. I’ve been eating better, looking after myself more. Where’s the harm in that?’

I risked another glance at the door before resting my hand on her back. For a few blissful seconds I left it there, teasingly pausing over the outline of her bra strap. She smelled like a punnet of fresh peaches on a warm summer’s day. I was intoxicated by her presence and the promise of what was to come. Rising from my chair, I allowed my knuckles to graze her cheekbone, unable to resist the temptation of touching her one more time.

‘I value our friendship too,’ I said. ‘But we have to be careful. Not everyone would understand. I need your discretion if we’re to spend time together.’

I watched as the angst visibly lifted from her face, forming into an expression of hope. She nodded. ‘I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.’

‘I thought you’d say that,’ I said, walking to my desk drawer. ‘Which is why I’ve bought you a phone. It’s a pay as you go, nothing fancy. We can text each other whenever you want,’ I licked the dryness from my lips. My heart thumped hard at the implications of my words. Steady. Take your time, I reminded myself, urging caution at every corner. ‘I’d like you to put your name down to borrow the class camera for a week too. You know, for art projects, homework, things like that.’ I quickly followed up. ‘I’ll book the darkroom, develop the photos myself.’

I handed her the phone, watching as she quickly stowed it away in her bag. ‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘Don’t show it to anyone, not even your dad. Don’t text names. I’ll know who you are. If you get caught with it then say it belongs to one of your friends.’

Emma nodded. ‘I’ll delete any texts that I send.’

I leaned against my desk and crossed my ankles. ‘I was thinking, we should keep our meet-ups outside of the classroom. There’s nothing wrong with bumping into each other if we’re out for a walk, is there?’

‘I hang out in Castle Park at the weekends around two. Sometimes I bring a picnic,’ Emma said, packing away her pictures before swinging her schoolbag over her shoulder. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you then?’

I delivered a curt nod, before walking to the door and showing her out. She’d had enough encouragement for one day. The art of seduction was as much about the lead-up as the execution.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EMMA





2002


My heart throbbed a warm beat as I lay on my bed, trying to make sense of the day. He’s just being nice, I chastised myself, wishing my pulse would slow the heck down. My emotions seemed too big, too overwhelming, yet the prospect of having more than a platonic friendship with my teacher frightened me silly.

I licked my lips, my mouth dry. Thoughts of Mr Priestwood crept further into my consciousness, and I blushed as I imagined him pressing his lips on to mine. In the background, Dad’s television blared from the living room, and I wished I could mute the sound.

I took a slow, calming breath, telling myself not to become carried away. Just having someone to open up to about my problems had really lightened my load. But lately, silly daydreams were stealing my focus. I imagined us getting married, me taking his name. Emma Priestwood. Mrs Priestwood. Mrs E. Priestwood. I wrote it over and over, improving the curve and flow of the words. I thought of our children, whom I would call Daisy and Teddy, and our home in the country, complete with a picket fence.

I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. It was a silly daydream. I wasn’t a child any more, and Mr Priestwood was no schoolboy. My stomach tied up in knots as I imagined us together. Men like him weren’t content with holding hands and a peck on the cheek. He’d want a real kiss, with tongues and everything, perhaps even more. I pressed my palms against my cheeks to stem the rising heat. How my classmates would laugh if they knew of my naivety. Marsha Beckett had had sex with two boys by now, and I was pretty sure I was the only girl in class not to have had a proper kiss. That’s if you didn’t count the fumble with Samuel Clarke at the back of the bike shed last year, when he tried to suck off my face. It had felt like a slug attaching itself to my mouth, all wet and gross, and I had pushed him away. But something told me that Mr Priestwood wouldn’t be like that. He was a man. He would know exactly what to do.

I could talk to Tizzy, isn’t that what sisters were for? But I hardly saw her these days. Besides, she wouldn’t understand. No, she wouldn’t approve. My frown burrowed deep as I tried to make sense of it all. I’d gotten myself into a right state. A something and nothing, my mother would call it, but it felt very real to me. I wanted my friendship with Mr Priestwood to continue, but I saw how he’d looked at me, felt a tingle when he brushed his fingers against my cheek. He didn’t treat any of the other girls that way, and they were all desperate for his undivided attention. And now the phone . . . I didn’t know what to make of it. What did he want me to text? Sometimes he could be so forward, but other times he was distant and aloof. As for meeting him in Colchester, what was that all about? I had come to rely on his friendship, but did he really want something more?