A Little Crushed (5 page)

Loosening his tie, he collapsed into the armchair and took a long, welcome sip of beer. He picked up the remote and idly flicked through the TV channels only to switch off again in despair. If he had to sit through one more bloody reality show, he’d throw up. There was more than enough reality in his own sorry life without subjecting himself to the emotional traumas of a bunch of sad celebrity wannabees. “Well, Dad,” he raised his can, “here’s to you.”

 Kate’s patrician face smiled down at him, and suddenly the need to hear her voice gripped his gut. Pulling his mobile from his jacket pocket, he scrolled down to her number. His finger hovered over her dial. No. Common sense booted out loneliness. He’d promised Kate some space. She needed it. They
both
did. He winced against the pounding in his head. Maybe it was time to be honest and admit their relationship was going nowhere. Just what was he doing with his life? There wasn’t anyone to answer.

Pushing Kate from his mind, he went over the events of his first day. All in all, it hadn’t been too much of a disaster—apart from his run in with Rebecca. How he wished he hadn’t over-reacted, but she’d thoroughly succeeded in antagonising him. Admittedly, after his first harrowing day on the job, it hadn’t taken much. The question is, he thought, what was he going to do about her? Tom had been adamant he go on as if he knew nothing. Easier said than done.

Revulsion churned in his gut at the thought of what she must have suffered. Okay, she hadn’t been raped, but as the son of a newspaper magnate, he knew, from the time he’d spent as his father’s apprentice, the horrors a killer could inflict on his intended victim. He’d seen the police photographs, first hand, many times. He shuddered.
Too
many times.

A vision of the proud teenager filled his head. Something about her appealed to him. She had guts. That much was obvious, but it was more than that. Behind the warm mocha eyes, he read courage, honesty laced with vulnerability. A vulnerability he wanted to protect. Draining his beer, he went to draw a bath.

“Rebecca, you’re not eating.”

“I’d hardly call two slices of toast not eating.” Rebecca parried her mother’s too-knowing maternal concern. Best to hide her agitated state behind her habitual and legendary cutting sarcasm.

“New eyeliner, Vic?” Ignoring her mother’s pained rolled eyes of frustration, Rebecca deflected the attention. It worked a treat. Her father’s sharp lawyer’s gaze homed in on Vicky with all the subtlety of a fox on the hunt.

 “I thought we said no make-up for school, Vicky.”

“It’s hardly any, Dad.”

With years of practice, Rebecca deftly removed her legs out of harm’s way.

“Ouch.” Jack yelped. “That was me, you cow.”

“Jack! I will not have you speaking to your sister like that. Apologise.”

“But she kicked me.”

“I was aiming for Rebecca.” Vicky pouted.

Her mother sighed. “Rebecca, dear, why do you have to wind her up so?”

“Because it’s easy and much more fun than going through the same boring conversation every meal time. I’m fine, Mum.”

“Well I don’t like it. You look too pale and—”

“Would you please just all stop?” Throwing down a half-eaten slice of toast, Rebecca stood, grabbed her bag from the back of the kitchen chair and made her retreat.

* * * *

“You okay?” Emma eyed her. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you for boosting my already ailing confidence.”

“You? Ailing confidence? By the way, did you do the essay for Mr. Jackson?”

“Oh, you mean Aussie Ausbore?”

Emma giggled.

“Yes, I did, and it’s a masterpiece if I do say so myself. What about you?”

“Well, it would have helped if I’d understood the bloody question. What on earth does juxtaposition mean anyway?”

“You are such a Philistine. Don’t panic. ‘Hemingway’ here at the rescue. I said you could copy mine but not word for word. I’m sure our resident colonial, despite his inferior intelligence, would pick up on that.” About to hand over the essay, she zeroed in on Emma’s panda eyes. “You’re wearing make-up. What’s the matter with everyone today?” Waving the essay in the air, Rebecca shook her head. “You really do like him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Emma lunged at the papers. “It’s just a bit of mascara and lippy.”

Rebecca kept her essay out of arm’s reach. “You’ve got that glazed look on your face. It’s the French assistant all over again.”

“I was young and immature then.” Emma grabbed at her hand.

Rebecca was too quick for her. “What—six months ago? Pur-lease. And I’ve just noticed. You’re wearing a skirt, too,
and
heels.”

“My combats are in the wash.”

Emma’s excuse was feeble, but Rebecca sensed her flagging under interrogation. “All ten pairs? Well, if loyalty means so little to you…”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I think he’s cute. That’s all.”

“So were the Gremlins. I know you, Emma Brown. You’ll be following him around the school like a lovesick puppy. Just don’t obsess over him to me. Besides, he’s positively ancient.”

“Twenty-seven, actually.”

“You’ve checked already, have you? I rest my case.”

“Can I please have the essay?”

“Oh, here.” Rebecca thrust it at her. “If you need to impress him so much, then I wash my hands of you.”

Spewing forth gratitude, Emma scanned the pages. “Bugger, there is loads. Where do you find all this stuff?”

“Books, my dear. Internet, or were you under the impression Mr. Gates invested all his time and effort just so you could surf Ebay and water the flowers on your pathetic Facebook farm?”

“I will have you know Farm Town is very therapeutic. Anyway, enough about me. What gives really?”

Rebecca’s antennae waved on high alert. “What do you mean what
gives
? Do speak English, please.”

Emma shrugged her shoulders, expression wary. “You look funny. It’s like you’re talking to me, but you’re not here.”

“So where am I then?” Rebecca threw open her locker. “You really watch too many
Oprah
re-runs.”

“Hey, it’s me, remember.”

Rebecca stiffened under Emma’s hand of friendship; she still was not comfortable being touched.

“Did you have the dream again?”

Battling against a wave of irritation, Rebecca turned to her friend and offered up a frail smile. Emma was the only one who knew about the ‘dream.’

“No.” Okay, a white lie, but it wasn’t the
recurring
nightmare that had her agitated. Oh no. It was much more. The second dream had left her reeling, confused beyond words because her saviour had not been her father. She knew who it was, of course. What she didn’t know was
why
.

“Becs?”

“What... Sorry. No... It wasn’t the dream. I guess I’m just tired.” She ducked out from Emma’s arms. This was one dream she was not willing to share. Her friend would think her nuts. She was beginning to believe she
was
. “Come on. Let’s get to work on dumbing down my essay. I can see you are hell-bent on impressing the Neanderthal.”

* * * *

By the end of the day, Max decided he needed a stiff whisky and possibly a joint. Children were definitely becoming more stupid. Either that, or he was simply less tolerant. Until today, he hadn’t been aware a triple negative existed. He blamed
Eastenders.
In his opinion, that programme was singularly responsible for the destruction of the English language. One episode had him frantically searching for the remote. He would take
Neighbours
any day, even if it was set in Melbourne.

Waiting for his sixth form pupils, he browsed through his copy of Robert Frost. He hoped the lesson would go smoothly. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit he was nervous about facing Rebecca Harding. Okay for Tom to say carry on as normal, but every time he thought about her ordeal, rage swirled in his stomach; rage mixed in with a sense he wanted to protect her—weird, considering he didn’t even like her. Weirder still, he’d dreamed of her.

Idly turning the pages of his college days poetry book, he saw her again: frail, helpless, her tiny body bruised and battered, curled into a ball, whimpering her despair.

“Good afternoon,
sir
. Mr. Jackson.”

Tone as haughty as ever, smile mocking, Rebecca Harding placed the pile of tattered and coffee-stained A4 papers on his desk.

“Thank you.” Struggling to regain some measure of equilibrium, Max returned the smile.

“You’re welcome…
sir
.” She gave a half-curtsy before turning on her heels.

Max watched her walk away with her head held high, shoulders straight, and gait so full of confidence. He wasn’t fooled. He’d caught the uncertainty film her eyes, the merest tremor of a full bottom lip.

Dragging his gaze away, he cast a cursory glance over the papers. He couldn’t help it. A ghost of a grin teased the corners of him mouth. Ten out of ten for audacity.

* * * *

“He actually bought it?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Rebecca slid into her seat.

“Well, just don’t push your luck.” Emma yawned, already bored. “Somehow I doubt he’s as stupid as you think.”

“A good soldier always knows when to retreat. I shall be a model of decorum.” Sitting up, ramrod straight, Rebecca clasped her hands on the desk in front of her.

“Now you look as if you’re at Sunday school.”

“Don’t I just.” She smiled through clenched teeth as Mr. Jackson walked up and down the aisles, dishing out what appeared to be boring poetry books.

“Relax, Miss Harding. Rigor mortis will set in. Right,” returning to his desk, Mr. Jackson leaned back against it and crossed his legs at the ankles, “today is Frost day. Anyone here read any of his works?”

Blank stares and dumb silence, broken only by Julie’s wistful sigh, met his query.

“Okay,” he continued, in an oil-smooth tone. “Can anyone here actually read?”

Rebecca’s classmates broke into a cacophony of appreciative titters; everyone appreciated a comic.

Rebecca grunted her disgust. How easily the masses were impressed.

Emma pushed a hastily scribbled note in her direction.
Check out those thighs. Do you think he works out?

Rebecca grabbed her pen.
Do I give a monkey’s?

“I’ll take those, thank you.”

Her friend turn a deep crimson as the latest object of her desire loomed over their desk. Emma really was a hopeless case. Mr. Jackson scanned the notes before screwing them up into a ball and lobbing them successfully into the wastepaper basket.

He skewered Emma with a frosty glint. “You—Miss Brown, isn’t it? Why are you here?”

“Yes, sir. Er, English A level sir,” she squeaked.

Leaning over them, he said in a low voice. “Well, I suggest you shut up and learn.”

Rebecca struggled to stifle a giggle. Emma looked ready to pass out.

Back at his desk, he turned and added. “And by the way, the answer to your question is no, but I do play squash and rugby.”

“Oh, this is such a gloat moment.” Rebecca sniggered into her hand. “Still love him?”

Lost to reality, Emma rested her hand on her cheek. “He sounds just like Russell Crowe.’“

“You need help. Anyway the Great Mr. Crowe is from New Zealand.”

“Any chance we could actually get some work done here?”

Feeling his gaze burn a hole in the side of her head, she buried her nose in the book. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance.

By the time the bell sounded, Rebecca had to admit, although it pained her to do so, he was an inspiring teacher. Despite being a ‘foreigner,’ he certainly knew his stuff.

“Essays on my desk, please.” He called out as they streamed out. “Miss Harding—wait behind.”

Rebecca froze. Her stomach dipped as panic set in.

The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with him. She didn’t want to be alone with him.

* * * *

Max tilted back his chair, folded his arms and studied her, noting the smooth, pale skin, the dark, intelligent eyes challenging him—a little fearfully. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. He could tell she was fighting hard not to betray unease or weakness. She met his gaze full on. The luxuriant, dark hair was pulled back into an unruly plait, enhancing the exquisite bone structure of her face. Underneath that tough tomboy-Grunge-meets-Goth exterior, there lurked a very pretty girl.

She had the kind of face that captured people’s attention; turning heads in the street, he imagined, wherever she passed. Almond-shaped eyes, so dark they appeared nearly black, dominated her perfectly oval face. Her skin was ivory porcelain, reminding him of one of Kate’s china dolls. The irony was he sensed Rebecca was blessed with all this, but she didn’t care. Despite Rebecca’s air of superiority, she possessed a certain naivety he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He caught her gaze drift to his chest, along with the blush that followed. She wasn’t comfortable being alone with him. Did his masculinity threaten her? God, he was a prize idiot. Straightening up, he fiddled with his tie, overcome with remorse. Rebecca Harding was not comfortable being alone with
any
man. Averting his gaze from her white, pinched face, he pretended to scrutinize her lines. She reminded him of a caged animal.

“You wanted to see me.”

“Yes. I just wanted to say…” God, he had to pull himself together, but she had his senses reeling. “I just wanted to say—” He turned his head and willed himself to meet her gaze. “Thank you for doing this. I am only sorry it was necessary, but I hope, now, we can put yesterday’s unfortunate exchange behind us?”

“Why?”

Her sharp comeback caught him square on the chin. To his surprise, she trembled, fists clenched into tight balls against her legs.

“Why the act of contrition? Yesterday you seemed to derive great pleasure in humiliating me, so why the about turn?”

Max chose his words with care, wishing he’d listened to Tom’s advice. “Miss Harding, I am trying to be fair, here. In a sense, I’m attempting to apologise and admit I overreacted. As we will be spending the next year working together in this room, I thought it beneficial to us both to begin afresh.”