A Little Crushed (9 page)

Rebecca shook her head. “No hypnotists. Please Dad, you promised.”

“I did.” Standing, he walked around his desk to her side and held out his arms. “Whatever you want.”

Rebecca fell into the security of his arms and breathed in his spicy after-shave. Every Christmas, her mother bought him some expensive French cologne, but he always came back to his favourite. Rebecca loved that smell. It represented all that was safe and good in her world.

“Now…” He kissed her forehead. “What about this Mr. Jackson? Do you want me to go and talk to him?”

“Are you joking?” She pulled away. “And make him think I can’t fight my own battles?”

“Okay, then. You know what you have to do.”

“I do?”

“We all say or do things we regret, but the key to redemption is to acknowledge your mistake and try to put it right.”

Rebecca rubbed at her nose. “What can I possibly do now?”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. You must go to this Mr. Jackson and apologise.”

She stared, her jaw somewhere around her navel. “Apologise to Mr. Jackson? I couldn’t do that. You don’t know him, Dad. He doesn’t like me.”

“Not surprising,” his tone reverted to chilly, “if that’s the little respect you show him.”

“But he would gloat so much. I can’t let him win.”

“Stop it. Sometimes you try my patience with this stupid pride of yours. Life is going to be very tough on you if you don’t learn to give a little. Now…” he went to collect his jacket, “I have an appointment. I’m sorry, but you’re on your own on this one. I can’t force you to apologise, but you’re an intelligent girl. You know it’s the adult thing to do.” Opening the door, he turned. “You think about what I’ve said.”

After he left, Rebecca sat down in his chair, elbows on the desk, chin cupped in hands. She stared at the debris of scrunched up notes and half-full coffee cups. A brilliant academic, her father was hopelessly impractical and untidy. It upset her to know she’d disappointed him, but she couldn’t do it; she didn’t want to be ‘adult’ and apologise. She wouldn’t humble herself.

* * * *

So much for the great escape. She sauntered into the sixth form centre, swinging her bag as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Emma’s high-pitched giggle floated over the array of sofas and easy chairs, scarring her bravado. Rebecca frowned. That’s all she needed. Mr. Brendon Harwood, Wyeston’s answer to Hugh Grant, sprawled in one of the eating area booths. His side kick, Andy, sat by his side with a starry-eyed Emma gazing lovingly into his eyes.

“Becs, over here.” Emma beckoned her to join them.

Too late
. “Hello. What’s this? Teddy Bears’ picnic?”

“Nice one.” Peter stuck his head around from the next booth. He went to high five her, but she quelled him with one of her looks.

“Shut up, Dobson,” Brendon drawled. He pulled himself out of his self-important slouch. “Go and play with your trains, or whatever it is you nerds do at the weekend.”

It wasn’t that she wished to encourage Peter in his puppy-dog worship of her, but she itched to slap Brendon’s face. “Better playing with trains than with yourself.”

A hush descended over the room while Emma’s face read, ‘Do you have a death wish?’

“Oops.” Andy turned to his pal, eyes gleaming as he waited for the scathing come-back.

To her surprise, and everyone else’s, Brendon flicked back his stupid cowlick and laughed. “Nice one, babe, and just so you know, I think of you the whole time I’m doing it.”

Staring at her, he ran his hand over his crotch. Revulsion crawled over her skin. His expression held the same vile lecherous desire as… She swallowed back bile. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips and allowed his gaze to travel over her body. Rebecca was glad her clenched fists were stuffed in her pockets. Better there than slammed into his face.

Feigning bravado, she let rip with a sardonic laugh. “Did you just call me babe? How unoriginal.” Switching her attention to Emma, she smiled. “Nice friends you have.”

Turning on her heels, she made for the kitchen annex and flicked on the kettle switch.

“Rebecca?”

Hand raised, she spun round, only to drop it to her side. “God, Peter, don’t creep up on me like that. I thought you were Brendon.”

“I’d top myself if I was him.”

“He’s a prat, I agree.” She grabbed a couple of mugs from the shelf. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

Rebecca smiled. She sensed his confusion. She wasn’t always nice to him, but he’d proved a worthy ally against Brendon. “You shouldn’t antagonise him, you know.” Avoiding his drippy expression, she busied herself spooning sugar into the mugs. “He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“I can hold my own. I box.”

“Of course you do. I remember now. You’re county champion or something like that but still...”

“He is an arse, and he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I don’t understand how Emma can hang around with them.”

“Well, you know what they say—’love is blind.’” She handed him a coffee.

“Thanks, Becs. Can I ask you something?”

Oh no
. Rebecca groaned, sensing his awkwardness.
Please don’t let him ask me out.
“Now? I was just on my way to the library, and—oh, Emma, just in time. I need to talk to you about something. Sorry, Peter.” Showering him with her best sickly smile, she caught hold of Emma’s sleeve and led her into the girls’ toilets.

“Look, if you’re going to blast me out about Brendon, don’t bother.” Leaning against the door, Emma folded her arms high on her chest, expression sheepish. “He’s an idiot, okay?”

“I don’t care about that moron. I only dragged you in here to escape from Peter. He’s a tad too intense for my liking.”

“Oh.” Emma chortled into her hand. “Don’t tell me you thought he was going to ask you out? That is too funny.”

“Hilarious.” Crossing to the sink, Rebecca stared at her reflection and wrinkled her nose. “Not sure why he’s interested in me, though. It’s too weird. I mean, it would be like going out with my brother. We grew up together.”

“Do you remember when we made tents in your garden, and Peter wanted to be mother? He always was peculiar.”

“Don’t be so sexist.” Turning, Rebecca glared. “At least he’s in touch with his feminine side and all that twaddle. Not like your dear pal, Brendon. If anthropologists are still looking for the missing link, I’ll call and tell them he’s alive and well in Thamesford.”

“I told you, he’s not my friend.” Emma reddened and looked down at the floor. “Becs, I know you don’t like them, but really, Andy’s okay. He’s different when he’s not with Brendon. I…I like him a lot.”

Mouth open, caustic retort at the ready, Rebecca thought better of it. Her father’s words played out in her mind, and her sense of fair play stepped in. “Don’t get all aerated. I am not about to blast you off. If you want to spend time with Andy, then so be it. I may even join you for coffee one day, but please don’t expect me to try too hard with Brendon. I just may vomit. And please suggest he cut his hair. Does he realize how pathetic he looks? The eighties are well and truly dead, thank God.”

Emma giggled. “Does this mean we’re still friends?” She wore her familiar mask of contrition.” Look, I’m sorry about what I said before.”

“Forget it.” Rebecca grunted although she still smarted from her outburst. “Tell me, is it true? Does everyone really hate me?”

Emma blushed again and examined her feet. “No. I exaggerated. It’s only Sarah, really, and we all know she’s always been jealous of you. And Ian, well, he’s scared shitless of his dad and doesn’t want to fail English, and David, he hates you coz you beat him in the history competition. Oh, and Julie doesn’t care if she fails English or not, but she doesn’t want you to drive Mr. Jackson away coz she’s planning on seducing him at the Christmas party, and then there’s Bill. He—”

“I get the picture.” Rebecca felt oddly hurt by the revelations. She knew she wasn’t up for Miss Congeniality of the Year but hadn’t realized she was so far down in the voting.

Emma pulled at her curls, false smile on her face. “Anyway, who cares about them? Peter’s okay. He thinks you’re great, and Simon loves you coz you play football with him. Me, well, I’m just me. You’re not bothered are you? Only you did ask.”

“Oh, please. I’m not about to slash my wrists over a bunch of intellectually challenged misfits. So now we’ve had our Oprah moment, can we please get out of here? I don’t know what cleaning fluid they use, but it reeks to high heaven.”

Relief oozed out of Emma like lava seeping from a volcano. “Good, but one more thing. As we’re sharing our thoughts, I have to tell you something, but promise me you won’t yell. After all they don’t shoot the messenger and all that twaddle. It’s Mr. Jackson.”

“Oh no.” Rebecca backed away toward the door. “He is most definitely not in the terms of our man-treaty. You still are not allowed to wax lyrical over him.”

“Wax what? No. I have a message from him. He says if I see you to tell you he wants to talk to you.”

“Ah, simple then, isn’t it?” Rebecca wrenched open the door. “You haven’t seen me. I’m off to grab my coffee, and then I shall go and hide in the library where I may remain for the rest of the day. All this soul sharing has worn me out. Don’t tell him where I am, Miss Brown, or I shall tell Andy you bite off your toe nails.”

Emma paled to a vampire white. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

* * * *

“As if I would talk to him,” she muttered. Wandering aimlessly through the library aisles, fingers trailing along the rows of books, Rebecca tried to put Mr. Jackson out of her mind. “Bloody cheek, summoning me as if I was five. He can go to hell.” Engrossed in bothersome thoughts, she pulled out a book and idly flicked through the pages. She wondered if he had reported her to Mr. Black. Despite her defiant words to Emma, she hoped not. The head had pulled a lot of strings to make sure she didn’t repeat lower sixth. She owed it to him to stay on top of the course work. Skipping English, her main subject, wasn’t exactly helping. “Well, he started it,” she reminded herself.

“Talking to yourself, Miss Harding? It’s the first sign of insanity, I’m told.”

Her head immersed in a book, she walked straight into him. Her legs turned to cotton wool as she found herself up against his chest.

Ever quick, the retort rolled off her tongue. “It’s the only way I can have an intelligent conversation.”

To her surprise, he laughed. His expression softened, mouth curved in a boyish grin, and the green eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked almost human. “You know, you should take up comedy. Quite a repartee you have there.”

Emma was right. He did sound exactly like Russell Crowe. Flustered, she realized she stood too close to him and stumbled back—slap bang into a waste paper basket.

“So, lunch in the library? You are keen.”

“I’m revising for a Greek test.”

Arms crossed, he leaned against the book shelves, tie loosened and shirt undone just enough to reveal a smattering of gold hairs. Not quite teacher-neat; more like rakish play-boy. Rebecca wondered how he got away with it. Mr. Black was a stickler for smartness, but then, he and the colonial were best buddies.

“Interesting.” He cocked his head to one side and studied the book in her hand. “I didn’t realize Tolstoy was Greek.”

Okay, floor, now would be a good time to open up and swallow me whole. Supercilious twit.
“Wrong section. I’ll just go and put it back.”

Before she could make her escape, he rested a hand on her shoulder. “Not so fast. We need to talk.”

“
We
don’t need to do anything.” She wrenched free of his grasp.

“Miss Harding, this has to stop. I am worried about you. Why did you run out of my lesson? Were you sick?”

“I was, actually.” She slammed the book shut. “Sick of the sycophancy. You can try all you want to be to be
their
buddy, but I told you, don’t try to be my friend. You may impress everyone else but not me.”

“This isn’t about being your friend. Believe me, I have better things to do with my time than try and impress a silly girl like you, but I am your teacher. It’s my job to make sure you are prepared for the exam. It’s not far off, and you can’t afford to miss lessons. I heard you have plans to try for Oxford.”

“I suppose your dear chum, Mr. Black, imparted that titbit of information.” Cheeks burning, she pretended to browse the shelves. “If you must know, Mr. Jackson, Oxford is more my father’s dream than mine, and of course, it would be a great boost for Mr. Black’s reputation if I got in.”

“Thing is…”

With a grimace, he loosened his tie even more, making her think he didn’t like playing dress up too much. Her mouth went inexplicably dry, her gaze riveted to his long, lean fingers working at the knot. Blond hairs covered the back of his hand.

“Miss Harding, are you listening to me.”

She pulled herself free of the disturbing trance. “Pardon?”

“I said I am willing to help you, maybe schedule some extra tuition in your free study time.”

Rebecca wondered if there had been something in that coffee. Then again, she had overdosed on chocolate. “You are offering to tutor me? Oh, this is too funny. Did Mr. Black put you up to this? Is this your attempt to score Boy Scout points with him?”

“For God’s sake. Take off the gloves. I’m in no mood to do battle with you. Why make life difficult for yourself? Why do you always try and goad me? I have tried to excuse your behaviour, but quite honestly, I am tired of it. The least you could do is apologise for running out of my lesson.”

Inside, she cringed. She’d die before admitting it, but he made her feel so small and petty. “Well,” she turned to him, trying to stare him down, “my father did say I ought to apologise for that, so I suppose I had better—”

“Save it.” His words sliced through the short distance between them. “Apology
not
accepted. When you mean it, then maybe I’ll reconsider.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered. She knew she’d stepped as far over the line as she ever had—even with Farty Adams—but she couldn’t help it. Something about him drove her further and further on the path to self-destruction.