The Learning Curve (18 page)

At first, Mark didn’t understand what Oscar was saying.

‘Miss Hobbs is here!’ yelled Oscar through the water. ‘Miss Hobbs is here! I’ve just seen her! She wants to meet you! Miss Hobbs! She’s here! She wants to meet you!’

When the words finally started making sense to Mark, he almost wet the pool. This was not the place to feel superior enough to give a teacher a rocket. For a start, he was wearing his swimming trunks. God only knew what she’d be wearing. A Victorian bathing costume, hopefully, under a dress. Secondly, he needed to prepare himself before coming face to face with any teacher, let alone Oscar’s. He’d never liked teachers, had always been petrified of them, and age had not done anything to improve his fear. Just the smell of classrooms made him want to puke. Thirdly, he knew it was going to be ugly when he met her and he didn’t want Oscar to see him scrape the floor with someone the boy liked. Or worse, he didn’t want Oscar see him dissolve in front of some old harridan.

Oscar stopped splashing and looked at his dad.

‘Dad?’

Mark just shook his head. ‘There’s a time and a place, Osc. And this is neither. I’m sure she’ll understand.’

Oscar didn’t even bother to argue. He just
turned his back, muttered ‘I knew it’, and swam away. Mark also turned his back and tried to swim into the densest patch of people. The last thing he wanted was for the old bat to spot him and come and find him.

By the time Nicky could finally distinguish Oscar swimming into her range of vision and saw that he was by himself, she was not remotely surprised. What had she expected? His father carrying him proudly on his shoulders, beaming with love, and laughing at his good fortune in meeting the woman who spent every day with his son?

‘Sorry,’ said Oscar. ‘Um, I couldn’t find him.’

They both knew he was lying. Nicky even wondered if he’d made up the fact that his dad was here at all. He was probably here with Daisy and Lilith again.

She gave him her best smile.

‘Not to worry,’ she said, her voice upbeat. ‘Probably not the best place to meet him anyway.’

‘Yeah, that’s what he said.’ Oscar nodded eagerly.

She and Oscar made a sad little parting and she went back to swimming her even widths amidst the chaotic Saturday-morning crowd. After a while, she decided it was time to get out and started to look for Sarah-Jane.

‘Why don’t you go on the wave tunnel?’ Mark asked Oscar. ‘I’ll catch you when you come out the bottom.’

‘All right,’ said Oscar glumly. ‘You don’t need to catch me though.’

‘Yes I do! It’ll be fun!’

‘Dad.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m ten.’

‘Oh. Right. OK.’

‘And then we can go home,’ said Oscar. ‘I can play on my PlayStation.’

‘Fine.’

Oscar swam to the far end of the pool and Mark watched him till he was no longer discernable. He thumped the water with his fist. How come something always spoilt what little time they did have together? He swam to the edge and heaved himself out. As he walked slowly to his towel he cast a glance over at the pool. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of a woman standing near one of the plastic tables and chairs, wearing a tight, multi-coloured bikini. He looked at her hair – the water had made it darker and straighter, but yes, it was curly. Corkscrew curly. And she was really
wearing
that bikini. It was packed with soft pale curves. He watched as she rung out her hair on the floor and a young girl, possibly the same age as Oscar, ran towards her from the pool and, resting her arm on the woman’s hip – one of the most deliciously soft pale curves of all – started towel-drying herself off. He stared as she suddenly flung her head back, spraying water all around her. Then he turned away fast. As he did so, the sharp movement caught her attention. Nicky glanced over, away, and then quickly back again. She stared, towel in hand, at the man turning and walking away. She watched him as he disappeared, his broad shoulders slightly hunched and gleaming with water. The sandy-coloured hair was now wet and dark, but she knew it was the same. She took in all the finer details as quickly as possible. Long, taut legs, topped with clinging trunks which emphasised a bottom tight enough to eat in one; naturally wide, strong upper arms that alluded to healthy exercise rather than time spent pumping iron. She couldn’t take her eyes off him until,
gradually, his form lost its sharp edges and slowly grew fuzzy. She was now squinting at him. Then, to her horror, he suddenly turned halfway back towards her, as if he’d just realised he’d forgotten something. She whizzed back round, instinctively sucking in her stomach. Shit. He’d nearly seen her ogling. Heart beating a little faster, she clasped Sarah-Jane firmly by the shoulders and led her into the changing rooms, cursing the fact that you couldn’t go swimming in heels, make-up and clothes.

‘RIGHT!’ EXCLAIMED CLAIRE,
her eyes bright. ‘I want to hear everything. And I mean everything.’

‘Oh dear,’ muttered Nicky. ‘I may have given you the wrong impression.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, that there’s actually something to tell.’

‘Just tell me. I can’t bear the suspense.’

Nicky sighed. ‘Well, actually, believe it or not, there’s been another development since this morning.’

Claire squealed. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘This is almost as exciting as when I started using Ocado! Tell me everything!’

‘I saw him again,’ said Nicky dramatically. ‘Today. At the pool.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘In his trunks.’

Claire paused. ‘Who?’

‘
Him!
’

Claire’s eyes widened. ‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Who?’

Nicky sighed deeply.

‘
WHO?
’ repeated Claire.

‘The bloke I saw the same evening I kissed Rob,’ Nicky told her melancholically.

As Claire’s jaw almost dropped into her wine, Nicky’s head dropped into her hands.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ asked Claire quietly, ‘that you’re spending your mental energy on someone you’ve only
seen
instead of on someone you could actually . . . you know . . . play Fill My Sandwich with?’

‘Mummy?’ came Sarah-Jane’s voice from the doorway. Nicky and Claire spun round. Three little faces stared at them. ‘Whose sandwich is being filled?’ asked Sarah-Jane.

‘I want to choose my filling!’ cried Abigail.

‘GO TO BED!’ shouted Claire. ‘NOW! Mummy’s having
me
time. She’s off duty. Daddy will read you a bedtime story.’

‘Daddy’s asleep on Isabel’s bed,’ said Sarah-Jane, crossing her arms. ‘And anyway, he’s hopeless at reading stories. Absolutely hopeless.’

‘What am I going to do?’ moaned Nicky to Claire. ‘I’m going to marry the wrong man, have children with him and then abandon my family for the right one and ruin everyone’s life.’

‘GO TO BED!’ shouted Claire at the girls.

‘We miss all the fun,’ mumbled Sarah-Jane, as she stomped back upstairs, pushing her younger sisters ahead of her.

‘I want peanut butter and banana in mine,’ said Isabel.

‘Bleagh,’ said Abigail. ‘That’s disgusting. I want cream cheese and jam.’

Claire looked up at Nicky. ‘I can’t even be crude in my own house.’

Nicky stared at her. ‘“Play Fill My Sandwich with”?’ she repeated, slowly.

Claire started laughing. ‘The walls have ears in this house. I was trying to say it without saying it.’

Nicky snorted. ‘What with? Mother-of-three rhyming slang?’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Claire. ‘What the hell is going on with you and Rob?’

‘Well, that’s just the problem,’ said Nicky. ‘I was absolutely convinced that it was over.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we had this amazing kiss –’

‘Oh yeah, that sounds over –’

‘– and I genuinely didn’t want to take it any further. I was completely and utterly unmoved. Emotionally, I mean; physically, I was a wreck. But then the next day, when I was bracing myself to confront him and tell him that I was only interested in him as a friend, blah blah blah, the bastard beat me to it.’

‘Bastard!’

‘And I felt . . . strangely disappointed.’

Claire held Nicky’s hand across the table.

‘Nix,’ she said softly, ‘how do you feel about him?’

Nicky moaned. ‘I get motion sickness just thinking about him. The thing is, we finally kissed as adults, not as hormonal teenagers, and there were absolutely no fireworks. Fact. So. It’s over.’

Claire let out an almost hysterical burst of laughter. ‘Fireworks?’ she cried. ‘What the hell have fireworks got to do with anything? That
is
adult kissing! Real love isn’t about fireworks. It’s about safety, security, trust, respect and sharing a mortgage.’

Nicky looked at her sister. ‘Oh well, that’s really won me over,’ she muttered, pouring herself more wine.

‘I’m sorry,’ Claire firmly told her sister, ‘but it’s a no-brainer.’

‘Good,’ muttered Nicky. ‘That should help.’

‘This is what you have to do,’ Claire said. ‘Listen to me. You have to stop fantasising about strangers who have wives and children of their own, however “floppy” their hair is and “wide-set” their “blue-green” eyes are. You have to follow all your gut instincts and go for Rob, have two – possibly three – children with him, and live Happily Ever After.’ Claire finished her glass of wine. ‘You’re simply too fussy, Nix, that’s why you’re still single.’

Nicky stared.

‘Look at this kitchen,’ demanded Claire suddenly.

Nicky frowned. ‘Eh?’

‘Look at it.’

Nicky looked round the kitchen.

Claire spoke without taking her eyes off Nicky. ‘Couple of dodgy doors coming off the hinges, sink’s too small, no dishwasher. But! It’s still a kitchen –
my
kitchen – and it’s a hell of a sight better than no kitchen at all. Where would I be with no kitchen?’

‘In a restaurant?’ tried Nicky.

‘And it’s exactly the same with men,’ concluded Claire. ‘You may think you’re holding out for the Smegging dishwasher, but the fact is you just haven’t got one.’

‘I have got a kitchen,’ said Nicky. ‘And a dishwasher. And it’s a Smeg.’

‘I’m talking metaphorically, Nick.’

Nicky decided now was not the time to tell her sister she
was talking out of her metaphorical arse. Claire was still talking.

‘The point is,’ she continued, ‘you’re holding out for a fantasy figure, when a perfectly decent, serviceable man – who happens to be particularly pleasing on the eye – is staring you in the face, and if you don’t snap him up quickly, someone else will and that will be that. And you’ll be alone, while someone else happily compromises with the man who was meant to be yours.’

‘You mean,’ said Nicky gravely, ‘someone else will be having their sandwich filled by him?’

Claire nodded firmly. ‘And their tiles grouted.’

‘Ooh.’

‘And their patio laid.’

‘Nice.’

‘And their borders hoed.’

‘Phew.’

‘And their light bulbs changed, after only two sodding months of nagging. By the way,’ said Claire, ‘while we’re on the subject, if you don’t ask the girls to be your bridesmaids, I’ll never talk to you again.’

Nicky stared at her sister. Next time she’d tell Ally instead, sod the consequences.

‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ demanded Claire.

Nicky kept on staring.

‘
What?
’

‘Nothing,’ said Nicky quietly.

The morning of Parents’ Evening arrived all too soon, and Mark stumbled past his team’s empty desks, his briefcase
slung across his shoulder, one grande coffee cup in each hand. Feeling bleary-eyed and bitter, he stared crossly up at the clock. Its two stubby black hands told him it was 6.30 a.m. God, he hated that clock. It ruled his life and the lives of all who sat beneath it like an industrial-age foreman. He had seen it in more positions than he had ever seen any clock in his own home. How many times had he seen it for twenty-four hours in a row? he wondered. Countless.

But not tonight. Tonight he was leaving at seven sharp. Less than thirteen hours from now. And his team could lump it. Send the stress down the line and fuck off to the pub, as one of his colleagues always said when they drank together.

Mark heard a noise from the floor and, dropping his briefcase where he stood, knelt down beside the sleeping forms of Danny and Matt.

‘Morning,’ said Mark. ‘Thought you’d like coffee.’

Danny rolled over and yawned. Matt groaned. ‘Thanks, boss,’ said Danny. ‘What time is it?’

‘Only 6.30. Plenty of time.’

When the door opened behind them, they turned round. Anna-Marie gave them all a polite smile.

‘Morning, boys! Croissants for all!’

Nearly twelve hours later, Mark stared through the wide-open door of his corner office at his team. They were working silently and furiously. It felt like they’d all only just got properly stuck in. He could swear the office clock went at double speed. He lifted his eyes to it. It was now approaching six o’clock and he still hadn’t told them he’d be leaving early tonight. He looked over at Anna-Marie. Her brow was furrowed over some paperwork he knew she was desperately trying to finish before passing it on to him to check, so that
they could bike it over to the client before tomorrow. How could he possibly walk past her and out of the office as early as 7 p.m.? Perhaps he could crawl? He winced. Jesus, this was ridiculous. He was a partner now. At only thirty-three years old. A future guru, if he didn’t have a heart attack before his fortieth. What was the point of being at the top if you couldn’t leave early once a year with a clear conscience? He pictured Oscar’s frightened little face being shadowed by the galleon-shape of some battle-axe’s bust.

The client would just have to wait.

There was only one thing for it. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but there was no other way round it. He picked up his mobile and speed-dialled.

Ten past six and Nicky was just popping her head round all the teachers’ doors to check that they were ready and didn’t need anything.

‘Yes thanks,’ Amanda told her tightly. ‘I’ve done this before. But I’ll call if I need you to hold my hand.’

There were times when Nicky hated being Deputy Head. However, she had found it really interesting to see how differently each teacher ran their own private Parents’ Evening. The entire teaching staff spent the two evenings that constituted Parents’ Evening sitting in their classrooms while being visited by parents at specifically arranged ten-minute slots. Nicky had always assumed that there was only one way to carry this out – the way she did it: the teacher would sit on one of the pupil’s chairs and provide two more pupils’ chairs for the parents and they would all sit together at the same height, around a pupil’s desk. That way everyone felt on the same level and could chat as freely and openly
as possible. But to her amazement, she discovered that one or two teachers stayed seated almost regally behind their higher desk and offered the parents two pupils’ tiny chairs to sit on in front of them. Some perched on the edge of their desk, towering over the parents even more, while creating the illusion of trying to appear informal, and others sat in front of it, but still on their own higher chair. Others sat on top of a child’s desk, and only a few like Nicky sat themselves down on the children’s chairs. The question that occurred to her was whether or not these teachers were aware of how such seemingly subtle seating arrangements might make some parents feel? If they were aware of it, then they were playing nasty power games and were probably masking deep insecurity. If this was so, then the last job they should be doing was teaching vulnerable children for a whole year. If they weren’t aware of it, then they were social idiots and, probably, the last job they should be doing was teaching.