The Learning Curve (25 page)

As she stormed across the playground to her car, she bit the inside of her lip so hard it bled.

It was early December when Mark discovered that his bonus would cover all the house-moving costs including stamp duty, and prevent him from having to touch his savings for the first few months. From then on, he’d started leaving the office by 6 p.m. sharp – at the latest – every night. And he needed to, because his exhaustion wasn’t improving. He had started going to bed almost immediately after Oscar and was still having difficulty getting up in the morning. He felt like he was fighting off a virus.

After a rush of inspiration, he’d started paying the au pair extra for her to teach him the basics of housework. It was amazing how rusty you got after years of avoidance. It was also amazing how different he felt about his home now that he was learning how to run it. He felt pride in the
smoothness of a newly cleaned duvet cover, satisfaction from dust-free taps, and smugness from a clean oven.

He wasn’t going to send his partners a letter of resignation until he’d officially been offered a new job and signed a contract, and only then would he tell Oscar the news. He didn’t want to get Oscar’s hopes up, only for the boy to then have to wait six months for it to happen. But within weeks of his applications going out, the interviews started flooding in and all the signs were good. He was experiencing the rare delights of being in demand. Over the past decade of moving up the City ladder, competition had been horrendously tough. He was good at his job and had a fine CV, but he’d lost his fair share of promotions and new jobs due to the equally impressive candidates belonging to the right golf, squash or gentlemen’s club. But that was all different now. Now, his City training and experience was a rare and prized commodity. From the few rivals he’d happened to see while waiting to be called into an interview, he knew he was now competing with one of two things: mums who hadn’t done any sums for the past decade – apart from very basic ones in crayons – and who were demanding two days off a week, or older men who had failed in the City and who emanated a stench of failure. It didn’t take him long to work out that all he needed to do in his interviews was convince the interviewers that his reasons for such a change of heart and career were genuine. Once he’d done that they were practically eating out of his hand.

At first he started applying to local accountancy firms, but on visiting them, discovered that they made him want to throw himself out of the
windows, which invariably looked out over the backs of local restaurants. Luckily the windows didn’t open and he began to wonder if that was deliberate. Worse, the offices were peopled by losers. After two of these companies offered him a job with unattractive haste and he refused both with similar haste, he was forced to reconsider where he really wanted to spend every weekday.

And then, one evening when he was catching up on the Sunday papers in bed (it was the only time he got to read them nowadays), he stopped and stared at a job advert. He was so excited that he got out of bed and started writing his application immediately. He hand-delivered it with a thumping heart the next day.

It was three nail-biting weeks before he was called for an interview.

Unlike the other jobs he’d been applying for, this one held its interviews smack bang in the middle of the day, so he decided to make a few estate agent appointments for that afternoon and then, when the day arrived, he did something he’d never done in all his years as an office worker. He called in sick. It was an uneasy revelation to discover how easy it was.

Then he finished his last bits of preparation, showered, dressed, had his third espresso of the day, and set off.

Half an hour later, he found himself in the toughest, weirdest interview he’d ever been in. Never, in his entire life, had he had to answer the kind of questions that were being posed to him. And certainly never in his life had he had to talk about himself so intimately.

Every time he thought he’d answered suitably, his interviewer just peered at him, squinted, and then asked for more. By the end, he was ready for counselling.

‘Hmmm,’ said his interviewer finally. ‘OK, so I know why
us
and I know why
you
. So. Why us and you
now
?’

He frowned.

‘What,’ continued his interviewer, leaning forward, ‘on earth has been the catalyst for such a dramatic change in your life? What life-altering, all-changing, monumental catalyst has led you here to my humble little office this fine winter morning?’

Mark opened his mouth but no patter came. Instead, he heard his voice falter and felt his eyes sting. It was while answering this question that he realised two things. One, he was experiencing a mid-life crisis so profound that it had made him physically ill. And two, it was all that Miss Hobbs’s fault.

He forced himself to speak slowly, concentrating hard before every word. At one excruciating moment, his voice cracked, but thankfully he was able to push his emotions back down with a cough and a shrug before starting again. After he finished his answer, he sat staring at the hands in his lap, as if they were someone else’s. He felt exhausted yet lighter, as if he might slowly float up to the ceiling.

After a pause, he looked up at his interviewer as if he’d forgotten she was there.

‘Excellent.’ She beamed. ‘Excellent, excellent, excellent, excellent, excellent,
excellent
. Now,’ she peered at him over her specs, ‘how good are you at puzzles?’

Nicky was halfway through a science experiment when she realised she’d left all the books for her next lesson downstairs in the staffroom. This was most unlike her. The last time she’d done it was about two years ago. She couldn’t leave the
children on their own and she had no teacher’s assistant today. There was no way out, she’d have to ask Rob to look in on her class. It was something other teachers did a lot, but Nicky hated doing it. Not only was it a big favour to ask of another teacher, who had their own class to control, but it was admitting to someone that she had made a mistake. Still, she had no option. She told her class to keep quiet for a moment and ran across the corridor to Rob’s classroom. To her surprise, Amanda was in there, leaning over his desk, pointing to something on it, her long hair falling on to his shoulders.

Nicky had seconds to make a decision. Should she lower herself to ask Rob a favour in front of Amanda? Should she enquire who was looking after Amanda’s class? Should she be jealous? Professionally concerned? Or should she just take a long holiday somewhere in the sun?

Rob and Amanda looked up at her and she looked straight past Amanda at Rob.

‘Mr Pattison,’ she said, ‘sorry to trouble you, but I’ve got to go downstairs and get something, can you keep an eye on 6, please?’ she asked him.

It was Amanda who replied. ‘I’ll do it, Miss Hobbs,’ she said smilingly, leaving Rob and approaching her. ‘I’ve got an assistant in for an hour and I’m using the opportunity to get something sorted out with Mr Pattison. I’ll just nip in now.’

‘Thank you, Miss Taylor,’ said Nicky.

As they left Rob’s room, Amanda gave her a big smile. ‘No problem. We’ve got a timetable nightmare we’re trying to sort out. Nice to have a break.’

‘Great,’ said Nicky. ‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’

As she raced down the stairs she wondered if they’d started going out with each other yet.

She marched to the staffroom as fast as possible, determined not to give Amanda an excuse to make her feel indebted to her. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’d started a stopwatch. In the staffroom she collected the thirty slim textbooks and, gripping them under one arm, shut the door carefully behind her.

If, after Parents’ Evening, she had ever predicted when she would see Mr Samuels in the school again, it would not have been now, more than a month after the event. Which was why, as she shut the staffroom door and glanced out into the playground to see what the weather was doing, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

It was Him. Standing in the porch like he owned the place. She’d know the cut of those suits anywhere. He was standing with his back to her, one leg bent, one straight, like some period anti-hero, staring straight ahead at the rain. He must have just come out of a meeting with Miss James. There was no other possible explanation. This was it. He had finally made his complaint.

She stared in horror at his back, all thoughts of hurrying back to her class gone. A couple of books slid slowly out of her arms, pad-padding softly on to the floor by her feet, waking her out of her trance.

She started. Damn. She had to get back to her class. Amanda! And yet, strangely, her feet weren’t moving. Then, when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, Mr Samuels suddenly turned round and looked straight at her.

She swallowed and felt her whole body flush. He would now know that she knew he’d just complained about her.
They stared at each other, both seemingly paralysed. Then, without warning, her feet sprang into action and she whisked herself away, speeding along the corridor. She started to run up the stairs when she heard little whimpering sounds escaping through her chewed lips.

Mark could not believe it. She’d seen him. Typical! Why the hell had he turned back? What dark force had compelled him to take one last look inside? With great effort, he turned round and pushed through the drizzle, across the playground, the searing image of her, in her school-ma’am heels, knee-length skirt and neat little white blouse tucked in at the waist, branding itself into his mind. Hell and damnation. What if she asked Oscar why his father was in school today? This thought made him freeze in the middle of the playground, as if he was playing Grandmother’s Footsteps. Should he go back in and ask her not to tell the boy that his father had been in school? No. He couldn’t. He might be spotted by Oscar on his way in.

And he couldn’t face talking to her. He felt a wave of nervous fatigue at the thought. Anyway, dammit, the woman didn’t deserve an explanation. She was so rude! He’d actually been considering approaching her and apologising for his shocking behaviour at Parents’ Evening, or at least smiling and giving her a polite nod of greeting, but before he’d had a chance, she’d turned her back on him in a huff and walked away, making it categorically clear that he was being ignored.

He cursed under his breath, carried on down the ridiculously long winding path to his car, got in and shut the door. He rested his elbows on the steering wheel and hung his head in his hands.

After a minute, he pulled out an
A–Z
, checked it, started the ignition, and drove out of Oscar’s school, making sure to follow the signs this time.

Within minutes, he pulled up outside a two-up two-down cottage. He peered at it through his windscreen and frowned. Too small. He shouldn’t even bother to leave his car. Unfortunately, the sight of a parked, empty Mini, splattered all over with the garishly printed name of his estate agent, announced that his contact was already inside. He sighed and got out of his car. He was directed by way of a lavender-lined cobbled path up to a small white door with a knocker. The winter remnants of jasmine languished over the door and fringed the top of the white-framed bay window. He rang the doorbell and soon heard footsteps approaching. If the door had been opened by Peter Rabbit he wouldn’t have been too surprised. Instead, he faced his estate agent, which, frankly, jarred with the whole country cottage feel going on.

‘Hell-
oh
,’ greeted Steve, the estate agent. ‘Come on in, come on in.’

He stood back and Mark squeezed past him into a hall so small he thought of getting into a lift to feel the benefit.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Steve.

‘Well, it’s certainly small.’

‘
Bijou
,’ corrected Steve.

‘Ah,
bijou
. Is that what you call it?’

Steve laughed so energetically that Mark thought he might have to go back outside to give him more room.

‘Come and see the kitchen,’ encouraged Steve. ‘I think you might be surprised.’

‘Why?’ asked Mark. ‘Is it made of Lego?’

Steve laughed uproariously again, and then took two steps backwards into a galley kitchen.

Mark stood in the doorway. Then he looked at his watch.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, I think I’ve seen everything I need to see here –’

‘Fully fitted kitchen –’ interrupted Steve, opening and shutting cupboard doors.

‘Mate,’ said Mark, shaking his head, ‘my time is precious. So is yours. So here’s the thing: Look at me. I’m six foot two. I have a ten-year-old son who looks like he has every chance of growing taller and broader than me within five years. Please do not make any more arrangements for me to see houses designed for hobbits.’

‘You don’t want to see upstairs? The views are fantastic.’

‘They’d have to be,’ said Mark forcefully. ‘Right. Let’s go to the next one.’

Steve shook his head. ‘I think you’re making a big mistake.’

Mark wondered how rude it would be to tell this man that he cared significantly less about his opinion than he did about upstairs views. He took out a crumpled list from his pocket.

‘Demby Place?’ He looked at his watch again. ‘We’d be early. Is that a problem?’

Steve replied sulkily. ‘We could walk. It’ll take ten minutes.’

Demby Place backed on to a car mechanics with no doors. Capital Gold blared out so loudly that the mechanics had to yell to be heard. Apart from that it was perfect. Hadley Gardens needed serious work and Onslow Avenue was a sprawling top-floor flat with no lift.

‘Right,’ said Mark as they stood outside the flat. ‘Here’s the other thing: I’m a very busy, very tired family man, so no top-floor flats – no flats at all, in fact – no noise pollution and no redecoration requirements.’

Steve sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head slowly, like a plumber inspecting a new job. ‘I really don’t know how easy that’s going to be, to be honest.’

Mark gave him a look of surprise. He spoke quietly. ‘I don’t care how easy or difficult your job is. I will not be cajoled into living in a house I don’t like, just so you get commission and can buy yourself a new Ford Capri. If you waste any more of my time, I’ll make a formal complaint and take my business elsewhere. I don’t care if you like me. I just want to buy a house off you. Do you understand?’