Twenty Something (27 page)

She snorts, not unattractively.

‘The Jack Lancaster I know and well, the Jack Lancaster I know and quite like doesn't get embarrassed by anything. Especially when he's swearing drunkenly at his boss or running naked across polo pitches.'

We laugh awkwardly.

‘So,' I ask, after a pause, ‘why is “Leila Sid-day-bot-tome calling”, er, calling?'

‘Well,' she says, suddenly turning serious, ‘have you got any idea how boring Buddy is?'

I snort, very unattractively.

‘And you've only just realised? I'd rather shave the skin off my bottom and sit in a tub of Tabasco sauce than spend half an hour alone in his company.'

She laughs.

‘That's the problem, Jack. You're just so much more fun than anyone else.'

‘And Buddy is a little dull in comparison?'

‘Everyone is a little dull in comparison.'

‘That's romantic,' I say, trying to sound indignant, but secretly leaping inside.

‘Oh shuddup, you fat, balding French teacher,' she says. ‘You know I've always liked you.'

‘You have? You're not just on the rebound?'

‘Well, that too.'

‘Oh, thanks.'

‘But I've sat there playing your birthday speech over and over again in my head,' she says with a hint of a choke in her voice, ‘and I can't get rid of the niggly feeling that the only person I'm rebounding from is you.'

And that's the only bit of the conversation I can remember. We spoke for almost an hour. I told her everything. I cultivated my garden. I told her how I'd always liked her; how my dad's
death had changed me; about how happy I was doing my new job. I told her about the Val d'Isère ski trip I was taking the boys on next week.

‘Jack, I'd like to come, too.'

‘Really, are you sure?'

‘Yes, it sounds amazing.'

‘Well, that would be great. Can you get holiday?'

‘I don't care. If Mr Cox won't let me go, I'll take a leaf out of your book for once and tell him where to get off. I haven't had a day's leave since I started.'

‘And what about Buddy? What are you going to do about him?'

‘He'll live. I dumped him not long after your birthday.'

Went to bed a very happy man.

I woke up this morning and my first thought was,
Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
.

My second thought was,
Shit. I got that fit gap year teacher's number at the rugby match last month and now I won't be able to call her.

My third thought was,
What am I thinking? Leila loves me (sort of).

My fourth thought was,
Am I being used by Leila?

My fifth thought was,
Sod it, I wouldn't mind being used by Leila
.

My last thought was, again,
Yessssssssssssssssss.
If a couple of ignored phone calls works, then so be it. Perhaps an unwitting tactic of ‘playing hard to get' is the way forward for us emasculated menfolk.

But then Leila rang in the afternoon and said that she wasn't coming skiing as my girlfriend. That would be too weird, she thought. She was coming as a single friend who was very fond of me. We'd just see how things went after that.

She's right, I suppose. We can't just meet up in the Departures lounge, kiss, and kick-start a relationship from
there. But it doesn't half put me on edge. It's going to be like a week-long trial, with brownie points every time I carry her skis and minus points every time I sing karaoke in the chalet bar.

Not that I'm expectant or anything, but I'm going to do an hour of sit-ups and then pop down to the shops to buy some new boxer shorts. All of mine — even my lucky pair — have holes in them.

There's a lovely end-of-term atmosphere at Morley Park. A school is the best place to be in the run-up to Christmas. Offices have ghastly office parties where you end up spilling wine over Mrs Cox's shoes and talking to Rupert (bald). We have had carol concerts and school plays, feasts and staff pantomimes (in which Norris Beaumont dressed up as Santa Claus and Amy Barbour and Alice Price played his reindeer).

I've even enjoyed the report-writing. Most of the staff hate it. Bob Lowson habitually pulls a couple of sickies in order to finish them. I did mine in a single evening:

‘When Harry is not tying his pencil case to the blinds, he is a pleasure to teach'

‘Last year George came eighteenth out of nineteen in the form. When Mr Lewis wrote, “There is only one way he can go from here”, I do not think he expected him to come last'

‘David works well when under constant supervision and cornered like a small rat'

And, for Bertie Anson and his yummy mummy:

‘Bertie is a star pupil. Always generous and hard-working, he is a credit to his parents.'

I'm already looking forward to next term.

What do you get if you mix Norris Beaumont, Jack Lancaster, Leila Sidebottom and twenty small boys? Answer: a very good start to a skiing holiday.

‘Norris,' I said after finishing my last school report, ‘you're sure you don't mind me bringing my friend, too?'

‘No, Lanky, of course not. Will be good for you to have some young company.'

‘Why are you winking at me, Norris?'

‘Oh, it's just my nervous twitch, dear boy. Ignore it. So, what's your friend called?'

‘You're still winking. She's called Leila Sidebottom.'

‘Oh dear. We can't tell the boys that; they'll murder her. Leila's a lovely name, but it's a little too informal. How about they call her “Miss Leila”?'

So ‘Miss Leila' it was, and she became an instant hit with all the boys. Blenkinsop told her that he loved her just as the ‘fasten seatbelt' sign went off over the Channel. Bowles started punching him because he loved her first. I patted her on the knee and lay back in my seat, smiling happily.

We've now been here for two days and the skiing has been beautiful. I can't exaggerate how much I love it. It's the perfect sport, the ideal combination of exercise and conversation — utterly pointless, endlessly enchanting.

But it's been so exhausting looking after twenty ankle-biters that we've passed out happily into bed every evening. My stud mission has not been helped by an overbooking in the chalet, which has seen Leila and me sharing a tiny three-bed room with Norris. He's been sweet about it. But it's hardly been conducive to nights of steamy passion in a Jacuzzi in front of an oak fire.

Still, there's a mountain of sexual tension between us, so I haven't given up hope. As she said, let's just see how things go.

‘I'll look after one group of kids this afternoon, and we'll dump the other half in ski school. You young things go off and enjoy yourselves.'

‘Norris, you're twitching again.'

‘Oh shut up, Lanky, and get on with it,' he said, throwing a slushy snowball in our direction.

So Leila and I had a beautiful afternoon skiing by ourselves. It was changeover day for most of the resort so it was very quiet. We played ‘James Bond on the slopes', taking it in turns to be the villain and the spy as we chased each other down the mountain, yelling the theme tune at the top of our voices as we collapsed in happy exhaustion at the bottom.

Just before 5pm, we caught the final express chairlift up
La Face
and sat in the café at the summit, watching the pink-topped peaks in the distance, waiting for the slopes below us to clear.

I took a deep swig of my
gluhwein
. If I couldn't manage it here, with every atom of nature's glorious tapestry cheerleading me on, I couldn't manage it anywhere.

‘Leila, there's something I've been meaning to say'

‘You don't need to say anything, Jack.'

She leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was perfection. She cupped her gloved hand around my neck and kissed me deeper. We melted into each other. This was what I was born for. I lost connection with all the tangible nonsense beyond. Fireworks went off in my head. Angels played trumpets on distant sun-kissed peaks. Cherubim strung harps. Blenkinsop

‘Blenkinsop? What the bloody hell are you doing standing there?'

‘Thsir, I got lost. I couldn't keep up with Mr Beaumont.'

He paused and grinned. ‘Thsir, are you sexing Miss Leila?'

I looked at Leila, her hand still holding mine. She dissolved into charming giggles.

‘Yes, young Thomas Blenkinsop. If Mr Lancaster doesn't take me back to the chalet and sex me immediately, he's going to be in a great deal of trouble.'

So I did what Miss Leila wanted. By the time we got ourselves and Blenkinsop back to the chalet, it was dark — it's not easy skiing with an erection when it's minus twenty degrees. Norris had left a note in our room saying that he'd found himself a bed in the hotel opposite.

Leila looked at me and smiled. It was like someone had turned up a wattage dial in her back. She glowed with happiness. I smiled back.

She walked over to my washbag.

‘Jack, why is there a bumper pack of condoms in here?'

‘Useful in alpine survival situations. They can hold a great deal of water.'

‘Of course,' she said with a giggle, plucking one out of the bag. ‘So, are you going down?'

‘Only if you press the right buttons,' I replied.

We missed supper. By dawn, we had pressed every button known to man and woman.

‘Jack, you haven't primed the kids to say nice things about you to me, have you?'

‘No. Why?'

‘I just wondered. They're all saying how great you are. Even if they think you teach a pointless subject.'

‘Ha, well Val de Sloane Square isn't the best place to try out their learning. I'm probably the best French speaker in the whole resort, and I hardly know my
cul
from my
coude.'

‘Your arse from your elbow?'

‘Very good, my little munchkin. You're more than just a pretty face and an utterly divine body.'

‘Come here and ravish me again before the bus leaves, my
big studdy stallion, and then we'll join the mile-high club on the way home.'

= A V. GOOD HOLIDAY

Normally I hate Christmas. I think it's especially depressing for us twentysomethings — children no longer, but still childless ourselves, keeping up appearances in one big show of ‘let's pretend' for the family. At around this time I usually start getting fidgety with angst at the sheer boredom of it all.

In the old days, I could predict exactly what would happen: my mum would cry, my dad would drink too much, turkeys would burn, cousins quarrel, elderly relatives tell the same batty old story five times between lunch and tea. We would make our annual midnight appearance at the village church, where people in suits would sit on one side and recite the old version of the Lord's Prayer, drowning out those in jeans on the other side, reading the official modern version from the script. Everyone would keep warm by singing the carols as quickly as possible, making no allowances for Mrs Tomalin on the organ, whose metronome was still set to British Summer Time.

The local retired GP would read John 1 in his ‘I'm reading John 1 voice' and we would all remember to stand and pretend to be thinking about something more profound than lunch. The octogenarian vicar would tell a few charming little anecdotes and tactfully steer well clear of religion for fear of alienating the non-regulars (ninety-nine per cent). Occasionally he would pray for King George and, on realising his mistake, moderate it to Queen George. As we left, Mr Tomalin would call me by my brother's name and tell his wife that it's such a long time since he prayed for King George.

Distant cousins would send the same pack of highlighters that they'd sent every year since we were deemed old enough to
want to highlight. The dog would vomit and we would watch
Carols from Kings
and the Queen's speech (just in case she abdicated). In three months' time, we would receive a typed thank-you letter from a godson that read, ‘Dear [
name
], Thank you very much for the present. It was very kind of you. I look forward to using it. Lots of love, Blogs.'

‘This year,' said Mummy, ‘it's going to be different. I'm not going into the church where your father was buried to mumble prayers to a God that I don't believe in. I'm not going to slave over a stove for hours to cook a meal which makes us all feel guilty and fat.'

‘You're right, of course. You're right,' soothed Ben, sounding alarmingly grown-up. ‘This year Jack and I will treat you. You just put your feet up and relax.'

Christmas Day.

Leila's parents were away for Christmas Day, so I asked Mummy if she could come and spend it with us.

‘This is all very whirlwind. And what kind of people are away for Christmas?'

‘Leila's dad's in the army. She has to work in London tomorrow. It's all very last-minute. Just be nice to her, please.'

And she was nice to her. Absolutely charmed and bowled over, in fact. Ben and I cooked while Leila fussed over Mummy, not even minding when she called her ‘Lucy' by mistake.

‘Leila,' she said, after she'd finally got the names sorted, ‘you have my permission to dump Jack whenever you want. But if he ever tries to split up with you, there'll be hell to pay.'

Whoever said that blood was thicker than water?

We were just settling down after lunch to watch the Queen's speech when a text came through on my mobile from Rick.

‘Lucy is in labour. Chelsea and Westminster. Can u cum?'

I decided to ignore the spelling. I desperately wanted to go.
All of us did, but we had drunk too much. There was no way we were safe to get into a car.