I stood in the common room like a stupid idiot, with the mean girls laughing and the cool kids staring, and I felt like such a fool.
A fool who didn’t belong here anymore, not in this place, not in this stupid kiddy uniform and not with these stupid horrible idiots.
I took a breath and pulled my big girl knickers up, and clung on to my new place in the world. My new place in the wilderness, with open fires, and frosty grass and a man who loved me.
A man who was waiting for me in the art block.
I walked out of the common room without even giving them the satisfaction of a second glance.
***
English dragged like a bitch. Anna of the Five Towns was our next study text, and the whole thing sounded garbled to me, just a whole big load of nonsense. It wasn’t like me. I’m usually good at school, good enough to have gotten hell for it from the rebel kids all the way since primary. But not today.
Today I sucked.
I should have felt relief to be heading to the art room for third period, and I did, but it was hidden under a load of crud that swirled around inside and made me a little round jitter ball. Mark was setting up when I arrived, preparing the whiteboard as the younger kids filed in. He looked smart, and focused and a million times more in control than I felt. He looked like Mr Roberts had always looked, my perfect crush with his perfectly calm manner and his perfectly welcoming tone. He was in a dark corded jacket, and his tie was purple and flamboyant. I couldn’t help but wonder what socks he was wearing.
“Morning, Helen,” he said, and it was the same good morning he’d greeted me with for years.
Just like nothing had changed.
And I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.
I held up a hand and scurried on by, to the safety of my usual perch, and I arranged all my art stuff and grabbed the watercolour I’d been working on before term finished. But even that looked crappy now.
And my seat was uncomfortable and cold, and my hands were awkward without the easel I’d come to adore.
And it was noisy, full of kids chatter and humdrum, not like the silence at Mark’s. The beautiful silence in his beautiful house and his beautiful arms.
I could feel him staring, and I wanted to stare back more than anything in the world, but I was afraid of my own emotions. Afraid they’d bubble over and show their face to the world, and condemn us both as the rumour mill started up.
So I didn’t stare back. I didn’t even look at him. Not unless I knew he was too distracted to look my way.
My heart was bursting with love and pride, and my stomach was bursting with nerves, and my hands were tense with frustration, and my damned heel wouldn’t stop tapping.
And then he was there, at my side, and I lost all the air from my lungs.
“Remember what I said about wet-in-wet techniques?” He pointed to the corner I was working on. “You could really utilise that here, Helen. It would work really well.”
I nodded. “I was thinking of using that.”
He positioned his back to the rest of class, his posture loose and relaxed like this was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was. He was a born teacher, at ease in his domain. And me? I was just a schoolgirl who didn’t belong anymore.
“Are you ok?” His voice was low and calm, but his eyes were anything but, and it made my heart thump.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m good.”
He took the brush from my hand and loaded it with paint, tickling faint lines over my own, and he was close, his mouth to my ear, his breath with just the slightest hitch. “Pinocchio.”
I focused on the marks his brush was making. “I’m good. It’s just… weird.” My voice was barely a whisper, lost beneath the chatter in the room, but I still felt bad, as though I may be risking us.
“Nothing’s changed. This is just… a necessary part of us.”
“I know.”
“For now, Helen. It’s just for now.”
“I know.” I took a breath, leaned back to check out the room, and nobody was watching. “Dad’s working evenings. Weekends, too. I have to look after Katie.”
“Lunchtime,” he said, and I felt bad for even risking the topic. He handed me my brush back, and I forced on a smile.
“Thanks, Mr Roberts. I’ll use that.”
“Good,” he said. He straightened up, but he hovered, and I had to close my eyes, just to still myself, just to feel him there.
His fingers brushed mine, and then they gripped, guiding my brush to the palette. And then his thumb brushed my knuckles, just for a moment. It meant everything. An anchor in the chaos.
“Lunchtime,” he said again. And he was gone.
Lunchtime couldn’t come soon enough. I breathed a long, cleansing breath as the door closed behind the last of the kids, and waited for Mark to make the first move. He wiped a load of pastel dust from one of the workbenches, and scoped out the corridor through the window. He must have been satisfied, because he closed the distance between us and gestured me over to the paint storage racks. I slipped between them, out of view of the windows, and he joined me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him.