“Good work, Helen.”
I stepped away and I was certain I could feel her eyes on my back, but when I turned she was still working, her foot still tap, tap, tapping. Her hair was more flyaway than usual, the woody tones vibrant and deep.
I should know better than to let my imagination gallop into fantasy at thirty-eight years old. I should know better altogether. I forced myself into some kind of order, some kind of professionalism, and focused on the specifications for the Aladdin’s Cave panto set instead.
The final hour of the day took a long time coming, yet passed by in a blink. The school bell was upon me before I knew it, and the sixth form ball meeting loomed.
I really did feel Helen’s eyes on me as she packed her things, shooting me a series of anxious glances as she loaded up her school bag. She lingered, pretending to reorganise her pastel case while Kelly Merrick ran through some coursework queries. Helen waited until the door had closed behind her fellow student before she approached, and by then I was already late. She stood at a healthy distance, her eyes closer to the floor than they were to mine.
“Mr Roberts, I’m sorry, I just… about the set painting next week… I was wondering if you had a minute… please…”
But I didn’t, and the last thing I wanted was Jenny Monkton heading down to locate me. I didn’t trust that she wouldn’t sniff out the tension in the room, even if she’d missed it in the car. Teacherly instinct is a powerful thing.
“I’m sorry, Helen, but I have a meeting.” I checked my watch. “Ten minutes ago.”
Her cheeks bloomed pink, darkening her sweet freckles. “Oh… I’m sorry. It was nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. She slung her bag over her shoulder and picked up her art case and she was gone quickly. So quickly that her name was still in my throat as the door swung closed behind her.
Helen, wait. Just wait.
Helen, there really is a meeting. A cruddy meeting that I don’t want to go to.
Helen, stay. Come to where it’s beautiful, and we’ll talk again, just two souls sharing the same view.
Friends. We can be friends.
I turned off the lights and made my way to the bloody winter ball meeting.
***
“So, are we all happy? The Three Friars Hotel, on the eleventh, seven til midnight.” Jenny was looking at me, asking me.
I found it so hard to nod in the affirmative. “Fine, yes. All good with me.”
“Great!” she said. “In that case, Mark, I’ll pick you up on the way, and Janet, you’ll meet us there at six, before the students arrive.”
I was already dreading it.
I sidestepped an offer of Friday night drinks and headed back to the art room, where Helen’s burning cheeks haunted me. I should have made a minute for her. I could have made a minute. And now what? I couldn’t exactly turn up at her parents’ house. Hi there, it’s Mark Roberts. I groped your daughter’s beautiful young breasts and I loved it, it’s all I think about. Is she in?
I checked my tablet for her cam diary updates, but she wasn’t online and hadn’t checked into the site for hours. Shit.
Maybe she wouldn’t turn up for set painting on Monday at all. Maybe that’s what her questions had been about.
The idea stewed in my stomach, the potential unacceptable.
Think, Mark, think.
The student records office would be locked by now, and I had no social media accounts that would easily link to Helen’s without any raised eyebrows, and I didn’t have an email address or a telephone number for her.
Think, Mark.
Maybe I could night stalk her bedroom window, throw pebbles at the glass until she opened up for me.
It would have been worth it just to know she was coming to the panto painting.
The panto painting…
I headed back to my desk, flicking through the set specifications and the scripts and the costume and brochure outlines before I struck gold. The volunteer sign-up form was in my lap, complete with names and form IDs and contact details.
Contact details.
Helen’s name was almost at the top of the list, and the number listed was a mobile.
I scribbled it on the back of my hand.
***
Helen
I had no appetite, spooning my soup around my dish aimlessly while Dad droned on about his new starter, Frank, and how funny the guy was. A proper Much Arlock chap, through and through, apparently. From good stock. Hardworking and reliable and boring as hell from the sounds of it. Mum was already dressed to head off for nightshift, and Katie was pretending to be a cat.
“What the hell’s got into you today?” he said, finally. “You’ve got a right face on you.”
I shrugged. “Just been a long week.”
“Did you hear that, Angela? Helen’s had a long week,” he scoffed. “I wish I had a long week if that’s your bloody definition of one.”