Everyone liked Mr. Mitchell. He was the coolest teacher in school. “The boys want to be him and the girls want to be with him,” her friend Claire had chanted only yesterday when he had passed them in the corridor. Chloe didn’t. Not anymore. She wanted to be anywhere other than with him. Mr. Mitchell (“Call me Mitch—I won’t tell if you don’t”) taught music, and at first she too would have danced to any tune he chose to play. He had the inestimable gift of plausibility. Coupled with a handsome face and slick charm, the adoration of Mr. Mitchell was inevitable. Chloe had begged her mother for the private singing lessons she knew Mr. Mitchell taught. From his home. Her mother was surprised. Her daughter was a quiet girl; happy to blend in with the chorus rather take center stage. She was a “good” girl. A “nice” girl. Money for singing lessons would be hard to come by, but perhaps her mother thought that they would be worth it if they gave Chloe a little more confidence. And Mr. Mitchell was such a brilliant teacher. He really seemed to care about his pupils, not like some of them at the school who simply put in the hours, took the money, and ran.
At first it had been exciting. The eye contact held just a little too long in class; the smile flashed in her direction. She was special to him, she was sure. On the way to that first singing lesson she was giddy with nerves. As she walked to his house she rubbed gloss onto her lips; pink and shiny, “Passionate Pout.” And then she had rubbed it off again. During the third lesson, he had made her sit next to him at the piano. His hand on her thigh was thrilling, arousing. But wrong. It was like taking a shortcut down a dark alley late at night. You know you shouldn’t. You know it’s dangerous, but maybe just this once it will be all right. The next time he stood behind her and placed his hands on her chest; gently, caressingly. He said he needed to check that she was breathing correctly. The childish fantasy of romance had been rudely replaced by the sordid reality of his groping hands and hot, ragged breath in her ear. So why had she gone back? Even after that, she had still gone back. How could she not? What would she tell her mother? She wanted it as much as he did. That’s what he had told her, and she was shackled by the precarious truth in his words. She had at first, hadn’t she?
The physical pain still echoed through her body, amplified by the action replays running through her mind. She had said no. She had screamed no. But perhaps just inside her head and not out loud. The body which had been hers alone was lost forever; taken or given she still wasn’t sure. She wiped her mouth again, and as she did the friendship bracelet caught her eye. He had given it to her at the end of the first lesson because, he said, they were going to be very special friends. She ripped it from her wrist and threw it away. Taken. Now she was sure.
Sunshine squeezed the bracelet tight in her hand. Laura didn’t see her wince. Her eyes were intent on the screen in front of her, her fingers rattling over the keyboard. Sunshine raised one warning finger to her lips for the benefit of Carrot and threw the bracelet onto the fire. She went back to the drawers to choose more things.
High on its shelf, the biscuit tin was still waiting for its gold star.
CHAPTER 27
“Shall I make the lovely cup of tea when the bored van man comes?” Sunshine inquired helpfully.
Laura nodded distractedly, her mind preoccupied with where they were going to put the enormous Christmas tree that was currently languishing prone and prickly on most of the hall floor. Freddy was insisting that according to his measurements, there would be a foot of clear daylight between the top of the tree and the ceiling once they had got it into position, and had gone to fetch the metal stand from the shed in order to prove his point before a full-scale argument broke out. Later that morning they were expecting a man who was coming to sort out broadband.
“We can’t give you an exact time,” the customer services woman had told Laura, “but we can give you a window of between ten thirty-nine A.M. and three fourteen.”
Sunshine had her eye on the clock in the hall, or at least as much of it as she could see beyond the branches. Laura had finally taught her to tell the time—more or less—and doing so at every opportunity had become her latest obsession. Curious about all the commotion, Carrot had left his comfortable bed by the fire to make tentative investigations.
One brief glance at the forestry lurking in the hallway was enough to send him scurrying back to the study. Freddy returned with the stand, and having decided that perhaps the hall was the best place to accommodate both the prodigious height and girth of the tree, he and Laura were trying to maneuver it into position under Sunshine’s rather erratic guidance, when the doorbell rang and Sunshine skipped off to answer it, leaving Freddy and Laura in an awkward embrace with a giant conifer.
The man waiting on the doorstep had an air of superiority entirely unjustified by rank, appearance, education, or talent. He was, in short, a supercilious git. A short, supercilious git. Sunshine didn’t know that yet, but she could feel it.
“Are you the bored van man?” she inquired cautiously.
The man ignored her question.
“I’m here to see Laura.”
Sunshine checked her watch.
“You’re too early. It’s only ten o’clock. Your window doesn’t open yet.”
The man looked at her the way the other kids had looked at her at school when they had called her names and pushed and shoved her in the playground.
“What the hell are you driveling on about? I just want to see Laura.”
He pushed past her into the hall, where Laura and Freddy were still grappling with the tree. Sunshine followed him in, clearly upset.
“It’s the bored van man,” she announced, “and he’s not very nice.”