The Classroom Page 8

  Ian tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. He starts to speak but she cuts him off.

  ‘You knew my price, Ian. It hasn’t changed. And it won’t change. We keep things as they are. Except you need to pull your finger out. OK?’

  ‘You can’t tell anyone without dropping yourself in it too!’ Ian protests.

  ‘Want to test that?’ she whispers at him. ‘Because if so, game on!’

  And she pushes past him into the hall.

  ‘Kirsten, wait!’

  Oh, he’s all cajoling now. Of course he is.

  ‘Kirsten, come on, let’s not live like this.’ He catches up with her, hand on her arm. Squeezing it like Yvette squeezed his. She shrugs him off. ‘Kirsten,’ he says. ‘I love you. And Harriet. I love my little family. Can we please try to have a nice life, together? Put all this stuff behind us?’

  She so wants to agree. She wants to lean her forehead in to his, and for both of them to rest their heads together gently like they used to. But somehow, she can’t cross that divide.

  ‘You’re the one who brought this up!’ she tells him.

  He shakes his head. ‘I know, I know. I just thought it was my moral duty, you know?’

  ‘Your duty is to me. To us.’

  He nods. ‘I get that. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.’

  And there it is. The card works every time, and yet he questions why Kirsten keeps playing it.

  She gives him an encouraging nod. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You’re on. I’m going to see if I can fish out Harriet from her room for a bit of mother-daughter time. Take her over to the shops, have lunch, or something. Then maybe tomorrow, we head to one of the museums? Do a family trip?’

  He nods. ‘Sure. Sounds good. Anything else?’

  ‘Maybe I could get a bit of time looking over the surgery accounts, later? If you play with Harriet a bit when we’re back this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says.

  So, they have a plan. But, of course, as with all plans, they don’t always work out.

  Chapter 16

  BECKY, 7 AUGUST 2012

  The morning of the first full rehearsal, Caitlin flops down on Becky’s dormitory bed. Becky carries on sorting out her music. They’ve barely spoken the last few days, kept apart by sectional rehearsals – Caitlin and Andy in one group, Becky in another. In the evenings, Caitlin is among the group sneaking out to the pub. Becky doesn’t feel she can. And she doesn’t want to drink, so she doesn’t see the point. Cider makes her turn red and stare at people. It’s not a great look. Instead, she’s stayed in the room, calling her big sister – the one who’s still cool – and leaving voice messages. Once, they spoke for a few minutes, but student life is busy, apparently.

  ‘So, here’s the thing,’ Caitlin announces. ‘Andy still really fancies you.’

  Becky stops, letting her music case fall to the floor. ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘That’s why I’ve been spending so much time with him,’ Caitlin says. ‘Trying to big you up.’

  ‘OK, so … what do you want me to do about it?’ Becky asks. She’s worried her face may be turning red, even without the cider.

  ‘Dress up a bit. Show off your figure. You have an amazing figure. So curvy.’

  Becky knows curvy means fat. But Caitlin’s not giving up. She leaps onto the other side of the bed.

  ‘I mean, look at those hips, girl! And what are you doing? Hiding them away in baggy jeans. Come on, let’s see what you’ve got in that suitcase!’

  And before Becky can stop her, Caitlin is rifling through Becky’s bag, looking for ‘more suitable’ clothes.

  ‘Aha!’ Caitlin says, holding aloft the black body-con dress that Becky was saving for the after-show party. ‘Wear this today!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Becky says. ‘We’re rehearsing, not going out.’

  Becky tries to snatch the dress back, but Caitlin is too quick.

  ‘Rubbish! You should see what some of the girls in my group are wearing, trying to impress the boys.’

  Becky looks over Caitlin’s outfit. Skinny black jeans and a tight pink T-shirt. Hardly club wear but Caitlin doesn’t need it to shine.

  Caitlin looks down at her own outfit. ‘Oh, I’m roughing it today. I have a bit part – but your character has a name and everything. Come on, dress like a star. I promise you, it will make all the difference with Andy.’

  Becky eyes the dress, and the clock on the wall. They have ten minutes before rehearsals start. She reminds Caitlin of that.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to be quick, then!’ Caitlin says. ‘Come on, clothes off!’ And she begins stripping Becky off. ‘You get dressed. Now, where’s your make-up?’

  Twelve minutes later, they are running (as fast as Becky can in heels) to the rehearsal hall.

  Everyone turns to look at them as they arrive. Everyone, of course, being dressed in casual clothes, flat shoes, and minimal make-up. Becky tugs at her hemline, feeling like she’s on an uncomfortable walk of shame. Not that she’s been on that walk. But she’s heard about girls who have.

  ‘Hi.’ Caitlin beams at the room. ‘Sorry we’re late. Someone took a while getting ready.’ And she jerks her head at Becky, putting her fully in the limelight.

  Becky feels the whole room look her up and down, the teacher included. But also, she notices, Andy. Maybe Caitlin was right.

  After the warm-up, before they get started, she finds Andy on one side of her, Caitlin on the other.

  ‘I never see you in the pub,’ Andy says. ‘You should come with us later.’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ Becky says.

  Andy shrugs. ‘So get a Diet Coke. That’s cool.’

  Becky shrugs back. ‘OK, maybe I will then.’

  ‘Great. See you then.’

  And all of a sudden, Becky feels like she can do this. She can be the star of the show (well, a named chorus member anyway). She can sneak out in the evenings. And she can get the boy.

  * * *

  When they set off for the clandestine pub visit that evening, she’s not the only one in a dress. The other girls look dangerous, exotic, dresses freshly squeezed into, make-up newly applied. Becky tries to smooth out the creases from her own dress, to brush off the white dust that somehow always seems to accumulate on the stage. She feels stale, trammelled.

  ‘Maybe I should change?’ she whispers to Caitlin, who is looking gorgeous in a red skater dress with a cut-out back.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Caitlin whispers back. ‘Come on, the boys will be there by now.’

  They are hurrying out of the main door when a male voice calls them back.

  ‘You girls aren’t off to the pub, I hope?’

  It’s the drama teacher. Busted.

  ‘Of course not, Sir.’ Caitlin turns and gives him a look of wide-eyed innocence. ‘We’re just going for a walk.’

  ‘Sure you are. Well, make sure your walk back is as sober as your one there. I’m meant to be looking after you all.’

  ‘Of course, Sir, will do.’ Caitlin does a great meek look. She should really be the star of the show.

  ‘All right, off you go. Oh, and Becky?’

  She turns back.

  ‘Great work today.’

  Becky smiles inside. She’d expected to hate every minute of rehearsals that day but, for once, she’d owned it. Thanks to Caitlin. Thanks to the dress. Thanks to the promise of the evening.

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ she says. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Me too. Now off you go for your “walk”.’

  He holds the door open for them, and they scuttle off into the night.

  * * *

  The pub is overwhelmingly full. Becky was expecting maybe to have a table, and to sit chatting to Andy. But she can’t even see him above all the heads, or call his name over the clamour at the bar. Her shoes are starting to pinch, and she wonders how long she has to stay before it’s acceptable to leave. She turns to Caitlin, but Caitlin is no longer there – she has mysteriousl
y vanished into the crowd.

  She feels a tapping at her elbow. It’s Gina, carrying a tray of shots. ‘Here, help me out, won’t you? I can’t carry them all.’

  ‘Oh, OK, sure.’ Becky’s not sure to be offended that the only time Gina has bothered to speak to her is when she needs help, or to feel pleased that maybe now, here in this pub, they are equals. She makes to take the tray from Gina.

  ‘Hey, no, I don’t mean that!’ Gina squawks. ‘Just take a couple and get them down you!’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m fine, honestly – I don’t really drink.’

  ‘For God’s sake. It’s a pub. You need to drink, or they’ll think you’re underage and chuck us all out. Go on, do the shots.’

  Becky looks around. Everyone, it seemed, was drinking. Another couple of girls from the cool crowd come over to them and grab shots, knocking them down their throats. They make it look so easy. Fine, then. If they can do it, so can she.

  Becky grabs a couple of shots from the tray, and tips them down her throat. The burn is so fiery, maybe it really is the devil’s liquor like her parents say. She wants to retch the drinks up. But she knows that’s not allowed. So she just swallows them down and manages a fake smile afterwards.

  ‘Great! Thanks,’ she says.

  ‘There we go! Right, come on, where are the boys?’

  And off Gina goes, forcing her way through the crowd. Becky follows in her wake, watching as the occasional male hands are laid, in jest or lust, on Gina’s backside. Becky gets herself ready to smack the hands away if she feels them. But she doesn’t.

  Finally, they reach the boys. And Andy. He gives her a smile, which is worth the pinching shoes and the revolting drink.

  ‘Hey!’ he says. Or at least, that’s what she thinks he says. The music is louder over here. He leans in to her ear and says something else. She nods and smiles, not knowing what he said. Suddenly, he is ushering her out of the pub. She doesn’t mind. It was too hot and too noisy. And there are some beer tables out here – perhaps they can sit down.

  Andy takes out a cigarette and waves one at her. ‘Here we go, as promised,’ he says.

  Oh, so that’s what he must have asked her. Fine. She doesn’t actually smoke, but what’s one cigarette? She lets him push it into her mouth, and inhales as he lights it.

  ‘So tell me, Becky,’ he asks her, as they are both sitting astride the picnic bench, ‘what does it take to let me kiss a star like you?’

  Here it is, then. The moment. Now she has to find something decent to say.

  ‘I think,’ she manages, ‘it would take your lips on mine.’

  ‘Well, I agree that would be a good start.’

  Andy stubs out his cigarette. She does the same. He moves towards her – not slowly, like in the movies – and suddenly there they are, his lips. And then there is his tongue. Finally, finally, she is kissing a boy. Really kissing one. And the boy is Andy.

  It doesn’t take long for them to be discovered. Soon, a whole gang of the others are out there, some wolf-whistling, some taking photos, some handing her shots – which she takes, because why not, she is young and happy. And her parents’ beliefs are theirs, not hers. Andy is there, holding her hand, warming her lips.

  At closing time, the group of them carouse back to the drama school building. Andy gives her a final kiss before she sways off towards her dorm. She tries to walk in a straight line, to sashay sexily up the stairs, but she is aware of linearity eluding her. Instead, she ricochets off the banister. When she gets to the top and turns the corner, she is sick on the carpet. She kneels, momentarily disgusted with herself, trying to dab it away with her coat. Then she hears footsteps behind her.

  ‘Andy?’

  But it isn’t, it’s the drama teacher.

  Shit.

  She gets to her feet and flees.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she hears behind her. ‘Becky, is that you?’

  And then, when the teacher comes level with her vomit, she hears him groan. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  She makes it to the dormitory, expecting giggly late-night chat, to be able to share her drunken escapade, and relive Andy’s kisses. But the lights are off. All she can see are Caitlin’s eyes, staring out at her in the dark.

  Chapter 17

  KIRSTEN, OCTOBER 2018

  At 9 a.m. on Sunday the house phone rings. They’re watching cartoons or messing around with various screens while Ian cools down after his usual Sunday morning run. He trundles out to answer the phone, still wiping the sweat from his face.

  From his expression when he comes back, she knows the false peace of their weekend is shattered.

  ‘It’s Clare,’ he says. Kirsten feels her heart leap with pleasure momentarily, as though the call means they can still be friends. But the soaring is transitory, as Ian continues. ‘She’s received a letter. I’m really worried. She sounded—’

  Kirsten cuts him off.

  ‘Whoa, whoa! Slow it down. A letter from who?’

  But she can guess the answer.

  ‘From her,’ Ian says. ‘To her home, not the psychiatric practice.’

  Ian turns to Harriet.

  ‘Sweetie, we’ve just got to go and sort something out, OK? I’ll be right back.’

  Kirsten allows Ian to put his hand on her back and steer her into the dining room.

  ‘What’s in the letter?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, mad stuff, it sounded like – you’re guilty, I know you misdiagnosed me on purpose; please confirm the correct diagnosis. She’s scanning it through to you.’

  Kirsten has her mail app open on her mobile, and is continually refreshing for new items. Ding! One appears.

  ‘Here it is,’ She opens it, and they crowd round the small screen.

  Dear Dr Sergeant,

  You might remember me. I certainly remember you.

  You gave me a misdiagnosis. Said I couldn’t be trusted.

  You must have known that wasn’t true. You have ruined my life and more.

  I need you to revisit that diagnosis. I need you to give me a clean bill of health.

  Otherwise, think of the headlines. The Daily Mail would love it. You know what I’m talking about.

  You can reach me at the above address.

  Yours very very sincerely

  And then the name. The name Kirsten dreads so much.

  ‘It says she lives in Croydon,’ Ian comments.

  ‘That’s too close!’ Kirsten barks.

  ‘We agreed that as long as—’ Ian starts, but Kirsten cuts him off.

  ‘I don’t care what we agreed,’ she says. ‘It’s too close.’

  Ian puffs out his cheeks. ‘So what do you want to do?’

  But before they get to decide what to do, the phone rings again. Kirsten puts it on speaker.

  It’s Clare.

  ‘Well?’ she says.

  ‘We’ve read it,’ says Kirsten.

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’ Clare asks. Her tone is chilly, abrupt. You wouldn’t think that from medical school onwards they’d regularly dissected the world over wine, shots, and anything else the bar provided.

  ‘We were just asking ourselves that when you phoned,’ Ian tells her. ‘Bit of a tricky one.’

  Kirsten shoots him a look. His tone is too jovial, too unconsidered.

  ‘What would you like us to do, Clare?’ asks Kirsten, tone all placatory and schmaltzy.

  ‘I’d like you to keep me out of it,’ she says.

  ‘Looks like she may have other ideas,’ Ian says.

  ‘Well, you’d better persuade her out of them,’ Clare retorts. ‘Seriously. I am not being pulled into this – I can’t have my name dragged through the papers. I’m this close to getting a Professorship at the Royal College. I do not need this right now.’

  ‘Of course, we’ll do what we can, Clare, but—’ Kirsten says.

  ‘Just fix it, OK? We agreed you’d start talking to her around this point anyway. Work something out, something that makes sense for ever
yone. You owe me that. I don’t expect to hear from her again, all right?’

  And she hangs up.

  Kirsten sees Ian look at him.

  ‘We have to talk to her,’ he says.

  ‘We can’t! I can’t possibly – don’t you understand? I just can’t do it!’

  And Kirsten begins sobbing. He puts his arms round her and she sobs even harder onto his shoulders.

  ‘Maybe if we just talk to her, come to some arrangement …’ he says.

  ‘More money?’ asks Kirsten. ‘Yes, I suppose we could do that, but …’

  ‘I didn’t mean money,’ he says.

  Kirsten takes her head off his shoulder.

  ‘No, Ian,’ Kirsten says. ‘That’s not happening.’

  ‘I just think …’ he says.

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ she demands.

  Ian smooths down her hair. ‘Yours,’ he says. ‘And Harriet’s. Which means …’

  Kirsten shakes her head and backs away from him.

  ‘No, do you know what? This is your mess. You sort it out. You go and see her. Tell her what is and what isn’t happening. I don’t want anything to do with it.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me never to see her again?’ he reminds her.

  ‘Don’t do your petty little point-scoring, Ian. Go and see her, sort it out.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go see her. This afternoon, even.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  Ian turns to leave the room.

  ‘Where are you going? We’re having a conversation.’

  ‘To see Harriet.’

  He carries on, presumably expecting Kirsten to follow him. But she can’t. She needs a moment to push the rage and the fear and the panic back down inside her.

  ‘You coming?’ Ian asks her.

  She wants to say something. Or, more accurately, she wants to shout and scream. But what good will it do?

  ‘Sure,’ she says instead.

  She puts her hand on Ian’s back, and they leave the room together.

  Parenting: this strange bond that divides and unites them. Long after the marriage vows would have failed to bind on their own.

  Chapter 18