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She turns to walk away and I stay frozen there a moment longer before dragging myself back into motion. I walk back towards the dining room and then see Kath, Sam and Sophia waiting by the coats. Thank goodness they weren’t in the hallway.

Tom hands me my coat without looking at me.

I don’t blame him.

This must have been an awful evening.

In the taxi nobody says much. I stare out of the window, watching London slide past and trying not to think about Tom sitting next to me with his hands in his lap, and the way that he isn’t reaching for mine this time.

He walks me to my door. “I feel like we didn’t get much time to talk tonight. When are you free for coffee or dinner sometime this week? Just us?” His expression is so open that it makes my heart twist.

Because here it is. He’s still trying.

Which is exactly why I can’t say yes.

Because if I say yes then there’ll be another evening. And another. Of my mum watching him, and making things miserable. And eventually he’ll realise it’s not worth it.

“I’m really busy, Tom, maybe another time.” The words come out so steadily that I’m almost impressed with myself.

“What about next week?”

“I’m not sure that will work, but I’ll text you if things clear up.”

I force myself to hold his gaze, and I even manage a half-smile. Then I turn and slip inside before he can say anything else that will make this harder.

As the door clicks shut I just stand there for a moment, in my good dress and my shoes that pinch and my tightly pinned hair. I’ve done the right thing. I have.

Then I walk to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea, and cry.

Chapter 12

Tom

“You look knackered, Fordy,” James calls from his neighbouring seat as I drop my bag by my desk in the staffroom. I’m at one end of the history cluster, and James is the first desk of the maths teachers’ area, which is either a coincidence of room layout, or the universe’s way of ensuring I never get any peace.

My friend looks frustratingly awake. His dark hair is neatly combed back and his brown eyes twinkle. “The term’s barely started, you shouldn’t look this bad.” He tilts his head, considering. “Definitely not fashion week catwalk ready.”

“Hilarious,” I say flatly. “You’ve literally never used that on me before.”

“I’m just saying. The other Tom Ford would never look this bad.”

“The other Tom Ford probably got more sleep.” I smile, then yawn so hard it feels like my jaw might unhinge. “Sorry, I was up late changing some lesson plans.”

I don’t tack on that it took me so long because my mind kept flitting back to the gala a few days ago, going over everything that happened… and didn’t happen. Everything I overheard. I look at my phone again, but Claire still hasn’t replied to any of my texts. Before the gala she was replying to everything, often a few messages at once including a meme. Now it’s been four days of silence.

James grimaces in sympathy. Over the two years that we’ve both been at Ashcroft High, we’ve become good friends. We even see each other at the weekends, though that might just be a shared trauma bond forged over endless marking and underwhelming school coffee. Still, it’s a massive step up from my last school, where “supportive environment” meant not actively getting stapled by a Year 10.

“I’m so glad I don’t deal with words.” His voice is filled with the smugness of a person who hasn’t spent their evening untangling a fifteen-year-old’s three-page sentence about trench warfare. “Want me to make you a coffee?”

“Please.”

As he heads off, I start sifting through my books. Form class first. Then Year 7s, who’ll be bouncing off the walls for no reason. Then the sixteen-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds, aka the exam years, whose lessons are high-stakes, high-stress, and high volume. But at least the day ends with a glorious free period where I can attempt to conquer the Everest of paperwork slowly colonising my workspace. One day, archaeologists will study the sediment layers of my desk to piece together the rise and fall of my productivity. I yawn again.

James returns with the coffee a few moments later and I take it with a nod of thanks. I pull a face after the first sip. It’s as bitter as a Year 9 discovering the class starts with a mock paper.

“For such a posh school we should really have better coffee machines in the staffroom,” I grumble. “Even my last school had nicer stuff.”

“What?” James feigns surprise. “Are you missing the days of working at state schools with shoestring budgets that the government keeps trying to squeeze? How unlike you.”