Page 55

“Well, I was half right.”

“You’re the maths teacher, but I’m pretty sure you want to be scoring more than fifty percent.”

“Whatever.” He turns to go back to his desk. “Just email it over later.”

We sip our coffees in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“Did you see that email about the marketing team who are coming round the school, starting today?” James asks.

I make a non-committal grunt as I attempt to pull out the textbooks for the first few classes, along with the lesson plans I made. I probably saw that email but I can’t remember, my life has been subsumed by this proposal.

“I googled them and they’re really posh,” he continues. “I bet the school is spending a fortune on them.”

I let out an annoyed sound. Of course they can spend money on advertising and not supporting the outreach programmes I’m advocating for. Schools are turning themselves into businesses more than caring about the students and it never ceases to annoy me.

James gives me a sad smile. “I’m going to go and prep for the first lesson, but don’t forget to send over the presentation. I can look at it later this week, or at the weekend. I’m playing in a tennis tournament, but should be free all of Sunday.”

Grabbing my books, I make my way to the first lesson. The hallways are a madhouse. I dodge a group of pre-teens arguing about something they saw on TikTok in a vernacular I’m certain they’ve invented themselves, as I only understand about half the words, then give a conciliatory nod to the gaggle of sixteen-year-olds waving in my direction. Finally making it to my classroom, I straighten my tie and pause to run a hand through my hair, rehearsing the plan for the next hour: group work and essay prep. I like this class. The A level syllabus is so broad.

I push open the door to step inside, and immediately do a double take. Sat in a chair at the back of my sixth form class is a beautiful woman with very familiar blonde hair.

My breath catches.

Oh my god.

“Buttercup?”

I look again, it is Claire.

She looks just as shocked to see me as I am to see her.

What’s she doing here? Her blue eyes are wide as she takes me in, the faintest flush on her cheeks.

I know I don’t have a faint flush. In fact, I’m pretty sure I probably look like a tomato.

Crap. I can’t believe I just called her Buttercup. The teenagers will definitely have noticed. This is going to end up becoming part of school lore.

“I mean, Miss Robinson,” I quickly correct, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The students’ heads dart between us.

“I’m part of the group here for the new marketing campaign.” She smooths her hands over her skirt, and I catch myself watching each movement.

I can recover from this situation, I have to recover from this situation.

“You should have received an email that there would be an observer in the lesson,” Claire continues.

“Right.” I clear my throat and turn back to the class. “Ok, everyone. I want you to work with the person next to you to brainstorm some of the impacts of the National Assembly reforms on France from 1789 to 1791. Your next essay question is going to be on this topic, and it’s good practice for the sort of thing that will come up in A level papers at the end of the year. We can discuss the ideas as a group after I’ve spoken to Cla— sorry, Miss Robinson.”

Thankfully the students start pairing off at their desks without any further muttering. I gesture to Claire to follow me into the corridor, and then lean against a wall.

“So you’re part of the marketing team?”

Well done, Tom. Great question. She literally just said that.

Claire frowns at me and I adjust my tie awkwardly. I wish I was wearing a better shirt, this one is fine, but still, I definitely could’ve ironed it more thoroughly.

“Yep,” Claire replies. “Do you not read your emails, Tom? We arrived today, and we’ve all been split between different lessons to do observations before doing student interviews later this week and then some more in a few weeks’ time.”