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“I may have deleted that email without properly reading it.” I grimace and run my hand through my hair. “Sorry, I’m an idiot.”

“I can’t believe you called me Buttercup in front of an entire classroom of students,” she mutters.

Yeah, I can’t believe I did that either.

Woops.

“They’ll forget about it by next break.” They won’t. “Let’s just go back in and I can finish my lesson.”

Claire nods, and I push off the wall, leading us back into the classroom. The children’s heads swivel between us, but I carefully walk to the whiteboard without making eye contact with Claire.

She sits back down in the corner, and opens up her laptop. Ten minutes later I’m trying very, very hard to stay focussed on teaching, and not on looking at her. She seems to be typing intently, but every once in a while I catch her looking at me. Unfortunately, it seems the emotional maturity of the sixth form students is contagious and I have reverted to my teenage form.

No, Tom. French Revolution, think about the French Revolution.

Chapter 23

Claire

After fleeing to hide in the staff toilets for twenty minutes like the mature, emotionally balanced adult I clearly am, I realise that I actually have to do my job. I text Kath, and then immediately high five myself for not avoiding telling her.

This is growth. Sort of.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

I can do this.

The name of the school sounded vaguely familiar, but I’d brushed that aside. I once again internally curse Jack for getting me pulled onto this project. If I’d had proper time to research, I would’ve realised Tom worked here. I could’ve prepared what I’d do when I saw him.

Because the last time I saw Tom Ford was two weeks ago. I was catastrophically hungover, and he was on my sofa in his boxers at seven in the morning, having held my hair back whilst I cried over another man like an idiot. He made me tea. He let himself out. And in the weeks since I’ve been to two therapy sessions and three pottery classes but not had the courage to text him once.

Note to self: recommend adding photos of the staff to a page on the website. If anything, I’m pretty sure a photo of Tom would help enrolment numbers.

Sliding my phone from my bag, I send a text to my sister.

Me: Code Red

Sophia: It’s mid-morning on a Monday, how can there be a Code Red?

Me: No questions allowed. Are you free this evening?

Sophia: Yeah. Do you need me to come collect you? Are you ok?

Me: Fine… ish. No need for emergency rescue. Just emergency wine.

I shouldn’t be panicking about this. It isn’t a big deal.

It’s not… Right?

I check the map I was given and make my way to the next class. I’m just waiting for the start of the lesson, giving myself a pep talk, when a group of fifteen-year-old girls walk into the classroom. Great. The apex predators of the school food chain have found me at my weakest moment. No, Claire, I remind myself again. You’re over a decade older than these girls and are currently holding a designer handbag. You are not afraid of teenagers.

“Nice shoes.” One of them eyes my heels.

“Thanks. I did some marketing campaigns around Fashion Week last year and these were a little souvenir from the Haus of Lamont team.” I eye the shoes appreciatively; that campaign did wonders for my wardrobe.

One of the others pulls some lip gloss out of her bag for a touch up before turning to me. “That’s so cool. Were you the person in Mr Ford’s history class?”