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‘Hey, Emmie, what are you hiding there, a love letter? Better make sure Headmaster Stone doesn’t see it or he might decide not to marry you.’
Bettina, my German colleague who’s swivelling round in her chair and munching on a Twix bar two stations down from mine, rolls her eyes.
‘Dream on, Brad. When will you get it that she’s not interested in you?’
I slide her a grateful look and shrug.
Undeterred, he leans over with his hands on my desk. ‘Want to go for a few laps around the pool? I bet I’ll beat you this time?’
I grin. I think the fact that I’m a stronger swimmer than our Phys. Ed. teacher is something that he can’t get past. It’s a freak thing, I don’t know why. I just took swimming lessons at school as a kid and was very fast and strong. Not that you’d believe it, looking at my puny arms and pins. ‘Thanks, Brad, but I think I’ll take a rain check.’
‘Come the day, Emmie, you’ll know where to find me…’
And with that, thinking he’s made a lasting impression on me, he winks and saunters off. You’d think that my being engaged to his headmaster would stop him from making a pass at me. It’s a good thing that Brad is harmless. Not that Stephen is jealous at all.
When the bell signals the end of break, I furtively slip my hand back in my bag as if I were hiding a dirty secret. But it’s my parents’ secret and whatever it is, I’ve inherited it. Not being one who has any delicious secrets of her own, I have to make do with theirs, hoping it’ll be a juicy one that’ll spice up my life.
Because I need a break from the tedium. And I particularly need a break from dealing with the extravagances of the MIL – in other words, Audrey Stone, my mother-in-law – who is at present organising our engagement party by completely disregarding the list Stephen and I had put together.
With all the dramatics of a consumed West End actress, Audrey’s a diva. Ever since her husband died, she’s been treating my fiancé like her own, butting her nose into every aspect of our personal life. To an outsider – and Stephen – our exchanges seem pleasant enough as she professes that I’m the daughter she never had. But oh my goodness, what implications that entails! If you ask her, I’m the fractious child who doesn’t understand that everything she does is for my own good, and that I should grow up and stop being so recalcitrant.
If you ask me, on the other hand, she’s the kind of person who would have you think she’s an all-giving martyr while I resist her motherly love with what I simply call free will. She’s always trying to tell me what to do or judging what I’ve already done. But she’s so masterful at her game that she comes off as being caring and kind while trying to manipulate me with the proverbial iron fist. Which makes it challenging for me to stand my ground without looking mean in Stephen’s eyes. And which is one of the reasons we argue.
She already rules the roost over her son and I can’t wait for him to move out of her mansion, even if he argues he has his own wing.
A widowed fashion designer, Audrey also resents my not belonging to a family of means. Or to any family at all. I can’t tell you how many times she’s asked me, just like Lady Bracknell inThe Importance of Being Earnest, how I’ve actually managed to misplace the only living persons in my family. As if I had any say in life and death. I’m on my own and I’ve managed so far. But not in her eyes. I’m just not good enough, from the clothes I wear to the tiny flat in which I live.
Compared to all of her friends’ daughters, who are watching Stephen like a hawk in case he dumps me, I’m the one who doesn’t deserve her son’s love. So yes, she is the main bane of my life. But maybe now that I’ve managed to produce at least one family member, she might stop frowning on me and get off my back.
I can’t wait to meet my new grandmother! When do things like this ever happen to me?
I’d drive down there right now if I didn’t have to go back to class. It would take me all of three minutes to pack a bag. It takes five hours to get there, granted, but that would be part ofthe journey of discovery.
Imagine showing up on her doorstep! She’d hug me and cry happy tears for having found me, but also sad ones because I’ve missed out on knowing her husband and my grandfather.
*
The rest of the day is like watching paint dry and I find myself getting more and more internally frustrated with every student and I chide myself. It’s not their fault for not falling in love with Shakespeare, poor kids. They’re just used to faster, shorter stories. Who nowadays has the attention span to read such a long play? I honestly pity the poor kids who have only been fed a diet of Instagram and TikTok, who have never had to go to the library to do some good old honest research for a school project and fallen in love with the process of learning.
Stephen, on the other hand, is all about avant-garde teaching and everything technological. He believes that the more technology you can throw into a lesson, the better. Personally, I’m not a huge fan, as it takes me ages to set everything up and by the time I’m ready, half the period has gone. Just to teach my students about Elizabeth I’s expertise in avoiding marriage, Stephen (who has a master’s degree in technological science and applications, naturally) has suggested a digital dating game to explain why Henry VIII married so many times while his daughter never did.
You might be wondering how I could have fallen in love with someone so different from myself. But, with all of his faults and hang-ups, Stephen is a good man and he loves me. He is protective towards me, the way my parents never were. He is organised and gets things done and has solid principles. He wants a family. And children. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to manage raising them between prepping my lessons and marking, while he calls me from his office to tell me that once again, he’s working late or caught in a meeting. As a matter of fact, he already does that. It looks like I’ll be raising any children we may have completely on my own. But I do want children. I want to cook for them as they wait for their dependable father to come home every night. I love how I can count on Stephen always to be steadfast. He loves what he does with a passion.
Personally, I don’t feel the same passion anymore. It’s not that I don’t like my students – I love the little shits – but lately, it seems to me it’s more about marketing our school as a business rather than actually teaching the children. I just can’t get on board with all the craziness. I need to step away. Perhaps I could take a sabbatical. But I don’t know how to do that without losing my financial independence.
Teaching seems to have become a losing battle where you can lead the proverbial horse to water, but… I even try to teach some of my students some proverbs, some clever, witty sayings. But apparently it’s not the done thing, according to Stephen and all of my other colleagues. If it were up to him, English literature would be dropped completely from the curriculum, because it doesn’t, er, serve any purpose.
How many of us can remember being much happier playing in the fields or, for the less fortunate such as I, in the cul-de-sac down the road, rather than clicking away like mad at a video game or social media apps? No wonder our poor youth, bar perhaps a couple per class, is almost brain-dead.
Luckily, the Christmas holidays are coming up. I need a break like my next breath. But I suspect two weeks isn’t going to make much difference. I don’t only need a break from teaching, I also need a break from London and my life.
I get off the Northern Line at my stop, Balham, and wrap up against the cold winds lashing at my face as I miserably trudge home past endless rows of Victorian terraces to where my block of flats sticks out like a sore thumb. I’ve seen some lovely houses online for us, but the problem is that by the time I jump onto my phone to call the estate agent, it’s already under offer. So much for the financial crunch; everyone seems to be buying a home these days except for us. But who am I kidding? It’s not my area that’s a problem, nor my pokey flat with the constant damp stains and dreary walls that seem to turn grey a month after I’ve painted them white.
No, it’s more than that. It’s mylifethat’s grey.
In Audrey’s eyes, I should be kissing the ground where her son walks, rather than try to keep the relationship on an even keel of mutual respect, which, lately, as you may have gathered, isn’t working out very well.
No matter what she or Stephen says, it’s just not normal for a future mother-in-law to decide about our wedding venue (in order not to disappoint her social circle), our honeymoon destination and even my wedding dress, because – apparently – I’m not tall or slender enough to wear what I want. I don’t care if she’s a fashion designer and is offended that I haven’t chosen one of her creations. They’re hideous and pretentious and scream of bad taste and money to burn. I’m a simple girl with simple tastes. I don’t follow any fashion fads but wear what I like and believe suits me.
And now she wants to invite all ofherfriends to the engagement party instead of ours, because ours (meaning mine) aren’t important enough. I don’thaveany MP or DDL –doctor/dentist/lawyer – friends. Well, at least now I’ll have someone of my own to invite – my very own brand-new grandmother! Once again I slip my hand inside my bag and feel the envelope, which right now seems to me more like the lifeline I so desperately need.
