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I shrug. ‘All I know is that I can’t – I won’t – fall to her whims.’
‘Good for you, Emmie,’ she says, patting me on the back. ‘And whatever you need, I’m here.’
I hold back a sniff as the bell rings.
‘Thanks, Maisie.’
Is this what I want? To end it with Stephen? Granted, things aren’t going very well, but for this to happen, and so suddenly? Do I want to drag it out, or is it less painful like this? One thing’s for sure: I’m not going to be spending Christmas with the MIL. Or Stephen, if this keeps up.
‘Hey…’ Stephen greets me as I’m making my way back to my classroom as if he hadn’t just stormed out of my flat the night before. ‘You alright?’
I shrug, hefting my books, too angry to look him in the eye.
‘Look,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder. ‘How about we have a chat about it tonight over dinner, your place? I’ll cook. To make up for last night. We’ll talk.’
I brighten somewhat. ‘We will?’
‘Of course. Just pop into Sainsbury’s and fetch whatever you want and I’ll cook it.’
Well, so much for making an effort.
‘Don’t bother. I’ll just get something ready-made.’
‘I said I’d cook and I’ll cook, Emmie. Now be a good girl and cover for Allison, will you? She’s off sick today.’
‘Oh? Can’t you get the cover supervisor to do it? I’ve got some marking to do for tomorrow.’
‘You can do that later, if you wouldn’t mind. Headmaster’s orders.’
Headmaster’s orders. Ah. Of course. Payback time for the postponed engagement party. Oh, how he’s beginning to grate on my nerves – at school, in the car, whenever he’s over for the night. For someone who seldom comes around, he’s taken making himself at home to the next level, pushing my stuff around and sometimes even tossing it in the laundry bin when I was simply airing it for one more hour of wear in case I had to pop down to the corner store and didn’t want to put on something new. His ‘if it’s dirty it goes in the laundry bin and if it’s not, it goes back in the wardrobe’ is something he’s undoubtedly inherited from his mother.
Last week, he criticised the contents of my fridge by throwing some of my food away, even the yoghurt culture I had going. My selection of veggies was met with a ‘How long is this broccoli going to have to wait to be cooked?’ Just like his mother.
‘When I’m good and ready,’ I’d snapped.
But at work, he’s the boss, so I scoop up my belongings and head out for the science block, pulling my second favourite scarf closer around me. I don’t know a thing about science and I know for a fact that Year 11 are a nightmare at the best of times. But what choice have I got?
I ask Tommy to pass the worksheets round and give them a five-minute start before I do my rounds. Verity is the brightest of the class and doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but there are still too many weak students who need constant support, so I hover mainly in their area, giving the ‘cool’ end of the classroom my ‘get your arse in gear before I come over and give you shit’ expression on.
And that’s when I notice that Joe Collins, the class bully, isn’t working but drawing in his planner. Penises. Oodles of them. I have no choice but to ship him out and at three thirty, I’m sitting with him in the head’s office.
Stephen leans forwards and looks into Joe’s face.
‘Why did you cover your planner in penises? Have you got aproblem? Or is there something you’re trying to tell us?’
Oh my God!
‘Stephen… Mr Stone,’ I counter, shaking my head in warning, but Stephen is on a roll.
‘If you’re trying to tell us you’re gay, you’ve succeeded.’
This can’t be happening! What the hell is wrong with him? Has he gone completely mad?
I clear my throat. ‘Joe, you should go back to class now.’
Joe, who is still wide-eyed from being hauled into the headmaster’s office only to be humiliated, nods and runs off, his tie flying over his shoulder and very probably tears in his eyes.
‘Serves the bully right,’ Stephen sentences as he straightens his own tie.
