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‘Aisha,’ she says, through her teeth.
‘It means “You’re in my space.”’ Aisha meets her eye. ‘It means “Get the hell out of my space.”’
The hairs on Samantha’s arms stand on end. She holds Aisha’s gaze, tries to read it but can’t. With a sense of capitulation, she breaks eye contact.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘“Get the hell out of my space. I was here first.”’ She looks around at the others, sweat prickling once again on her forehead. ‘And there are lots of examples,’ she blusters on, trying to lift a mood it’s possible only she can feel. ‘If your boyfriend puts on a shirt you don’t like, for example, and you’re going out to a restaurant with some friends, and you say, “Darling, are you wearing that shirt?” what would you actually mean by that? Anyone?’
Boyfriend, shirt, restaurant. Samantha cannot get Peter out of her mind. Peter in their living room, looking her up and down and saying,Are you wearing those jeans?Subtext:Don’t wear those jeans – I don’t like them.
No, she had replied, although she had intended on wearing them. And she had gone upstairs and changed. She imagines Aisha in their living room, Peter saying the words to her. Would she have changed, or would she have stood her ground and said,Yes, what’s it to you?
But a ripple of laughter has run around the class and she forces herself back.
‘Anyone?’ she manages to say. ‘What is the subtext of “Are you wearing that shirt?”’ She cannot look at Aisha.
‘It means don’t wear that bloody awful shirt,’ Reggie says. ‘You look a right bugger in it.’
Again, the class laugh. Relief runs through her like cool water.
‘Exactly,’ she says, forcing a smile. ‘So try and remember – we hardly ever say what we mean.’
The students file out, leaving their dialogue pieces on the desk.
‘See you over there.’ If Aisha picked up on any subtext in class, she doesn’t show it. ‘Shall I get you a peppermint tea?’
She remembered. Too nice, too nice by far.
‘No, it’s OK,’ Samantha says. ‘Give me five minutes; I have to mark the register.’
Once the room is empty, she dives into the pile of students’ work. Eight students. She told each of them to copy out the dialogue and continue it individually for ten minutes so there should be eight pieces. Her chest expands, deflates. Nothing sinister. If it has been Sean all along, perhaps he’s now too scared after she caught him hanging around her house. Hopefully it’s enough to stop him doing it again. Alternatively, if she meets Aisha and Jenny now and then finds an extra sheet once she gets home, she will know it is Aisha and will tackle her directly. She has her phone number. She will call her and ask her what the hell she’s up to. How unpleasant.
The door flies open. Peter is there, looking flushed and a little out of breath.
‘Peter?’ She stands up, alarmed. ‘Are you OK? Is Emily OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ He smiles, presses the flat of his hand to his chest. ‘I’ve been running all over the college trying to find you. They’d listed the wrong classroom on the noticeboard. I ended up over in the business centre.’
‘Oh no, sorry about that. There was an exam. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have texted.’ She kisses him on the cheek. ‘Anyway, this is a nice surprise.’
‘Just thought I’d meet you, give you a lift home, make sure you were OK. Did you speak to Harry?’
‘I couldn’t find him. But it’s OK. There’s nothing this week. It’s exactly like you said: ignore it and they’ll get bored.’ She hands the folder to him. ‘Listen, can you indulge me and just check there are eight?’
‘Sure.’ He takes the papers from the folder, licks his thumb and forefinger and counts. ‘Eight,’ he says after a moment. ‘Eight students?’
She nods, her eyes prickling with tears of relief.
He looks genuinely relieved and she loves him in that moment. That he would care so much, that he would run all over college just to find her and offer her some support. He is taking it so seriously.
‘It’s nice of you to come for me,’ she says. ‘We can go and get Emily together.’
She could bring Peter with her to meet Aisha and Jenny. That would really put the cat among the pigeons, as her mum would say. But something tells her not to. Aisha might well have Peter in her sights. The way she said ‘Get the hell out of my space’ in class a moment ago. A shiver passes through her. Aisha is really quite beautiful: large brown eyes and luscious black hair, not the thin, straggly mop that Samantha invariably finds herself pushing into her hat to prevent it flying away altogether. No, let’s not flirt with danger, not today.
As they cross the courtyard, she thumbs a quick text to Aisha to tell her she can’t make coffee. She doesn’t give a reason. There is more to this situation, she knows it, and she wants to keep her powder dry.
See you next week instead, she adds and presses send.
‘Can’t you catch up with your texts later?’ Peter asks, striding slightly ahead.
