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It made her head spin to realise that only a month ago, she’d been scarcely aware of his existence, her life set in a peaceful, secure groove, untouched by any hint of sex, drugs or rock ’n’ roll.
Now, she was being forced to acknowledge how swiftly and irrevocably things could change.
But perhaps, she thought, her throat tightening, I’ll be the one to leave instead. Find a new life with different challenges.
Or perhaps Patrick would take her in his arms and tell her, ‘You’re going nowhere. You’re staying here with me.’
And wished she found that more of a comfort.
She was thankful, however, when Saturday arrived, with the prospect of half a day’s relief from the increasingly heavy atmosphere of the school.
As she cycled to work, it occurred to her that when she’d gone to university, her ultimate plan had been to become a teacher. But that, of course, was before Fate had sent her schemes crashing round her.
But it was something she might well reconsider now circumstances had changed.
When she sat down at her desk, she was surprised to see there was no pile of correspondence with attendant Post-it instructions waiting beside the computer.
The door to Mrs Wilding’s office was closed, but Tavy could hear the faint murmur of her voice, interspersed with silences, indicating that she was on the telephone.
In which case, Tavy decided, maybe I’ll pop to the staff room. Ask a few pertinent questions about getting back into higher education.
She was on her way down the corridor when she heard a door open behind her and Mrs Wilding saying, ‘Octavia—a word, please.’ Her tone showed that the big chill was still on, and Tavy bit her lip as she turned back.
In her office, Mrs Wilding motioned Tavy to a chair. ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ she said. ‘I have to tell you that I no longer find our arrangement satisfactory.’
‘Arrangement,’ Tavy repeated, bewildered.
‘Your employment here as my assistant.’ The other woman spoke impatiently. ‘I have therefore decided to terminate it.’
Tavy stared at her across the wide expanse of polished desk. She said slowly, ‘You mean—you’re firing me? But why?’
‘Because the nature of the job will be changing.’ Mrs Wilding examined her manicured nails. ‘The school will be expanding and I require someone who shares my vision and can work closely beside me—even represent me on occasion.’
Expanding? Tavy felt her jaw dropping. Only a matter of days ago, Mrs Wilding had been prophesying doom and ruin.
With an effort, she kept her voice steady. ‘And I don’t qualify?’
‘Oh, my dear.’
Those three little words said it all, thought Tavy. Amused, patronising and incredulous.
Mrs Wilding allowed it to sink in, then continued, ‘You try hard, Octavia, within your limitations, but this was never intended to be a permanency. You needed work and, because of your sad personal circumstances, I felt duty bound to respond. But now the time has come to move on.’
She paused, looking past Tavy. ‘Which I imagine you too will be doing quite soon. I was speaking to Archdeacon Christie at a social function recently and he told me that Holy Trinity’s days are numbered. So this seemed a convenient moment to make a change.’
‘I see.’ Tavy rose shakily to her feet. ‘However, I suppose you’ll want me to work to the end of term?’
‘Actually, no. It might be best if you cleared your desk now.’ Mrs Wilding picked up an envelope, lying in front of her. ‘I have made out a cheque to cover your remuneration for the period in question, and enclosed a reference which you may find helpful.’
She paused again. Smiled. Pure, undiluted vinegar. ‘And please believe that I wish you well in the future, Octavia, wherever your path leads.’
She added with telling significance, ‘But you must always have known it could never be here.’
In that instant, Tavy knew that she was referring to Patrick. That she had probably known from the first that they were dating, might have guessed Tavy’s hopes and dreams, and always intended to put a stop to it—some day, somehow. And that this was the moment she had chosen.
Tavy would have liked to tear the envelope and its contents in small pieces and throw it in Mrs Wilding’s face, but the humiliating truth was that she could not afford to do so. She needed the money and whatever passed for a recommendation in her employer’s opinion. She didn’t flatter herself, of course, that it would glow with praise and goodwill.
