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“Alright,” said Hope. “What’s on the agenda for today then?”
“Reading, science time and math this morning.”
“Maths.”
“What?” Ava said.
“Maths, we call it maths here. You can’t confuse the children by using the American word.”
“Right,” Ava said looking like she might want to punch Hope. “I’ll remember that.”
“I’ll get the graded readers out then,” said Hope, turning away before Ava gave in to the impulse to punch her.
For a few minutes they worked in silence, the only sound that of books hitting desks.
“Are you alright?”
Hope paused, then turned. “Why do you ask?”
Ava looked faintly guilty. “You just looked kind of tired.”
She’d been so angry with Noah, with the idea that he just wanted to waltz in and take Alice whenever he felt like it for as long as he felt like it, that she’d tossed and turned last night thinking of all the things she should have said to him.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine,” Ava said so that Hope wasn’t sure if she was agreeing or if it was a question.
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Not that it is,” said Ava. Her eyes were sparkling a little and she was almost smiling.
“What about you? Are you alright?” said Hope, deliberately poking.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine,” mimicked Hope.
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Not that it is,” said Hope.
Ava took a step closer, then another. “Would you tell me if you weren’t fine?”
“Probably not,” said Hope honestly.
“And yet it could be my business. You do work in my classroom, after all.” Ava’s lips were kind of hypnotic as she spoke.
“Our classroom,” Hope said. And Ava was stepping even closer.
For a long second there were only centimeters separating them and Hope smelled Ava’s perfume. Something mild and masculine, something with sandalwood and spices. Her heart began to beat a little faster and Ava’s eyes narrowed.
Then the school bell rang and Ava stepped back and the moment was broken.
Chapter Eleven
Ava felt like she’d been beaten in the boxing ring for a full twelve rounds. Her back hurt from bending over desks that were too small, her feet hurt from standing so much, and her brain hurt from trying to follow the derailing trains of thoughts of six-year-olds.
“I’m just taking these to the photocopier,” Hope said, holding up a stack of forms for the forthcoming parents’ evening.
