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There it was. Another moan coming out of my mouth. He was just a bloke. A nice, normal bloke. Very much my type. I liked the fringe he had going on. I liked the way his shoulders went from smooth into all those curves of his muscles. I liked…
“FUUUUCK!!!” I shouted at the children’s choir mutedly singing on the TV. Why the hell was I watching this?
I turned it off and drank my tea. Scrolled the news on my phone. Tried to ignore any social media apps. I did not google Connor Kincaid. Turns out he only seemed to exist on Instagram.
Where his last message still sat unanswered.
So, I did what any self-respecting human being would do. I loaded episode one of season four ofWhite Noiseand half cheered when Detective Cass Powell’s face filled the screen, a little worse for wear, a little older. His shoulders filled out his shirt—like he hadn’t just spent six months recovering from a gruesome stabbing to his midriff—as he lifted up his daughter and kissed who I supposed was her mother. Such a respectable, responsible human being. Cass Powell had his life under complete control, despite the fact that his daughter’s knee was right in his stab wound. If that had been me—
I was overthinking this and far too involved in a television drama where characters magically healed from life-threatening injuries between seasons.
I spent Sunday marking papers in a panic, having made it all the way to season five. Not good. I then fretted the night away, dreaming that I was being chased through tunnels by Inspector Rubin, who wanted to stab me in the guts.
I was losing it. Fast.
At least Monday kept me on my toes, running around sorting out things that had never been mentioned at university. Want to be a teacher? Want to spend most of your days dealing with social services? Want to be on a first-name basis with your local community officer? Want to know more details about your students than are strictly good for your own mental health?
It wasn’t all doom and gloom though, I acknowledged with the usual pang of guilt I got when things like that popped up in my head. I’d been sent a bunch of flowers from a former student who had been accepted to his university of choice. I’d run a very, very,verysuccessful intervention group meeting in which we’d come much further in our discussions than would ever have dreamed. My students were exceptional, in so many ways, and the pride that filled my chest just thinking about it was…embarrassing at times.
I’d also set up a new intervention team with Sadie, the new colleague. She may have been green and fresh out of training, but she was exactly what we needed. New blood. New ideas. Perhaps quirky ones, but definitely ones that had worked today, bringing out the very best in our students. Sadie was sharp and direct and pushed boundaries—within the limits of the classroom. She’d been quick to tell me that her personal life was private and to not ask questions. I was more than comfortable with not going anywhere near discussing my own chaotic private life or anyone else’s.
I needed a break from work. I needed a break from sitting at home watching stupid TV. I needed to get out of my head. I needed desperately to get laid and get all this frustration out of my body.
Not that I was frustrated. Not that I had wanked last night. OK, maybe I had. Again. That scene where Cass Powell got royally pegged by the dead prince’s protection officer had not only completely blindsided Inspector Rubin, but…well…
It wasn’t real.Nothingwas real. My life had become completely surreal, and I didn’t know how to cope with it.
I skipped down the stairs and tapped myself out of the school office, setting off at a brisk pace.
I was OK. My life was OK. Fulfilling. I was happy. I had brilliant colleagues and great students. I had a union meeting on Friday and plans for the weekend. Good things were happening.
Yet my phone pinged again, and my heart set off in some kind of stupid dance beat.
Actor Connor Telford posted on Instagram.
I needed to cancel this stupid dinner date. I was not going on a date with Con Telford.
I was not.
Tomorrow is not going to be a date. Right?
I sent it in a panic. And now I was panicking even more.
What the hell was I doing?
Con
“Weareconcerned.”
That was Lucia. She always spoke like she was doing so on behalf of the entire team when it was actually just her in the room. It usually made me laugh, but this time it made me sigh. It wasn’t that bad. The proofs from my recent photo session were spread over the table between us, and I thought they were rather good. Steamy? Yes. My palm was on Tara’s breast in one of them, and Tara looked scandalised yet suitably aroused over her slight wardrobe malfunction. But Lucia was right. In one photo, I was doing a total cum-face. So sue me. I was a professional actor and that face? Perfection. Well, I would rather they didn’t use that one specifically, butELLEmagazine was keen to keep things family orientated, and the photos were all…
“They’re all filthy, Con.”
“Yup.” What could I say? The photographer had asked for steam. We had delivered. I also remember having laughed a lot during the session, yet none of the pictures depicted us looking even remotely happy. We looked like we were… Ahem.
“It’s an image we’re trying to get away from for you. If you’re to land more diverse roles, we can’t go with these. I would like to veto some of the shots—you said you did different poses?”
“Well, there’s different and…different.” I sighed. “There were a few we took where I was kneeling between her legs.”
