Suzy K Quinn - Don’t Tell Teacher

Things will be different.

As I start tidying the house, my phone rings its generic tone. I should change that too. Get a ring tone that represents who I am. It’s time to find myself. Be someone. Not invisible, part of someone else.

My mother’s name glows on the phone screen.

Ruth Riley.

Such a formal way to store a mother’s number. I’m sure most people use ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ or something.

I grab the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’

There’s a pause, and a rickety intake of breath. ‘Did you get Tom to school on time?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because it’s important, Elizabeth. On his first day. To make a good impression.’

‘I don’t care what other people think,’ I say. ‘I care about Tom.’

‘Well, you should care, Elizabeth. You’ve moved to a nice area. The families around there will have their eyes on you. It’s not like that pokey little apartment you had in London.’

‘It was a penthouse apartment and no smaller than the house we had growing up,’ I point out. ‘We lived in a two-bed terrace with Dad. Remember?’

‘Oh, what nonsense, Elizabeth. We had a conservatory.’

Actually, it was a corrugated plastic lean-to. But my mother has never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

‘I was planning to visit you again this weekend,’ says Mum. ‘To help out.’

I want to laugh. Mum does the opposite of help out. She demands that a meal is cooked, then criticises my organisational skills.

‘You don’t have to,’ I say.

‘I want to.’

‘Why this sudden interest in us, Mum? You never visited when we lived with Olly.’

‘Don’t be silly, Elizabeth,’ Mum snaps. ‘You’re a single parent now. You need my help.’ A pause. ‘I read in the Sunday Times that Steelfield School is one of the top fifty state schools.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. Make sure you dress smartly for pick-ups and drop-offs. I paid a personal visit to the headmaster this morning. To impress upon him what a good family we are.’

I laugh. ‘You didn’t think to ask me first?’

My mother ignores this comment. ‘The headmaster was charming. Very presentable too. He tells me Tom is lucky to have a place there. Make sure you put a good face on.’

‘Social services got us that place. I’d feel luckier not to have a social worker.’

‘Elizabeth.’ Mum’s voice is tight. She hates it when I mention social workers. ‘Don’t be ungrateful.’

‘You really shouldn’t have visited the school, Mum,’ I say. ‘Teachers are busy enough.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Mum. ‘You need to make a good impression and for that you need my help. You never could do that on your own.’

‘I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. But can you ask in future? Before you do things like visiting Tom’s school? It feels a bit … I don’t know, intrusive.’

I feel Mum’s annoyance in the silence that follows. And I become that needy little girl again, doing anything to win back her favour.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Forget I said that. It’s wonderful you visited Tom’s headmaster. Look, come and visit whenever you like.’

When I hang up, I think about Olly.

You miss him sometimes. Admit it .

The voice comes out of nowhere and I try to squash it down.

Of course there were good times. But if I want to remember the good times, I have to remember the bad ones.

Do you remember him screaming at you? Calling you every name under the sun? And worse, so much worse … Saying things too shameful to think about .

How I could fall in love with someone who wanted to tear me apart?

Lizzie

‘So why the blindfold?’ I ask, as Olly leads me over crunching snow .

‘Because you like surprises.’

Did I say that?

This has all been such a whirlwind. I’m insecure, certain our romance will be over when Olly finds out he’s too good for me .

‘This way,’ says Olly, and I hear a chalet door creak. ‘Welcome home.’

‘Home?’

‘My chalet.’ Olly unties my blindfold. ‘Where you’ll be sleeping for the rest of the ski season.’

I laugh. ‘You’ll be lucky.’

As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a cosy sofa area and Chardonnay, a bowl of Pringles and glittering tealights laid on a chunky, wooden dining table .

‘I’m calling this evening “Lizzie’s favourites”,’ says Olly, plugging his phone into a speaker. ‘Your favourite food. Favourite music. Favourite everything. I’ve got sea bass.’ He goes to the fridge and slaps a wax-paper packet of fish on the kitchen counter. ‘New potatoes in the oven. Lots of tomato ketchup in the fridge, because we’re both philistines.’ He winks. ‘Sour-cream Pringles to start. And Joni Mitchell on the stereo. Oh – and black forest gateaux for dessert. The one you like from the café.’

I smile, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘You did all this for me?’

‘Just for you. Right this way, madam.’ He hesitates when he sees my face. ‘Hey. Lizzie? Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Really, I’m fine.’

‘Lizzie.’ Olly pulls me close. ‘What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?’

I shake my head against his chest, tears pressing into his shirt. ‘No. Not at all. The opposite.’

‘The opposite?’

‘All this for me. I don’t deserve it.’

Olly laughs then, his big, cheery, confident laugh. ‘You deserve this and much, much more.’ He kisses my head and hugs me for a long time. ‘Okay?’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

‘Let the evening commence!’ He leads me to the table, snatching up a purple napkin. ‘Your favourite colour.’ He grins, opening the napkin with a flourish .

Purple isn’t really my favourite colour. It’s just the colour of the coat I wear. But I don’t tell Olly that .

We eat Pringles, sea bass and new potatoes, drink Chardonnay and listen to Joni Mitchell. Then Olly lights a fire .

‘I borrowed a Monopoly board,’ says Olly, leading me to the sofa area. ‘Your favourite game, right? And mine too, actually. Come on. You can thrash me.’

‘Love to,’ I say .

‘Of course, we could play strip poker instead,’ says Olly, flashing his lovely white teeth .

I’m hit by an uneasy feeling that this evening might be too traditional for Olly. The wine, the fire, the board game. What if he thinks I’m boring?

‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘How about strip Monopoly?’

‘Strip Monopoly?’ says Olly. ‘You’re on!’

We make up a few rules, deciding to lose an item of clothing every time we land on the other person’s property. Then we start playing .

It doesn’t take long before I’m down to my underwear .

‘Are you cheating?’ I accuse, taking off my bra .

Olly watches me, mesmerised. Then he says, ‘You’re beautiful, do you know that? Hurry up and roll again.’

‘It’s your turn,’ I protest .

Olly struggles out of his clothes, revealing a beautiful toned body and crazy orange tan lines at his wrists and collarbone. Then he stands to remove his underwear .

‘Turn taken,’ he announces, standing naked. ‘Now roll again.’

‘That’s definitely cheating,’ I laugh, shy now. ‘You can’t take all your clothes off at once.’

‘How dare you!’ Olly protests. ‘I am a serious rules-body. Well, if you think the game has been compromised, we’ll just have to abandon it.’