Charlotte Butterfield - Me, You and Tiramisu

‘Okay … what about ice skating?’

‘Wow, you’re on fire tonight. Okay, fine. Ice skating.’

They took their seats at adjacent tables in the hall and, despite the parents all having booked their allotted ten minutes with each teacher, there was already a jostling crowd gathering in front of both of them.

A few parents in, Jayne remembered the task in hand. ‘Right then, okay, well, Sophie did very well on the Anne Frank project, some very insightful creative writing on the diary excerpts, which gained her a B+, which was excellent.’

‘Why didn’t she get an A?’

‘Well, I like to think that grading projects is like judging an ice-skating competition,’ Jayne heard a muffled snort from the next table, ‘every technical aspect has its own mark and there are floating marks for added flair and flourishes, so in that respect, B+ was the end result. So all in all, very good effort.’

Bidding a weary farewell to the last parents, the two teachers sat back in their chairs, mentally exhausted. ‘Jeez, how many different ways can you cover up the fact that you haven’t got the faintest idea who their child is?’

Abi’s acerbic comments delivered with her singsong Irish accent made Jayne laugh every time. The first time they’d met was the interview day for the new intake of NQTs. Abi had run into the crowded classroom late, the door slamming behind her, punctuating her arrival, her dishevelled hair piled high on her head with a colourful scarf wrapped around it. She’d hurried to the empty seat next to Jayne and after a time whispered, ‘I’m going for the art job – please tell me you’re not or I can’t be your friend.’

‘You’re safe, and so is our friendship,’ Jayne whispered, ‘I’m English.’

‘That’s unfortunate, but you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,’ she had muttered back, without a hint of sarcasm.

Jayne had tried hard to suppress a giggle and failed. ‘Is something funny?’ barked the deputy head who was in the middle of her surprisingly unwelcoming welcome speech. Abi had surreptitiously winked at Jayne after they’d shaken their heads in unison and Jayne knew that wasn’t the last time this barmy woman from County Mayo would get her in trouble.

In the summer holiday after their terrifying first year had ended, she’d taken Jayne back to Ireland to decompress for a few weeks. Her family were from this gorgeous little town on the banks of the River Carrowbeg called Westport that was bathed in the shadow of the Croagh Patrick Mountain. It was so beautiful that a big-shot Hollywood director visiting Ireland to discover his ancestry had decreed it was the perfect setting for his upcoming rom-com, which even before the first scene was filmed was already being hailed as the hit of the following summer.

Abi had told Jayne on the ferry over that the whole town, ‘nay, the whole county, was excited beyond belief to have this happen, then a week into filming they realised it was the biggest load of ball-ache that ever was.’ But on the flipside, her parents, who were born and bred in Mayo, had rented out their two spare rooms to movie extras and had made enough to finally leave Ireland for the first time and go on a cruise around the Greek Islands. ‘Every cloud, Abigail, is sewn with a lining of silver thread,’ her mother had poetically said at the time.

It was the perfect way to unwind after three terms of permanent heart palpitations. They had spent their days sleeping, eating breakfasts cooked by the mother Jayne wished she’d had and drinking unfancy coffee on the riverfront promenade. Their evenings invariably ended up with them seven sheets to the wind singing in the lively Matt Malloy’s in the town centre. Everyone knew Abi, welcoming her back to the town with a hearty wave or heartfelt hug, and as a friend of hers – albeit an English one – Jayne wasn’t denied the odd embrace either.

‘It would have been so fabulous to grow up here, where everyone looks out for one another,’ Jayne had said wistfully one afternoon as they sat on a bench overlooking the river, eating little pots of ice cream, that had flecks of real vanilla seeds in it, none of your supermarket own-brand impersonal white tub for the County Mayo folks.

‘Aye, it’s alright when you’re being good, but as soon as you decide you want a bit of fun, your mam knows about it before you’ve even done anything.’ As brilliantly timed evidence, the butcher from the shop opposite stood in his doorway and shouted across the road, ‘Abigail Sheeran, can ye tell ya mammy we’ve got some lovely steaks in for your da’s supper?’

Abi had raised her hand and nodded her assent, before turning to Jayne and muttering, ‘Exactly how many days until we bugger off back to London’s wonderful anonymity, where nobody cares what the hell you’re having for your dinner?’

Jayne had leaned her head back on the bench, closed her eyes and allowed the warm afternoon sun to bathe her face, ‘Seriously, enjoy it, if we’d have gone to my mum’s we’d be sitting in the dark with the curtains closed to avoid either the landlord collecting rent or cajoled into joining a séance or something.’

Jayne smiled at the memory of that summer as she watched Abi gather up her papers on her desk and stuff them into her large straw bag.

‘Why are you grinning like an idiot?’ Abi said accusingly, looking up.

‘Nothing, nothing at all. Right, are we going for a drink?’ Jayne paused, ‘Will said he might join us …’

‘What? How’s he going to do that if he’s not real?’ Abi was convinced that Will was a figment of Jayne’s imagination, carefully crafted so she didn’t have to go on any more soul-murdering blind dates with men that she described as ‘perfect apart from [insert interchangeable disgusting trait here]’.

Jayne didn’t know why she’d delayed introducing Will to any of her friends, and both him and they were starting to question her motives. She supposed the truth was, because she’d never really had a boyfriend before, she had no idea how to share him. Rachel imagined that it all stemmed back to the two of them pitching themselves against the world, and with Will, Jayne had fallen into the same default setting. She didn’t quite know exactly how being part of a couple could transfer to being part of a couple in a crowd of people.

It had been six months and so far she’d sidestepped the inevitable introductions, but he’d recently brought up the subject of them moving in together – albeit carefully shrouded in a discussion about ‘unnecessary outgoings’. He’d even casually mentioned that he’d been thinking that a three bedroom flat was too big for a man on his own … he might have to bring in two lodgers … oh hang on … He’d delivered this speech in a nonchalantly informal non-rehearsed way, that smacked completely of someone who had very much rehearsed it, very formally, in front of a mirror. Jayne hadn’t really answered yet, just giving nonchalant nods and saying that she’d talk to Rachel, whilst inside she was screaming ‘Hell to the Yes!’

‘I thought I told you Abi, he’s real, but just invisible.’

‘Aye, so you did. So the only way we’ll know he’s there is if he pees on the floor and we see a puddle?’

‘Exactly. So you’re very lucky you’re not wearing your expensive LK Bennett heels this evening as they’d be absolutely ruined by my boyfriend’s wee.’ Jayne tried to dodge the register of parents’ names that Abi had deftly rolled up and was aiming at her best friend’s head. ‘Come on then, the Pitcher & Piano?’