She woke confused by a lemony-fresh-smelling figure, silhouetted against the first morning light through suede curtains in a place too charming to be her Gipton terraced house.
‘Wake up, Natalia. Time to wake up…’
His hand gripped her cheeks, shaking her softly as she moaned through squashed lips.
‘Ah, we have life!’
She propped up like a cadaver, trying - and failing - not to smile too much. ‘Where am I,’ she slurred. ‘What were we talking about last night again? GCSEs, novels, how to improve the school…’
‘Yes, all those things. Up, up,’ he yanked her upper arms. ‘Shower.’
‘I already had a bath last night.’
‘Doesn’t count. What’s this—’
They turned to look down on a 50p-sized circle of blood on his sofa pillow.
‘Oh, my god,’ she stammered. ‘I’m so, so sorry…’
What might have mortified her all morning was nuked with a wave of his hand.
‘Don’t worry silly. I’ll run it under the cold tap then blast it off hot. Here—’ He reached for a basket. ‘Did you ever think your own Headmaster would launder your uniform?’
‘If you’re referring to Mr Neary, would he hecker’s like.’
‘Never in a gazillion funkin’ years! I’ll get breakfast and tea on. Don’t be too long.’
The shower was glorious hot pelting water from a rainfall head. An aroma of bacon came stronger as she drew back the curtain from the circular rail around the tub. She looked out of the window to take in the sun rising over the horizon in an admirable effort for the first day of February. This was better than Haworth and London combined! Neill or no Neill, here was rural heaven.
Back downstairs, Neill was at the table piling eggs onto toast.
‘We have twelve minutes! Your Cheerios await. Tea for you there. A couple of bits of bacon in the grill if you’d like some.’
‘Wow, thank you for all this.’
As they ate, he watched her brown eyes mid-sip over the cup rim.
‘You started wearing mascara since London.’
‘Hm-mm…’
‘But otherwise you look so natural. Funny. I’m used to women being smothered in make-up.’ He glanced away in reminiscence. ‘Red lips. I’ve always been a sucker for a woman with red lipstick and red nails. Why’s that?’
She shrugged. ‘Colour of hot passion? Some kind of harlot thing. What does Freud say?’
‘Fuck knows. Harlot, hmm. Well, you are no harlot.’
‘I had red nails last night, so I’m halfway there.’
‘And this morning too, you rascal.’
Natalia smirked as she closed up the cereal box. ‘I guess I can’t take these home, so you have a supply of Cheerios on hand.’
‘Not really my thing. Just stick them in that lower cupboard there.’
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Outside, the front garden tiles shone with last night’s downpour and laced his Merc with glistening beads. Climbing in shivering, her breath made a shape in the air like a fag cloud.
‘I’ll give the aircon a few minutes. Heated seat will crank up quicker. So you liked my cottage?’
‘It’s not bad.’
‘Not bad? Now for your cryptic criteria I’m not sure that’s a commendation.’
‘Ok then, it’s… wicked. Bad, baddest, badderest - and only - fairy cottage I’ve seen.’
‘That’s good. Gooder. Goodest endorsement from my fairy guest.’
She laughed. ‘Nice wordplay for so early.’
‘Morning’s the best time for the most penetrating perspicaciousness.’
‘Are you going to penetrate my mum this morning with the same… perspishashushness?’
‘I’ll call her by lunchtime,’ as he put out his palm to the aircon. ‘Did you say she’s always at home?’
‘Not unless she’s out with Darren or doing her rare grocery shop.’
‘Text me the number now in case it’s not on the files. Also, I was thinking,’ as they pulled up at a misty red traffic light. ‘Do you have Just Eat on your phone?’
‘I haven’t put it on there yet.’
‘Download it, take my Barclaycard from my wallet there, stick the details in and you can order whatever you want, when you want.’
‘Oh! What! Are you sure?’
‘Natalia, you shouldn’t have to text me every time you starve.’
‘But if anyone sees your bank details going to my address, won’t it look dodgy? Won’t it all go on record?’
‘Just as much as our WhatsApp conversations do.’
‘Neill, I er…’ she was feeling suddenly compelled to broach a topic she’d never dared, now that she’d been to this house. ‘Well, do you ever worry about all this… being found out? With everything—’
She stopped when his phone began blaring.
‘Oh, shit! He’s already on my case… hi, Steve! Yep, I’ve got the banner artwork from Clarkey. I’ll see you in around twenty.’
He hung up. ‘Got Dinkey reminding me about signage for next week. We’re moving the Valentine’s charity event from the Friday to the Saturday so it doesn’t clash with Year 11 Parents’ Evening.’
‘But the fair is on the Friday afternoon before the Parents’ Evening?’
‘Yes. That bozo idea by Noble and Williams to have both on the same day. By moving it to the Saturday we can invite the public and have a day-long fundraiser instead of pratting about making £2.87 off the pupils. Some staff moaned about opening up on a weekend but they’ll be eating their words with my Winner’s Sauce on top when they see us in the Yorkie Post raising thirty quid for the British Heart Foundation.’
She laughed. ‘I wasn’t doing anything for the fair. But now I want to help you raise thirty quid.’
‘All the kids are clubbing up in friend groups of four to ten—’
‘Well that’s me out. Unless I can club up with Sarah your couch, your Beth Tub, Virginia Bed and Branwell Shed.’
‘Ha! Well, why don’t you make cakes? And I’ll round up a few others who are baking and have them deliver their goods to your supreme Wonka-Wanker quality control in Clayton’s room the day before?’
‘Am I allowed to be the Wa…onka?’
‘I’m the Head, darling. Of course,’ as they pulled up two streets away from the school. ‘I’ll drop you off here then.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And, oh! In answer to your question about being found out…’
‘Oh, yeah…’
‘I’ve had no choice but to help you out,’ he sighed, ‘and the best I can do is… hope for the best. We’ve - or rather I’ve - done some naughty things. But not too naughty. I’d probably lose my job but I wouldn’t get buggered to death in jail for buying you a few takeaways and taking you on a platonic field trip. Or maybe I’m completely wrong. Either way, what’s done is done.’
‘Right,’ she whispered.
He reached and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, ok? That’s for me to do. I’ll let you know how the call with mum goes.’
She squeezed his fingers back.
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*
At form Natalia saw Ryan was back.
From the side she could see a purple haze running from temple to nose bridge. There was a small plaster along his cheekbone. It seemed worse than Neill described. She looked away.
Ryan tailgated her on the way out and she turned abruptly. She winced at his face, now straight-on. One eye was hooded and bloodshot.
‘What do you want?’
He motioned her to one side as the other pupils passed.
‘I wanna say I’m really really sorry about what happened.’
Time to call upon her acting skills she’d been honing since the Haworth stomach ache.
‘I’m sorry about what—’ she nodded at him. ‘What actually happened?’
‘Couple o’ thugs tried to get me and me mates. They’re all still off school, Luke’s arm’s really bad.’
‘That’s awful. Do they know who did it?’
‘No.’
‘It wasn’t anything to do with the pictures was it?’
His eyes lifted to hers as if he had the same question.
‘You know when I heard you lot were beaten up,’ she added, ‘I was happy for a minute because of what you did to me…’
‘Listen. Bernard and Adam got me phone. I didn’t mean ‘em to wave it round like that, I, I—’
‘You showed Bernard first. I saw you.’
He went quiet.
Push the drama.
‘So, those thugs have got my phone? With my private pictures on?’
‘I deleted ‘em before.’
‘Right. That sounds convincing.’
He flushed red. ‘I did. I’m really sorry again, I…’
Natalia marched off to PE.
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*
End of lunchtime: no text, no summons from Neill about calling her mum. Must be busy with ‘grant officer lark’ and finishing the marking she interrupted him doing last night in his cottage. Oh, to think she had come this morning from his cottage… if the waft of his musky man deodorant she’d sprayed on her armpits wasn’t a continual stomach-fizzle-pop reminder.
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In last lesson IT, her phone finally buzzed - it was Neill asking her to come up at 3.
When she arrived, he was walking about his desk.
‘Hi Natalia.’
He didn’t instruct her to lock the door or sit down, so she stood where she was.
‘So how did it go?’ she smiled.
‘She was about as receptive as the phone signal in my attic,’ he sighed, standing leaning against the front of his desk. ‘Every time I made a serious point it was like her brain was a fizzing can of booze that threatened to blow right through the phone and deliver me a glacial porno facial. I tried to—’
‘I meant the grantofficer.’
‘Oh! Best it could! A young lady, looked a bit like you if you squint - as I did for a bit - she must have thought I was stoned. The zero wit gave it away, so I gave up halfway, opened my eyes - well, very wide - just as she asked if we’re thinking of having gender-neutral toilets. I said, we have a unisex toilet, it’s down by reception with a wheelchair logo on it. She said no, it shouldn’t be a disabled toilet, and left with custard pie in her face when I pointed out that’s ableist.’
‘I hope that isn’t because you gave her a glacial porno facial.’
‘Both cheeks. Showed her what both equality and gender fluid is.’
‘Hmm. So, what did my mum say? What even did you say?’
‘Nothing specific. I kept it as vague as possible, referencing emotional state of pupils affecting work, that I try check on anyone who reports feeling unsafe at home, but that I only intervene as appropriate for my role—’
They eyed each other with the knowledge of that bent parameter.
He stood up straight and stepped toward her. ‘I hope I’ve thrown something in her path but… I fear you might return today to someone whose already soiled feathers have been ruffled with this attempted interjection, an implied slur of sorts, on her character.’
‘So when I get home she’ll either be pissed or pissed off?’
‘Oh no, no, I just wanted to give you a heads up.’
‘Ok,’ she said softly. ‘Thanks.’
‘And, ah…’ He stepped closer again, so she was looking up his chest.
He gazed down at her; his head almost cocking sideways in examination of her, as he sighed again:
‘The thing is, I’ve got this terrible regret about bringing you to my cottage.’
‘Oh?’ …she croaked, her eyes dropping, just as she felt two warm hands on either side of her head.
‘A regret for not doing this—’
Her eyes and lips jumped to meet a kiss now swooping in on her like a greedy, but somehow graceful seagull - his lips softly muscling their way into hers - and before long his tongue too, that tasted of Wrigleys chewing gum - and it felt at once utterly new and delightful, familiar and missed; less slimy and alien as the first novel times but more wiry, more delicious. She feels like she is kissing him back more consciously, even in this passive position that he seemed to like, as though his preamble about regret was necessary to stun her before he accosted her like CPR, but which she was learning to anticipate, and know what her own first responder move was supposed to be.
There was a sharp knock on the door.
Her heart clunked as she remembered it was unlocked, and they detached in an instant - she, in wide-eyed remembrance that the door was unlocked - he, with a casualness that reassured her, along with a radiance in his countenance as if the gloomy sighing Neill a few moments ago had been baptised afresh from her saliva.
‘Come in!’ he called, eyes still on her as if he were still kissing her, as though it were the most normal thing to be doing this to, what… the next in a stream of schoolgirls entering his office?
‘Neill—’ she began.
‘Don’t worry, it’s just Clarkey.’
‘Rr-right.’
She stepped out of sight of the door as she watched him open it 45 degrees to admit a pair of grunting arms, cradling a medium-sized cardboard box.
‘Here you go, fella…’
‘Thank you Clarkey, just what I’ve been waiting for!’
‘Gotta run now, but take a look through and I’ll come up tomorra.’
The door clicked closed again as Natalia watched Neill scissor open the box and smile slyly at the contents.
‘Sex toys for all the depressed women teachers?’ she asked.
‘Nope. Would need a lorryload.’
‘New, vacuum-packed stage curtains?’
‘Close!’ He slid it away. ‘Come up tomorrow sometime and I’ll show you.’
He strode back to her, grabbed her left hand and kissed her knuckles.
‘Off you go home before it’s dark, my darling. Text me how it goes with mum, ok?’
‘But… I don’t use that hand,’ she smirked.
‘Exactly, Miss Blobby.’
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*
She didn’t care that she had to wait for the second bus. She was walking on such a cloud that she had to physically pull the corners of her mouth down as she approached home. Can’t appear too happy, nor too angry, for mum right now. Goodness, life was becoming a balancing act.
Mary was washing dishes in the kitchen.
‘Hi, mum.’
‘How were your friend’s?’ she said, not looking up. ‘Which one wurr’it?’
‘Sarah. Yes, it was nice.’
‘You went into school this morning together then, on time?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
Natalia casually opened the fridge, silently imploding that it was empty all for margarine and one sprouting potato.
‘Things have been so… mad ‘ere lately.’
‘Mmm.’ Natalia nudged alongside to fill the kettle waiting for Mary to finish filling a glass from the tap.
‘I just, you know, like a drink from time to time,’ as she took a long swig of the water.
‘As long as it’s that.’
Her mum cackled, whilst Natalia began to doubt she would even mention the call from the Head.
‘I didn’t like all those people over the other night,’ Natalia now said bluntly. ‘They were banging on my door. Do you remember?’
Mary’s eyes lowered. ‘I know. I’m sorry love.’
‘Can you please make sure that doesn’t happen again?’
‘It were a bit much, yeah. Had a right banging ‘eadache the next day.’
‘But, do you not understand? I was really scared up in my room.’
Mary paused. ‘You haven’t been… to the police over it, have ya?’
‘No. I wasn’t going to?’
Mary opened the fridge. ‘I’m going out to fetch some stuff from Aldi. What do we need?’
‘Oranges, bananas. Ham. Bread, some veg… oh, and steaks?’
‘Not steaks! Far too dear! I’ll try remember the rest. If you want loads then you could walk with me. Bus is a pain down that way.’
‘Can’t we just get a taxi for a big shop?’
‘Too expensive love.’
‘You know, we really should order online. No carrying, no running out of stuff…’
‘No way I’m putting my card on the internet. Heard some right stories about that.’
‘I can set it up so you have the password—’
‘Nor to you!’ Mary frowned. ‘Who knows what you’ll do with it!’
Natalia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just unbelievable. I’ve got a stomach ache. I’m going to lay down.’
‘I’ll do it all myself as usual,’ muttered her mum.
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Natalia locked herself in her bedroom and scrolled Just Eat. How she detested this life in the sluggish slow lane. How she longed to whizz about like Neill in his Mercedes, free and spirited, fucking fly off for winged jamrags from Simply M&S and grab the biggest box of Cheerios she’d ever seen! She ordered a Chinese for 6, sat back and texted Neill:
‘All (relatively) ok at home!! xx’
- ‘What did she say? Call me xx’
0.5 seconds later:
‘Hello my darling.’
‘Hello, Neill…’ She heard the front door slam shut downstairs, reassuring her she could speak at unrestrained volume.
‘So how’s mum? Not flown off the handle?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned you calling. But, I detect some improvement!’
‘Goodness, how?’
‘Well, she had the biggest glass of water I’ve ever seen her drink, and now she’s gone to the shop.’
‘Bloody hell!’
They laughed.
‘And I confronted her about the other night and retrieved a pinprick of remorse.’
‘Good, good! So maybe I did put the willies up her.’
‘And not like that!’ she laughed. ‘But…’
‘But?’
‘Well,’ she groaned, ‘she was so irritating just now when I suggested setting up online grocery shopping. Doesn’t trust the internet and won’t fork out for a taxi. I’ve ended up ordering a Just Eat thanks to you. My Headmaster trusts me more than my own mother does.’
‘Oh! Do you want my card for shopping?’
‘Well, er, no…’
‘Seriously if you want to, I can set it up on Ocado.’
‘Hmm. Might be ok using your card for Just Eat but it will look seriously dodgy if I suddenly have bags of sirloin and asparagus being loaded through my front door—’
‘Asda then, for your demographic.’
‘Mm, anything beyond one carrier bag of frozen chips and beer round here looks suspicious. They’re still talking about that M&S Arrabiata.’
He chortled. ‘Well enjoy your takeaway for now. If you need help with anything else, like a cup of Cheerios of which I have a copious supply, let me know, ok?’
‘Ha! Yeah.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes.’
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Oh god, something had turned up a notch with Neill. His loveliness was swimming right at her like an Olympian doing the crawl. If you need a cup of Cheerios, like he was her neighbour… oh god, just the thought of that big box of Cheerios made her stomach soften. The way he looked at her when she put it away in the cupboard was like he wanted to put her into the cupboard with it. And oh, that kiss today that was still sitting on her lips. She didn’t know what to think about first. That look in his eye when he was pleading to know what she thinks about when she masturbates herself to high heaven over, marathon style, without a break! I know by now that you’re a widespread little wanker. Never be embarrassed, you pretty much can’t control yourself!
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*
The consolation prize for watching dreary Dinkey present morning Assembly was a text from the mighty malingerer summoning her at break.
She came up to find Clarke on a ladder outside Neill’s office, poking around with something in the corner whilst Jamiroquai blared through Neill’s open door.
She peered in. ‘Oh, I didn’t know—’
Neill’s face shot up from his desk. ‘Ah! You wait right there! —Yep, all good Clarkey! You are a genius. Now can I turn this ghastly working class radio off?’
Clarke laughed. ‘All done, Neill. Cheers for the cuppa.’
Natalia stepped to the side as Clarke lugged away his ladder and tools. Neill promptly took Natalia in by the wrist, closed and locked the door, then pushed her against it.
‘Oh my—’
‘How much do I still owe you?’
‘I, oh?! One, erm—’
‘One minute.’
The light of the room darkened as he came upon her like yesterday, this time with his hands sliding down to her elbows and squeezing them lightly as his lips and tongue nuzzled and burrowed into hers… a hot patch burned in her chest like a flare of the seriousness of what they were doing now… they were having what would look to any onlooker like a full-blown affair, that delightfully contradicted his words yesterday: it’s not too naughty, what’s done is done! And yet, as he withdrew, his fingers now tickling down her wrists, his tone was as casual as though he’d merely passed her in the corridor.
‘That makes two minutes. We’re even now, yes? …Got to show you this! Come, come—’
He whisked off around to his side of the desk, clicking on his computer, whilst she flopped head down at her side of the desk, delirious in aftermath.
‘Natalia! Wake up. Come round this side—’
‘Walk all the way round? My legs are so weak…’
He took hold of her wrist across the table. ‘Over here…’
‘Pull then…’
She smiled, as he gripped her arm and levered her right up onto the table, pulling her body sliding head-first toward his keyboard, stomach-surfing creasing papers beneath her, in a torrent of giggles as she was deposited straight into his lap in front of the screen.
As she tried to sit herself upright in his lap, the ball of her palm brushed against something distinctly rock-like on his right thigh.
‘Oops… sorry!’ By reflex she drew away, looking down as though she’d stepped on his foot.
‘That’s quite alright, Miss Doris,’ as he, seemingly oblivious, tapped on the keyboard, rummaging her into place with his other arm around her belly, as her thigh underside now landed on the novel hardness; a truncheon shape travelling down his thigh, that she thought with naive alarm, surely can’t be his penis?
‘Well, you’re definitely not Mr Twitch. …er, I think I’ve sat on the Headmaster’s lunch baguette,’ she muttered, both gleeful and daunted by what she had roused. It felt like a climbing bar in the gym.
‘Stop it. Keep still and concentrate. Look, I want to show you something—’
‘I think I felt it—’
A video image of the corridor came onscreen.
‘Oh, a camera…’
‘Many times I lock my door and want to get on with things undisturbed, so I finally got this up.’
‘You got it up alright. But what will people think?’
‘Most people would think it’s entirely inappropriate to sit a Year 11 schoolgirl upon my erection but it’s just one of those moments that happens to have occurred—’
‘The camera.’
‘Why would they? There’s cameras everywhere. This school has CCTV at entrances and exits. Besides, everyone’s staring too gormlessly into their phones these days to even notice.’
‘Very clever sir,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, look, look, here someone comes!’
‘Keep wriggling like that and they might.’
A female teacher appeared, knocking.
‘Is that… Coleman?’
‘Too fat.’
‘Williams?’
‘Too thin.’
‘Zoom in.’
‘How?’
‘Press the plus sign. Are you as old as you are hard?’
‘Neill?’ …came the voice of the face now zoomed super-close-up on the screen. ‘Are you there?’
‘It’s Clayton—’
‘Yes, I know those jowls. Just keep quiet—’ Neill’s lips were sitting right on Natalia’s ear. ‘She’ll think I’m not in.’
‘Wants your shoulder again. Shoulder of pork—’
‘Shush, you,’ his fingertips played over her lips, as she wriggled playfully under his tightening grip of his arm, and his stubbly mouth rubbed softly into her hair:
‘She’ll be here querying the Oompa Loopas I’ve pimped out for your scrumptious stall.’
‘Gone,’ Natalia concluded as Clayton’s heels clicked away.
‘Not quite—’
‘Stop it,’ she laughed. ‘The bell’s going to go in a second. I’ve got RE.’
His phone vibrated in his pocket beneath her.
‘So have I. Ringing Erection—’ He rummaged for his phone as she jumped up laughing.
‘Text from Joan,’ he groaned. ‘Funny, we hadn’t spoken all week. Says she looks forward to seeing me tomorrow… oh, buggercups. Forgot that two weeks ago I clumsily promised lunch to meet her brothers.’ He sighed, stuffing his phone away. ‘Only because I heard they’re web coding whizzes and I’m out of budget to have the school website redesigned.’
‘That’s ok?’ Natalia shrugged, perched on his desk. ‘Enjoy your schmooze.’
‘I won’t even be able to kidnap you next week either because it’s Parents’ Evenings every day. Year 7 on Monday. 8 on Tuesday, 9 on Wednesday, 10 on Thursday… Christ, I sound like one of your poems.’
‘That’s what I was thinking…’
‘I’ll be knackered.’ He double-glanced at her full-fat smirk. And not like that.’
‘Oh, I will be.’
He sighed. ‘And what do you possibly mean.’
‘Mind worse than mine?’
‘You dirty girl. Are you saying you’ll wank yourself off each night for the corresponding year of Parents’ Evenings?’
‘Intelligence clearly restored.’
‘You cheek—’
‘Sooo by the time I get to 12 o’cock, I’ll be fucking all the men at the Saturday Valentine’s Charity Fair.’
‘Goodness I hope not. With the ilk round here you’ll be penning poetry not to count Os but STDs. But here’s the rules of the game…’
‘You’re making the rules?’
‘I’m the Head, darling. Of course. You have to do seven by 7pm. —No! …You have to do seven at seven, by 7.07—’
‘Seven minutes to have all those—?!’
‘Oh, I’ve heard how you go, Speedy Cumzalez. Eight by 8.08. Nine by 9.09. Ten by 10.10. Eleven by 11.11. And you have to text me no less than 7, 8, 9, 10 or 11 seconds after. Or you forfeit the next day.’
She stared. ‘Ok, well here’s my part of the deal. Each day you have to text me something to… inspire.’
‘Text you what? A cock floating in space? A misspelt demand to see you flick your bean?’
‘No sext speak, Fanny-Dickon-cum. But I wrote a poem that’s on the level of Yeats and Zephaniah. You asked me the other night what do women want if they don’t like sexting? Well you show me, Shakespeare.’
‘I don’t know if I’m as creative as you, darling.’
‘Of course you are. Besides, if I’m doing homework then you are too.’
He drew a sharp breath. ‘You’ll read it at 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 minutes to the hour.’
‘Depraved deal.’
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*
That weekend saw Natalia out shopping in town with an unexpected twenty pounds from her mum. ‘Get yourself something nice love.’ Another coup for Neill’s phone call, she thought. This never happened. Neill gets a weekend out and so does she!
Her eye caught on a L’Oreal lipstick stand at Boots. Hot harlot red, that Neill was such a sucker for he said, as now in a curious trance she pulled the lid from a bright crimson tester.
Blinding red, red for sex, red for woman. Woman that she was not, yet. She smeared it on and laughed at herself. In Neill’s words, ‘she was no harlot.’ But her favourite dress that Neill liked was red, as red as he’d been making her face go for four months. Her night in his cottage was red period, red steak, red blanket, red pen. Red in the cheesecake, red on her cuticles gripped by inquisition Neill. I don’t do it with women during that time, he insisted, yet seemed so unphased by ‘oh, jamrags!’, his bloody toilet bowl and the red spot on his pillow as though it were a pound coin left by the tooth fairy.
And although he spewed smut like lava from Mount Etna and she’d sat on his trouser lump that felt as large as it, he’d never touched her breasts or her bottom. Now she’d struck her own salacious deal for this ‘perfect gentleman’ to send her Shakespearean sexts all week for her wanking off to the consecutive numbers of Parents’ Evenings. Would he ever do that with someone like Joan? She wondered what to expect from him next week. Was he going to text her glibness worse than Ryan’s? She started to fret she might have invited something that turns her adoration of Neill into cringe.
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*
Sam’s breath wasn't as bad today, at least. It was mussels-drain with a redeeming layer of Colgate. Natalia’s nostrils could sit high and free.
‘Oh, man. I got a D,’ Sam lamented as marked homework was plop-showered over the desks.
Natalia was just checking what grade she got, when something else was plopped by Noble on top of her book.
A ‘Private & Confidential’ brown letter, addressed to her name and class on the front window. She turned to find ‘at 7 to 7!!’ scrawled and circled on the back.
Forget the Maths grade. Because shit, here is his lovenote. Not by text, but by the way of the Head, of course, and it instructs not to open till 7 minutes to 7! How can she wait that long? She can’t!
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Forty minutes of bodged trigonometry later, she went straight to the toilet to rip it open and stare:23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDFSSzR5nAz
‘Seventh heaven she said, but how did she reach her
‘Sixth, without love notes from Mr Headteacher?
‘…‘head MASTER!’ she’d say, as he too quite agrees,
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She read and reread it. Oh god, it was fucking beautiful. Four lines! Were they all going to be like this?
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As she came out of Geography, there was Neill in the corridor. She suspected he had come up just to analyse her face, and her face must have said it all, because the murmur landing upon it - lowered blushing to the floor - was:
‘You haven’t cheated, have you?’
‘N-no, sir…’
‘Good. Then may I see the letter you received from your headmaster this morning please.’
Her face froze on a smirk.
‘Come on?’
She pulled out the ripped envelope. He stared.
‘I, I didn’t read…’
‘Aw, tut tut. Such a shame.’
‘Neill, don’t—’
The double doors opened as Mrs Tracey and Miss Patrick passed by, deep in conversation.
They waited till they were gone, then floated back together.
‘Foul play now, means none tonight,’ came Neill’s low stern word.
‘Wha—!’
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’ll make tomorrow’s come like a rocket, sure-fire helping you not to forfeit the next!’
He went on down the corridor like cock of the walk.
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She spent the rest of the day shaking her head. What was more astounding than her Headmaster banning her from wanking tonight, was the fact she was considering obeying. Every two minutes in Art she brought her hand to her face to hide a smirk of disbelief.
‘Are you ok, Natalia? Headache?’
‘No Miss Patrick, I’m fine.’
‘You’ve printed charcoal on your forehead,’ giggled Laura next to her.
She zoned out again. Was she really going to do what Neill said? Of course she didn’t have to. Oh god, it made her body feel… invaded, tingling, as he inscribed the parameters upon her private flesh. But he was right about one thing… it would make the eight tomorrow explode. Should she follow just out of curiosity?
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*
The next day, Natalia’s eyes were at the door every minute of English, awaiting the next Private & Confidential to land in her itching lap. Coleman was busy at the door at one point, twittering on last night’s Parents’ Evening, and all the talk of the number seven was making her twinge down there even more. Would a breaktime fingering in the toilet count as contravention of this game?
There he was again, at the end of lesson, muttering with Coleman about tonight. Was he skulking?
The last to leave the room, as she passed him, she heard:
‘Pssst. Turn round.’
His thumb and forefinger pinched her chin up as he peered right into her face.
‘Did you—?’
She micro-shook her head, staring earnestly.
‘Mm.’ It was as though he read in her eyes, a glimmer of her indignation that she’d abstained.
‘When’s the next…? I haven’t got a…?’
‘It’ll come.’
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Next and the next lesson, no mail. She got to hometime, still no note. All evening at home, she began to get restless. Clearly he was teaching her a lesson.
It had to come by text, didn’t it? He would text her at eight minutes to eight so she couldn’t cheat.
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6pm. A text!
‘Have you eaten tonight?’
Doesn’t sound very sexty, mum. Or was this a play on Parents’ Evening?
‘No… too much suspense. Wheeeere’s my note :( :( :(’
- ‘It’ll come.’
Glued to her phone from 7.20, there was a knock on her bedroom door.
‘Bugger off!’
‘Charmin’! I’ll have yer meal for myself then,’ came Mary’s muffled voice through the wood.
‘What?!’ The penny dropping as fast as her phone from her hand, she leapt at her door handle.
‘Where where where!’
‘Bloody ‘ell, what stung you? Here, looks like a Mexican. Delivery man said it’s a gift from Sarah. She definitely wants something off ya.’
It was a small neat box from Pinche Pinche with an envelope taped on. Goodness, as she re-locked her door, her next sext really was delivered by mum. Does she really have to wait till 7.52? May as well start eating the food now. Spicy bean tacos. Quite tasty too, food orgasm before she’d even opened the note:23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSTtBPrcWEw
‘Make eight eleven, she ambitiously thought
‘When her Maths is as bad as her need to be taught
‘To count the letters in the second word of this line
‘And know who’ll put the O where she c’unt last time.’23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiMmuYI8Nqt
Something about being satiated in her stomach, satiated her lower down to now read this, eight times over before she could begin her ‘response’. At first laughing with too much amusement to concentrate, she fell into fixation on his words yesterday. You’ll come like a rocket. You’ll come like a rocket. You’ll come like a rocket. Oh god, the man with a dick like a bargepole has just made reference to her c’unt. Don’t go all prudish now, girl! There is nothing more important in this life than sex!
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She texted him at 8.08, eight Xs.
- ‘Awww. Was it nice?’
‘Great thanks…’
- ‘Worth waiting for?’
‘Yessssss x’23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3N2qW4JIyw
Was she allowed to crack out another eight? Was that cheating? Should she ask him? No, no, surely that was all suggestive enough, good grief. He must still be at Parents’ Evening getting hounded by Year 8’s parents; Mr Begum probably talking his ear off about Luxton’s racism. She’ll save herself for tomorrow.
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*
Wednesday. Nine. How was he going to deliver this one? Will it be back to letters?
Geography felt like it went on forever. And nothing came. She must have raised her eyes in anticipation at least ninety times.
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It was in English after break, opening her exercise book thinking about something else entirely, that she pushed back a page that had been folded over, and his familiar handwriting flashed in her face.
She hurriedly folded it back. A ‘9’ was scrawled on it. Shit! He’d been at the books as they stood on Coleman’s desk that morning. And he said he wasn’t creative? He was as artful as he was ruthlessly bonkers!
Had he written something incriminating like the word headmaster in it, like he did in Seven? How she longed to flip it back again and read it, but knew he would corner her in the corridor and read it on her face.
She slipped the book to her lap, tore out the page and pushed it into her bag.
‘Not supposed to rip pages from our books,’ whispered Laura next to her.
‘I spilt something on it.’
Best forget her curiosity - as easy to forget as flames burning through her sleeve - and just get her head down all day. Neill must know what he’s doing, because just knowing she had his ticking time bomb in her bag made her vulva feel like one. Such strategy! This is the man who talks of sex like urination and defecation, who moves from one conquest to another without remembering names; who speaks of sticking his ‘tool’ in gobs and mis-aimed arseholes like it was a sport he was proud to be bad at. Yet the last three poems he wrote were… better than anything she could have imagined him write?
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She jumped into bed naked with the note at nine minutes to nine, unfolding it and her legs.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQyaBt7ixes
‘By now ma chérie would have lost, like a drunk,
‘Count of nine thimbles of wine that she’d flunk;
‘Even of which, combined, aren’t as wet
‘As the sauce that she makes for le monsieur baguette’23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd5GLcLMuNZ
It was glorious. Utterly glorious. This was sexting at the other side of the galaxy from Ryan. Shit, it’s two minutes past nine. Seven minutes to bring nine easily; she could have done fifteen.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqK5NwMgr1P
In reply to her nine kisses by text:
‘Looks like a better night tham nine’
- ‘Tham nine? You say you’re not creative?’
‘Inspired. And tired. :( x’
Inspired, by his nightcap with ‘Miss sweet sixteen virgin?’ The thought warmed her cockles like his fire.
Tomorrow. Thursday. Ten. The wanking week was flying past.
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*
From the corner of her eye mid-Yoga the next morning, she spied the honey-blonde head of Neill chinwagging with Mr Winterbrook over by the doors of the gym. He didn’t normally come down here unless he wanted to ogle Miss Barnes’ arse, the days of which seemed to have long gone, or deliver important news. She glanced again and he’d vanished, but upon returning to her bag, was compelled to rifle through.
She stopped on something familiar and laughed.
It was one of the old green report cards, folded twice, with the words upon it:
‘This time it sets you alight’
She stuffed it deep back down and sighed. Exactly 12 hours till she could sigh over what’s inside it.
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She caught Neill loitering at the canteen queue whilst Janet ladled her spagbol. Definitely skulking. She knew Waitrose wraps were his lunchtime mainstay. He was making laboured small talk with a Year 9 lad about discipline in the school, before he sidled over:
‘When’s the last time you opened a report card, Natalia?’
She could barely look at him. ‘Last October, of course.’
‘Good girl.’
Drip drip, this was turning into torture. By eight o’clock that evening she was getting sleepy too. Maybe she’ll read over the other three notes and stroke round her pubic hair for two hours listening to her Neill playlist. Come on baby, Light My Fire, set the night on fire! …She does just what she’s told, it’s down to me!… she’s Under my Thumb! …whilst underlining rude bits of Fanny Hill and recalling Neill talking about the Greek God of the phallus ‘obliterating virgins again and again,’ breaking women like meringues with his crowbar cock.
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9.50 and her tired eyes opened wide at this little nautical beauty:23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3VBNVFXMQh
‘Ten flicks from the mermaid that’s reading this letter
‘Would have seamen from miles away desperate to net her
‘I dare say that one night I myself dreamt I motioned
‘Breaststrokes to her pearl she then lost in the ocean.’23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ74HYWJHjTu
Oh bejesus. He was a literal literary genius. Wicked wordplay for a watery Waterhouse wank. He wants to stroke her tits till she’s wetter than Bridlington.
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‘Worth the wait. So good [ten kisses]’
- ‘Because you were good. [ten kisses]’
Uh. Friday. Was she really going back to life without her Master Bait?
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*
‘Tomorrow is the Valentine’s Charity Fair!’ announced Master Bait in navy blue at Assembly. ‘Set-up starts at ten for all the frontmen - or women - and the public are let in at one, remember! One for fun. Right, next, I would like to present these following certificates to eleven Year 11 pupils who have recently demonstrated prowess in certain subjects—’
Oh here we go. Neill never presented certificates. He always delegated it to someone else, even to a pupil one time, so he can sit down and fiddle with his fags and stare at the clock like he was about to miss a train. Eleven Year 11 students, how coincidental…
‘These will certainly be of value for these high-achieving pupils’ National Records of Achievement! So, the first we have, Aisha Mutanga for consistent As in English—’
He reeled through nine more. He was now on the eleventh. Of course.
‘…And Natalia Molova, for excellent Maths, Biology, Physical Education and timekeeping—’
A certificate for Physical Education. He was a joker, that’s for sure. Still, she hadn’t been late into school for some time, and her fanaticism of Yoga had been apparent enough for Miss Barnes to remark on her ‘supple deltoids’ yesterday so the watching teachers could possibly believe it. Mrs Williams was frowning, but she always was at Neill.
As she arrived last in line to receive her certificate, along with a small gust of Wrigley’s breath, the applause duly began whilst she flickered her eyes down at the sheet to detect where his pervy message was written. It must be on the back, which upon a brief waft walking back to her place, she glimpsed his four lines of writing.
Keep. Flat. Down. Against. Lap. Bet he even thought about that too, how she’d have to face the message right into her groin whilst it sweats, as unable to read as she is.
‘There we have it, my fair men and maidens! Roses are red, violets are blue; see you at the fair in the queue for the loo!’
Was that a clue? Was he going to snog her in the toilets tomorrow? Gathering back in classrooms for RSE lesson, Williams was at her door already quibbling with two other Year 11s over their certificates:
‘I don’t believe the HODs have been informed that Neill was giving these out today. May I see yours, Jennifer? English and Maths, goodness—’
Natalia chortled at Williams’ look of disbelief.
‘They aren’t stamped by the school officially,’ she frowned, ‘they appear to be printed on rather flimsy paper too,’ then turning upon Natalia:
‘May I see yours, Natalia?’
Natalia stared. ‘No,’ escaped her lips - as Williams stared back - just as Natalia glanced to Laura slapping the National Records of Achievement onto desks.
‘…Problem. No problem. Just wait a sec… thanks Laura—’
She grabbed her NRA, slipped the certificate into the first free sleeve where it backed against another paper, then handed it to Williams.
‘Didn’t want it to get creased,’ she grinned.
‘Hmm.’ Williams took the folder and briefly inspected it. ‘Yes, they all appear to be missing the school stationery,’ she sighed. ‘A predictable oversight from an egregious Head. I’ll have to take care of it. Collect up all the NRAs again please Laura, we’re not working on those today. But put these with the new certificates on top, please.’
Williams handed Natalia’s NRA directly to Laura, and piled everyone else’s on top before summoning everyone to be seated.
Natalia’s nostrils flared. Great. Her last and probably most lascivious clitbait was buried fifth down in that pile and she’d have to wait 35 minutes to get it into her grubby paws.
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When break came, eyeing up the pile on Williams’ desk, she waited for Williams to leave, but to her dismay, Williams took the top eleven from the pile and sat back down again.
‘Natalia? Go to break, please.’
‘Miss, I need to check something in my NRA—’
‘Not right now, till I have dealt with these certificates before I forget. You may have it straight after.’
Natalia went outside the room, scratching her head. Williams would have to take the certificate out of its sleeve to stamp it, and what were the chances of her turning it over and seeing the sleazy poetry? She’d probably know Neill’s handwriting too.
She whipped out her phone and texted Neill:
‘Please call Fat Cunt up to your office right now. I need her out so I can get my certificate back’
- ‘It’ll cost you’
‘What?!’
- ‘5 of your 11’
‘No way! I’ll do it myself, Mr Twitch’
She opened the door again.
‘Natalia, I said—’
‘No, no, miss. Listen, Neill said he needs to see you.’
Williams cleared her throat and carried on leafing through the folders.
‘An emergency, miss! Right this minute, he said—’
Williams arose grumbling and waddled past Natalia. As soon as she was out of sight, she paced over, grabbed her NRA, pulled out the certificate and folded it straight into her pocket. School fucking stamp indeed.
Half an hour later, arriving at the next lesson, she read from Neill:
‘That just cost you 8, tremble-twat’
- ‘I’ll get them back, tripod trousers’
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She spent RE writing out Buddhist beliefs whilst fixated on her own: that she would play this game as good as he did. She needed a smart way of obligating Neill to seek her help so she could turn the tables, but short of stealing his car keys and igniting his wrath, she couldn’t think of anything.
Until she passed by Coleman’s room at lunch and saw the person whom everyone seemed to use as a pawn for something.
She opened the door gently. She could see her working through stacks of essays.
‘Hi, Miss Doris…’
‘Oh, hello, Natalia.’
‘Listen, I had a message from Neill. He says he really enjoyed marking Year 7’s essays the other night—’
‘Oh, yes…’
‘And that he’d love to do some more,’ she nodded at her pile.
Doris tittered. ‘It would be most helpful.’ She carried on marking.
‘Right now.’ Natalia coughed. ‘He wants them right now. Can I take them?’
‘Don’t worry, dear. I’ll just finish this one then I’ll take the rest along presently.’
Natalia fidgeted down the corridor till she saw Doris leave the room with the essays, waited five minutes, then texted:
‘I’ll mark them for full 11 back’
- ‘Nice try. You’re down at 1 for fun’
Buggercups, this wasn’t going well! Different tact needed:
‘Can’t I at least plead mercy? :(((’
- ‘Come up at 3 and we’ll see’
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In Food Tech, the last lesson, Mrs Clayton drew Natalia to the corner where an array of baked goods had been dropped off that day by, Natalia assumed, the Oompa Loompas Neill recruited on her behalf for tomorrow.
‘It’s an impressive array,’ Clayton cooed, as they gazed at red and pink Valentine cupcakes, rainbow petit-fours, a candy-heart traybake and various deformed efforts at heart-shaped cookies and cakes.
‘Bake whatever you like to add to it,’ smiled Clayton.
Fuck the fair, Natalia thought - it’s whatever Neill likes the most - as she whisked up a Victoria Sponge even though it meant having to cadge jam off Laura.
‘Leave that to cool and put the jam and cream on tomorrow,’ came Clayton’s voice as she drifted through the class’s clear-up operation. Natalia dithered washing a mixing bowl, waiting for the room to filter out, and as soon as Clayton turned her back, she creamed the cake like a madwoman, stuck it in a box and arrived breathless at Neill’s office.
‘Hello! You certainly look hot and agitated that you can’t do the same tonight.’
She placed the box on for desk. ‘I have you a treat. In return for my 11 back.’
‘Lock the door then. Oh, wow,’ as he watched her prise off a condensation-laced lid. ‘Hot, wet Victoria Sponge your favourite too?’
‘Well, I made it for you…’
‘Sit down then.’ He slid over a tea saucer. ‘Put some on there. And wrap me a slice, or rather fistful of gunge, for later.’
‘Huh?’
‘You’re going to eat it, Natalia.’
‘Oh, right,’ she laughed. Then she took her hand to the moist mess. ‘Well you know, it’s not banana-shaped, so…’
‘No, no, no,’ he halted. ‘Hands behind your back.’
Something fluttered inside her.
‘You want your eight back, don’t you?’ he simpered. ‘Do you want eleven tonight, or one? I mean if you’re happy with one for fun, that’s fine. Come eleven o’clock, that’s all you’ll have energy for, hmm?’
She stared. Then she shook her head defiantly. ‘I want all eleven.’
‘Oh, really? Well, you can lick your way back up.’
Her face flinched away, and back to him, incredulously. ‘You want me see me licking like… a squirming dog, or a Siamese cat, in Mick Jagger’s words—’
‘I want you to stop talking, put your hands behind your back…’
She shook her head at the feeling it gave her whenever he said those words.
‘…Open your mouth, and then—’
She groaned. It felt like her body was going crazy from the stomach down.
‘ …Eat that slop of cake, slowly, as I count to 11, and don’t finish before I do, and then lick the plate clean.’
‘Ffff-uck.’
She was laughing in soft gusts like she’d started a brisk walk. Her mouth opened and closed again, looking one way and then the other, smiling down to the plate and away again… and all the while feeling something between her legs like a rocket building fuel, that wanted to shoot out… and made her thighs shift restlessly every time she endeavoured to lower her face to the plate.
‘I, I… don’t know if I can do it,’ she frowned.
‘Take your time.’
‘I mean, I really don’t know if I can do…’
‘Ok,’ he shifted up out of his seat now, clearing his throat. ‘It’s ok darling, we don’t have to…’
‘No, I want to do it, but it’s because…’
‘Oh?’ he blinked, his bottom half suspended off his chair. ‘What?’
‘I feel like I’m gonna come.’
She almost couldn’t believe what she heard herself say. Neither could he, it seemed, as she glanced up to see him sitting back down slowly, his face taking on a glaze of infinitesimal bewilderment and subtlest smile all at once.
‘I, I want to… need to... come, right now,’ she whispered.
She just noticed her hand was burrowed down the hem of her skirt into her groin. Her clitoris was going wild like a hamster gnawing its cage bars that didn’t care for anything but busting out, whilst the look in Neill’s eye was like a child who’d just been told his hamster had transformed into Batman.
He arose from his seat and walked round to her. He stood right behind her chair, placing one hand on her left shoulder, as his mouth came down to her right ear, kissed her softly on the hair just above it, and whispered:
‘When you wanna come, come.’
He towers above her as she pushes her hand down inside her tights to what feels as wet as a plantpot of slugs in the rainfall. She marvels at its intoxicating sensitivity, suffused like never before, and the fact that she’s in the Headmaster’s office telling him she wants to come, she wants to come. But can she really do this?
He feels her hesitation, as she motions his mouth back to her ear again:
‘I don’t know just how I have got to eleven…’
Over her deafening blood rush she realises he’s saying the first line of the next poem, as she spreads her knees as much as she dares to; her skirt fabric laying like a roof over her lap and hiding the immodesty of her ferreting, bobbing knuckles as her middle finger circulates her clitoris in the way she knows will bring the goods. But the desire bursting now doesn’t demand her habitual spread-eagle motions in bed; in fact she almost daren’t rub back and forth too fast for fear of coming too quick, too violently, and he’s got three lines of poetry to go, so…
Slow, slow… as he whispers the next line: something about hair, and the sweet scent of heaven, and she leans in on the kiss he plants again on her temple…
And there in her chair, she sits like a pupil would at her desk, but head faltered to one side, eyes closed, lips and knees parted; hand buried in her sex as though she’d accidentally superglued it there, whilst this man looms behind her, as though he had walked in from a boardroom or parliament, whose face is caught upon her ear like a coat on a hook, but standing as though they were separate, as though he were entirely a figment of her imagination: a schoolgirl fantasising, mid-lesson, of her Headmaster, making love to her in a deeper fantasy not he nor any onlooker would be privy to.
He is whispering something about eleven at night, and the morning, and being upright… and her blood orbits as fast as her finger…
Ohhhh… that clunk of a breath announces to herself, and to him - if he can hear it - that an orgasm is granted, has permission to land - and that she has to guide slowly, lest it crash down like rattling cabin lockers - oh! Softly, softly… she stalls as she suddenly fears someone might knock on the door and it’ll be ‘bugger off!’ to her orgasm, but it’s here, it’s here… she hope he knows it is here… and she realises she must keep this quiet, not just for modesty to this man here but for safety’s sake, and she channels what would be spasmodic grunts, into soft, slow, heaving pants, that seem to extend the throe, filling her body like a teacup, right to the handle of her shoulder he’s squeezing now; his reverent breath of receipt delivered with a lingering kiss on her cheek, as she reclines and basks as though her wank had just brought the sun out from behind a cloud on his ceiling.
He tilts her chin upward and covers her mouth briefly with his.
‘You beautiful, beautiful girl.’
She relieves her hand of the force of her tights’ elastic hem, as the force of elastic in turn wipes her hand on its way up; right into his hand which he takes with the reverence he’d give the Queen visiting Thornwood, and leads her to the door, lightly squeezing those fingers as he says to the Queen:
‘Go home and have eleven more.’
She smiles softly. ‘Eleven… but I just had—’
‘No, no. That one stays in here.’
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*
‘I don’t know just how I have got to eleven
‘And not sighed how her hair bears the sweet scent of heaven
‘In fact, I would tell her from eleven at night
‘To eleven in the morning, when I’d let her upright.’
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