There was nothing more to be said. Hope wasn’t going to haul Stuart up in front of everyone, but they would definitely be having words once they were back at school. She contented herself with pulling a pack of tissues from her handbag and thrusting one at him. ‘You need to blow your nose, Stuart,’ she told him crisply. ‘Now, has anyone got any questions?’
Hope was anticipating questions about nature that hopefully she’d be able to answer because she’d swotted up the night before, or that someone would want clarification on her sticker position, but instead there was a giggle from the back and Javan’s hand shot up.
Inwardly Hope groaned because although she spent a lot of time telling Javan to stop mucking about, his gap-toothed grin and twinkling eyes always made her melt a little. Give it another ten years and he’d be leaving a string of broken hearts all along Upper Street and the Essex Road.
‘Miss! Miss! Is that your boyfriend, Miss?’ Javan demanded, nudging Sirhan and Luca, his co-conspirators, who were giggling wildly.
Completely blind-sided, Hope suddenly realised that Wilson was still there, standing behind her, and a source of much interest to Blue Class. ‘No … no, he’s not,’ she gasped, and this was no way to maintain authority.
Javan’s eyes widened dramatically. ‘Is he a stranger, Miss? ’Cause it’s wrong to talk to strangers.’
Hope nodded. ‘Yes it is, very wrong.’ There was nothing else for it but to usher Wilson forward. It was like trying to move concrete, but served him right for sticking around when he wasn’t wanted. ‘This is my friend, Wilson. What do we say when we meet a new person?’
‘Good morning, Wilson,’ Blue Class parroted back.
Wilson grunted something and stared down at his black brogues.
‘Miss! Miss! What’s that around his neck?’ Luca asked, and to Hope’s surprise, Wilson stepped forward.
‘It’s a camera,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘I take pictures for my job.’
‘But you can take pictures on your phone,’ someone pointed out, and Wilson agreed that you could and just as Hope expected him to launch into some long-winded monologue about double exposures and auto-focus, he squatted down so he was on the children’s level, rather than looming over them, and gave them a brief and concise description of what his camera did, although he did wince when lots of grubby fingers thrust forward when he removed the lens cap.
Then he herded them together for several class photos, with Hope smiling stiffly at the centre, and even took some action shots of Javan, Sirhan and Luca pretending to fall into the lake.
‘Can we take some photos with Coco and Merlin?’ Sorcha begged, but they had half an hour left to get back to school before lunch, so Hope shook her head and began to corral her charges.
‘Everyone find a partner and line up in twos,’ she ordered. ‘Do you want to miss lunch?’
‘Can’t we go Burger King, Miss?’ Javan asked, and winked at Hope when she clonked him on the head with the worksheets.
Then, clutching hold of Sorcha and Timothy (getting to hold Hope’s hand was serious social real estate), Hope brought up the rear of the straggly crocodile that marched through the park.
Wilson fell into step beside them and for once the smile that Hope shot him was entirely genuine. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a job as a classroom assistant, do you?’ she asked.
Wilson grinned back, looking ten years younger and about a million times more approachable. ‘I have lots of nieces and nephews,’ he explained. ‘In fact, my oldest nephew, Alfie, is currently my assistant’s assistant. It’s why I ducked out of the studio before I could kill him.’
Sorcha and Timothy were having a heated debate about why they always had fish and chips for lunch on Friday, so Hope felt as if she could talk freely. ‘My fifteen-year-old brother’s coming up for half-term,’ she said with a shudder. ‘It’s going to be tough. He only talks in fluent grunt.’
‘Ah, Alfie’s moved on from grunting to fluent sneering.’ Wilson shook his head. ‘Left school with one GCSE but thinks he knows everything.’
‘Jeremy doesn’t know anything. Seriously, he thought the Crimea War happened between the Great War and the Second World War and he got really narked when I told him it didn’t.’ Hope pulled a face. ‘Maybe I should take him to the Imperial War Museum while he’s in London.’
It was time to cross a road, which usually took at least ten minutes. Luckily, Gurinder, clad in a fluoro-yellow safety vest, was taking no nonsense from any heavy-goods vehicles that thought they had right of way.
Wilson touched Hope lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll stick the photos in the post once I get them developed,’ he said, then checked to make sure that Sorcha and Timothy were engrossed in their Green Cross Code. ‘About the other stuff … well, you need to have a serious talk with your boy.’
All she’d been doing was having serious talks with her boy, and they never ended well. ‘It’s all good, I trust Jack,’ Hope protested. ‘If you believe everything Susie says, then you’re an idiot, and don’t call Jack a boy, it’s so patronising.’ She wished that she’d never bumped into Wilson because he was dragging up everything that she’d been trying not to think about.
‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘You were the one who said that I always jump to conclusions and overreact,’ Hope reminded him. ‘And now when everything is almost back to normal, you’re stirring things up.’
‘I’m not stirring, I’m giving you a bit of friendly advice because this Pollyanna routine doesn’t suit you,’ Wilson said, and it was so typical of him to end on a sarcastic note. ‘But, fine, if you want to bury your head in the sand, go ahead.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if you and her are having problems but that’s between the two of you. It has nothing to do with Jack and me. I trust Jack and if he says that it’s …’
‘This whole conversation is getting old. If you don’t want to listen when someone is trying to help, then more fool you.’ Every word was another constricting band around Hope’s chest. ‘Look, I’ll see you around.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve really got to go.’ Hope summoned up a smile that was so weak it needed its own life-support system. ‘Thanks for being so great with the kids.’
Then Gurinder was barking that it was time to cross the road without any dawdling and with a firm grip on Sorcha and Timothy, Hope was able to scurry across without a backward glance.
HOPE SPENT MOST of her lunch-hour rehearsing what she’d say to Jack when she got home that evening. Or when he got home, after yet another stint of working late or whatever the hell it was that he was doing. Despite all her good intentions to employ a stealthy, softly-softly approach, Hope was sure she’d start screaming, ‘Are you still seeing that skank?’ within thirty seconds of Jack walking through the door.
And Hope wasn’t sure she wanted to know if Jack was still seeing that skank. People always said that the truth hurt, but this particular truth would destroy her. It would mean that not only was Jack having sex with someone who wasn’t her, but he was doing it behind her back, and that meant that he wasn’t just cheating, he was lying and betraying everything that he and Hope had. She couldn’t even fathom why Jack could behave like that, and the reason she kept coming back to, again and again, was that it had to have started after the kiss and she’d driven Jack to it with all her ranting and raving. Maybe Jack had figured that if he was getting so much aggro for something he hadn’t done, then he might just as well go ahead and do it.
Of course, there was another option. That Jack was steadfast and true and when he said that there was nothing going on, it was because there wasn’t. Just because Susie claimed to be in love with Jack, didn’t mean that Jack was in love with her. Instead of wasting all this time and effort on suspicions that were entirely unfounded, Hope should be focusing on the unassailable fact that Jack loved her and her love for him was without limit. Maybe she should lead with that before any other kind of discussion on their current relationship issues.
>
Hope was still pondering how best to approach the subject when she was cornered by Dorothy at the end of the day and asked if she’d take charge of the infant school’s contribution to the Winter Pageant. Though it was less of a question and more of a direct order.
‘Can’t Elaine do it?’ Hope blurted out. ‘Or Marta?’
‘Elaine’s done it for the last five years and strictly entre nous, I think her ideas are getting a little stale. Time for some fresh blood,’ Dorothy insisted stoutly, her iron-grey bob swinging in agitation. ‘Marta can just about handle a very basic lesson plan right now. Extra-curricular duties will send her over the edge.’
‘But it’s only two months away and I’m knee-deep in Harvest Festival stuff as it is,’ Hope countered, with a giddy thrill as she realised that she was actually standing up to Dorothy for once and hey, the world hadn’t ended and Dorothy wasn’t threatening her with disciplinary action.
‘You’ve got lots of time,’ Dorothy said airily. ‘I’m sure lots of parents will help out and I’ve signed you up for a two-day drama workshop during half-term. The Governors have very kindly approved the course fees.’
‘But …’
‘No need to worry about Christmas and Kwanzaa; the junior school will cover that. You will need to at least acknowledge Chanukah.’ Dorothy smiled vaguely. ‘Get them to sing a song about it or something.’
‘Chanukah?’ Hope repeated. ‘But I don’t know anything about Chanukah. I don’t even know anybody Jewish!’
Dorothy shrugged. ‘Can’t you look it up online?’ She fixed Hope with a stern look. ‘Fortune favours the brave and the Governors favour staff who go the extra mile. Remember, there’s no “I” in team!’
This new development meant there was no point going home with all guns blazing. Not when she’d have to wheedle and nag Jack to take time off work to supervise Jeremy who couldn’t be left on his own in London for two days. Once Mrs Delafield had let him and his best friend go to Manchester for the day and they’d ended up in Hull. Besides, if she had it out with Jack and it didn’t go well, they could hardly have Jeremy to stay while they were acting out scenes from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
As it was, Jack was home at a very respectable seven thirty to find Hope freshly showered after her step aerobics class and waiting for him with a nervous smile. ‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey,’ he said back, his own smile just as tentative. ‘What’s up?’
This was not going to be Hope’s cue to start an interrogation, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the days of the Nuremberg Trials. Instead she got up from the computer where she’d been reading up on Chanukah so she could swing her arms nervously. ‘Do you fancy catching the bus up to Muswell Hill and getting fish and chips at Toff’s?’
Jack’s relief was palpable. Hope could have sworn he lost an inch in height as all the tension left his body. ‘Cool,’ he said, twirling his keys around. ‘You ready to go now?’
After haddock and chips at arguably the best chippy in London, they walked off the stodge by staggering down the steep hill towards Crouch End, which had much nicer, more gentrified pubs than Holloway. They found a quiet corner in the Queen’s, a cavernous Victorian pub full of nooks and crannies, and decided to kick it old skool by drinking bottles of cider – but posh artisan cider, rather than the Woodpecker of their youth. Hope was determined to keep the conversation light, and even now, when she wasn’t sure that Jack was being entirely truthful with her, she could still make him laugh as she told him about the morning at Camley Street Natural Park and how Blue Class would sell their mothers for a sticker.
She didn’t tell Jack about Wilson’s guest appearance, or how she felt sick every time she thought about the conversation they’d had, which was another facet of this new splintered phase in their relationship. They used to tell each other everything – she knew far more about the annoying quirks of InDesign that any non-design person should know – but talking about Wilson would inevitably lead to talking about Susie, which would even more inevitably lead to a row.
As Hope went to the bar to get the next round, she saw Jack whip out his phone and start tapping away furiously, but when she got back to their table, he tucked it away and looked up at her with the sweet, disarming smile that was her favourite out of all his smiles. It made Hope feel as if she was Jack’s reason for living and as she sat down, he took her hand in his and traced his finger along her heartline.
‘Things have been really weird with us these last couple of weeks, Hopita Bonita,’ he said softly. ‘Where did you go? I missed you.’
‘I don’t know.’ Hope took a sip of her cider. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I was right here all the time,’ Jack said, lowering his head to kiss the spot that his fingers had just stroked.
‘It didn’t feel like it,’ Hope admitted, trapping Jack’s hand between hers. ‘I wish … we are going to be all right, aren’t we? I mean, I’ve been trying so hard to get us back on track but I think I’m making a complete hash of it. I don’t know what to do to make us better.’
‘You don’t have to do anything.’ Jack smiled wryly. ‘Well, you could not try so hard. You’re either snarling or going all Stepford Wife on me. It’d be easier if you could find a point in the middle and stay there.’
‘I hate that there’s this atmosphere between us all the time, and I know I open my mouth and make it worse by being mean and generally behaving like a grade-A bitch,’ Hope said. ‘And believe me, I don’t like hearing myself act like that any more than you do, but Jack, please be straight with me, do I have a reason to act like that?’
‘No, no!’ Jack assured her, squeezing her hand so tight that Hope had to resist the urge to wince. ‘I love you. That hasn’t changed and it never will, I swear.’
‘Do you really love me?’ Hope begged, even though she loathed getting stuck in the role of the needy girlfriend. She liked to think that she had more stones than that.
‘I love you more than my Pantone book. And I love you more than Helvetica. And I even love you more than my signed copy of The Beatles’ Rubber Soul on vinyl, though that’s a pretty close call.’
‘I still reckon it’s not their actual signatures,’ Hope said, a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there for a while. ‘I mean, if it was, it would have been up for auction at Sotheby’s, not in a Sue Ryder shop in Leeds.’
‘Shut it!’ Jack snapped, but he leaned in to kiss her forehead. ‘Honestly, Hopey, I love you and everything will be all right, I promise. OK?’
Hope could tell when Jack was lying. It wasn’t anything he did, like scratching his nose or avoiding her gaze. It was more of a gut feeling, in the same way that she could spot a six-year-old who needed to go to the loo or she could tell that her mother was going to ring at the exact moment she’d sat down with a mug of tea and heat magazine. That was why she knew that Jack was telling the absolute truth and she could nod and smile and say, ‘OK.’ And just ‘OK’ wouldn’t do. ‘I love you too, you know,’ Hope said and she meant it more than she ever had before. This time she tried to say it with feeling because she did love Jack. Loved his smile and his sulky face. Loved the smell of him, the feel of him. Loved that he was her best friend as well as her lover. Loved that he doggedly persisted in calling her ‘Hopita Bonita’ even though it was the lamest nickname ever. Loved that he tidied up after her, without too much complaining. Loved the way he balled his fists like a baby when he slept. Still loved him despite the fact that there were dark days when she wasn’t sure if she trusted him any more.
Neither of them said anything. Jack looked at Hope and Hope looked right back at him. And there was an unspoken question on his face, which she tried to answer in the sweep of her lashes and the curve of her smile and the dogged, determined devotion she was sure was oozing from her every pore.
Then Jack raised his bottle of cider and the spell was broken. ‘So, just between us, there had to be a moment this morning when you looked around to make sure there w
eren’t any witnesses and thought about pushing snotty Stuart into the pond and holding his head under the water with your foot. Right?’
‘Of course not,’ Hope gasped, ratcheting up the fake indignation because she wanted them to get back to that place where they teased each other mercilessly. ‘Though if someone else from Blue Class had thrown him in I’d have turned a blind eye.’
‘You black-hearted wench,’ Jack sniffed. ‘I’ve a good mind to report you to the Board of Governors.’
‘Yeah, right after I tell the head of human resources that you leaked that story about the Keira Knightley cover shoot to Holy Moly,’ Hope rapped back, and Jack, who had still been holding her hand, now dropped it so he could dig her in the ribs to make her squeal, and Hope let herself believe that they were going to be all right.
And maybe they were. It wasn’t like those first frantic days of non-stop sexual acrobatics after Hope had caught Jack and Susie together. And it wasn’t like the last fortnight of open hostility.
It was more like they used to be. They bitched and moaned at each other, but it was bitching and moaning because Hope had used the last of the milk then put the empty carton back in the fridge, or Jack had decided to re-shelve their books according to genre before he alphabetised them and Hope couldn’t find her copy of French Women Don’t Get Fat.
Hope only cooked tea when she could be bothered and Jack didn’t come home at seven thirty every night, but at least he called to say that he was going to be late. And they had sex and sometimes they talked about having sex but ended up watching True Blood instead.