Between You and Me (21 page)

‘Come on, baby, let’s go.’ Maggie lets me buckle her shoes, not noticing when she leans on my burnt arm for balance, making me give a quick hiss through my teeth.

Laura is waiting on the doorstep as we walk up the path to next door. She looks relaxed and casual, dressed in yoga pants and a soft T-shirt, nothing on her feet. She looks the complete opposite to how I feel right now.

‘Jesus, Sal, it’s an interview, not the firing squad.’ Laura laughs, showing her even, white teeth and holding out a hand to Maggie.

‘God, do I look that terrified? I was going for casually shitting myself.’ I reach up and try to smooth my wayward curls down. Laura throws back her head and laughs.

‘If you can charm the old girl like that, you’ll walk it!’ She squeezes my arm, taking care not to touch my forearm, where the bandage sits hot and sticky under my shirtsleeve. ‘Seriously, good luck. Not that you’ll need it; you’re an obviously good person, inside and out. An asset to any team.’ I smile at her, pleased that any lingering awkwardness after our conversation in the kitchen the other evening seems to have disappeared. I kiss her on the cheek, suddenly overwhelmed at how much support Laura does provide, whether she realises it or not.

‘Thanks, Laur. Let’s hope so, eh? And thanks for having Maggie today. I do really appreciate it.’ I kiss Maggie goodbye and start to walk up the garden path before turning back; ‘Oh, and I may have told Maggie that you would make biscuits with her and Lucy today …’

‘That’s it,’ Laura calls back, grinning, her cheeks flushed a gentle shade of pink. ‘You’re off the team!’ Smiling, I wave and make my way in the direction of the train station.

By the time my train pulls in, nerves are making my stomach flutter as if it has been filled with a million tiny butterflies. It’s been a long time since I made the morning commute and even longer since I’ve attended a job interview. Walking up towards the school, it is early, a little before eight o’clock, but the roads are still busy with people making their way to work. A few parents are standing outside the school gates, presumably waiting to drop their children off for breakfast club before their own morning commute. I press the buzzer on the gate, and wait for a moment before a disembodied voice comes back to me, ‘Yes?’

‘Sal Trevetti here, to see Mrs Prideaux. I have an interview today.’ I see a few parents glance at me curiously out of the corners of their eyes, no doubt wondering whether I will be the one to teach their child in September. The buzzer squawks, and the gate opens. I follow the signs to the reception office and am greeted by a slim, dark-haired woman who smiles a heartbreaking grin as I walk in.

‘Sal? I’m Aurelie Jones, school receptionist. Mrs Prideaux is just tied up at the moment but can I get you a coffee?’

‘I’d love one, thank you.’ Aurelie bustles away into what I presume is the staffroom. I take a moment, just to steady my nerves and take a look around. Aurelie seems friendly enough, although maybe slightly disorganised for a school receptionist. Her desk contains a huge in-tray, which is swarming with loose sheets of paper. She re-enters the room, carrying a tray, and spots me eyeing up her desk.

‘Oh, gosh, don’t look at that!’ She laughs. ‘The other receptionist is off sick at the moment, so I’m doubling up on her work as well. Trust me, it’s not usually as messy as this!’ She laughs again and hands me a cup of steaming hot coffee. I breathe in deeply, the aroma steadying my nerves, and this, alongside Aurelie’s relaxed manner, means I begin to feel a lot calmer. We make conversation for a little while, then a neat, grey head appears around the door to the right of Aurelie’s desk.

‘Sal Trevetti?’ The grey head peers round, and a small bird-like woman steps out into the main office area. ‘I’m Lana Prideaux, head teacher here. Nice to meet you.’ She holds out a small-boned hand and I grasp it – she gives a surprisingly strong handshake. Lana Prideaux ushers me through into her inner sanctum, the complete opposite of the chaos of Aurelie’s desk outside. She beckons to me to sit, and I realise that a stout gentleman is sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk, perched on the end like he’s going to up and leave any minute.

‘This is Mr Benetti – Chair of Governors here at St Martin’s.’ I lean forward and he gives me a cold, flabby handshake.

‘Trevetti, eh?’ Mr Benetti looks at me over his glasses. ‘Italian?’

‘Yes,’ I nod, taking a sip of my now tepid coffee. ‘My parents moved here back in the eighties. They live in Kent now.’ Benetti nods his approval, and Mrs Prideaux jumps in.

‘Mr Benetti has been Chair here for many years, Sal, starting when his own son began his education with us, so I hope you don’t mind if he joins in with our initial interview today. He will have a few questions for you.’ I nod my assent, surreptitiously wiping my damp palms on my trousers, and the formal interview begins.

An hour and a half later I am feeling more than a little worn out, but confident. I have answered every question that Mrs Prideaux and Mr Benetti have fired at me, questions that range from ‘How do you deal with a disruptive child?’ through to ‘What
exactly
do you believe you can bring to St Martin’s, that no other candidate can?’ I thank my lucky stars I read up on practice interview questions on the train before arriving this morning; I really don’t think I could have come any more prepared than I did. Mrs Prideaux informs me that it’s now playtime for the children, and I am more than welcome to go out onto the playground and observe; however, she will require me to go to the Year One classroom at ten-thirty to meet Annabel Green, the Year One teacher whose class I will be teaching for the rest of the morning. I smile my thanks, shake hands with both of them and walk out into the sunshine.

The rest of the day flies by – I spend the morning with Year One as agreed, Annabel Green taking a back seat and using the time to plan her lessons, while I teach some maths skills under the watchful eye of Mrs Prideaux. Lunch is spent in the staffroom and Aurelie kindly introduces me to the other members of staff, explaining that I am here on an all-day interview. Apparently I am the third person to have been interviewed so far for the position, Miss Green lets slip, and I am not too sure how that makes me feel. The afternoon is spent with possibly my favourite year group, Year Six. I taught Year Six previously, and this is the position I am applying for. The bunch of kids at St Martin’s are a joy – noisy but not rowdy, curious but not rude. They want to know all about me and I agree to tell them, as long as they each tell me about themselves. Before I know it, it’s ten to three and Mrs Prideaux is telling me it’s time to wrap things up. The children scrape their chairs back noisily, and make a grab for bags and jumpers all hanging on pegs at the back of the room. When the last child is gone, I let out a long breath and look up at Mrs Prideaux, who is waiting at the back of the room.

‘Well done, Sal. I would never have guessed you’ve been away from teaching for so long. You’re a natural.’ I smile at her, relieved that she didn’t think I was total crap.

‘Thank you for the opportunity, Mrs Prideaux. I’ve had a really enjoyable day.’ She shakes my hand in her strong grip one last time, and I pick up my bag to leave. ‘Oh, Sal,’ Mrs Prideaux calls. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

I am pretty much on cloud nine on the train home, despite feeling completely exhausted. Even if I don’t get the job, I know I can still teach. I know I can still teach and, more importantly,
enjoy it
. I don’t want to get my hopes up too far, but I can’t help feeling I did OK today. It’s going to be worth it, I decide. If I get the job, it’s going to be worth all the tears and recriminations that are bound to follow once you find out. I realise I almost feel as though I don’t care any more – yes, if I go back to work you will be angry, you will be annoyed that you can’t get hold of me all day long as and when you please, but for the first time in a long time I’m not bothered. I’m not frightened. This job is what I want, what I need, and I am confident that no matter how angry you are about it, I can ride it out. The old Sal, the Sal who enjoyed life and had the confidence to try and achieve the best it had to offer, is there, shimmering below the surface, ready to make a bid for freedom.

Laura has the door open before I even set foot on her front path, leaning against the door frame with an anxious look on her face.

‘Well?’ she demands, hair up in a messy topknot, flour dusting her cheek.

‘You baked, then?’ I ask, brushing the flour away. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’ She moves to one side and I enter the blissfully cool hallway – the train was packed despite it not being rush hour and I am hot and sweaty in my long sleeves.

‘What? Oh, those girls. They thought it was the
Great British Bake Off
or something.’ She blushes slightly and gives a little laugh. ‘Are you going to tell me how it went?’

‘Oh Laur, it was
brilliant
. I honestly forgot how much I love teaching. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love staying home with Maggie, but I’m ready, you know? I want to go back. And it went really well – at least I think it did, anyway.’ I can hear the girls shrieking and laughing in the back garden, as Laura pours me a glass of crisp, cold white wine.

‘Here.’ She passes it to me. ‘I thought you might need this.’ I take a large sip, feeling the icy liquid make its way down my neck.

‘You thought right. Honestly, Laur, they fired a ton of questions at me, and I answered them well, I’m sure of it. The head said she would be in touch, so it’s just a question of waiting now.’ We sip at the rest of the bottle, while I tell Laura all about the rest of the day and how much I loved being back in the classroom. It’s so nice to be able to just sit and talk, without worrying about saying the wrong thing, or causing a row unintentionally. It would be so nice if you could be this supportive, if you could just sit and listen and encourage me instead of always thinking I’m fighting against you. When the wine is gone I thank Laura, grab Maggie and head next door. You are late home tonight, very late, and I go to bed alone, hugging the day to me like a secret, wishing and hoping that today will mark the start of a new beginning.

Chapter Thirty

CHARLIE

After my meeting with Lucian I try to contact Radu Popescu to get the deal done as soon as possible, but it seems that whereas if you don’t want him around, you can’t get rid of him, when you do need to contact him, he’s nowhere to be found. I put my dinner with Alex on hold until I get this sorted, making excuses about the weight of my workload, and spend what seems like every spare minute trying to get hold of the guy.

Anita gives me the contact telephone number that he left, but it just goes straight to voicemail and every email that I send him remains unanswered. I debate whether to just leave it, give Lucian his cheque back and let myself believe Popescu has decided it’s not worth it, especially when I find myself going home later and later every evening. Then I remember the desperation in his eyes when he talked about feeding his family, and decide there must be some other reason.

After a full week of no contact, I decide to track him down myself. Lucian calls me that morning, his usual cold-hearted self. ‘Charlie, he obviously realises the mistake he is making. Tear up the cheque and leave it. We have much work to do before this new company is mine.’

‘You don’t understand, Lucian – if we leave it, he could pop up at any moment. We need to make sure we eliminate anything that could destroy this for us, especially with the Vygen people getting involved. If you want to make this deal without any hitches, you need to be squeaky clean.’ I feel sick at the thought of Radu appearing from nowhere and telling the world the truth about Lucian, the fear of it keeping me awake at night. Eventually Lucian concedes that I am right, and I make the decision to hunt down Radu Popescu myself.

In the end, it is surprisingly easy to find him. He mentioned when we spoke that he was washing dishes on a cash in hand basis near the South Bank. I loiter around several different restaurants, before approaching the managers and asking for Radu Popescu. Several of them quite clearly have never heard of him, but one looks shifty and tries to deny he knows him until I explain that I am nothing to do with the police or Immigration. He then confesses that Radu does work there, but that he was only trying to do a favour for a friend.

‘Yes, OK, whatever. I’m really not interested in his legal status,’ I snap, relief making me impatient. ‘What time does he start? It’s vital that I speak to him – don’t let him leave until I get here.’ I hand the guy my mobile number and head over to the Greek restaurant further downriver to grab a bite to eat and wait to hear from him. Radu is due into work at one o’clock, slightly later than usual, so that gives me time to eat lunch and prepare what I’m going to say to him.

True to his word, the restaurant manager calls me at ten minutes to one and says Radu has arrived. ‘You can have five minutes with him,’ he tells me with a somewhat bullish attitude. ‘He’s coming in late today as it is.’ I remind the manager that,
actually
, I’ll take as long as I please, especially seeing as Radu isn’t an employee – he’s working illegally, cash in hand. I make my way back up to the restaurant and, as I follow the path round to the back, I see Radu waiting, hunched over a roll-up cigarette, looking even thinner than he did a few weeks ago.

‘Radu? It’s me, Charlie Trevetti. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ He looks at me warily, and then peers behind me as if expecting someone else to also be there.

‘Are you alone?’ he asks and I nod. ‘Ahh, I see. Lucian sends you to do his dirty work.’ He takes a deep drag on his roll-up and I bristle at his words.

‘Mr Popescu, I can assure you that Mr Pavlenco does not send me to do his
dirty
work. Mr Pavlenco has sent me,
as his lawyer
, to make you an offer, but if you are not interested, despite being the one to contact me in the first place, I am more than happy to leave now.’ I turn on my heel as if to leave.

‘Wait.’ He takes one final puff and throws his butt on the ground, crushing it underfoot. ‘What does he want to say to me?’ I turn back, looking him up and down.