Rich Tapestry (17 page)

I sit bolt upright. “What the fuck are you on about?” Now, this I never saw coming.

“You called me sir. Just then. Just before your orgasm. If this is what happens when I encourage you to let your libido have free rein, I rather think I preferred you before.”

“I did not! I did not call you Sir!” And how would he know in any case? He’s so fixated on his own dick when he’s fucking me that I expect the ceiling could fall in and he’d never notice.
Let my libido have free rein!
He wouldn’t recognize my libido if it grabbed him by the balls and twisted—which it just might if he pisses me off much more right now.

“Yes, you did. Twice actually. This was the second time.” Oblivious to my horrified response, James continues his self-righteous lecture on coital protocol, “I didn’t mention it last week, thought it was probably just a one-off, a mistake. But it happened again, just now. It has to stop.”

Yes, it fucking does. Christ, how humiliating.

James hasn’t finished. He continues to explain the correct form of address for me to use, in bed and out of it, but I’m not listening anymore. My head’s whirling with the awesome implications.

Sir. I called him Sir, when my guard was down, when I was about to come. Oh, Jesus…

At least it’s crystallized matters for me. I sit up, turn to face James.

“You’re right. It isn’t working. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Now it’s his turn to be incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, Summer. Of course we’ll be seeing each other. You’re about to move in.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But you said.”

“No,
you
said. I never told you I would.” I wriggle into a sitting position and glance around the room for my clothes. Ah, yes, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I turn to James, and make one last, doomed attempt to acquaint him with the reality of our situation. “You were so busy making plans,
your
plans, that you never noticed no one else was agreeing.” I pause, then, “I spoke to Mrs Smithson last week. I told her I’d be leaving at the end of this half term. I’m going back to Cumbria.”

“No, you are not. We’re going to be living here, together…”

I just shake my head. Still he doesn’t hear anything I say. I slide my feet out from under the duvet and get to my feet. James continues to rattle on about how things are going to be on Planet Barnard, seemingly undeterred by my words and actions. Even as I dress and quietly leave the room, he’s still laying out my future for me, as though it’s his to command. Even Dan did me the courtesy of giving me a choice. James does seem to come briefly to his senses as I reach the bottom of the stairs because he starts to come after me, calling to me from the landing. “Summer, where are you going? Wait, I’m talking to you…”

At
me, maybe. I don’t bother to reply, just close the front door softly on my way out.

Chapter Nine

It’s not especially easy at school, now that James and I are no longer seeing each other. He alternates between taking it hard, by which I mean remonstrating with me at every turn regarding my callous disregard for his feelings, and not taking it at all. The latter state is characterized by his continued belief, apparently, that I’m likely to take up residence with him in semi-detached suburbia some time very soon. I’ve given up trying to convince him otherwise, though the rest of my colleagues seem clear enough what the true situation is. I can’t help wondering how suited he is to his calling as a teacher, if he can’t make sense of the simple phrase, ‘You’re dumped’.

I’m not immune to others’ feelings and I never wanted to hurt him, but I’ve given up sugar-coating it. James Barnard doesn’t listen to anything he doesn’t want to hear, however it’s presented. My strategy now is to give him a wide berth as far as possible, avoid engaging in conversation, and wherever it can’t be avoided and others might be within earshot, I will restate my position as clearly and unambiguously as I can. It’s not pleasant, though—not comfortable for anyone.

I tend to stay out of the staff room at lunch and break, just to avoid James. I’ve taken to staying in whatever classroom I’m based in, either preparing for my next lesson or messing about on the computer while the children are playing outside or eating their midday meal. And it was while I was indulging in a bit of aimless surfing this morning that something incredible happened.

When I lived in Bristol previously, I briefly befriended one of the library users. She was called Sharon, a photographer. Sharon used to call round at my flat a few evenings a week to use my laptop for downloading her pictures as she didn’t have one of her own. We were mates, sort of, until she suddenly disappeared. She left her pictures on my computer, and her library book on my kitchen table. I was worried about her, asked around a bit and finally discovered she was in prison.

I was sorry at the time, I liked her. I missed her company. And now, out of the blue, I’ve found her again. Or more accurately, Sharon found me.

I wasn’t even looking for her, my friend who was thrown in jail after providing a false alibi for the scumbag boyfriend she lived with and who never came back once she was released. I waited for her, expecting her to pop in at the library or maybe at my flat, but she never did. I’d no idea what had happened to her since she’d been released, and I was nothing short of stupefied to stumble across a message from her on my Facebook account.

I hardly ever use it, I only go online when I’m at school and wouldn’t even then if I wasn’t lying low to stay out of James’ way. I logged into my account and there it was, a message that had been lying unopened for nearly three weeks already.

At first I’d no idea who it was from. The name of the sender was no one I knew.
Ashley McAllister.
I opened it, and the note was short and to the point.

Hi. Are you the same Summer Jones who worked in the library in Bristol?

I wasn’t sure if I ought to reply. It might have been some Internet stalker weirdo or something. I’ve read about those people. But curiosity got the better of me. And what could be the harm?

Yes, I used to work there.
I hit the return key and the message was sent.

The reply came even before the bell went to call the children back in.
Really? That’s fantastic. Do you remember someone called Sharon Spencer? That’s me. I changed my name, but it’s me.

I stared at the screen. Could it be true? Sharon? Really? After all this time. A sudden, and possibly belated, spurt of caution drove me to check.

It’s good to hear from you Sharon. Or Ashley. It’s been a long time. I wonder, would you mind me asking if you can confirm what items you left with me last time I saw you? I’m sorry to appear suspicious, but you understand how it is…

I was not convinced even I understood ‘how it is’, but still, I felt a need to ask, to make sure. I only had a couple of minutes to wait for a reply.

I do understand. Good thinking. I left a library book, but I can’t remember if I left anything else. You used to let me use your computer for my pictures. You were very kind. I want to thank you.

The library book.
The Complete Introduction to Digital Photography.
That was enough to convince me, if indeed I was harboring any doubts at all.

Hello, Sharon. How lovely to hear from you. I took your book back to the library. You also left a lot of pictures on my laptop. They are now on a pen drive. I’d be happy to send them on to you if you let me have an address to post it to. How are you? Are you still in Bristol?

Hi, Summer. No, I left Bristol. I daresay you’ll have found out what happened. I pleaded guilty in court and the judge decided I needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe he was right, though I don’t think my subsequent rehabilitation had much to do with him. I ended up in prison but got out after four months. I went back to Gloucester for a while then moved to Yorkshire where I still live. I became a proper professional photographer. Can you believe that? And you helped me to get there. Your friendship and support, when I really needed it, made such a difference to me. I wish we hadn’t lost touch, but I’m so glad to have found you again. I’ll send you my address, but I don’t want you to post the pen drive. I want you to bring it personally. Would you? And would you come to my wedding? I’m getting married, next month. 20th October, here in Yorkshire. Oh, and I’m having a baby too. Please, Summer, if you can at all, please come. I’d love to see you again.

That bombshell sort of floored me. I didn’t respond straight away. I needed to think. A photographer. Yorkshire. Getting married, and presumably not to the scumbag. Wow, talk about turning your life around. Sharon Spencer, now known as Ashley McAllister, certainly sounds to have done all right for herself.

* * * *

Later that evening, I’m turning over the possibilities in my head. The twentieth of October. That’s the last week of term. I really should be working with the children. But I’m only a volunteer here. If I was being paid, it might be different. I’m intending to leave at the end of that week anyway. And Yorkshire is on the way back to Cumbria. It makes sense. I could go to Ashley’s wedding then continue north and throw myself on Freya’s hospitality again, as usual. I don’t know which of my friends I’m most looking forward to seeing.

The next morning I find myself once more tapping on Mrs Smithson’s office door. Fifteen minutes later, I have her agreement to let me leave a week early. The volunteer agency can no doubt provide a stand-in for the last few days. All I have to do now is give a couple of weeks’ notice on my lease, send a reply to Ashley and say my goodbyes to the children.

* * * *

I drag my holdall from the train at Keighley station in West Yorkshire, the closest I could get by rail to my old friend’s new home, and I look around. I’m nervous, I don’t mind admitting. It’s been a while, and in fairness I didn’t know Sharon—sorry…Ashley—that well, even when she was spending most evenings at my flat.

“Summer
. Summer!
Over here.” Ashley’s voice.

I look around, and spot her at last, a small, slender figure at the top of the slope leading up to street level. She’s waving madly, and even from this distance I can see her face is split by a dazzling smile. And wow, what a transformation. The Yorkshire air has certainly been good for her. Or something has. She’s positively glowing, bobbing up and down in excited welcome. I drop my holdall to the concrete platform and wave back before extracting the pull-along handle. I start dragging my luggage up the slope, only to have the handle taken from me by a large, tanned hand.

“Let me take care of this. For Christ’s sake, please go and give Ashley a hug before she bursts.”

I glance up and find myself staring at one of the most attractive male faces I think I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, blond, has twinkling green eyes, and a friendly, warm smile. Could this be the guy Ashley’s marrying? As if in answer to my unspoken inquiry, he straightens and offers me his other hand, at the same time easily lifting my bag.

“I’m Tom. Ashley’s fiancé. And you’d be Summer Jones, yes?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m Summer. Pleased to meet you.” I accept his hand, shake it briefly before my attention is again caught by Ashley, who is leaning on the barrier and yelling down at us again.

“Tom, please stop flirting with my friend and get the bag. Summer—get up here
now
!”

“When she’s in this mood, I generally find it best to do as she says. Go on. I’ve got this.” Tom winks at me and cocks his head toward Ashley.

I take no further convincing and run up the slope, flinging myself into her arms as we come together at the top.

“Oh, Summer. I’m so glad you came. So glad you answered my message. I thought I’d never track you down…”

“I’m just glad you did. Glad you didn’t forget me.” Tears are coursing down my cheeks, I never expected our reunion to be quite so emotional, but I can’t seem to help myself. Am I usually so expressive? I hadn’t thought so.

Ashley seems every bit as moved as I am, though perhaps her hormones are to blame for that. She’s clinging to me, sobbing into my shoulder. I pat her back uselessly, oblivious to the curious stares of passers-by, intent upon going about their business.

A tactful throat clearing alongside us eventually draws our attention from each other and back to Tom Shore, waiting patiently with my holdall.

“You two can finish this love-in in the Land Rover if you want to. Right now, you’re causing an obstruction.” His smile for me is friendly enough, but when his gaze moves to Ashley, his expression reeks of pure devotion.

Oh yes, she’s landed on her feet big style there.

“Yes, right. Let’s go.” Ashley links her arm through mine, and her other through Tom’s. He reaches down with his free hand to grab my bag again, and the three of us move off across the station forecourt to the parking area next door. Tom leads us over to a battered but very serviceable-looking Land Rover. He tosses my holdall in the back before helping Ashley into the central passenger seat. He offers me his hand to assist me up into the other seat, closest to the passenger door before sprinting around the front to climb into the driver’s side. In moments, we’re headed out of town, and soon the built up urban landscape gives way to the rolling hills and moorland made famous by the immortal Emily Brontë and her sisters.

This is the first time I’ve been to this part of Yorkshire and although I’m no stranger to stunning landscapes—Cumbria has its scenic hot spots too—the vista now unfolding is truly spectacular. Ashley is chattering happily, and I’m listening to her whilst admiring the scenery. It’s obvious why she selected this area to make her base. Apart from the indisputable attractions offered by Tom Shore, it’s a lovely place to live.

“God, you’re so lucky. This is wonderful.” I turn to her, captivated once more by her pretty, smiling face. She was always attractive, but in a far less obvious way. Physically she hasn’t altered much, still the same slight figure, slim, but she no longer seems quite so fragile. Her long black hair was always straight as rain and reaches her hips, and she wears it off her face. But the severe plait she always wore in the past is now replaced with a much softer look, loose tendrils framing her neat features.