The Teacher's Secret (12 page)

Watching Laety as she busies herself at the stove, Rebecca sees that there are grey streaks in her hair. This is something she has not noticed before and it comes as a shock. That Laety should age is something that has never occurred to her. The thought of it unsettles her.

‘Are you well, Laety?' she asks.

Her back to Rebecca, Laety is cracking eggs into a bowl. The shell in one hand, she half turns to look at Rebecca. She seems amused by the question. ‘Quite well, thank you,' she says. ‘And you?'

It is not the response Rebecca is looking for. But neither has she asked the right question.
If you are becoming old, will I also become old?
That is what she wants to know. Even though it is a nonsense question, even though it is the sort of question a child might ask, not a woman who has just turned thirty-six.

‘Thank you, Laety,' she says instead, ‘I am very well.'

There is a noise behind them. Rebecca doesn't have to turn around to know that Sebastian is at the kitchen door. It is enough to see Laety's face widen with delight. ‘Well, young man,' she says, hands on her hips, head cocked to the side, ‘your mother tells me you were hoping for pancakes.'

Sebastian takes a seat at the end of the table. ‘Yes,' he says, ‘I am.' For him, there is also orange juice and, instead of coffee, warm milk.

The pancakes, when they come, are a sight to behold. There are three of them stacked on the plate, topped with banana. Laety brings him the honeypot so he can drizzle honey over the lot. It is a messy business and Laety tucks a tea towel into his collar so that his school uniform won't be soiled. Laety is the only person he allows to do this; or perhaps she is the only person he dares not refuse.

Sebastian has an early start on Tuesdays and he needs to be in the car by quarter to eight, which leaves him less than fifteen minutes to finish getting ready. Laety is the one to hurry him through his last mouthfuls before she whips off the tea towel and sends him to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Sebastian is in the junior school and during the summer term, the boys wear long navy shorts and knee-length socks. Their shirts are white; their ties blue-and-white striped. Even in summer, the school blazer is to be worn on the way to school and again on the way home. Sebastian complains about this but Rebecca likes to see him wearing it.

The cars are garaged at the side of the property and a wide driveway sweeps around to the front of the house. Benson, their driver, has driven the Mercedes to the door and is standing beside it. Wearing his black suit, he is as smart as Sebastian. Once Sebastian has climbed into the back seat, Benson closes the door after him then walks around the car to get into the driver's seat. When Sebastian was younger, Rebecca would go, too, but now that he is older, she simply waves him off.

As soon as he has gone, Rebecca walks down the road to Grace's house. The electric gate that blocks the house from the street is high
and sturdy, with spikes on top to deter agile intruders. To the side of the gate is a bell. Rebecca rings the bell once and waits. For Rebecca, this is a new thing; more often, and particularly in her line of work, she has been the one to keep others waiting. But Grace is a prompt woman and within seconds she is at the gate. She looks tired.

‘A restless night,' she tells Rebecca, ‘that's all.' But her voice is flat and she seems subdued. Not that she is ever what Rebecca would call vivacious. This, in itself, is something Rebecca likes about her: that she is not a woman prone to gushing. Rather, she is a quiet woman, self-contained even, and she has told Rebecca very little about herself. Only that they had been living abroad, she and her husband, and have recently returned home. And not once has she approached Rebecca with that type of reverence so usually accorded the well-known and instantly recognised. Grace is a trained teacher, although she is now a secretary at the university where her husband, Johnson, also works.

Family money, then, Rebecca had surmised, to warrant such a house in Fallondale.

On occasion, Grace asks her in after their walk. Rebecca likes it when this happens. Today, on the way home, she is more forward than usual. Today, she invites herself in. But when Grace hesitates, she immediately regrets her boldness.

‘Actually,' she says quickly, before Grace can respond, ‘I probably should get ready instead—it always takes me twice as long as I think.'

This isn't true but Grace's face relaxes when she says it. ‘Next time,' she offers.

‘Yes,' Rebecca replies, trying not to look disappointed, ‘next time.'

Mel

His hands wake her as they brush across her breast, before a finger starts to draw circles around her nipple. She's tired; it's still dark outside, for Christ's sake.

He rolls over, then, so that his mouth is up against her ear. ‘Morning, babe,' he whispers, his breath warm.

‘Feels like four am,' she says, her voice croaky.

But that doesn't stop him. Instead, his hands move down to her stomach. ‘How about I make your day?'

‘At four in the morning?' she snorts, but her irritation is feigned. Having his hands on her always feels good. They aren't soft hands, and she likes that: likes that they are rough hands; rough hands that know how to use a hammer and a drill and pour a slab. Hands that haven't been sitting idle in an office.

Again his voice is in her ear. ‘Actually, it's just about six,' he tells her as his hand moves down to where her pubic hair used to be. It's a new thing, the Brazilian, and she's still not sure whether she really loves it or really hates it. The first time she got one, it was a surprise
for their anniversary. But God, it had killed. Think about it: every clump of pubic hair—the whole lot of it—covered in hot wax and ripped out. And everything on show to Jodie—who, granted, she knows well; she's Brindle's only beauty therapist, after all—but still.

‘Why do you want a Brazilian?' Jodie had asked her, wax strip in hand.

Mel shrugged. ‘You know, something different.'

‘Are you having an affair?'

Mel started to laugh. ‘And when am I going to find time for an affair?'

Jodie shook her head. ‘You'd be surprised. Where there's a will. Nine out of ten times when a client starts asking for a Brazilian, that's why.'

‘Because they're having an affair?'

‘Yep.'

‘And they tell you?'

‘Sometimes, not always. But the Brazilian, that's the giveaway.'

‘Anyone I'd know?'

Jodie always has the goss, but generally she's pretty discreet. ‘Maybe.'

‘Locals?'

Jodie had licked her lips. ‘Maybe.'

Interesting. Who? she'd wondered. Not her. In all the years she'd been with Adam, she'd never had an affair. Him either. As far as she knew. No, she did know: there'd never been anyone else for either of them. Christ, she wouldn't know how to start. She'd been a teenager when they got together and now look at them: Mr and Mrs with a mortgage, two kids and a pool in the backyard. Who'd have thought it?

Of course, there are times she would have liked something a bit more exotic thrown into the mix: not so much getting out of the country; she'd have settled for getting out of Brindle for a bit. But she hadn't even managed that, had she? And now look at her: Brindle Public student turned Brindle Public parent. Hardly living on the edge. Hardly an adventurous life.

But when she thinks about another life, a life lived elsewhere, a life of excitement, a life that is more daring, this is what happens: the bay pulls her back, the headland pulls her back, Brindle itself pulls her back until she is forced to give in to it, until she is forced to admit to herself that whatever the pull of the world outside, Brindle is home. And Adam is home, too. For whatever her daydreams, whatever her imaginings of a life lived differently, the truth of it is that Adam is always there, always right there beside her.

Although now he's right there on top of her.

‘You like that?' he asks her.

‘I like it,' she whispers, although to be honest, she's a bit itchy where her pubic hair is starting to grow back. That's one thing she hadn't thought through, the itchy stubble regrowth thing. Maybe laser it next time? Or maybe just forget the Brazilian altogether?

It's a quickie this morning. But a good one, still. It's always good with Adam—not that she's got much to compare it with. Just what her friends tell her: that a lot of the time they put out because they think they should, even if they don't feel like it. Mel can pretty much be talked into it whenever. Which isn't bad considering it's been—what? Twelve years. Which is already about eleven years longer than everyone gave them at the time.

He was so old, they said, and she was so young. Funny how
quickly that disappeared, how much five years was then and how little it is now.

They met at a nightclub, a dive of a place, but the only one prepared to accept her dodgy ID. Adam and his mate were at the bar, watching as Mel and her friend Bianca sipped on their vodka and lemonade. One drink would get them started, another would keep them going and a third would send them wild.

Back then, he wasn't a dancer. Back then he just stood there watching with a beer in his hand. That's still all he drinks. She likes spirits, especially a gin and tonic with her cigarette once the kids are in bed. Adam doesn't smoke anymore and he's been at her to quit, too. Sooner or later, she probably will. Just not right now.

That first night he played it cool: just watching, drinking, watching. He was still watching when she left the dance floor to get some water from the bar, sweat pouring down her face, hair plastered to her cheeks. He was close enough to her, then, to be heard over the music. ‘Bit of a workout up there, hey?'

Mel tilted her head towards him. ‘You should try it.'

Without taking his eyes from her, he leant back against the bar and shook his head. ‘Not wearing my dancing shoes.'

It was such an odd, old-fashioned thing to say, she just burst out laughing. ‘Well, I'm wearing mine—you can borrow them.'

Slowly, his eyes had slipped down her body, past her neck and down to her breasts, then down again until she felt a buzzing in her groin. A brief flicker up, and for a second he met her eyes again before, with another sweep, his eyes were on her shoes: high-heeled and strappy.

‘Don't think it's the look I'm after,' he said in a slow sort of drawl.

She'd just about thrown herself on him then and there.

He had a car and a job. Not just a job; he had a trade. He was a builder. He even had his papers. Mel was impressed. So when he offered her and Bianca a lift home, she said yes. His car was a hatchback, a speedy sort of hatchback. In the dark, she couldn't tell the colour, but when he dropped them back at Bianca's place—her parents were away—she saw that it was electric blue.

He was not a teenager. He was twenty. When he told her that, she decided to give herself a bit of a boost. She was seventeen, she told him. In Year 11.

For a surprise one day, he picked her up from school, which, as it happened, was also his old school. There he was, at the end of the day, waiting at the gate for her. He held her hand as they walked back to his car. And that made her so, so proud, that she should be holding hands with her new boyfriend who had both a car and a job.

Inside the car, he pulled her close and kissed her so hard she imagined she might disappear down his throat.

When, finally, they broke apart, his forehead wrinkled.

‘Your uniform,' he said, ‘why are you wearing that uniform?'

She pretended to be confused. ‘What do you mean?'

‘That's the junior uniform.'

She'd felt herself turning a deep red.

‘You're not in Year 11, are you?'

Eyes down, she shook her head.

‘Year 10?' His voice sounded hopeful.

She shook her head.

‘Shit, Mel,' he said. ‘What, then?'

‘Year 7.' She said it as a joke.

‘Year 7!' he exploded. ‘You can't be bloody serious.'

‘Year 9,' she said quickly. ‘I'm in Year 9.'

‘Year 9? That must make you the only seventeen-year-old in the year, then.'

‘I'm fifteen,' she said quietly.

‘Fifteen? For Christ's sake, Mel, fifteen?'

She didn't think he'd be back. But he did come back. And he kept coming back. After six months, he bought her a friendship ring. Not silver, like the other girls had, but gold with a tiny, tiny red stone in it.

In the afternoons, after school, he'd drive her up to the headland where there were private places to be. Private places that were big enough for the two of them. Comfortable enough, too, so long as they took the picnic blanket with them. Not that they ever once used it for a picnic.

One time, the condom broke. Just once, but once was enough. Because she wasn't on the pill, was she? How could she be? How could she have asked the doctor for it? He would have been on to her mother in a flash.