“Are you bringing her back?” asks Tilly, a small girl with blond ringlets who’s already designated herself as class leader.
“I am, of course.” Mrs. Benson’s smile widens, and she chuckles heartily, making her sound a little like Father Christmas. “Miss MacIntosh, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I glance at Katie, my classroom assistant. “Could you . . .?”
But she’s already standing by the desk.
“Everything okay?” I ask once I’m standing in the corridor.
Aside from the initial interview, when I think she was too desperate to fill the role to delve much into why I was taking it, and the staff meetings, I haven’t had much face time with Mrs. Benson. It’s alarming how little she’s changed since I left Valentine Prep nearly fourteen years ago. Still the same haircut, still the same beady eyes peering over her glasses, and still the same penchant for drowning herself in insanely sweet perfumes.
“Yes, yes, but let’s go to my study, shall we? Talk in private.”
I can’t help it. The idea that a teacher wants to talk to me alone will forever and always fill me with anxiety. That I’m about to get a dressing down for something I’ve done wrong. I’ve never been able to shake it, and I’m racking my brain the entire way we walk—brusquely, obvs—while Mrs. Benson talks and I pretend to listen.
I’m none the wiser when we get there, but at leastleaving the door open is somewhat of a positive sign that I’m not about to get a massive bollocking. I only came here twice as a student—once after the Valentine Fair following the incident with Annabel and Mary, and once when I was made head of my schoolhouse.
Nothing’s changed. Same wide mahogany desk, same huge arched windows looking out onto the playing fields, and beyond that the bank I used to escape to at breaktimes, the horse chestnut tree . . .
“Now,” Mrs. Benson begins, steepling her fingers together as she leans across the desk, “how are you finding things here? Coming up on three weeks now. It must be odd to be back.”
“How am I . . .” There’s no way she pulled me out of class for a chat about whether I’m enjoying my job. “It’s good. Great. I’m . . . it’s lovely to be back. Good to see what’s changed. What hasn’t.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
My mouth rolls together, and my hands ram between my thighs to stop the jittering.
“Anyway, I wanted to discuss your contract. You’re signed until July, and I wanted to understand your plans for returning to Australia. If you are, in fact, returning, or if you would consider extending your contract for a year or so.”
My brows shoot up. Wow. Okay.
“You’re offering me a long-term job?”
“Yes, you’ve been doing great work since you began. I know it’s only been a short time, but Miss Scott sings your praises, and I can tell the children are very happy in your care.”
Well, I wasn’t expecting that. I also don’t expect the lump in my throat or the stinging in my eyes that I needto bite back. Staying here wasn’t a long-term plan, but I don’t have one either. I never did.
Then I think about Hendricks. Aside from my family, he’s the one thing keeping me here and, ironically, the only thing that would make me leave.
There’s no denying things between us have been fairly shit at best, even during the committee meeting the other night—although that veered more into awkward territory. We’ve become strangers who barely know what to say to each other.
I think about the secret valentine Max mentioned, which brushed over me at the time, but do I really want to be here if Hendricks is in a romantic relationship with someone else? When I thought the blonde was his wife, I would have quite happily locked myself in my bedroom and never left.
If I stay, can our relationship be fixed? What would it look like?
“Thank you,” I say eventually. “That’s lovely to hear.”
“And how’s your father?”
I laugh. “Back on his feet. Thankfully, he’s having rehab. Though he’s a little unsteady, it’s hard to keep him away from the cows.” I know full well that by the time my contract is up here, he’ll be back running the place like nothing happened.
“What about Australia? Do you have plans to return?”
“Yes. I do.”
It’s the truth. All my things are there, and I was only planning a two-week visit. I’m lucky the landlord in my apartment building can keep an eye on things, but no matter what happens here, I’ll still need to go back at some point. Even if only to pack.
“I see, and when will that be?”
