‘Yes, I have Bradley in my class – he’s waiting on an ASD diagnosis and has lots of input from external professionals. Katie Holden, the educational psychologist, is due in to see him in a few weeks…’
‘Oh, is she that blonde that looks like she’d be more at home wearing hot pants in front of a whirring fan than in a suit and in a primary school? Fabulous for television, let’s have her!’
‘If you mean the blonde with the PhD and an utter commitment to the welfare of the children in her care, then yes, her. As I said, she’s due in soon to check on Bradley and see how he’s coping since he started full-time. She would probably be happy to submit a report saying that a move would be detrimental, but I’d have to ask. She sees several of the children here so would be able to include an impact statement for a few of them.’
‘OK, that’s a great start. Now, seeing as we’re talking visuals…’
Rosy thought they had been talking special needs, but then she supposed this was the politics bit.
‘Is there any chance we can get that Bradley child to play up in front of the cameras? You know, have some kind of meltdown?’
Rosy’s eyebrows shot through her hairline, expressing how offensive this was, and at complete odds with all that Penmenna stood for. But then, bearing in mind it was Marion and subtle never seemed to work, she vocalized her outrage, in her strictest voice just to make sure.
‘Bradley doesn’t have “meltdowns”, Marion. He can struggle with social interactions, situations he doesn’t understand, and it’s our job to support him, to teach him tools to help him, not to exacerbate him, in any way, ever.’
‘Right, understood, sorry. But it’s a pity we don’t have more disabled children. I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to pop a couple in a wheelchair? Just for photos for social media, and television if I can get them involved. Rufus could do it, although it would be better if the children picked looked a little… um, I don’t know… poorer.’
‘No.’
‘Really? It would be very visually effective.’
‘No.’
Three hours later and Rosy was feeling breathless. Marion had idea after idea after idea. All of which were accompanied by plans of action covering implementation, continuation and expected conclusion. Rosy had tentatively raised her belief that the schools on the list were selected for personal reasons rather than professional ones, and Marion had wisely reconfirmed that evidence would be needed before action could be taken. She’d also suggested that when such evidence was collected it may be best to take it through the back channels and deal with it that way so that the attack was double-pronged, both by raising the school’s public profile sky high as well as pointing out the potential illegality that Edward Grant could arguably be involved in. So far, both Mrs Pascoe and Mrs Trewithen had confirmed what she suspected and the absence of St Ewer on the list, a school widely known to be failing, located just on the outskirts of Roscarrock but with a man at the helm, indicated that Rosy may well be correct and that Edward Grant’s outdated and illegal views on women in leadership positions was in play here. But due diligence was a necessity before making an accusation which, if proved incorrect, would be slanderous.
Marion’s plans for raising the school’s profile meant that the local newspapers were going to need a dedicated hotline at this rate, and the plans she had for social media were nothing short of frightening. The school’s name would soon be known by everyone in the county. Rosy was quite surprised that Mrs Marksharp didn’t clasp her hand to her bosom, rise and start singing the national anthem at one point. She was almost beginning to feel sorry for Mr Grant. Yet still Marion wasn’t satisfied.
‘OK, we’ll get the disco out of the way and in the meantime we’ll just have to put our thinking caps on. If your theory proves correct that could do it, but either way I can’t help feel we need something bigger. Rosy…’ Marion clasped the headteacher’s hand and stared deep into her eyes. Rosy wished she could just shrink like Mrs Pepperpot and scamper out the classroom and escape whatever was coming next. But no, magic minimization didn’t suddenly occur even with all the power of positive thought. ‘Rosy, together we can do this, together we’re women of steel. We shall save Penmenna!’
Phew, that wasn’t too bad. At least she hadn’t tried to make Rosy sell a kidney and stream it online. Yet.
Chapter Sixteen
Matt was turning to drink. It was Wednesday evening, and he was currently standing at the buffet of the Great Western train wondering how much he could down in five minutes without giving an outward appearance of being utterly sozzled. He could have stayed in first class with Angelina but the need for a break was compelling and, whilst not doubting the correctness of his decision to temporarily move her to Cornwall, the maintenance of his sanity was very definitely under question.
Despite all her bravado, being ejected from the club and rejected by Andrei had hit her hard. After he had returned from his beautifully artery-clogging breakfast the other day, he’d found she had finished ranting about Scramble and her overpriced shoes and had sunk right back into sobbing and claiming that she had failed at life.
He had fed her soup, let her sob, watchedGone with the Windafter all and secretly booked two train tickets home for today. He had considered doping her morning tea prior to the train journey with any one of the array of pharmaceutical options he had found in her bathroom cupboard but the involuntary shiver he had had whilst looking at them reaffirmed how he could never be comfortable with such an act, even if it would make things easier. He was fairly sure a man such as Andrei Sokolov would have no such scruples.
He didn’t, however, have any problem with feeding her a little white lie about the latest big budget production being filmed near Penmenna Beach. He may not actually be able to secure her a spot on set but he had enough faith in her own abilities to slide herself in should she wish. And she did wish. The minute he had dropped hints about the presence of Hollywood’s new big thing – a man who smouldered sex so powerfully through a screen that Matt even found himself hypnotized – Ange was racing to her room. It turned out that getting her to pack to leave London was a cinch, no bathroom cupboard needed. Getting her to limit herself to bags they could comfortably carry, not so much.
Knocking back a whisky, he decided that instead of fretting about his sister, he would instead try to concentrate on calm images; images and daydreams that made him happy. So automatically he summoned a mental picture of Rosy presenting him with all the love hearts that had been on her floor as she fell into his bulging muscular arms, panting that she was a fool not to have realized that he was the only one for her. Her eyelids would flutter with adoration and overwhelming sexual desire as he clasped her to his chest and—
‘Sir… sir. Sir, your sister is calling for you, it really seems quite urgent, and unfortunately it is somewhat disturbing the other passengers. Perhaps if you could come this way I could organize your refreshments for you.’ The green-jacketed train conductor looked frazzled and Matt couldn’t simply ignore him. Or push him out of the train door. Maybe these fantasies of Rosy were no good after all, clearly driving him to murderous thoughts. Besides, it was far more probable that she’d be throwing the cardboard hearts at him and telling him to do up his top button!
‘Sir! I really must insist.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry.’ He smiled at the man by his side. ‘I’m coming now. I was in a daydream. Is she making a dreadful fuss?’ His brow furrowed. Why did he even ask these questions?
The man gulped, clearly torn between saying that she was a gigantic pain and being professional. A shriek from two carriages down pierced all conversations in range. Matt patted the man’s shoulder and released a deep sigh.
Matt gulped down his orange juice and quickly rinsed the glass. He had not slept well last night, despite being back in his own bed. He had been plagued with dreams about Rosy, but not the sort he had indulged in on the train. He kept losing her, catching sight and losing her again. She seemed to be waiting for him, then, just as he got close, running away, towards someone ill-defined. Everything in the dream was intangible, misty and just outside his grasp. There had been mazes full of Tudor magicians morphing into fog-hidden cliff edges and cold, murky, lurky swamplands. He had not woken up feeling rested.
Yawning, he glanced at his watch and realized half the morning had gone. He had so much to do today. The time in London meant things were piling up and he had a heap of practical changes he would need to make in the gardens now that the production company were happy to go ahead with the new format forGreen-fingered and Gorgeous. Pulling his wellies on, he shuddered at the new name. Pushing his arms through his coat sleeves, he smiled at the greater good. He had structural changes to implement and oversee in the gardens, and secret projects – one to finish before tomorrow and one to instigate for later – that needed his presence. He glanced up the stairs where he could hear his sister beginning to move and considered making her coffee before he left, but as the clock chimed in the hall he called for Scramble and headed to his car.
Walking down the pathway, Matt couldn’t help but glance over the little dividing wall at Rosy’s cottage. All neat and perfect and missing her car. She would already be at work; Rosy would be surrounded by children, doing good and generally brightening the world with her simple charm and kind nature. She might be in the middle of the biggest fight of her life but she just seemed to bring calm to all those around her. He had never known anyone do that before.
Smiling, he opened the car door for Scramble to jump in, and reversed down the drive, narrowly missing a determined-looking woman, thin as a rake, make-up trowelled onto her face and clutching a bottle of champagne.
