It’s for the head of the English department. Heather’s house is only a quick walk away. And it’s just another fifteen minutes away from the school Georgia wants to go to.
After she’d come back from Edinburgh, I’d sat her down. Told her about the possibility of moving. I’d waited for her to say no. That she didn’t want to leave her home, Ruby… Alice. But the next morning, she had been buzzing with excitement. Talking about how she could still play online with Ruby, that she could even come and stay over in the holidays, the cool places Heather could take them.
‘Nicely done.’ Jenson brings me back. ‘Not many can get Connor Mackenzie on side.’
‘He’s a clever lad.’
‘Och, it’s not his brain that’s the problem. So, Spencer… can you tell me why you want to work at St Pauls?’
I sit on the end of the desk. ‘Honestly?’
He tilts his balding head.
‘It’s close to where I’m going to be living. Don’t fancy a long commute.’
He laughs like I’ve just delivered a punchline.
‘What, no line about how you’re going to elevate the department? How you’re going to inspire young minds?’
I smile, head tilted.
‘You’ve read my application and seen my results.’
He nods, growing serious.
‘Aye. It’s an impressive résumé. What I need to know is if you’re moving here is permanent or if I’m going to have to find a new head of year before the term’s out.’
His question knocks the wind out of me for a second. This is the worst time for Alice’s face, as she leant back on my bed, to pop into my thoughts. I cross one foot over the other.
‘It’s permanent.’ My voice sounds much more confident than I feel. ‘I’ll be moving here before Autumn term starts.’
* * *
I step out of the old building, turning around and looking up. Turrets. Actual turrets. Nothing like the glass-windowed, blue-squared secondary I’ve been teaching in for the last six years. This is… fancy. Reeks of old money. Privately educated kids. Not what I’m used to. It’ll be a big change in more ways than one.
I shoulder my laptop bag and pull out my phone. A video message from Heather and Georgia wishing me good luck, both creasing into giggles as the phone tilts and falls to the floor. Their heads hang over the screen, hair falling down as they shoutbye!
I take a breath, reassured. This is the right choice. And if the back clap and promise to get in touch by the end of the week is anything to go by, I’ve got the job.
Christ, I should be skipping down the wide brick steps. Instead, I find a park bench. Close by, workers have the radio blaring. The DJ laughs, ‘So you’re telling me, you were locked out. And in the street in just your boxers?’
‘Festive boxers.’
The sound of a drill cuts off the anecdote. I feel sympathy for the guy. I feel like that. Like I’m locked out of my house in a pair of novelty pants.
I sit with my head in my hands.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
But I take out my phone. Because I’m a dick.
My thumbs sit either side of the screen. I bash out the message I want to send.
Think I’ve got the job. Tell me not to take it.
Pathetic.
I look at the screen: Alice is typing.
