Teach Me Dirty

I checked my tablet for her cam diary updates, but she wasn’t online and hadn’t checked into the site for hours. Shit.

Maybe she wouldn’t turn up for set painting on Monday at all. Maybe that’s what her questions had been about.

The idea stewed in my stomach, the potential unacceptable.

Think, Mark, think.

The student records office would be locked by now, and I had no social media accounts that would easily link to Helen’s without any raised eyebrows, and I didn’t have an email address or a telephone number for her.

Think, Mark.

Maybe I could night stalk her bedroom window, throw pebbles at the glass until she opened up for me.

It would have been worth it just to know she was coming to the panto painting.

The panto painting…

I headed back to my desk, flicking through the set specifications and the scripts and the costume and brochure outlines before I struck gold. The volunteer sign-up form was in my lap, complete with names and form IDs and contact details.

Contact details.

Helen’s name was almost at the top of the list, and the number listed was a mobile.

I scribbled it on the back of my hand.

***

Helen

I had no appetite, spooning my soup around my dish aimlessly while Dad droned on about his new starter, Frank, and how funny the guy was. A proper Much Arlock chap, through and through, apparently. From good stock. Hardworking and reliable and boring as hell from the sounds of it. Mum was already dressed to head off for nightshift, and Katie was pretending to be a cat.

“What the hell’s got into you today?” he said, finally. “You’ve got a right face on you.”

I shrugged. “Just been a long week.”

“Did you hear that, Angela? Helen’s had a long week,” he scoffed. “I wish I had a long week if that’s your bloody definition of one.”

Mum smiled at me at least. “I thought you’d be happy, love, with all that art stuff going on next week.”

But I wasn’t going to paint the set. Mr Roberts didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to make things any more awkward than they were already. It had been written all over his face today; his hands stuffed in his pockets as though I was unhinged enough to try and grab hold of him or something. And then his fake meeting at just the right time. That and the forced normality.

The whole thing was cringeworthy.

“Leave it if you’re just going to play with it,” Dad said. “Put it in the microwave for later, or chuck it over here if it’s going to waste.”

I handed him my bowl and he emptied the contents into his. I’d just made it to my room when my phone started bleeping from my bag. I rummaged for it, expecting it to be Lizzie, but the number wasn’t in my contacts list.

My stomach felt like it was falling. No. Surely not.

“Hello…” I said, and even on the phone I sounded like a little mouse.

“Helen.”

My heart stopped.

“Hi, yeah…” I couldn’t stop the smile. “Hi.”

And I could tell he was smiling, too. “I’m sorry for the call, I just wanted to apologise, for earlier. You had questions, and I wasn’t there to answer them. I should’ve made time, Helen, I apologise.”

“It’s ok,” I said. “I understand…”

“But you don’t. There really was a meeting and I really was late for it. I didn’t want to leave you under the impression that I was avoiding you.” He took a breath. “I wouldn’t avoid you.”

I was glowing. Burning up at his voice. Insides spinning and tickling. “Thanks… for letting me know, I mean…”

“So, I shall be seeing you on Monday, yes?”

My smile was from ear to ear. “Yes… yes, you’ll be seeing me.”

“Good. Then I look forward to it. What questions did you have?”

“You, um… you just answered them…”

“I see.” The silence was loud but not unpleasant, heavy with words that weren’t spoken. He broke it first. “In that case, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes. Yes you will.”

“Goodnight, Helen.”

“Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”

“It’s Mark,” he said.

Little wings fluttered around my ribcage.

And then he was gone.

Helen

I owed Lizzie big time, dragging her away from sexy time with Scottie Davis for virtually the entire weekend while we went through every item of clothing I owned, once, twice, three times. She’d tried to dress me up like I was going out on the pull, trying tirelessly to convince me of the practicality of wearing four-inch heels through a week’s worth of painting. Overruled. We’d called a truce over a cute little pair of ankle boots I hadn’t worn since last winter, and a loose turquoise dress shirt over jeans. The frilly underwear was uncomfortable, and I felt all trussed up and ruffly on my way to school. I just hoped it would be worth it.

I’d gone with makeup, but only a little. A dab of lip-gloss and the faintest dusting of silver shimmer eyeshadow to make my eyes sparkle. I was still freckly, skinny little Helen, even if I was wearing fancy undies, and that would have to do. Today it didn’t actually feel so bad. I felt good. I felt alive.