He smiled tightly, his eyes troubled.
‘The site was called MasterMe dot com. I called myself SecretSadist.’
I squealed.
The tabard-wearing woman behind the counter stopped wiping down the tea urn. I apologised to her, flapping my hands, then pointed to myself and whispered, ‘AtYourService.’
He put his hands over his mouth and caught his breath before removing them and mouthing, ‘Seriously?’
‘That was me! That was you? God, I loved you! You were amazing! Why did you disappear on me?’
‘I was scared, Cherry. I’ve been in the local press so much. I was worried I’d be recognised and, well, you know. You’ve had this same dilemma. I can’t believe it was you. I’m just …’ Whatever he was just, he couldn’t express it, except by shaking his head even more.
I put the ketchup dispenser down.
‘Oh, the irony,’ I said.
He looked up at me, eyes tired and bloodshot.
‘If you hadn’t buggered off,’ I explained, ‘I would never have got involved with the scene I ended up in. If you’d held your nerve, we could have got together and none of this would have happened.’
‘You still haven’t told me exactly what did happen.’
I looked over at Tabard-Wearer, who was feigning obliviousness to our conversation very badly.
‘I don’t really want to talk about it here. Can we go back to my place? Or maybe yours?’
Chapter Thirteen
‘SO WHAT WILL the New Year bring for us?’
I didn’t hear what Lou said at first, since she’d bellowed it over the top of the Beatles tribute band we were dancing to at the Wedgewood Rooms New Year’s Eve bash.
‘No more dates with Physics teachers, I hope,’ I yelled back at her.
She rolled her eyes.
‘Yeah, that was a bad call.’
We carried on dancing to I Wanna Hold Your Hand. I tried to decide whether I should spill the beans about me and Patrick, but it just seemed too hard. I would get a load of recrimination and disappointment about not mentioning anything sooner, not to mention the possibility of gossip spreading through the staff room like wildfire. And, just for now, just until West Side Storywas all done and the dust settled, we didn’t want to go public.
Patrick was spending New Year with his children in London but, before leaving, we had met up for a pre-emptive celebration of our own.
Opening the door to him, I had been thrilled to see he was wearing his headmaster suit underneath the coat and scarf. We had shared a quick hug and a smooch and then he had ordered me into the centre of the living room with my hands on my head.
He needed to check that I had dressed as instructed in his earlier text. Tight T-shirt, teeny skirt, thigh-high socks, high heeled pumps, all present and correct.
‘Mm, I can’t fault your outfit,’ he nodded his approval. ‘Underwear?’
I lifted my top to show the push-up bra, then repeated the action with my skirt so he could see the high-cut knickers.
He put a hand on one bum cheek and pulled me close to him.
‘So, then, New Year,’ he said softly. ‘And a new start for both of us. What are you hoping for?’
‘More of this,’ I said. ‘More of you.’
‘Snap,’ he said, and he accompanied the word with a crisp smack of my bottom. ‘I’ve high hopes for us, Cherry. I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I think we could see in the New Year in our own way and maybe the ritual will bring us luck. Start as we mean to go on, so to speak.’