‘Where are you spending Christmas?’ I asked him.
‘Mostly here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in London for New Year, though I won’t be diving into the fountains at Trafalgar Square. How about you?’
‘Oh, at my mother’s place,’ I said vaguely. ‘Then I might visit some friends. Same as every year, really.’
‘It’s odd, isn’t it, how something that used to be so magical becomes a chore and a duty,’ he said. ‘I used to love this time of year.’
‘Oh, it won’t be that bad, will it?’ I looked at him, concerned, then my teeth almost cracked on a hard, flat thing in my pudding. ‘What the –?’
‘You’ve won the lucky penny,’ he said, smiling. ‘The kitchen staff refused to put it in – said it was against Health and Safety regs – but I sneaked one in anyway. I’m glad it was you who found it. You deserve good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, after removing the foil-wrapped coin from my mouth. ‘So do you.’
‘I try to make my own,’ he said, staring bleakly along the table.
The wistful synth intro of Wham’s Last Christmasdrifted down from the speakers.
‘Why don’t we dance?’ he said, requiring no answer. He stood and led me to the least slippery portion of the floor, encircling me without warning in his arms and lowering his cheek to mine.
A slow dance! At the school disco! With the headmaster!
I ignored the cheers from the dining table and shut my eyes, letting the song carry me into a world where we could do this all the time. The sound of shuffling feet indicated that we weren’t alone for long, more and more people joining us to celebrate George Michael’s festive heartbreak.
His arms felt so good. His cheek felt even better, peppered with the first traces of stubble, and he smelled of power – the good kind of power, that is used to benefit humanity. It was a blend of good suit, good aftershave and good man. I didn’t dare breathe too much of it in, in case it intoxicated me to madness.
The song ended and I pulled myself away, rather forcefully. If I didn’t, I might stay in his arms all night, and that just couldn’t happen.
‘I ought to go,’ I said. ‘I need to pack my stuff for mum’s.’
‘You’re going already?’
I couldn?
??t look at his face.
‘I can’t stay really. I’ll see you next term – have a good holiday.’
He followed me to the cloakroom and helped me on with my coat and scarf.
‘I’ve got you a present,’ he told me, while I pulled on my gloves.
‘Yeah, you got us all a bottle of wine,’ I said, not understanding. ‘Thanks.’
‘No, not that. Here.’
He took a small parcel out of his inside pocket and handed it over.
‘For me?’
‘To say thanks. For making my first term a good one. Merry Christmas.’
He stepped back, looking over his shoulder at the dining hall doors, through which the thin strains of The Little Drummer Boywere leaking. Then he seemed to think twice, darted forward and kissed me, just once, just so quickly I almost missed feeling it, on my lips.
Then he went back to the hall.
That week in the Isle of Wight with mum was a strange one. Despite the fortnight of sexual frustration that had preceded it, I found I had lost the will to wank anyway. Masturbation was off the menu, and not just because His Lordship had stricken it through. I just didn’t feel my kink.
Instead, I took long walks up to The Needles, looking wistfully out to sea and putting my fingers up to the sleek little silver necklace Patrick had given me. It meant something – had to mean something. But damn, it all felt like too little too late. He wasn’t going to want me now, not when he found out about my life on the underbelly. I had kinked myself out of the market.