The New Samurai (5 page)

“I need to have a quick word with my Creative Director, if you don’t mind. I know, I know, all work and no play makes Crispin a dull boy. Perhaps I could combine a bit of business with pleasure – a dance, my dear?”

“Oh, of course,” said Elle, looking pleased and surprised.

She peeled herself from Sam and walked onto the dance floor with her boss. When the man’s hand slid too far below Elle’s waist, Sam felt anger surge through him. He was halfway to his feet when Mim grabbed his arm.

“He’s a dirty, old bastard,” she said, her voice a low warning, “but Elle won’t thank you if you ride in on your white horse to save her.”

Sam clenched his teeth and forced himself to sit.

“Let me take your mind off it,” said Mim, stroking his arm and leaning forwards. “Tell me all about yourself.”

“Excuse me,” he said, forcing a smile. “I think I’ll just go and get some air.”

He walked out of the room without looking back, so he missed Mim’s pout of disappointment.

The cold air helped to clear his head and calm him down. Several party-goers were outside, braving the frost for a quick fag. Sam couldn’t help wondering if now might be a good time, a good reason, to take up smoking.

“Five minutes to midnight!” yelled a voice from inside. “Get ready for the annual snogathon to begin!”

Sam made his way back to the ballroom. He couldn’t see Elle anywhere. Maybe she’d gone to the ladies. He scanned the room again.

“Ten, nine…”

He walked back to the reception area.

“Eight, seven…”

He couldn’t see her anywhere.

“Six, five…”

Then a flutter of green silk caught his eye.

“Four, three…”

He looked up the broad staircase and saw Elle.

“Two, one…”

She was wrapped around her boss, his hand down the front of her dress.

“Happy New Year!”

Elle opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was Sam’s agonised face.

He spun on his heel and left the building, wrenching the black tie from his neck as he went.

Chapter 2 – January

Sam woke up lying face down on his bed, still wearing the DJ and one shoe. Small men were hammering their tiny fists from somewhere deep in his skull, and the bedroom walls flexed like bamboo.

He sat up carefully, holding his head in case it slid off. The light outside looked awfully bright through his curtains.

He stripped off the rented clothes and left them in a heap in the corner of the room. He’d work out what to do with them later.

Trudging to the bathroom, he stood under the shower until the thin stream of water ran cold. It helped. A bit. Shivering, he staggered back to his room and realised that somewhere, his phone was ringing. He gagged as he bent over to find it, then persuaded his body it was safe to move, as long as he went slowly.

By the time he got to the phone it had switched to messages. Frowning, he saw that there were 13 missed calls from Elle and a text from Julie in the French department.

The evening began to come back in flashes of gaudy technicolour. He shut his eyes, trying to push out the image of Elle in the arms of her boss, but the picture kept bobbing back every time he tried to think of something else.

He remembered arriving at the Ram’s Head after a long, sobering walk and pushing through the crowds to find his friends. He remembered drinking shots in a bid to erase the past hour, and he remembered Keith telling Sylvie he loved her and would she marry him. Sylvie had laughingly told him it was a bit late, but she’d keep him in mind. And... Oh God! Had he really snogged Julie?

He picked up his phone again and scrolled through to find her text message. It said,

‘Nice try! But I’m still gay!’

Oh God. He really had tried to snog Julie.

Elle hadn’t left a message, although she’d been calling him since the small hours.

Stumbling slightly, Sam just about made it down the stairs without his head exploding. He stood in the kitchen and drank a pint of water, his stomach churning in protest.

Loud snores were coming from the living room, and Sam found Keith sprawled across the settee in the clothes he’d worn the night before. Sam was about to wake him up when a knock on the front door reverberated through his head, making it pound painfully.

He dragged himself to the hall and opened the door, squinting at the afternoon light that flooded in.

She stood in front of him, her eyes tight, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Silence.

“What do you want, Elle?” he said, his voice flat.

“To talk. Can I come in?”

Sam shrugged and opened the door wider to let her through. She squeezed past him in the narrow hallway and made her way to the kitchen. The familiar smell of strawberry shampoo and her favourite perfume was almost nauseating. Sam’s stomach lurched unhappily.

He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the sink. She pulled out a chair and the noise of it scraping along the linoleum made Sam wince. Elle sat down stiffly. He waited for her to speak.

“So what was that little tantrum all about last night?” she said, at last.

He raised his eyebrows, staring at her. She really had some neck. He shook his head slowly.

“Don’t treat me like a bloody fool, Elle,” he said, coldly. “I’m not in the mood.”

His sharpness surprised her.

“For goodness sake! It was just a New Year’s kiss – that’s all!” she muttered, her guilty look betraying the words.

“I
saw
you, Elle!” he snapped. “You had your tongue halfway down his throat and his hands...”

Sam couldn’t finish the sentence.

Elle decided to change tack: outright denial wasn’t working.

“It was the drink, okay?” she said. “I was drunk, I admit it. But it was nothing. I mean, for God’s sake! He’s my boss! I could hardly slap his face, could I?”

“Yeah, you could,” said Sam, softly. “It’s the 21
st
century; no-one has to put up with that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be naïve, darling. Anyway, like I say, it means nothing.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Fine. It meant nothing to you. Maybe it meant nothing to him. But what am I supposed to think? How do you think I felt when I saw… what he, what you…”

“Oh, don’t come all holier-than-thou with me!” she said, angrily. “You’ve told me some of the things you got up to at those rugby dinners of yours.”

He shrugged. That really wasn’t the point.

“Why are you here, Elle?”

She took a deep breath.

“To apologise, okay? To say sorry…” her voice softened. “I really mean it – I
am
sorry. At least… at least give me the chance to make it up to you.”

She stood up and tentatively took a pace towards him. “Please, Sam?”

He sighed, and Elle knew she was gaining ground.

“Darling? Please?”

She stared into his eyes, a troubled pucker between her lovely brows.

“I don’t know, Elle,” he said, honestly. “Last night was… brutal.”

“I’m sorry, darling. So very sorry.”

She laid her head against his chest and he automatically wrapped his arms around her. She gave a small smile.

“Thank you, darling.”

She didn’t stay long after that and Sam was grateful. He still wasn’t sure how the whole thing had happened, but he and Elle seemed to be on again.

It was clear that Keith thought he was a moron.

“Come on, mate!” he said, his face almost angry. “You were in pieces last night cos she was playing tonsil-hockey with some old geezer, and now you say you’re back together again! How much of a glutton for punishment are you? I mean, right now, this is bordering on masochistic. How many times are you gonna let her kick you in the goolies before you wise up?”

At which point Sam got up and left the room, although part of him couldn’t help wondering if Keith was right.

It was still dark when Sam slammed the front door behind him and headed out to his car, carrying a large crate full of books and work that he’d marked over the holidays, with his laptop balanced on top.

The Nissan coughed and gurgled and finally gasped into life. Sam turned on the heating, hoping today wouldn’t be the day when it finally gave up the ghost. Thick frost coated the windows. He scraped it off with his credit card, glad it was useful for something after all, then sat in the car shivering.

The roads were already busy, drivers’ faces unearthly under the orange street lights. After a short journey, Sam turned off from the tangle of dual carriageways and social housing and headed towards the river.

Looming out of the darkness, a concrete monolith of sixties-design squatted like a giant toad. The governors had done what they could to make the place welcoming, as testified by wintry patches of grass. But it was not a place for the faint-hearted.

Sam parked in the staff car park and hauled his crate out of the boot. He was about to head inside when with a flash of headlights and a crunch of gears, an old Volvo collapsed next to him. Sylvie huffed her way out of the driver’s door.

“Hey, Sam,” she said, cheerfully. “Another term in the human zoo!”

“Not for you,” said Sam, smiling. “You’ve got your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

She laughed and pulled her gaping coat over the mound of her stomach. Sam picked up her school bags, adding them to his load, and they strolled into the grey building together.

They parted at the start of one of the long corridors, and Sam headed to the Arts faculty while Sylvie waddled off towards the IT block, promising she’d save him a seat at the forthcoming staff meeting.

The lights of Sam’s tutor room blinked into life. He smiled, looking around at the brightly-coloured examples of children’s artwork, and felt a flutter of the first-day-back nerves that most teachers experienced. It wasn’t nerves exactly, more a sort of adrenalin shot – a quick hit to get the blood flowing. He imagined journalists heading into a war zone felt the same way.

He kicked the crate under his desk, hung his laptop bag over his shoulder and made his way to the shabby staffroom.

It was already crowded, teachers pouring in from all directions, shouting greetings and fighting for the two overworked kettles.

Sylvie waved from a corner but before he could get to her, Sam was accosted by Bill King.

“Have you heard the latest?” he said, his eyes bulging.

“Er, no,” said Sam, wishing he’d been quicker off the mark to avoid another of his colleague’s cheerless monologues. “What’s up?”

“They’re cutting the teaching assistant hours in the English department again,” said the older man, almost frothing at the mouth. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Sam was pretty sure Bill would fill him in.

“It means that we’ll all be back doing our own photocopying again, and doing all the bloody admin. I mean, what’s the point of having PPA prep-time if the bloody TAs have all disappeared. Someone’s got to be in the bloody classrooms!”

Sam tried not to smile. He kind of thought the point of being a teacher was being in the classroom but some people – people like Bill – couldn’t wait to get out of it. On the other hand Bill wasn’t entirely wrong either: it was a worry that the TA hours were being cut. And something else occurred to Sam: he was still on a temporary contract. Originally he’d been hired for a long-term sick leave cover, but things had rumbled on and he’d been here five terms now. But when it came down to it, he was still a supply teacher.

“Yeah, sounds bloody, Bill,” said Sam, thoughtfully.

“I’m going to bring it up at the department meeting after school!” snorted Bill.

Sam had no doubt that he would.

He made his escape while Bill was still huffing. He was heading towards Sylvie when he saw Julie, the French teacher, out of the corner of his eye. She waved and blew him a kiss, laden with sarcasm. He blushed and sketched a wave back.

He slumped down next to Sylvie, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“You’ve got to be quicker on your feet than that,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

Sam wasn’t sure if she was talking about Bill or Julie, but he nodded and tried to force his face into a smile. At that moment the Principal, Mr Skinner, walked in. Immediately the volume of chat decreased and the staff took their seats expectantly, ready for the morning cheerleading.

Thankfully the meeting was brisk with the usual round of news, updates and a rather worrying suggestion that Ofsted might arrive this term. Sam wasn’t as jazzed about it as most of the teachers. Firstly, because he’d never had to suffer such a nerve-shredding inspection and, secondly, because as he’d only recently qualified, he was used to having his lessons watched and evaluated. Even so, it gave an edge to the feeling of tense expectation as the teachers took a deep, collective breath and prepared themselves for the onslaught of pupils.

Sam retrieved the electronic register from the main office and walked purposefully back to his tutor room. He wanted to set up his laptop before the kids arrived. It was his habit to screen different poems onto the whiteboard, sometimes set to music. It had a calming effect and there was the off-chance that somebody might learn something.

Holly was already sitting in her chair near the front, layering on more make up.

“Morning, Holly. You’re bright and early. Did you have a good Christmas?”

She shrugged.

“It was alright. What about you, sir? Was you with your girlfriend?”

Sam threw her a warning look.

“Just asking!” she said, grinning broadly. “What poem have we got today, sir?”

“Robert Frost,” he said. “It’s called ‘Fire and Ice’. I think you’ll like it.”

“Is it by another dead white man, sir?”

Sam smiled. “Yes, but tomorrow I’ve got one by a live, black poet, and the day after that a live, white woman. Fair enough?”

“S’pose so. Let’s see it then.”

Sam booted up the laptop and saw the poem flash onto the whiteboard. There was no music, just the one short stanza.

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favour fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo know that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.