Page 31 of Leaning In

I let out a groan. We’ve had this debate before. I like Ashcroft, but I used to teach at a much rougher school where I felt like I made more of a difference. The class sizes were huge and the backgrounds of the students varied, but it was incredibly rewarding. Unfortunately, the realities of the costs of living in London caught up with me and I took a job at a private school with its associated higher pay. Sometimes I still wonder whether it was the right choice.

“Maybe,” I hedge.

“And here I thought you would be relieved that the biggest issue last year was when a parent complained that their kid had to share a whiteboard pen.”

“Don’t forget the uproar over the lack of gluten-free muffins at break,” I tell him. “Those were dark days.”

James leans back in his chair and nods, more thoughtful now. “It’s weird, isn’t it? You think moving up will mean more space to teach the stuff that matters. But half the time it’s just parents breathing down your neck about predicted grades and whether little Hugo is being intellectually stimulated enough.”

“Little Hugo needs to remember to actually write his name on the top of his paper,” I mutter, flipping through one of the lesson plans.

James laughs again. “How’s your outreach proposal going? Let me know when you want me to take a look at it.”

I nod gratefully. I managed to get a decent chunk of work done on the report over the summer holiday, and it would be good to go through it with James before I send it on. “Thanks. It definitely needs a bit of polishing.”

“Any time.”

It didn’t take me long to form the proposal. After starting my Sunday coaching sessions with kids from some of the state schools nearby, I knew I had to do something. Ashcroft has two floodlit pitches, a sports hall and a swimming pool. The kids I coach don’t even have access to a proper pitch. I want to do better for them, and I’ve been putting in the work on this project for months. The plan is to open Ashcroft’s pitches for the local state schools two evenings a week so that they can use them. My proposal goes to the board of directors soon.

James and I sit looking through our lesson plans for the day. I pull a face as I take another sip of my drink. This is worse than the monstrosity Claire calls coffee. At least her version is sweet. I shake my head, trying to push her to the back of my mind again, but it’s hard.

Her mum’s comment flickers into my head again; That boy looks entirely out of place.

I wish I knew why Claire didn’t say anything in return. My top guesses are that she agreed with her mum, or that she was just trying to keep the peace, the way she always does. But even after thinking about it for days I have no idea.

At least I’ll see her at Kath’s birthday party. She’ll have to talk to me there. And with that thought comes the realisation that I did offer to make a cake for my sister. Crap. I should probably do that tonight. Another thing to add to the to-do list.

***

I dump the shopping onto the counter when I get home. The kitchen is sparkling, a testament to the lengths I will go to distract myself from looking at unanswered text messages. However, within minutes of me starting to bake everything is coated in a fine layer of white after the flour accidentally exploded when I opened it. The carnage continues as I somehow manage to splatter mixture from the bowl onto the counter and then drop the butter on the floor.

Once the tins are safely in the oven, I wipe my hands on a tea towel and shuffle over to the kitchen table, where a lopsided stack of Year 8 history workbooks awaits. It’s early enough in the year that they’re all trying very hard to impress me, and I’d promised myself I’d get through at least twelve tonight. I’m sure that reading a thirteen-year-old’s interpretation of Why did Henry VIII’s marriages cause problems for England? is what everyone wishes they were doing with their evenings.

I flip open the first one and take a sip of lukewarm tea.

“Henry VIII had six wives because he was greedy and didn’t understand how feelings work.”

I pause. Claire would definitely crack up at that line. Maybe I should text her again.

No, I shake my head and focus back on the marking, I already texted her this morning. Another unanswered message might finally tip me from concerned into pathetic. Double digits of unanswered texts isn’t my finest look.

If Claire had been someone I’d met three weeks ago, maybe I’d have walked away by now. But she’s not. I’ve known her most of my life. Long enough to know that finding someone who makes me laugh that easily doesn’t happen very often. And I’ve been on enough dates over the last few years to know what I do and don’t want.

I do want to be with Claire.

Which is why I need a plan that’s better than “texting into the void”.

But if it were a no, then I’d have received one. Right? I’m sure she wouldn’t just leave me hanging.

Red pen in hand, I look back down at the workbook and write “A good point, but also consider political and religious motivations.” The sweet scent of baking sponge drifts through the flat, warm and highly distracting.

Answer number four includes the sentence:

“If Henry had just been better at relationships, maybe England wouldn’t have broken up with the Pope.”

I stare at that one for a long moment, pen hovering in mid-air. Technically… not entirely wrong. I resist the urge to write it down for Claire.

I’m halfway through another which begins “Henry VIII’s love life was essentially a national crisis” when I realise the smell from the kitchen has shifted. It’s no longer sweet. There’s a bitter edge now. I leap up and rush to the oven.