Page 35 of Lesson Learned

“Sure, that sounds good. You want to go with me?”

I freeze, desperate to say yes but not understanding what’s happening. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know about us. How does that work if you’re taking me to a movie?”

His head tilts forward, eyes staring at the floor, face blank. Then his expression twists with distress. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

He shifts on his seat, his long limbs a joy to watch as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, running his fingers through his long fringe, sadness emanating from him. “That was inappropriate of me. I’ll go.”

Then for the longest time, he doesn’t. His eyes fix to the hem of my skirt, then slowly travel upwards, lingering on my face before he stands, tearing his gaze away. “I’ll see you in class, Monday.”

He walks away, his stride lengthening with every step until he looks like he’s almost running. The stairway to the second-floor movie theatres is right by the entrance but he continues past, going outside and clearing the exit area before turning to look along the length of the mall, back to where I sit.

I stare after him, confused, excited, my stomach tight with longing. I sit and I stare at the same spot for long after he’s gone.

CHAPTERNINE

CONNER

A week later,I’m in the school library, researching the rare editions they keep in the temperature-controlled room off to the side. There are three levels of security to get in here, carefully noted so I can report to Creighton later.

The thought of doing that sticks in my throat because I know damn well that he doesn’t care about some old books, no matter how priceless. Books that were probably bought with the generous donations he ladles out to this place each year.

“The first editions are stored in these cabinets,” June, the main librarian tells me, disabling the sensors with an eight-digit passcode before unlocking the reinforced glass doors with a key.

This is in addition to the keycard protected entrance door. The one with a wall-mounted camera pointing straight at the reader.

I peer along the row of titles, my feigned interest becoming genuine the more I understand the treasure trove on display. I reach towards a copy of The Garden Party and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield.

“Just a moment,” she says, holding out a hand in warning and nodding towards the white silk gloves on the glass topped table behind us. “Everything from this cabinet requires careful handling, Ivan.”

Ivan. The name still gives me a shock to hear.

As I pull on the gloves, I think about the wastrel originally attached to the moniker.

Ivan Bradley lasted about five minutes into questioning before he spilled all he knew about the upcoming teaching position at Kingswood College. The superintendent had shortlisted him from his submitted paperwork, never having met the man to that point.

By the time the head teacher interviewed ‘Mr Bradley,’ Ivan was buried under the foundations for the new children’s park over in Bromley. Our ages match. I have the right qualifications, even if mine are untested.

Until Creighton reveals his plans, I won’t know what was so important that he needed to instal me here under false pretences. All I know is my arse is his until he tells me it isn’t.

I’ll jump however high he tells me, no questions asked.

“This is a real find,” June gushes as she helps me lift the volume onto the specially crafted reading stand. “It has the original coloured lithographs by Marie Laurencin, including ten which are full page.”

She turns the pages to show me the pastel-style illustrations and I admire them while inhaling the elusive opulence of the old pages. A smell unlike anything else on earth.

“There were only twelve hundred copies of this first edition printed,” the librarian continues. “And because the printing happened in 1939, the actual publication was delayed until 1947, with distribution affected by the war.”

I turn the pages, noting some light foxing on the edges, some browning along the sides.

“These are incredible,” I remark, glancing back at the long cabinet full of treasures. “I don’t have long today but I’d love to come back and spend more time with them.”

“They’ll be here,” June says in a perky voice. “Anytime you like, just come to the desk and I’ll arrange a showing.”

“Thank you.” I step back, letting her replace the volume inside the cabinet, watching the security steps play out in reverse. “And the other books in here? Are they available to browse?”

“Oh, yes.” She steps back and waves around the full shelves. “Any of these are free to be examined on premises. The only restriction is they’re not allowed to leave the room.” She leans in towards me. “Usually, I’d have a lecture on treating them with respect, but I know you’ll be careful.”

I nod in agreement, letting her talk herself out and wander back to the checkout desk before I scan the other rare editions on offer. The bindings on some of the older volumes are ludicrously intricate; some leather with titles hot-pressed into them, others in boards covered in fabric, then stencilled with elaborate gilt lettering.

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