Page 1 of Still Falling for You

1

‘Always have an umbrella and a spare pair of knickers in your bag. You never know when you might need them.’

While I find the second part of my mother’s advice disturbing, I wish I’d listened to the first part. My mother has always had a way of creeping into my thoughts when disaster strikes. I try to quieten her voice in my head, but like old Blu Tack, she sticks.

I keep wondering how I’ve got here. I don’t mean King George’s Academy’s car park but at this junction of life.

Instead of rushing inside the grey building, I’m sitting in my old Fiat, dissecting all my past life choices, while the rain is pounding insistently against the window. The sheets of rain are so dense I can only see the blurry outlines of the imposing building. Hands clammy, I’m clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, and my breath is coming out in short puffs like I’m practising breathing techniques for labour. Finally, when I snap out of self-pity and the start of a panic attack, I check the glove compartment again to confirm what I already know and one of the reasons why I’m stuck in the car. After checking the weather forecast twice and being assured by Carol Kirkwood that there was no chance of rain, I left my umbrella at home. If the decrepit place can be called that.

Clenching my teeth, I gather my bag, scarf and the almost empty standards portfolio and tuck my DBS form in it so it doesn’t get wet. I’m reconciled to the fact that there’s zero chance of me staying dry.

I get out of the car and immediately my brogues fill with water because I’ve stepped into a puddle the size of Lake Titicaca. My shoes squelch as I rush towards the looming colossus. The neat blonde bob that I only had done yesterday is now plastered to my cheeks in the vague shape of sideburns. Hair gets in my mouth, and I try to spit it out, but it sticks to my upper lip instead. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass panes of the entrance door and flinch in shock. All reedy and withhair in all the wrong places, I’ve never resembled my Uncle Anthony more than now.

The vintage yellow jumper is glued to my arms and clings to the outlines of my lanky body, making me look vacuum-packed. Professional. Bah. I missed my chance of looking professional by being late on the first day of my ECT – Early Career Teacher – year. Schools like this with a great reputation and Outstanding Ofsted rating don’t let things like this slide.

Nobody would believe me if I said that the power socket I plugged my phone into to charge last night wasn’t working, alongside half of the stuff in the blasted studio I’ve occupied for the past three weeks. But due to Aaron, my ex-boyfriend, deciding to test the new sofa with his acupuncturist, I couldn’t stay another minute in our bungalow. I moved out with only two grand in my bank account while waiting for Aaron, the cheating piece of human faeces, to arrange repayment of my share. Life has been a beach.

I enter the building, sliding doors snapping behind me and immediately cutting off the storm’s audio. I walk to the glass door that separates the reception from the school’s corridor, but the prim-looking, middle-aged receptionist stops me before I even reach for the handle.

‘I’m sorry, but the school is closed to parents and pupils.’ Her left eyebrow lifts at the state of me. She doesn’t look sorry but thoroughly unpleasant. She has dark and expressively judgy eyebrows for somebody whose hair is the colour of lemon sorbet.

‘I’m the new teacher,’ I mumble because I’ve lost the last scraps of courage I had on the way to that glass door. I push the standards folder in my arms up, but it immediately slides down under my elbow again.

Mrs Receptionist scans me up and down before she pauses on the thin jumper plastered to my chest. I peek down, and to my embarrassment, the green bra I’m wearing underneath isshowing through. The offending underwear has turned into a beacon of light, my hardened nipples beam headlights. I should have done my laundry and opted for a safe black bra, but, apparently, a furnished studio doesn’t always come with a washing machine.

I try to cross my arms, but that’s impossible while carrying a folder, a bag and a wool scarf. She grimaces with distaste.

‘Name?’ The receptionist gazes at one of the screens of her fancy-pants dual monitor.

‘Collins. Holly Collins.’ I’m doing the whole James Bond thing without planning to. I barely stop myself before I sayvodka martini, shaken, not stirredbecause I don’t think Mrs Receptionist would appreciate my joke. I get hysterical under duress. My best friend, Lydia, would find this situation hilarious. The corner of my lip twitches, and my belly starts bubbling vinegar-mixed-with-baking-soda style. I need an outlet.

Without offering me a smile or a blink of an eye that would confirm she’s human and not an evil anthropoid robot vowed to destroy all humanity, she gestures to the door. ‘Our online register is currently down. Please use the staff register book on the table round the corner.’ That’s when she stops paying me attention.

Palms slick, I push against the glass barrier, but nothing happens, and I have a sudden urge to either cry or laugh. My lip wobbles. I’ve never been a crier, but who knows today? At last, she must press a button because the door beeps and I walk through to the other side.

I lean over the register and sign my name as neatly as I can while my sleeve is dripping water onto it, obscuring the names of the other staff. Once it’s done, I realise I have no idea where to go, having been in the school only once for my interview.

I know where the principal’s office is, but just the thought of Jane Trainer, the school principal, and her impenetrable face makes me think I’d rather volunteer for a dental extractionthan ask for help when I’m already running late. When she interviewed me during the last week of the term, I couldn’t stop squirming when her dark eyes behind purple-framed glasses bored into me with unusual intensity. After thirty minutes in her office, I felt like I’d undergone an X-ray scan. I was gobsmacked when she offered me the job the same day. I doubt she would appreciate me coming into her office now and dripping on her carpet.

For about half a second, I consider asking the prim receptionist, tuning into the swift, almost aggressive tapping of her fingers on the keys of her ergonomic keyboard. I think better of it.

I think longingly back to my old school, but they’re the reason I’m here. After working as a teaching assistant for two years, completing my PGCE – Postgraduate Certificate of Education – while teaching full-time, all I got back was ‘Sorry we can’t extend your contract due to funding issues’ at the end of June. Only two weeks before the end of term and before the most important milestone of my career, my ECT period. I try not to think of the possibility of not passing my ECT and having to redo the entire teaching degree. I shudder as panic zaps down my spine.

‘You look lost.’

I flinch as a male voice sounds behind me.

I school my features into a neutral expression because the last thing I want is for a new colleague to witness my discomposure. When I’m ready, I turn around and gawk. I didn’t expect a tall, brown-haired and exceptionally good-looking specimen of manhood standing in front of me. Withmy five-foot-nine height, men are usually shorter than me, but this guy is at least six feet tall. He’s wearing a tight-fitting navy T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms that do fantastic things to his thigh muscles.

‘Is it raining outside?’ He feigns confusion. His lightly stubbled jaw spreads into a lazy grin.

‘No. What makes you say that?’ I quip.

He cackles appreciatively and then scans me head to toe in a very different way from the receptionist. Eyes as wide as charger plates, he ends up staring at my chest. I twist so I’m standing at an angle, and he tears his look away.

‘Are you the new teacher by any chance?’

My credibility is saved. ‘Yep.’ I straighten up. ‘Holly,’ I say more firmly, my words carrying newly found confidence scraped from the almost empty barrel labelledself-esteem.

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