Page 73 of Statistically Speaking
I pass him the photo, saying, “She’s called Beth. Isn’t that a lovely name?”
“Yes, but she could have been called Gertrude and you’d still think it was a lovely name,” he replies.
He is, of course, not wrong.
“You’re right. I think Gertrude is long due for a comeback anyway.”
He takes the picture, holding it carefully, his fingers on the edges so he doesn’t smudge it. I see his eyes light up as he looks at her, and he is smiling when he passes it back.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, “and more importantly she looks like one of those kids—the ones who have that confidence, that self-belief. You know the ones.”
I know exactly what he means. Doing our job, you work with young people of all different abilities, backgrounds, and types. You do your very best for all of them, try to help them reach their full potential, whatever that is for them. Some are academically gifted, some work hard, some, frankly, will do well to come out of the course with a single pass to their name. But among every group, there are always some that stand out—because they know who they are, and they like who they are, which isn’t especially easy in teenager land.
Katie is one of those kids, and I can tell from the photo, from the smile, from the way she has expressed herself so unapologetically in that letter, that Beth is one too. My baby. Beth.
I pack the picture away again, and we walk together toward the staff entrance of the school. There are no students here yet, so when he grabs my hand and swings it, I do not object. It is the kind of day that should be celebrated with a swing.
Katie, of course, knows about me and Karim—but she has vowed not to gossip. It is not forbidden; there are no rules against relationships between staff, but it is also not the kind of thing you want a bunch of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds giggling about behind your back. It is gold dust for them, the weird concept that teachers—Old People—might havea love life. A potent combination of “yuck” and “ooh.” I am pretty sure that Karim has his share of fans as well—the hot PE teacher is a stereotype for a reason—so we might break some hearts once word gets out.
Until now, though, we have been careful in general—neither of us wanted to tell our colleagues that we were a thing until we had a better idea of what kind of thing we actually were. I suppose we wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while, our own delicious secret.
As we enter the staff room, I automatically pull my hand away from his—but he just looks down at me and grins. He strides ahead, right over to the tea and coffee counter, the beating heart of the room.
He picks up a mug and a teaspoon and clangs one against the other, like he’s about to make a best-man speech at a wedding. The chatter fades, and everyone turns to look at him. I sense what is coming and have a distinct urge to sneak back out again, to go and hide in the cleaning-supplies cupboard with the bleach and the mops.
“Can I have your attention, please?” says Karim unnecessarily, as he already has the complete attention of every single person in the vicinity.
“I have an announcement to make! You all know me, and you all know our lovely history teacher, Miss Jones. I’m pleased to say that we are officially a couple, and I couldn’t be happier!”
He raises the mug, even though it is empty, and adds: “A toast, to me and Miss Jones!”
There is a momentary silence while our colleagues look from him to me and back again, then the room erupts into cheers, laughter, applause, and lots of other teaspoons being banged against the side of other mugs.
I have seen several announcements in staff rooms. I have been in them when people have shared news of their engagements, weddings, pregnancies, new jobs, promotions, and even, on one occasion, a divorce.
I have never, though, been the cause of one myself. I know that I am blushing like a schoolgirl.
People are clapping. People are looking at me. People are patting Karim on the back in congratulations, and others are heading in my direction. I am the absolute center of attention.
I completely hate it, and I also completely love it.
I look over the crowds at Karim, meet his eyes, and give him an “I’ll deal with you later” look before I am engulfed by a wave of women who all look as though they have alotof questions for me.
He just winks and gives me a regal bow. I suppose I should be grateful that he didn’t call himself King I-Love-You the First.
Chapter 32
Four Glasses of Bubbly, One Kool Gang, and My Own Three Witches
They are all there by the time I arrive. I messaged Erin and Katie earlier in the day, asked them to meet me at Margie’s at 6:00 p.m., and said that I was bringing champagne.
I am slightly late getting there, because I made the time to call my mother once I finished work. I called her to invite her here, her and Sam, to see my home and my friends and my life. It is a small step, but one I could tell she grabbed at gratefully.
Reading that letter from Beth, seeing that she didn’t blame me right there in black and white, made me realize exactly how powerful forgiveness is, and if it is within my power to offer that to my own mum, then I will at least try.
It is a mild evening but full dark by the time I walk through Margie’s gate. The chiminea is on, the fairy lights are sparkling, and they are waiting for me, all wrapped up in blankets. I see glasses on the table, and a cake that I can tell Margie has baked herself due to the fact that it is wonky in all the right places. She is many things, my friend, but a world-class baker is not one of them.
Bill wanders over, sniffs my hand, giving me a thorough once-over for any signs of food. He slinks, disappointed, backunder the table, where perhaps he is planning a daring collapsed cake raid.
