My not so perfect summer, p.1
My Not So Perfect Summer, page 1
MY NOT SO PERFECT SUMMER
PHOEBE MACLEOD
To Janet. Your fierce honesty and bravery are an inspiration.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
More from Phoebe MacLeod
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Phoebe MacLeod
Love Notes
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
16½ YEARS AGO
My cheeks are burning as I place the box on the counter. I daren’t look up at the assistant, but I can sense the curiosity and disapproval coming off her in waves.
‘That’ll be eleven pounds ninety-nine,’ she says. ‘Would you like a bag?’
‘Umm, no thanks,’ I stammer as I hand over my debit card. ‘I’ll put it in my backpack.’
My hands are so sweaty as I place the card back in my purse that it nearly slips out of my grip. The box is bigger than I thought it would be, so it also takes me a little time to shove it into the backpack and close the zip before fleeing back onto the street.
‘Calm down, Autumn,’ I tell myself firmly. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re just making sure, that’s all.’
Feeling a little reassured, I set off for my next destination. I’ve planned this route meticulously; it would have been much easier to call into the pharmacy by the station when I got off the train from Tonbridge, but I couldn’t risk being spotted by one of the other people in my year. Instead, I’ve walked for what feels like miles to St John’s Hill. Even so, I feel like my school uniform is acting like some sort of flashing red light announcing that I’m up to no good.
My next stop is the library. Nobody will blink an eyelid at a schoolgirl in a library, so it’s the perfect cover and, more importantly, they have toilets there. As I pound up the hill, I repeat the mantra that it’s all going to be fine; this is just a belt-and-braces exercise to put my mind at ease; I’ve been under a lot of pressure with my GCSEs, so it’s not surprising that my body is acting up.
When I reach the library, I head straight for the second floor, praying that the toilet won’t be occupied. The bottle of water I consumed earlier is starting to make its presence felt, and the pressure in my bladder is only going to increase if I have to wait. To my relief, the toilet is free and I rush inside, bolting the door behind me. The nerves choose this moment to return in force, and my hands are shaking as I unzip my bag and bring out the box.
‘It’ll be fine. Get a grip, Autumn,’ I growl, but this time it doesn’t work.
I pull out the instruction leaflet and read it several times. Despite my mounting discomfort, I need to be absolutely sure I do this right. Only once I’m completely sure that I know what I’m doing do I yank down my knickers, sink onto the seat and let go. The relief is immense, but I concentrate on counting the seconds precisely to ensure the test is accurate. Very carefully, like I’m handling explosives, I lay it flat on the basin and check my watch. I told myself on the way here that I’d focus on my watch and not stare at the test, but who was I kidding? Of course I’m staring at it, willing it to give me the answer I’m looking for. My heart is literally in my mouth as I wait for something to happen.
I can see a line. It’s faint but definitely there and, thank God, it appears to be alone. I check my watch; one minute has passed, four to go.
The knock at the door makes me jump out of my skin. ‘Is there anyone in there?’ a voice calls.
I glare at the door in annoyance. Of course there’s someone in here; that’s why the sign reads occupied, I want to yell.
‘I won’t be long,’ I reply instead.
I glance back down at the test and, to my horror, a second line has appeared. I stare at it in disbelief. No, no, no. This isn’t right. Hurriedly, I scan the instruction leaflet again, but it just confirms what the test is telling me.
‘Hurry up, will you?’ the voice on the other side of the door says impatiently.
I feel sick. This cannot be happening to me. My eyes start to blur with tears as I wipe myself, pull up my knickers, flush the toilet and wash my hands. I push the test back into the box and shove the whole thing carelessly into my backpack, pulling the zip roughly over it.
‘At last,’ the woman says crossly as I open the door. ‘What on earth were you doing in there?’
‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘Upset stomach.’
‘Huh, I’m not surprised, the amount of junk food your generation consumes,’ she scolds as she pushes past me, slamming the door behind her.
I’m in a daze as I make my way back through the library. This isn’t how it was supposed to go at all. A spark of hope ignites within me. Maybe the test is faulty. That’ll be what it is; that’s why they sell them in packs of two. What am I going to do now though? I can’t do the other test until I need to go again, and the whole point of this exercise was to do the test, prove all was well and then dispose of it far away from home so my mother would never find it. Ideally, I’d hang around in here, but the library will be closing soon.
With a sigh, I realise my master plan has gone up in smoke. I’ll have to take the kit home and do the other test there. I’ll hide it somewhere until I can dispose of it safely.
‘Hello, darling. I’ve baked a cake to celebrate you finishing your exams,’ my mother’s voice calls from the kitchen as I let myself into the house.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I call back. ‘I’ve just got something I need to do.’
I dash up the stairs into our bathroom and lock the door behind me. When I fish the box out of my backpack, I grab the test I’ve already used and check it again. Maybe I misread it. I didn’t. The two lines are clearly visible. I don’t really need to go again yet, but I reckon I could squeeze out enough for the second test. I unwrap it carefully, check the instructions again and repeat the process. This time, I stare fixedly at my watch for the full five minutes. I know it sounds stupid, but I’ve convinced myself that watching the first test develop jinxed it somehow. As the second hand creeps past the marker on the final minute I shift my gaze to the test.
Fuck.
1
PRESENT DAY
Even though I work here and the summons was expected, I’m still nervous as I wait outside the head teacher’s door. I’m mentally cursing myself for thinking I’d have a chance of getting the deputy head position, given my youth and comparative lack of experience. My colleague Sue, the head of the history department, is a shoo-in; of course she’ll get the job. She may be the most miserable human being I’ve ever encountered, but what she lacks in humanity she more than makes up for in experience. When I filled in the application, I thought I had nothing to lose. Now, contemplating the upcoming conversation and the guarantee of Mrs Hodgkinson’s sympathetic expression as she gently tries to tell me I was never a serious candidate, I’m kicking myself for being such an idiot.
‘Ah, Autumn,’ she says when she opens the door and beckons me inside. ‘Sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. Please, take a seat.’ Mrs Hodgkinson has been head teacher at St Hilda’s for as long as anyone can remember. On the surface, she’s a formidable woman who has been known to reduce both parents and students to jelly with little more than a look, but underneath the hard shell beats a very kind and slightly mischievous heart. The staff, even Sue, universally love her and the only reason that the deputy head position is falling vacant is that the current incumbent is moving on to become head of another school.
‘I’m sure you’re in no doubt about why you’re here,’ she says once we’re seated. ‘As you know, we had a large number of applicants for the deputy head position, so whittling down the list has been a big job. I’m very grateful to the board of governors for their support in this process, and I want to congratulate you on making the shortlist. You are the youngest applicant by quite some margin, and probably the least experienced too.’
‘It’s OK,’ I cut in. ‘I’m a big girl – you can just tell me straight that I haven’t got it.’
A look of annoyance crosses her face briefly before she regains her composure. If there’s one thing Mrs Hodgkinson hates, it’s being interrupted. I may want this over and done with, but not at the expense of annoying her.
‘I’m sorry. Please continue,’ I tell her.
‘Apology accepted. As I was saying, you are the youngest and least experienced of the applicants. What impressed us, however, is your evident passion, your imaginative approach and, not to put too fine a point on it, your frankly stellar results. We all agreed that these are qualities that could bring an awful lot to our school, if appropriately harnessed. However, your colleague Sue has an impressive track record as well.
‘I would, and I’m sure she will make an excellent deputy head.’
Mrs Hodgkinson stares at me for a moment and then laughs softly.
‘Very good,’ she says. ‘I almost believed you for a moment. Sue is an extremely effective teacher and has a lot of the qualities we would look for in a deputy head, but for one thing. What do you think that is, Autumn?’
‘I’m probably not the best person to ask. Sue and I haven’t really bonded,’ I tell her honestly.
‘That’s the point. It’s not just you. All the staff dislike her – I know they do. She gets good results out of the students because I suspect most of them are frightened of her, but she unfortunately doesn’t seem to differentiate between student and colleague very well. So, while I have no doubt that she’d be an effective deputy head in lots of ways, I can’t see her presiding over a happy staff common room, can you?’
I decide to treat this as a rhetorical question and stay silent.
‘There were also some strong external candidates,’ Mrs Hodgkinson continues after a moment or two, ‘but when it came down to the wire, the governors felt that they lacked pizzazz.’
‘Pizzazz?’
‘Sparkle. Va-va-voom. In the end, we all agreed there was only one candidate we wanted, and that was you.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I must have misheard.
‘I’m offering you the position. Congratulations.’
I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Can I?
‘I can tell you’re surprised,’ Mrs Hodgkinson says. ‘Do you need time to think about it?’
‘No, absolutely not,’ I tell her firmly as soon as I recover the power of speech. ‘I accept. Thank you.’
‘Good. It would have been a bit odd to apply for the job and then turn it down, but if I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s that people never stop surprising you. Do you have any questions?’
I have about a thousand, mainly wanting to know what it is they thought they saw in me, but I don’t want Mrs Hodgkinson to think I’m fishing for compliments, so in the end there’s only one that I feel I can legitimately ask.
‘How is Sue?’
‘She’s disappointed, naturally. I did tell her that she was our second choice, but I don’t think that counted for much.’
‘Does she know it’s me?’
‘Not yet, but I’ll make an announcement in the staffroom at the end of the day and she’ll have the weekend to get over it.’ Mrs Hodgkinson stands up to indicate that our meeting is over. ‘Congratulations again, Autumn,’ she tells me. ‘I look forward to working more closely with you next year.’
Thankfully, even Sue’s obvious fury at losing out to me when Mrs Hodgkinson made the announcement is not enough to spoil the cloud of happiness that envelops me as I rattle homewards on the typically overcrowded Bakerloo line. On a whim, rather than catching the bus from Elephant and Castle to Walworth as I normally do, I decide to walk so I can peer through the windows of some of the estate agents. Marc and I have been saving like crazy for years in the hope of one day being able to afford to move out of our tiny rented flat and buy our own place, and the salary boost that the deputy head position will give me could well prove to be the final piece of the jigsaw that makes our dream come true. I’ve been doing some maths in my head to work out what I think we could afford and, from what I can see, I’m pretty sure we could get a decent-sized two-bedroom flat, or even a house if we were prepared to move a little further away from the centre of London.
As I emerge from the underground station into the February drizzle, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see that I have a missed call. As Chloe communicates almost solely via WhatsApp, the fact that she’s called puts me instantly on alert. Hastily, I press to call her back and huddle impatiently under a shop awning while I wait for her to answer.
‘Hi, Mum.’ She doesn’t sound like the world is ending, and my anxiety level drops slightly.
‘What’s up? You rang.’
‘Yeah, it’s like this. You know how I told you Luke was going to the midnight screening of the new Avengers movie?’
‘I don’t remember, no.’
‘I definitely told you. Anyway, one of his mates has dropped out and he’s asked me if I’d like to go instead.’
‘Oh, Chloe, I’m not sure your father will want to come and collect you at three in the morning or whenever it finishes.’
‘I know. So I was wondering…’
There’s a long pause. ‘What?’ I prompt her.
‘I thought maybe I could stay over at Luke’s,’ she says in a sudden rush. ‘They’ve got a spare room and his mum said it was OK. Please?’
I’m genuinely torn. Marc and I have talked about this a lot, pretty much ever since Chloe started going out with her first serious boyfriend, Luke, a few months ago. Each time, we’ve agreed that she’s too young to be staying overnight with boyfriends and, thankfully, she hasn’t asked before. Now that she is asking, I’m conflicted. I’d like to hope that Luke’s mum would police them in the way that we would, but I’ve never met her, so I don’t know what she’s like about these things. The fact that neither Marc nor I are particularly keen on Luke doesn’t help either.
Chloe evidently realises that the fact I haven’t said no straight away means there’s a possible chink in my armour, and presses on.
‘You’ve said yourself that you have to start trusting me and giving me more freedom at some point. Why not now?’ she wheedles.
‘There’s a difference between giving you more freedom and letting you spend the night at your boyfriend’s house. What if he has expectations?’
‘I told you before – he’s not like that.’
‘Don’t be naïve, Chloe. He’s a boy, and they’re all like that.’ Luke is definitely like that, but I’ll only turn this into a row if I share that opinion with her.
‘Just because you got pregnant when you were sixteen doesn’t mean that everyone is at it, Mum. I know how to handle myself. Why can’t you have a bit of faith in me for once?’
I should have known she’d pull that card on me.
‘Fine,’ I tell her after reflecting for a moment. ‘But I expect you to be responsible. If I hear from Luke’s mum that there’s been any funny business—’
‘You won’t. Thank you, Mum. You’re the best. Did I ever tell you that?’
She rings off before I have a chance either to answer or to change my mind. As I resume my journey home, pausing at every estate agency, it occurs to me that Chloe being out for the evening could have benefits for Marc and me too. Sharing a cramped flat with a teenage girl means that we normally have to be fairly inventive to keep our love life active, but we now have a whole evening to ourselves and something to celebrate. Humming gently, I call into the off-licence and pull a bottle of Prosecco out of the fridge. I also call in to the mini-mart and grab a few ingredients. Despite being a faff to make, lasagne is one of Marc’s favourites, so that and a bit of fizz should get him nicely in the mood.
The flat is empty when I get in, which is no surprise because Marc rarely gets home before seven thirty. I take the opportunity to shower and put on my best underwear, covering it with a pair of leggings and a hoodie. I don’t want to give the game away too soon, after all.
‘I’m home!’ Marc calls unnecessarily as he comes through the door into the living room, shaking the water off his coat and hanging it on the rack. I say ‘rack’ but it’s actually a fairly rickety coat stand that we found in a charity shop a few years back. You have to be careful how you hang things on it, as it’s prone to tipping over if you don’t keep the weight evenly distributed. As he concentrates on tonight’s game of coat stand Buckaroo, I wrap my arms around him from behind and squeeze him.
