and sexual tension. I’ve had my share of admirers. When I was at school I fancied Mr Deitch, who taught English and PE. We used to go and watch whenever he was on the track because he wore Lycra running shorts just like Linford Christie. He had an impressive lunchbox.’
‘I get the picture.’
She laughs. ‘Did a teacher break your heart too?’
‘Miss Powell - she taught French and had done some modelling in Paris. I saw her shopping one day and made up a story about how she’d been buying sexy underwear. My mates were so jealous. Anyway, the story got back to her and she sent me to see the headmaster. I had to write an essay on why women shouldn’t be treated as sex objects.’
‘You poor boy.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened to a girl.’
Mock surprise. ‘You’re blaming
‘No. Never. But tell me, how do you guard against it - teenage crushes?’
‘I avoid meeting students outside of school or having them in my car. I don’t play favourites. I avoid situations where I’d be alone with a particular student. I don’t accept gifts or give them. I avoid physical contact. I leave the classroom door open. I don’t write notes or emails that could be misinterpreted.’
‘It’s a minefield.’
‘Yes and no.’
She runs a finger around the top of her coffee cup. ‘I can usually tell when a student has a crush on me - the lovesick looks and excuses to stay late or arrive early.’
‘And then what?’
‘I find a way of distancing myself. I let them down gently. I maintain the boundaries.’
Annie raises her eyes and holds her gaze on mine. I can feel myself blink and colour come to my throat.
‘Is that why you asked me here - to talk about Gordon?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Oh well, as long as you’re paying.’ She laughs gaily. ‘You wouldn’t even recognise Gordon if you saw photographs of him as a kid.’
‘Why?’
‘He was a real Billy Bunter. Overweight and short-sighted with crooked teeth and a face like a pizza.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I once met his mother. She came to college to make sure he was looking after himself. She had photographs of Gordon as a youngster. You’ve got to give him credit for remaking himself. He lost the weight. Got his teeth straightened. Worked out. It helped that he grew to be six-two.’
‘Did you know Natasha?’
‘Who?’
‘Gordon’s wife. She must have been around.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Gordon said they met at school. I thought she must have been around during his college years.’
Annie shakes her head.
‘He had loads of girlfriends at college. He went out with a friend of mine, Alison, for about three months.’
‘Did you date him?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s not really my type.’ She pauses. ‘You’re very nosy, Joseph. Are all psychologists like that?’
‘We’re interested in people.’
‘Are you interested in me?’
‘Of course.’
It’s the right answer. Suddenly she stands and suggests we go for a walk. Crossing Argyle Street, we follow Grand Parade through Bath City Park. Annie hooks her arm through mine. Her shoulder bag swings gently against our hips. It’s nice to flirt and banter with a pretty woman. Julianne and I used to be like this, teasing each other, making observations, righting the wrongs of the world.
‘So what made you decide to become a counsellor?’ I ask.
‘It’s probably the same reason you became a psychologist. I wanted to make a difference. Why did you decide to lecture?’
‘I’m not really sure. I’m not certain that psychology
‘Why?’
‘Clinical work is very instinctive. It’s about listening to people and sharing the burden. Making them feel as though someone cares.’
‘What made you give it up?’
‘A really effective psychologist is someone who commits. Who goes into the darkness to bring someone out. Years ago I told a friend of mine that a doctor is no good to a patient if he dies of the disease, but that wasn’t the right analogy. When a person is drowning, someone has to get wet.’
She pauses and turns to me.
‘You got tired of getting wet?’
‘I almost drowned.’
We have reached North Parade. Canal boats are moored on the opposite bank. Someone is cooking on deck, dicing carrots and tipping them into a bubbling pot on a gas burner.
‘Thank you for the coffee and cake, Joseph.’
‘I hope you didn’t have too far to travel. I didn’t even ask where you lived.’
‘Are you inviting yourself home?’
‘No, not at all . . . I was just . . .’
She’s laughing at me again.
‘I’m glad that I’m such a source of amusement.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you at dinner.’ She says it quickly. Nervously.
I take too long to answer.
‘Don’t let me push you into anything,’ she says. ‘I’m not usually this forward.’
‘No. I mean, yes, dinner would be great.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. It’s just that I haven’t been invited to dinner by a woman since . . . since . . .’
‘Maybe you should stop counting.’
‘Good idea.’
She pecks me on the lips.
‘So it’s dinner. How about Monday night?’
‘Sure.’
And then as an afterthought, she says, ‘About Gordon Ellis and Sienna . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll try to find out if anyone complained to the school.’
‘Thank you.’
20
Charlie has a football game for her district team. Watching teenage girls play a competitive team sport is completely different to watching boys. There is no diving, feigning injury, flying elbows or cynical fouls. Body contact tends to be completely accidental and should one of the girls get injured twenty-one players will stand around her asking, ‘Are you OK?’
Charlie is getting less interested in football as she gets older. There seems to be a moment in adolescence when girls abandon sport as being either too sweaty or too much like hard work. Maybe they discover boys. Why
