I read it again. I wasn’t sure I was cut out to impart wisdom upon children, but it was a great opportunity to spread the word about charity work and if I was being honest, being in Andrew’s company again wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Seeing him the other day had stirred up a range of feelings I thought I’d buried. I wasn’t sure if the message meant anything more than just the talk, but it was my only plausible chance to see him soon.
I’d be more than happy to spread the word about my wonderful charity. When do you need me?
I hit send and he replied almost instantly.
Would Monday be too soon? Say, nine-thirty after the class is settled.
That’s fine.
***
I pulled up at Wilmslow CofE School at quarter-past nine. The small redbrick building looked very traditional with its dark tiled, pitched roof. The playground was gated and secured with a green iron fence. It was calm and still, awaiting the patter of rather small feet. A bit like me I thought excitedly.
Taking a deep breath, I buzzed the intercom. ‘Charlotte Emsworth here to see Andrew, er, Mr Watts, please.’ There was no reply, but a sharp buzz prompted me to open the gate. I walked towards the double doors with glowing yellow lights shining through the glass from beyond.
The reception was just inside the doors.
‘Sign in, please, and I’ll let Mr Watts know you’ve arrived,’ said a plump lady with red hair who was sitting behind the desk.
‘Thank you.’ There was a red plastic classroom chair next to the desk so I sat down and waited. I wasn’t usually the sort to be sitting nervously waiting outside the school office, and the thought amused me. A flustered woman burst in, bags akimbo, shepherding a small blond boy with a runny nose, and I wondered if I’d be the same in four or five years. I heard something muttered about a late slip before a piece of paper was handed to the woman and she scuttled down the corridor, the little boy in tow.
‘Charlotte?’
I spun around. ‘Andrew! Hello. This is a lovely school.’ I gestured to the artwork on the walls, which resembled Picasso’s finest work. I had never understood abstract art but probably should pay more attention if I was going to raise a child in the near future. ‘Seems like a really nice place to work.’
‘It has its moments,’ he said. ‘Time to meet the rabble.’ He led me down the corridor the flustered woman had just disappeared down. As we stood outside the room, I could hear shouting and squeals. ‘Watch this,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s my superpower.’ He flung the door open animatedly and stood broad on the threshold with his hands on his hips. The whole class fell silent in two seconds flat. He held the pose for a moment and looked around the room, making eye contact with a few of the children.
‘Now, if you’ve quite finished issuing your morning digests, I have a visitor.’ There were one or two gasps from the children and another couple who sat up excruciatingly straight in their seats, folding their arms to look neat; perhaps they thought I was an OFSTED inspector or something. I stifled a giggle.
‘Please welcome Ms—’ he glanced at me on the Ms, to make sure I was happy with it, and I nodded ‘—Emsworth with a good morning.’
‘Good morning, Ms Emsworth, good morning, everybody,’ the class chorused. I felt quite important.
Andrew talked to the class about why I was there, and I spent ten minutes talking about all the good work Springwell did. I showed them a picture of the disability swing that I’d raised money for (sort of) and talked to them about how the children there can’t play outside in the same way they might. At the end, I offered to answer questions. A little girl asked if she could donate some of her birthday money and another child asked if the ‘poorly children’ were happy when they came to the centre. He was thrilled when I told him they were.
It had all gone fairly smoothly until a butter-wouldn’t-melt, pigtailed blonde girl asked the final question. ‘Are you Mr Watts’s wife?’
I shook my head. ‘No, no I’m not. Any more questions?’
Pigtailed blondie thrust her arm in the air again, and I glanced at Andrew. ‘Skye, we’re not going to be married either,’ he said, rolling his eyes. I felt the tips of my ears start to burn.
‘But, sir, I wasn’t going to ask that!’ she cried.
Andrew looked at me and I nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said to her with a sigh.
She looked me square in the eyes. ‘Would you like to be married to Mr Watts, Ms Emsworth?’
I could feel the heat spread to my face. ‘I think it’s time to design our charity posters now,’ I said, not daring to look at Andrew.
***
‘How the hell did she know?’ asked Kate when I relayed the story over her breakfast bar the following evening. I rolled my eyes.
‘Funnily enough,’ I said, sipping my tea, ‘that’s not even the worst part.’ I pulled a piece of paper out of my tote bag and laid it in front of her.
She clasped her hand to her mouth, but it was ineffective in stifling the giggle that ensued. ‘Was this drawn by Pigtails?’ she asked.
I nodded, taking in the sketch. It was actually quite good; the man was in a suit and labelled ‘Mr Watts, the best teacher in the world’, and I was wearing a long white gown and a floral veil. My label said ‘Mrs Watts, the pretty charity lady’. I was carrying a bouquet of red flowers and there was a church behind us.
She’d received a sad face on her behaviour chart for ‘not sticking to the
