‘So who has the password to this account, then?’ Charlotte said.
‘Exactly,’ Marcus agreed.
‘Couldn’t we all have it?’ Sarah asked.
‘Of course not,’ Marcus snapped. ‘Then we might as well just tell each other the scores.’
‘Looks like we’ll need a referee, then,’ Matt said.
Charlotte took another sip of wine. ‘Why don’t we have a password that each of us only knows part of?’ she said. ‘It would be like those films where the three guys each
have a key to the treasure vault and no one can open it unless they’re all there.’
‘Yes!’ Marcus exclaimed. ‘Great idea. What do they call that?’
‘A tontine, I think,’ Matt said.
‘No, that’s where they have to wait for everyone to die and the last one alive wins all the money,’ Marcus corrected.
‘No, it’s the key thing,’ Matt said.
‘I’m sure it’s not.’ Marcus got to his feet. ‘Rosie,’ he said as she came back with a steaming dish of rice. ‘Can I use your laptop?’
‘Marcus, you can Google it later,’ Sarah hissed.
‘I’m not going to Google it. I’m going to set up the account.’
‘Well, I’m going to serve the main course,’ Rosie said with a grimace of distress. She added: ‘What account?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Marcus left the room.
Rosie stood forlorn in the space between the door and the table. Justin felt a little sorry for her. She’d put in so much effort and, really, maybe Marcus could have waited. But then, if
it was a competition, even a friendly one, maybe it made sense to sort out the rules at the beginning.
‘It’s all right, Rosie,’ he said. ‘We won’t blame you if it starts to get cold.’
‘Is that the main course?’ Charlotte pointed doubtfully at the big dish of rice. ‘I’m still starving.’
‘It’s just the pilaf. I’ll bring out the main dish when . . . What is Marcus doing?’
‘Setting up an e-mail account to keep the scores secure,’ Matt said.
‘Oh.’
Marcus returned holding the laptop open in front of him. ‘Right, here we are. I hope you don’t mind – I found this in the spare room. I’ve created
[email protected] Everyone can remember that. Rosie, do you want to go next?’
‘What?’
‘Just put in two digits, anything you like, then pass it to Charlotte.’
‘Do we all need to do this now, Marcus?’ Rosie asked.
‘Just one half of every couple if you like.’
The laptop was passed round the table in solemn silence, Rosie to Charlotte then to Justin. He used the first two digits of his birthday. Was that too obvious? But what did it matter – who
would be trying to guess? He pushed the computer on to Matt.
‘Finished?’ Rosie asked when the laptop was returned to Marcus.
‘Hold on,’ Marcus said. ‘It says I need to use some letters. Let me pick one.’
‘Can you put the laptop away now?’ Rosie asked with brittle politeness.
‘I’m on Google now anyway, so I’ll just look this up . . .’
‘Marcus . . .’ Sarah said.
‘Oh,’ Marcus said to Matt, sounding disappointed. ‘We were both right about the tontine.’
‘Barbara,’ Rosie slammed the wooden salad bowl down in the middle of the table, ‘why don’t you tell us about your exhibition?’
Sarah watched Barbara, who had been staring into the middle distance, slowly focus on Rosie. ‘Really, it’s not much of an exhibition,’ Barbara said. ‘Just a couple of
pieces on display in the local café.’
‘Never mind. I’m sure everyone would love to hear about the work,’ Rosie insisted, still standing up. ‘Barbara’s a potter,’ she explained to the rest of the
table. ‘She makes such gorgeous things. That vase is one of hers.’ Everyone obediently studied the irregular, brightly coloured object on the sideboard.
Sarah had never been sure she understood Barbara’s work. It was pretty, of course, most of it anyway, but the deeper themes that Barbara agonized over somehow weren’t apparent to
her. She had asked Barbara about it once, but Barbara had said you weren’t supposed to describe it, you were supposed to feel it.
‘How did you become a potter?’ Rosie asked. ‘I’ve always meant to ask.’
‘At college,’ Barbara replied.
‘Right.’ Rosie waited. ‘And when did you come to England?’
‘Three years ago.’
‘Why?’
‘To study at Goldsmiths.’
After a few monosyllables the conversation drifted on to other things. Sarah wondered if something might be the matter. Barbara was so lively when she was in a good mood. Maybe it was the new
people. Beneath it all, Sarah suspected, Barbara was quite shy. You wouldn’t think it for someone so creative and beautiful, but she was a very serious person. It took a long time for her to
get comfortable with people; it had been almost a year of seeing each other at Pilates before she was really relaxed around Sarah.
Although, it seemed to be quicker with Rosie. Sarah had introduced them only a couple of months ago, and now they were seeing each other just the two of them. Rosie had already been to see
Barbara’s exhibition. Sarah hadn’t. She had been planning to ask Rosie to go with her.
It was great that they got on so well. Of course it was. Barbara didn’t know that many people over here, and it could get lonely in a foreign country. It was wonderful that she was
becoming friends with Rosie. But why didn’t they ask her along when they met?
Sarah immediately felt guilty for thinking this. What was she worrying about? That Rosie was trying to steal her friend? Ridiculous. It was probably just that Rosie had a free afternoon, and
Barbara was self-employed. They would have known Sarah was at work and not wanted to bother her. Of course.
‘Here we are, everybody. Sorry about the wait.’ Rosie came back carrying two plates, trailed by Stephen carrying two more. ‘Duck Breast with Pomegranate Molasses.’
‘Oh that looks lovely,’ Sarah said as Rosie set down a plate in front of her. Thin slices of duck breast covered in a thick sauce sat nestled next to a mush of long, green vegetables
– what did they call that? Was it okra?
There was a silence round the table. What had they been talking about? Sarah hadn’t been listening. Oh dear, that was bad, wasn’t it?
‘. . . And for the vegetarians, Aubergine and Tamarind Stew.’ Rosie was back with the last two plates. ‘Please help yourself to the pilaf, everyone, and the Candied Beetroot
and Lentil Salad.’ Rosie pulled in her chair and reached for the wine bottle. ‘Bon appetit.’
Sarah realized she was absolutely starving. She gulped down a slice of duck breast very quickly. But that wasn’t right, was it? Rosie had gone to such effort that she ought to savour it
properly. Sarah filled up a bit on rice before trying again.
‘Rosie, this is lovely,’ she said. ‘The sauce is so unusual.’
It was very good, she thought; a bit cold, maybe, but definitely tasty, and it was great to be adventurous and try something new. Sarah wasn’t sure if she really liked pomegranates, but
how was Rosie to know that? And they were probably very good pomegranates.
It seemed so petty to grade the food like a piece of substandard homework. Maybe they could forget about the competition and just say something nice in their e-mail? Sarah sighed quietly as she
thought about suggesting this to Marcus.
‘Very nice, Rosie,’ Matt said. ‘The duck’s great. Properly pink in the middle.’
‘You don’t think I’ve overcooked it?’ Rosie asked. ‘I was a bit worried.’
‘Not at all,’ Matt said.
‘Maybe a bit,’ Marcus said. ‘But duck’s very hard to get right. Well done for giving it a go. What’s in the sauce?’
‘It’s pomegranate molasses with a bit of cinnamon and some herbs. Very simple.’
‘Yes, I thought I could taste cinnamon. But I wasn’t sure if you’d have deliberately made it that sweet.’
Rosie turned away from him. ‘Justin, Barbara. How’s yours?’
‘Great, thanks,’ Barbara said.
‘It is very nice,’ Justin said. He chewed another mouthful before adding: ‘Though I sometimes think it’s a shame that we’re not all eating the same
thing.’
‘Then you shouldn’t be a vegetarian, should you?’ Charlotte said sharply.
‘I don’t condemn people for eating meat. But I just think sometimes they should stop and discover how good vegetarian food can be. This tamarind, for example, is a great
flavour.’
‘Goes very well with lamb, I reckon,’ Charlotte said.
‘Let’s not argue about that,’ Rosie said. ‘Has everyone had some salad?’
Justin inspected the salad bowl full of beetroot and lentils before taking some, then passing it along.
‘It’s very good, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Has it got lime in it?’
‘Yes,’ Rosie replied. She looked strangely tense as she said it, Sarah thought.
Sarah had nearly finished. She ought to slow down. It wasn’t healthy to bolt your food, was it? Rude, too. But she was still hungry. It had been such a tiring day. How did Rosie possibly
manage to cook all these courses on a work night? But she worked part-time, didn’t she? That would be nice. Of course she had Jonathan to look after, and that was obviously a full-time job in
itself. But still . . .
Sarah wondered if she hated her own job. No, that was a stupid thing to think. She loved teaching. Of course she did. She was making a difference. That sounded trite, but it was true. Giving
something back.
Marcus sometimes said that giving something back was really taking it out of her. He was always so pleased with himself when he said it, but she supposed that might be true. She was tired all
the time now. It wasn’t the kids’ fault, of course. They were just being themselves. But sometimes . . .
This morning, for example, Dr Cowley had said she should have been tougher. But was it really right to start calling the children liars?
Khalida had been texting in class, while Sarah was trying to teach them about the suffragettes. Sarah had asked her, politely, to stop it and pay attention to the lesson.
‘Khalida, please stop that.’
Khalida had not replied.
‘Khalida, please stop that!’
Very slowly, Khalida responded: ‘I’m texting my little sister, miss.’
‘Do that after class.’
‘No, miss, I need to do it now.’
‘Khalida!’
‘She’s pregnant, miss.’
‘Really?’ This had thrown Sarah. Little Aisha? She couldn’t be more than thirteen, could she?
‘Yeah, miss, she’s got a doctor’s appointment and she’s scared, see? I said I’d text her.’
‘Oh I see. Well, I suppose . . .’
‘Miss, miss, Khalida’s lying!’ Sureen burst out. ‘Her sister’s not pregnant. She’s texting her boyfriend.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Calm down, everyone,’ Sarah said. ‘Now, Khalida, you wouldn’t lie about something like that, would you?’
‘No, miss.’ Khalida smirked aggressively at Sureen, flaunting her phone.
‘Well, what about your mother? Where’s she? We’ve got Mrs Pankhurst to get through. Couldn’t you do it after class?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Well, be quick, then. Now, everybody, if you turn to page sixty-three, you’ll see that Mrs Pankhurst was arrested again the following year for hitting a police officer. What
do you all think of this kind of— Lauren, put your phone away.’
‘But, miss,’ Lauren looked up wide-eyed from her screen. ‘My sister’s pregnant.’
‘Really? . . . No she isn’t. Just put it away.’
‘But, miss!’
‘Dylan, you too.’
‘Honest, miss, I have to. It’s Tyler’s mum . . . she’s pregnant!’
‘Fuck off!’ Tyler lunged across the desk at Dylan.
‘Boys, stop that! Stop it!’
Some teachers would have started shouting at this point. Sarah didn’t believe in that. It just brutalized the children, didn’t it? If she didn’t give them a good example of
calm and rational behaviour, who would? They were good kids, if you gave them a chance.
By this stage, all the girls had their phones out and Rihanna was in tears.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Kelly’s called me a slag on Twitter. Said I slept with Jack. But it was only hands.’
‘Kelly, is that true?’
But Kelly wasn’t listening. She had formed a tight gaggle with three other girls, exchanging gossip with whoops of delighted outrage.
By then the boys’ fight had spread to the back of the class and Dylan was using
Changemakers: Political Struggle in Twentieth-Century Britain
to club Tyler round the head.
After that, Dr Cowley had to get involved. Sarah winced at the way she screamed at them, but it did stop the fighting. Sarah felt like a failure.
‘Don’t you think so, Sarah?’
‘What?’
Rosie was looking at her expectantly, but once again Sarah had no idea what they were talking about.
‘Oh yes, probably,’ she mumbled. ‘This really is delicious.’
Marcus rolled his eyes at her as he got up. Had she said something embarrassing? Was it obvious that she’d been daydreaming?
‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ he announced.
Why had he said that so loudly? Because he wasn’t going to the toilet, was he? He was reaching into his pocket for his notebook, even before he got to the door. Oh dear, it was so rude. At
least he wasn’t doing it at the table. He’d been so mean already this evening. Poor Rosie. Why was he being so competitive? But then he always was. He was going to be awful when it was
his turn to cook. Sarah didn’t want to think about it. He’d be unbearable for days before and afterwards.
Things hadn’t been going so well recently. He was intense about his opinions, and Sarah had always liked that; it was admirable, uncompromising. But lately . . . well, it wasn’t that
he’d got more stubborn, exactly. More that he had stopped taking her opinion seriously.
No, that was unfair. Wasn’t it? But Sarah certainly found it very hard to talk to him now. She hadn’t even thought of telling him about the fight in the classroom. He would have made
it clear that he considered it her fault. He probably wouldn’t have said it directly, but it would have been obvious. He would have been impatient. Unsympathetic.
Sarah wished she had told him. If he’d put his arms round her, soothed her, made her feel better, she wouldn’t be thinking these things. But she couldn’t see that
happening.
It was a bad time for his practice, that was true. There wasn’t much work coming in, and his last project had never been built . . . But when had that been any different?