The Housemistress (21 page)

“I want to discuss the upcoming sixth form concert we have planned for our generous financial donors.” Carriveau waits until everyone is reseated before she continues. “I thought we could open up the performance hall.”

The room falls silent.

“So soon?” one of the other Housemistresses asks after a heavy pause, scratching at her gray bob of hair with the eraser end of a pencil.

“Soon?” Carriveau raises an eyebrow. “It’s been almost a year. What else are we going to do? Let it fall into a state of disrepair? It seems silly not to utilize the full resources we have at our disposal.” She turns to Missus Bursnell. “I think the school’s ready to forge ahead,
non
?”

“And you?” Missus Bursnell turns the question back on her.

“Don’t pretend that you care.” Carriveau eyes her with a healthy dose of disdain. “Are you allowing us to use the performance hall, or not?”

The older woman nods slowly. “If that’s your wish, I have no objection, but how will you get it ready in time? The concert’s on Friday, and tomorrow most of the sixth form will be away on a trip. They won’t be back until Wednesday evening, and they’ll need Thursday free for final rehearsals.”

Carriveau shrugs, unfazed. “I can gather up some volunteers and have the task finished this evening, if you’ll permit me to keep one or two of the girls up past their curfew.”

“What’s wrong with the hall we’ve been using all this time?” the head of the drama department protests.

“It’s an old gym hall with a temporary stage built in it. It’s a relic from before the new sports building was erected.” The younger Housemistress sides with Carriveau. “It’s really not appropriate.”

Missus Bursnell rolls her eye, the glass one veering ever further leftward. “So be it.” She makes a note in one of her many jotters. “Any other brilliant ideas, Vivienne?” She asks the question sarcastically, not expecting a response.

Carriveau soldiers on.

“I also thought some of the students enrolled in the after-class music club could be invited to perform this time.” She turns her attention to the head of the music department. “I’m sure you have a few sixth form pupils who might appreciate the opportunity for inclusion. Especially since they’re so often overlooked in favor of those enrolled in your A-level programs, despite the fact that many of them display an equal or greater musical talent.”

“I take it you’re referring to the Harcourt child you forced upon me?”

Carriveau smiles innocently. “If you think she’s good enough.”

The music teacher waves a flippant hand, not giving too much of a shit one way or the other. “As it happens, one of my soloists just came down with laryngitis. Harcourt may fill her spot.” She leans back in her chair, stretching. “It makes no difference to me.”

“It’s settled then,” the Headmistress proclaims. “And Miss Carriveau,” she says, before the French woman has a chance to get up out of her chair, “you shall be in charge.”

That suits Carriveau just fine, and she sets the caretakers to work right away, removing the ‘Do Not Enter’ signs and giving the place a vigorous dusting. She’s standing in the main doorway, watching them clean the red velvet curtains hanging from the proscenium arch above the stage, when Rylie nudges up beside her, bumping her shoulder.

“I’ve just been asked to perform at the concert on Friday night.” She stands close to Carriveau, even the slight contact of their shoulders feeling dangerously illicit. “Did you do this?” She nods to the performance hall.

“No, not really.” Carriveau sighs, staring wistfully into the hall. “You did.”

“How?” Rylie frowns. “What did I do?”

“You make me happy, Rylie. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.” Carriveau feels out Rylie’s hand between them, touching her fingers softly, not daring to be so reckless as to properly hold her hand. “This school needs to move on, and so do I.” She pulls back, too afraid to let the intimacy linger. “You made that clear to me last night.”

“I’ll make it even clearer to you tonight, if you’ll let me.”

“Tonight?” Carriveau’s red lips curl upward. “Tonight, I’ll be looking for volunteers to help me get the performance hall ready. I can’t promise that there’ll be a chance for anything more than a bit of light flirtation, but it will mean the opportunity to stay up past curfew if you want to come by and lend a hand after your evening study hour.”

“What will you be wearing?”

“Is that what it depends upon?” Carriveau smirks.

“Every little helps.”

Rylie catches Carriveau’s eye as she enters the backstage area of the performance hall after rushing through her homework. Carriveau, whose last class ended at two o’clock, has been here for most of the afternoon and evening, and now she’s balanced precariously on a chair, paintbrush in hand, decorating a ten foot high set piece that’ll form part of the backdrop for one of the more elaborate songs being performed at the concert.

Other volunteers, at Carriveau’s instruction, are clearing out the dump of props at the back of the hall, disposing of anything broken and sorting the old costumes into piles according to whether or not they’re useful, utter rubbish, or in need of mending. Meanwhile, in the wings, one or two drama students are getting to grips with the lighting, and several more are trying to master the sound system.

Footsteps up above—rubber-soled boots stomping over metal walkways—reveal more pupils, changing the gel covers on the lights, adjusting things here and there. One of them whistles down to Rylie, hanging her head over one of the platforms.

It’s Gabby.

Once she has Rylie’s attention, she tips her head in Carriveau’s direction, hinting in no uncertain terms that Rylie ought to nab this opportunity to approach their silently working Housemistress while she’s by herself. Then, she holds both hands in front of her chest, jiggling a pair of enormous, imaginary breasts, thus demonstrating the universally accepted sign language for: “That gorgeous woman’s showing off her phenomenal rack.” Or more colloquially: “Have a look at the tits on that!”

Flicking her a vee—pasting on a scowl to go with it—Rylie turns away from Gabby and goes to Carriveau’s aid. Her Housemistress is now at risk of toppling the chair as she strains to reach the very edge of the set piece—a problem that would be easily solved by getting down off the chair and moving it two feet to the left.

“Do you need help,
Mademoiselle
?”

Rylie positions herself in the perfect place for Carriveau to lean on her shoulder. In doing so, she gets an eyeful of Carriveau’s abundant cleavage. Wearing a light cotton shirt, half unbuttoned, revealing a skintight camisole beneath, the generously proportioned Housemistress is unabashedly flaunting herself.

Rylie puts a hand on her jeans-covered thigh. “I don’t want you to fall.”

“Is that why you finally came over here?” Carriveau arches her back, making sure Rylie gets the best view of her assets. “You were concerned for my safety?”

“You looked like you could use a hand.” Rylie gives Carriveau a squeeze, surreptitiously fondling her.

“
Ah bon
?” Carriveau deliberately overextends her reach, leaning further forward, tipping the chair and emitting a girlish squeal.

Rylie catches her and rights the chair, planting both hands firmly on her hips. “Perhaps two hands are better than one.”

“Indeed.” Carriveau drops the paintbrush to the floor, redirecting her free hand to Rylie’s other shoulder, their faces just inches apart as she steps down off the chair.

The closeness lingers until she spies Adel entering the performance hall, forcing her to withdraw to a more appropriate distance.

“Are you excited for the concert on Friday?” She changes the subject.

“I’m not sure.” Rylie eyes the piano with some hesitation. “I’ve never performed in front of an audience before.”

“I’ve heard that you’re supposed to imagine your audience
déshabillée, non
? That is to say, naked. Might that help?”

“Well, I’ll be singing to you, and I already do that.” Rylie pins her eyes to Carriveau’s chest, marveling at the deep valley generated by her push-up bra, watching the upper swells of her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing.

“Do you want to practice?” Carriveau lets her enjoy the sight for a few more seconds, then spins her toward the piano, giving her
derrière
a light shove. “Why don’t you play me the song you intend to perform on Friday?”

Torn between running for the bathroom and succumbing to the lure of the ivories, the desire to please Carriveau eventually wins out above all else, and she takes her place at the grand instrument—albeit with great reluctance.

After three false starts, she gets past the eighth bar and hits her stride, only striking five wrong notes from the beginning to the end of a love song she wrote with one particular woman in mind: Carriveau.

Throughout, Carriveau is standing in the wings, smiling, blushing, swooning, blissfully unaware that Adel’s standing not far behind her, glowering. Before the last note dies away, Gabby thunders down from the rigging and budges onto the piano stool next to Rylie, making the young musician smack down on the keys, causing a cacophonous din.

“That was brave!”

“No, it wasn’t.” Rylie covers the delicate keys with the fallboard, preventing another accident. “There’s only, like, ten people here, and half of them weren’t listening.”

“Not that, I mean …” Gabby looks around, shying away from Adel’s glare. “Your song was about Miss Carriveau, yeah?” She drops her voice. “The last girl who publicly professed her love for Miss Carriveau ended up hanging from …” She turns her eyes up to the rigging, then back down to Rylie.

The last girl? Kaitlyn, obviously.

“Why did she do it?” Rylie asks quietly, not sure if she really wants to know.

“Miss Carriveau denied the whole lot of it, and Kaitlyn couldn’t take being rejected like that. People were calling her a liar, saying she was only after the attention and whatnot. Missus Bursnell said she had mental problems.”

At that moment, the pupils who’ve been diligently putting together a playlist for the intermission music call it a night, leaving their laptop still hooked up to the sound system. A minute later, Adel’s voice booms over the loud speakers, dedicating the next song to Miss Carriveau, then Britney Spears’ Womanizer blares out.

Carriveau’s mood takes a nosedive.

“Shut it off!” she barks with an extraordinary degree of hostility. “
Tout de suite
!”

“What’s the matter?” Adel complies. “You don’t like it?” She cues up a different song. “How about this instead?” She hits the play button, unleashing the chorus of Lily Allen’s Fuck You.

In response to that, Carriveau marches over, yanks the plug on the music, grabs Adel by the elbow, and hauls the unruly teen out of the performance hall.

“Get back to the house! And go straight to the dormitory. I don’t want to see hide nor hair of you again tonight.”

“Really?” Adel feigns confusion. “You don’t want me to wait up for you so that you can frig yourself while I—”

Carriveau slams the door on her.

In the silence that follows, she presses her back against the wall, battling to control her breathing. From left to right, all around the room, she feels her students’ eyes burning into her. She can see their confusion, their concern, and perceives their judgment. She can’t bear it.

“
Ça suffit pour ce soir
.” She wipes away a stray tear, declaring their work here is done for the night. “Go back to your houses.”

No-one moves.

“Now!” She slaps her open palm on the wooden paneling on the wall beside her to emphasize the order, making several of the girls jump before scurrying from the room.

All except Rylie.

Taking a chance that the instruction doesn’t apply to her, Rylie moves steadily closer as Carriveau fumbles her cell phone out of her pocket and makes a call to Miss Ansell.

“Edwards is on her way back to the house,” she informs her Deputy, allowing Rylie to approach her. “See to it that she goes straight up to the dormitory when she gets there. Laurenson’s not far behind her.”

On the other end of the phone, Miss Ansell enquires about the only other student from the house who’s yet to return.

“Harcourt’s with me.” Carriveau fingers Rylie’s hair, her mood softening, her anger and sadness abating. “I’m not sure when we’ll be back. It could be a late night.” She hangs up.

Rylie checks her watch: it’s barely eight thirty.

“A late night, huh?” She creeps her hands around Carriveau’s waist. “So what shall we do now?” She helps herself to Carriveau’s lips. “Now that we’re alone.”

“What do you think we should do?” Carriveau wraps her fingers around the collar of Rylie’s school shirt, holding on tight to her as she accepts another kiss. “Bearing in mind that, until you’re eighteen, a love like this is illegal. We ought to behave.”

That’s the first time Rylie’s ever heard her use the word love in a complete sentence. Sure, it’s not quite a declaration, but it’s damn close.

“I hope you’re teasing.” She strokes Carriveau’s waist. “If you said you wanted to press pause on this now, I’m not sure I could comply. Not after last night.”