Wrong Room, Right Guy Read online

  Chapter 17

  The next few days are all a bit mixed up in my mind, so excuse me if I get things in the wrong order.

  The next morning, I was lying in bed, when I would normally have been in the staffroom sipping substandard coffee. My house phone rang and I didn't answer it. I retreated deeper into the duvet, shutting out the world around me.

  Then my mobile rang. It was Lucy. I recognised her different ring tone. I hovered over the answer button and decided against pressing it. I turned over and retreated back to the sleepy warm womb of a duvet.

  I eventually got up at eleven o'clock. My mobile had about sixteen missed calls, and almost as many voice-mails. I made myself a strong, proper coffee and began listening to the messages.

  I wrote myself a list for the day:

  1. Perfect breakfast

  2. Call Lucy

  3. Write novel

  4. Write blog posts for the school

  5. Get another job

  Now, thinking back, I'm not sure what the first point was about, but I think I was under the impression that if I started the day, not rushing, with my perfect breakfast, it would set me up well for the other things on the list.

  A mouthful of eggs royale later - poached egg, smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce in case you don't know - I answered my phone for the first time since it hadn't stopped ringing all morning. It was Lucy's special ring tone.

  'Fuck's sake, Simon. Are you all right? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning. Mr Farnham's livid you walked out last night. He wanted to mention the foundation studies classes you weren't doing. But you just went. What happened? Are you sick? Why did you just go?'

  'I had a vision of sitting in those terminal meetings until I was old Farnham's age. And I saw the cursor, flashing, and I had to get back and see to it.'

  'I'll see to you in a minute. If you don't get here soon he's going to sack you for gross misconduct. No pay to the end of the year, no payment in lieu of notice, nothing. So, come on, stop pissing about, throw some clothes on, and meet me in the staff room.'

  'I can't. I've got a list. And school's not on the list.' I clung to the list like a life raft. I had put a lot of hope into the list, and I wasn't about to lose it now, not from what Lucy was saying to me.

  'A list? Bugger the list, you've got a job, and it's waiting for you, here. But not for much longer.'

  I looked at the list, then started to cry. Big dollops of tears splashed onto the list I was holding in my shaking hands. 'I've done two things on it. Not a bad morning's work don't you think?'

  'I wish I could come over to see you, but I've got this thing I need to do. Oh yeah, it's called teaching, this thing they pay me to do. Which you should really be doing as well. But evidently you're not well are you? I'm telling him you've had a nervous breakdown. You get to the doctor, and get a note, something. Something to say you're not well, and we'll work it out from there.' She waited for my reply, none came. I heard her sigh. 'Can you add something onto your list for me please?'

  I nodded, then realised she couldn't hear that and managed a little, 'Okay.'

  'Can you add - go to doctor's - to the list for me?'

  So I did. At the bottom of the list I added 6) go to doctor's.

  After a bit of a fracas with the receptionist, when she asked me whether my appointment was urgent or not, because all the non-urgent ones had gone for the morning. If I wanted an urgent one that afternoon, I'd have to call back after one o'clock.

  I wrote 'one o'clock' on the list, next to point 6) and stared at my cafétière of coffee. I was still crying for some reason. And shaking, I noticed now, my body was shaking and I'd been gently rocking the whole time I'd been sitting, talking to Lucy and the snotty receptionist at the doctor's surgery.

  I walked back to bed. I really wasn't well. Lucy was right. I wasn't sure what was wrong with me, but I wasn't right. I walked past the half-eaten perfect breakfast, which now just looked silly, cold and over-indulgent. I wasn't quite sure what that had been about, but when I was making it I had felt a bit better. Maybe that was because I had something to do, rather than worry about the next terminal meeting or statistical analysis report for the Head to send to OFSTED, or someone else.

  I woke in the afternoon, my contact lenses sticking to my eyes as I'd slept in them. Damn, what a stupid thing to forget. But I had needed sleep. That I did know.

  After another strained phone call, when I told the receptionist I kept crying, and should be at work, but I couldn't get there, she booked me an emergency, gold-dust-diamond-encrusted appointment that afternoon.

  The doctor, a friendly grey-haired man, whom I'd seen many times before for various ailments since I'd moved to the town, leant forward and said, 'So, Simon, what seems to be the matter with you?'

  And then, in that little room, with a ten minute block of time allocated to me, it all came tumbling out my mouth. The terminal meetings, the students not understanding Shakespeare, asking for more creative lessons, and then getting them and still not being happy, the writers group, Clara-Bell, her advice, and walking out of the terminal meeting, right up to when I'd needed to stay in bed, and been crying that morning. I showed him my list, unwilling to hand it to him, for I felt some strange power by keeping hold of it.

  He read it through his half moon glasses. 'I see. I think you've got a case of mild depression, and being run down. Nothing a few weeks off won't fix, and some of these marvellous pills.' He wrote a prescription and handed it to me.

  I remembered Lucy's phone call that morning. 'Mr Farnham. He wants … '

  'Ah yes, of course. How many weeks would you like? One, two, four weeks?'

  I wiped my eyes and stared at my little list, shaking in my hand.

  'Let's say two months, and see how you get on eh? How does that sound, Mr Payne? Lots of rest, lost of sleep, you'll be right as rain.'

  'I can't go back there.' I grabbed his hand and stared into his eyes.

  'Where, can't you return to?'

  'Mr Farnham. I can't go back there.'

  'One step at a time, old chap. One step at a time. Here.' He handed me a phone number. 'When you're feeling a bit more together, give them a call and they can set you up with someone to talk to. Help you feel better. That and the tablets, you'll be right as rain. Right as rain, I'm sure.'

  I didn't get any further through the list than that, on that first day. That evening, Lucy came round, and agreed to take my sick note to the Head.

  After a few days, taking the big white tablets which had somehow made their way into my house, magically changing from the green prescription slip the doctor had handed me, I was able to turn on my laptop. Not to write, but to check my e-mails.

  I had something from the school.

  I walked away from the screen. This, I knew, I couldn't cope with. Not yet.

  I walked back to the screen, like I was trying not to startle the e-mail, like I was stalking it gently. I was an e-mail whisperer.

  Then I realised it wasn't to my normal Simon Payne e-mail, it was to my Michael Mountsford one. And the school didn't know I was Michael Mountsford. The only person who knew that was Lucy, and the other writers I knew from the group.

  The school were asking when I'd send over the three blog posts I was due to write for them that month. They listed what they wanted them to be about, and had included some links and other documents for research about the topics.

  Could I really write five hundred words about the school's plans for Red Nose Day? Would it be possible to squeeze some words out of my brain about two NQTs who had just started? And how about something on the closure of the Portakabin classroom at the back of the main building to make way for a new all weather football pitch? Could I do that, could I write something about that, despite how I felt?

  I'll give myself an hour, and I'll write one, and see how it works.

  I didn't go through my previous procrastination list, instead, I sat at the laptop, opened up a Word document and started to type. A few cl
icks here and there for some research, re-phrasing it, so it was written in my words, and I had a page about Red Nose Day. It sounded like fun. Maybe I'd go along and help out.

  But no. Maybe not.

  I worked for the next few hours, and had all three posts written. I dared to go back to my inbox, reminding myself there was nothing to dare about as it was Michael Mountsford's inbox, not mine. There was another e-mail from the school - lovely lady called Miss Manning, the Head's secretary who'd been asked to liaise with me - Michael really - about the work. They liked what I'd written for the new web pages about the school, it was like I'd really walked around the buildings, could I write some more pages, and a list of topics below? She signed it off with something about if I wanted to visit the school in real life, she would be more than happy to show me round.

  More than happy. Liaise.

  Words I'd not miss hearing on a daily basis.

  How kind of Miss Manning.

  I said, I wasn't able to visit, but thanks for the offer, the pictures and other stuff she'd sent me were great, thanks. And, yes, I was happy to write the other pages, at the same rate as before.

  And then I remembered. I was getting paid for this. It had somehow slipped my mind they would pay me for this.

  I changed my website - my website, get me - and under freelance writer, listed the school as a client, and what I'd written for them.

  Then I got back to Miss Manning's e-mail and started to write the next web page. I stayed at the desk until eight o'clock. I'd been writing and e-mailing about it for seven hours, and it felt like the morning coffee break at school.

  This continued for the next few days. I wrote a few chapters of the book, so now it said Chapter 3, followed by a flashing cursor. It was a story about a man who falls in love with an ex cocaine addict he meets through a group. I wasn't sure how it would end yet, but I'd worry about that later.

  I told Clara-Bell what I'd done. She'd tutted, sighed, and told me I was 'a silly boy' before asking me what she could do to help.

  I explained about the to do list and the bits which I was a bit stuck on.

  She was at mine within the hour. After a bit of getting lost, because she refused to take my postcode, and didn't have a sat nav 'The devil's work. I refuse, darling,' she arrived in a cloud of patchouli oil, a long red smock which hung from her enormous bosom and covered her feet, and a basket of picnic food she'd prepared earlier. 'You're in no fit state to make food. I've some homemade Scotch eggs and Cornish pasties, you just have the tea ready; that is all.'

  I told her about the freelance work I'd been doing for the school. She read through what I'd written. 'Not bad. Not bad at all, darling. Now let's see if we can get you something else to keep the wolf from the door,' and she opened an enormous red Filofax, stuffed with business cards, Post-It notes and folded paper flapping out of the edges. 'Ah, yes, I knew there was something which rang a bell.'

  'What, what is it?'

  'Now, you'll have to be a bit tricky with this one, or they won't be interested, in a young man in his ... what are you, late thirties?'

  'Just turned thirty. I think that's what made me think. Another thirty years of teaching, no thank you.' I drifted off.

  She patted my arm, then handed me an e-mail she'd pulled from her Filofax, folded and scribbled on in her bright pink pen. 'Here, see what you think.'

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Darling Clara-Bell

  I wonder if you could help me!!! I'm in a terrible fix, our agony aunt, Jenna has just handed in her notice, after almost twenty years. I wonder if you could step into her shoes, and be 'Dear Mary Martyn' for a bit?

  There's a huge post and e-mail bag of letters, you just pick six or seven each week, reply to them, and we'll publish the best four or five. Of course, we can negotiate the pay, darling, especially for you. But it is every week. It would mean writing these beastly replies every week ...

  I have tried for a week and I simply couldn't fit it in - among the twins, this place, and me trying to go to yoga twice a week - it simply didn't work.

  I wouldn't ask if I weren't in a real fix.

  And remember, it's not forever, it would just be until we can find someone on a more permanent basis.

  Do call, I'd love to hear from you! And if you want to talk anything through.

  Yours,

  Jenny Sinatra-Hamilton

  Editor - Ladies Weekly Magazine

  I looked up from the crumpled e-mail in my hand. 'Are you going to do it? Sounds like a cushy number to me. Don't they want any qualifications for it?'

  'She didn't mention it. Some of them want you to be a qualified counsellor, or sex therapist, or relationship expert, or something. But Jenny, darling, she didn't mention it did she? After all, she is desperate.'

  I shook my head, still trying to work out what this had to do with me, in my living room, trying to replace some of my teacher's salary.

  'Oh, darling, Simon. Must I explain it to you?'

  'I think you will have to, I'm afraid.'

  'You really are out of sorts, aren't you? I'll tell her yes, give her a call, good old chin wag, say we'll go to lunch next time I'm up west visiting her in London, and you'll do all the work. I can forward you the e-mails, letters etc. You can reply to them, send them back to me and that's it. I'll just be your post box. You're doing all the hard work darling.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'You're so sweet. I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't want to. We'll be getting Jenny darling out of a fix; it helps me, because if she ever wants more freelance articles for the mag, I'm her woman, and of course, it helps you out too.'

  'What about the money? She'll be paying you I'm assuming?'

  'They used to pay by cheque, but I expect they've stopped that one, sunk without trace, like the art of letter writing. I mean, even I don't use cheques any more. If they want details, give them your PayPal account, or just a bank account. They can't find out whose account it is.' She waved her hand in the air. 'It'll be fine, darling. Trust me. So, are you up for it? Bit of mischief, in a good cause?'

  I nodded.

  'Such fun! Marvellous. I'll sort things my end. Can you e-mail me a bank account, and we'll take it from there?'

  I retrieved my original list, from the first day, and ticked off the point about getting another job.

  The rest of it was simple. Far too simple actually. Jenny was wowed and wooed by Clara-Bell's charm, as expected, but had been asked by her publisher to send a few letters and e-mails as a test, just to see Clara-Bell was 'up to the job, darling' she assured her it was 'just a formality'.

  I gave them a go. A bit of internet research, with a heavy dose of common sense, and I drafted my three replies. The problems were, in no particular order:

  1. A woman who had gone off sex after the birth of her first baby;

  Dear X,

  I am very sorry to hear you have gone off the physical side of your relationship with your husband. Let me reassure you this is perfectly normal for someone with a small baby. You are probably exhausted, and not feeling your best because you're putting baby's needs before your own. Exactly as you should be. If baby is still in your bedroom, that won't help with intimacy with your husband.

  You mustn't try to force the issue. Try to have some you-and-husband time after baby has gone to sleep. Ask each other how your days were, talk about things you'd like to do together, when baby is a bit older.

  Explain to your husband how you feel, and that it will pass. The appetite for the physical side of a relationship ebbs and flows within a long term couple, and you happen to have a bit of an ebb at the moment. Tell him it will flow again. Make sure you give one another attention in other ways too.

  Best wishes,

  Mary Martyn

  2. A woman who had just retired and found herself with no children at home, and no clue what to do with her time, which was making her feel pretty blue;

&nbs
p; Dear Y,

  You do sound very low. What you're experiencing at the moment it often called empty nest syndrome. It happens after the children have left, and as you're retiring and looking forward to a life of leisure, you don't know what to do. This is normal. This is because you've spent the last thirty years with not an awful lot of time to relax and think about yourself. Only now, you are retiring, this is the time to really think about what you want to do with your retirement. Give yourself weekly, daily goals, so you achieve more than simply getting dressed and making food.

  If you have hobbies and interests which have usually taken a back seat due to work and children, see if there are local groups for them nearby. Try to become more involved in the local community. Is there a church group, or classes in your local community centre or school? Are there friends you've always meant to see more of, but never had the time? Make a few calls, find out how they are. Write them a letter to explain you have more time and would love to see them. If you throw yourself into a variety of ventures, you'll soon find some come to fruition and lead to other things. Others won't go anywhere, so don't return to that particular group. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  You need to think of this part of your retirement as a new stage in your life, which you can create as you wish, but it'll take a bit of getting used to compared to the previous stage.

  Enjoy!

  Mary Martyn

  3. And a woman who had found out her husband was having an affair, and she thought she might be a lesbian.

  Dear Z,

  The fact that you mention your possible feelings towards another woman in the same letter about your husband's affair leads me to believe they are somehow fortunately linked in your mind.