Swipe

Have you ever matched with someone on Tinder and it turns out to be the super-hot dad of one of the children in your class? And on parents evening he comes in and sits opposite you? Then you both realise as your eyes meet that you’ve been naked together? But you hope to God that this is one of those dreams where you wake up sweating and panicking, but ultimately safe from embarrassment in your own bed? 

 

Just me sitting here experiencing my own version of scarlet-faced hell then? 

 

Oh shit, he’s smiling and his eyes are definitely twinkling. Perhaps he doesn’t remember me leaving him naked, ruffled and alone on a Sunday morning - swiftly exiting through the bi-fold doors and ghosting his increasingly confused messages for two weeks? 

 

He tilts his head, opens his mouth and frowns. It’s like an Aidan Turner frown though - alluring, brooding, utterly sexy. 

 

Oh fuck, he definitely remembers me. 

 

“Hello Miss...er...” He knows I have a freckle hidden in the crease at the top of my legs, but he doesn’t know my surname. My gran is cartwheeling in her grave. I swallow hard and smile. 

 

“Stevens. Miss Stevens.” I hold out my hand and shake his across the table. His hand is warm and rough on the palm. Mine is greased with sudden sweat. 

 

“You must be Alexa’s dad?” I slide my hand free and look at my notes; I’m carefully prepared for questions on any curriculum area or wellbeing issue that might arise, but wholly unprepared for this shitshow of a meeting. 

 

“Yes. I’m Alexa’s dad.” His voice is deep, gruff, hesitant. It seems to travel from my ears to much lower down my body. I don’t look at him. I can’t. I just pull out the sheet of paper with Alexa’s name in the top right-hand corner and switch to automatic. 

 

“Let’s see...well, Alexa is doing really well in maths and English. She wrote a fantastic story about the great fire of London. Did you get a chance to look through her books while you were waiting?”

 

I look up. He’s staring at me. I go back to my notes. 

 

“It’s a joy to see her enthusiasm for art. Her painting is beautiful. I think this one here is...hers...”

 

“You just left.” 

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

It’s loud in the hall so I lean towards him as if trying to hear better, but really it’s so I can lower my voice and say viciously:

 

“Yeah well, you didn’t tell me you were married, Phil.” 

 

“I’m not. Well, I was. But not anymore.” 

 

His eyes hold mine as he leans in so that our faces are too close for a parents evening meeting. Suddenly, I think he’s going to kiss me and I flinch backwards scraping my chair legs loudly on the hall floor. Graham looks over and gives me a thumbs up to check whether I need him to rescue me from a difficult conversation. I don’t think my boss needs to hear this, so I return his thumbs up - all under control. Phil is still leaning towards me, his hands on the table as if he might try and hold my hands. This is hideous. 

 

“So in the last month you’ve divorced your wife?” I keep my voice low and my tone even, despite the humiliation flooding my body, edging self control into hysteria.

 

“I’ve been divorced since 2012. I don’t have a wife.” His beautiful face looks so earnest. I feel sick. 

 

“What about your wedding ring? And the wedding photo? And the woman in her pyjamas in your kitchen at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning?” 

 

The last sentence comes out as a hiss and I can feel my cheeks have turned from cerise to flaming hot. Graham has slyly edged his way across the hall and appears in my peripheral vision.

 

Shit shit shit. 

 

“Your next appointment is waiting Miss Stevens.” The Headteacher reels off his rescue speech, misinterpreting my face as panic rather than the rage and shame burning through my chest. 

 

“If you have any further questions you can make an appointment via the office.” He steps back with a hand on the back of the blue plastic chair as Phil stands up. 

 

“Thank you, Miss Stevens.” Phil’s chestnut eyes looks conflicted as if he’s about to add something but then he nods to Graham, turns and walks his perfectly toned behind out of the hall. The breath I’ve been holding in comes out as a whoosh and my boss tells me to go and get a drink (he means tea but my throat is screaming for neat gin). 

 

“Take ten minutes. I’ll speak to your next appointment.” He picks up my notes and heads towards the corridor. 

 

As I squeeze the fire door handle downwards and escape into the darkness of the playground I’m almost shaking. I wish I smoked so I had something to do with my hands rather than just clenching the tips of my fingernails into my burning palms. That evening with Phil had been fun and easy and I should never have been so stupid as to believe he was actually interested AND available. What a fucking naive loser I am. I sink down to sit on the floor and lean against the cold bricks, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths - counting in for 5 and out for 7 just like Lina taught me in therapy. How come everyone else can do this? Why can’t I be normal? One tear is allowed to leak out and seep into the corner of my mouth. A single tear, like me. I taste the salt, take one last deep breath and go to make the tea that Graham suggested. 

 

The rest of my appointments happen without any further shocks. It’s nearly 6 o’clock and I’m waiting for the final parent on my list to arrive then I’m going home for a long hot bath and a Chinese take away. I’m also pretty sure I have a whole box of Maltesers somewhere in my teacher cupboard that will definitely be coming home with me tonight. 

 

It’s quiet now in the hall; just me, Margaret and Graham. Margaret is talking to what seems like the entire extended family of one of her Year 5s and Graham has joined them. The children from the family sit colouring on a table by the door as I flick through my notes to check the info for my last meeting. Alexa’s name is there in the 6pm box. That can only mean...

 

“Hi, I’m Cara - Alexa’s mother.” 

 

I look up to see a tall, thin woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and stunningly bright red lipstick. Her eyes are the same blue as her daughter’s. Her pale grey Ugg boots make no sound as she steps closer and starts to pull out the chair opposite me. I have never seen her at school before, but then it’s only October and I’m still getting to know my class and their families. I give her my best professional smile. 

 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Miss Stevens.” 

 

I stand up and shake her hand then we sit down in unison. She looks just like the photo in Phil’s hallway, although thinner than on her wedding day. I notice her fingers are all ring-free. 

 

“Thank you for staying to see me, it must be a long day for you?” 

 

“Not at all, I enjoy these evenings.” 

 

“How’s Alexa doing? Is she happy?” The question is a common one. Most parents want to know that their child is happy, has friends and is enjoying school. I’m prepared for this.

 

“She’s settled in well and told me she enjoys coming to school. The friendship group she’s part of is lovely - they have fun playtimes.”  

 

Cara looks intently at me.

 

“But she is happy?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m sorry, it’s just her dad and I aren’t together. We never really have been. I’m afraid we married young and when Alexa came along I couldn’t...” She laughs nervously and blinks her watery eyes. “Sorry, I don’t suppose you need my life story!” 

 

“You’re fine.” I smile, intrigued. 

 

“Alexa doesn’t know me.” She says quietly. “I have parental responsibility and I keep in touch with her dad, but I’m not her mummy; I’m her mother.” She composes herself and leans back in her chair. 

 

“Well, she is happy and doing well at school.” I’m not sure what else to say. Cara nods. We spend 5 minutes looking at Alexa’s books and Cara looks relieved. I want to ask her about Phil. I want to know why, if they don’t live together, she was in his kitchen two Sunday mornings ago. And I want to know why she doesn’t know Alexa. But none of these questions arrives in my mouth before it’s time to end the meeting. 

 

“I won’t see you again.” Cara clarifies as she stands. “I’m returning to France tomorrow. It was lovely to meet you.” 

 

She sweeps silently out of the hall, leaving a trail of lily-scented perfume. I wonder suddenly if she was simply my overactive imagination after an exhausting Monday. I gather my notes, my mug and my iPad from the table and go back to my classroom to locate the Maltesers. 

 

Half an hour later I’m perched on the rail in the bus shelter with my back pack snuggled between my ankles. The digital display shifts from ‘bus due’ to ‘17 minutes’. I swear under my breath and push my hands deeper into my coat pockets. It’s nearing 7 o’clock now - almost 12 hours since I left my house. 

 

As I resign myself to waiting, I start to count colours in the restaurant window opposite. It’s something I’ve done since I was a kid as a calming and focusing technique. After a while I stop, staring to my right as if the bus’ arrival is imminent even though the sign says 14 minutes. I try adjusting my features to look like someone who has places to go and people to see, someone who isn’t lonely and alone. To my left, a man stops and perches next to me in the bus shelter. I take out my phone, unlock it and open the work group chat. Margaret has posted a photo of a large glass of wine. I start to leave a comment when...

 

“Why did you leave?”

 

“Jesus! Phil, you scared me!” 

 

I turn to my left - his face wears an anguished expression with a dent between his eyebrows that I want to smooth away with my fingers. 

 

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you.” 

 

“It’s ok, I didn’t...you made me jump.” 

 

God, he’s all dark wavy hair and stubble. I can’t take my eyes off him as he rubs a hand over his face. He looks miserable. A guilty twinge shoots up from my feet, making my stomach churn. 

 

“I met Cara.” I say softly. Looking across into the restaurant window. Blue, yellow, dark brown...

 

“Oh.”

 

“Look, Phil, I saw your wedding photo in your hallway and I found your wedding ring in your pocket. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t date married men.” There, I’m being clear, stating my truth. No more buried emotions. Totally worth £40 a session. 

 

“Fuck, this is a mess. I’m sorry Katie. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date. I should have explained, but I didn’t know you’d be so... that I would...” he lowers his voice, “that we’d end up in my bed.” 

 

Sounds like Phil needs Lila’s contact details and 12 sessions of his own. 

 

“She was in your kitchen.” I drive the knife in up to the hilt then watch the horror take his face over, his eyes bleed to almost black. Yes, explain that with your treacle voice and your chiselled jawline.

 

“What?!” He looks genuinely panicked. 

 

“That morning, I came downstairs to make coffee and she was in your kitchen in her pink flowery pyjamas.” The knife slides upwards, probing his heart. 

 

“No she wasn’t!” 

 

“I fucking saw her! I recognised her from your wedding photo! I’m not an idiot!” A group of people coming out of the restaurant look over at us as they do up their coats and I realise I’m louder than I want to be, but I’m so cross with myself and with him for inviting me in when he already has a wife or some kind of ex-wife still hanging around. Then he laughs. The bastard thinks this is funny! 

 

“It wasn’t Cara. It was her sister. She was over from New York that weekend. She was staying at the house - visiting Alexa - that’s how come I had a pass to come out that night. You didn’t think? Oh my god!” 

 

He keeps laughing. I stare at him, not sure whether to punch him or scream. Really? The whole twin sister story? This isn’t a daytime soap opera! 

 

“So the wedding photo and the ring are just pieces of nostalgia you keep on display? On your ring finger? In the entrance to your home?” 

 

He stops laughing and reaches over to put his hand on mine. I cross my arms. He’s not winning that easily, even if he does have those dimples when he laughs... 

 

“Katie, every date I’ve been on has been a disaster so I take the ring in my pocket in case I need to use it as a prop - to escape.”

 

“And the photo?” 

 

I keep my arms folded and my eyebrows high. 

 

“For Alexa. We don’t have many  photos of her mother. Usually that photo is in her bedroom, but I guess they were looking at it while I was out. Katie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Jade was even awake when I suggested you make coffee and I certainly didn’t know you were Alexa’s teacher!” 

 

“Yeah, well we probably shouldn’t see each other again.”

 

He looks pained. 

 

“It’s not really allowed for me to go out with a parent.” 

 

Even ones with sculpted muscles and eyes to dive down into. 

 

“Alexa’s moving to St Anne’s after half term. It’s nearer our house.” 

 

“Oh.”

 

Rage, shame, confusion fall onto the ground around me and roll into the gutter. 

 

Phil puts his hand on my cheek and I lean into it, turning to face him. As he leans in, he looks from my eyes to my lips and then suddenly I can taste him. Our tongues meet, his other hand is on the small of my back as I slide my fingers up the back of his neck into the thick tangle of his hair and place one hand on his chest. He moans and I find myself moaning back. This is scandalous behaviour at the bus stop. Thank goodness it’s dark! 

 

Of course, the bus now appears around the corner. 

 

“I’ve got to go.” I mumble into his mouth. 

 

I scramble up and dig in my pocket for my ticket. He stands up and says, “Have dinner with me on Friday. That’s the last day before half term, so it’s not breaking any rules.” 

 

He grins at me and I can’t help kissing him one more time as I say:

 

“That sounds great!”

 

The bus stops with a hiss as the doors shudder open. 

 

“See you on Friday.” He says and lets go of the hand I hadn’t realised he was holding. 

 

“See you then.” 

 

I get on the bus and sit down, hauling my backpack on to the seat next to me. I unzip the front pocket and pull out the maltesers as my phone buzzes. Phil’s name is on the screen. I smile to myself and swipe right.