but suddenly Olly pulls back.
‘Wait.’ He’s breathless. ‘I don’t want to move too fast.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You’re sure? Listen, really I can wait. I don’t want this to be some quick thing. You’re more than that to me.’
I must look upset, because Olly says: ‘Hey. It’s okay. Really. I’ll get you a towel and you can have my bed, okay? I’ll take the sofa.’
‘No,’ I insist, gripping his arms. ‘I want this. Honestly, I want this. It’s just … I’ve never felt this way either. I’ve never been … special.’
‘You are special,’ says Olly. ‘The most special girl I’ve ever met.’
He kisses me again and I’m lost.
We make love in the hot tub and then again on Olly’s bed. He’s gentle at times, firm at others. He’s considerate, but sometimes teeters on the brink of losing control.
In the morning, Olly makes me waffles covered in syrup and a sugary hot chocolate. Then we have sex again before I sneak back to my chalet to prepare breakfast for my host family.
While I’m whisking up scrambled eggs, my phone bleeps. It’s a message from Olly: I miss you already.
I feel soft warmth in my chest, but also anxiety.
This is amazing. The most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. But how can something like this last? Half the things Olly thinks we both ‘love’, I only like a little bit. Like sea bass, tomato ketchup and syrup-covered waffles with sweet hot chocolate. I’ve exaggerated so he’ll think we have things in common, scared that boring little me isn’t good enough.
Oh, what does it matter?
I’m probably just a sexual conquest and Olly will forget all about me in a few days.
This can’t last.
It’s too good to be true.
My chest aches as I run up the stony path. I’ve forgotten Tom’s painkillers. They’re not vital. His migraines are stress-related and he hasn’t had one since we left Olly. But I’d like the school to have tablets to hand just in case.
You’ll never cope alone.
Olly’s voice plays in my head sometimes, no matter how hard I try to drown it out.
Maybe some things you can’t outrun.
Even when you’re running.
I reach the school gates, tan-leather handbag bobbing against my side.
Then I remember the padlock.
There is an intercom by the wrought-iron gates, so I press it.
A woman’s voice crackles: ‘Hello? Do you have an appointment?’
‘Hi. It’s Tom Riley’s mother. I brought his medicine.’ I peer through the railings. ‘Hello?’ I call again. No one answers.
The main door is firmly shut, a solid lump of wood. A few early autumn leaves scatter the empty playground, crispy green-orange, some dancing up against the brickwork. I notice again the bars on the windows and bite my lip. Why have bars like that? This is a school, not a prison. And that blacked-out window. What are they trying to hide?
After a moment, the headmaster himself strides across the playground. He looks earnest. Almost helpful. But I sense another energy too. Something like annoyance.
‘Hello, Mrs Kinnock,’ says Mr Cockrun, as he reaches the gate. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Um … it’s Riley. And I have Tom’s medicine.’
‘Medicine?’ His eyes bore into me. ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’
‘It’s not essential but—’
‘All medicine must go through me.’ Anger passes across his face for a fraction of a second – it’s so quick that I almost don’t spot it. The next moment, his earnest expression is back in place. ‘Well, come inside and we’ll make a record.’
He unlocks the gates and ushers me through, taking a good few minutes to re-secure the padlock.
I follow him across the playground.
When we reach the heavy entrance door, Mr Cockrun says, ‘Wait in reception, but please don’t let the children see you, Mrs Kinnock. I don’t want them knowing a parent is here during the school day. It’s unsettling for them.’
I nod stiffly.
‘Next time, make sure you bring everything at school drop-off,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘All right? It’s a safeguarding issue, Ms Riley. Having people come and go.’ He gives me a winning smile.
‘Parents dropping things off is a safeguarding issue?’ I say.
‘Yes. And the children really do become unsettled too. It’s not fair on them. They learn much better when they understand that school is where we care for them and home is where they see their parents. I’m sure you can understand.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re an exceptional school, Ms Riley. We know what we’re doing. Let’s have this medicine, then. What’s Tom taking?’
I don’t know why the question feels intrusive, but it does.
‘Painkillers,’ I say, passing over the white packet. ‘He doesn’t take them all the time. Just if he gets a bad headache.’
‘I’ll pop these in my office,’ says Mr Cockrun, heading through a side door. In the room beyond, I see him unlock a cabinet made of orangey teak and stickered with a pharmaceutical green cross. The cabinet is mounted low down on the wall – at stomach level.
Mr Cockrun puts Tom’s medicine inside, then locks the cabinet and pockets the key.
The room has a single window, I notice. The two-way glass I saw from the outside.
So the headmaster’s office is the room they don’t want people seeing into.
As I’m thinking about that, I hear the sound of children chanting coming from a room off reception:
‘We are the best.
We rise above the rest.
By strength and guile,
We go the extra mile.’
The double doors leading from reception haven’t quite closed, and through the crack I see rows of children seated for assembly: eyes dull, school uniforms immaculate
