his pale blue double-cuff shirt was now translucent with sweat. Through the damp cotton, Mr Love’s chest hair did look like a black lace bra.
Callum was wearing Hawaiian board shorts and a tight V-neck T-shirt with the logo ‘NBX Burnout’ – just as open to ridicule, in its way, as Mr Love’s outfit. But 8S had granted Mr Dempster immunity. There was a certain toughness about him that made them wary of taking the piss. He was also going to be their form teacher next year. It was preferable to have him as an ally.
The snickering was getting louder. Callum turned to face the class with one eyebrow raised and his head slightly cocked. Could he have seen it, Mr Love would not have thanked him for this look. But it worked. There was one more titter, and then 8S were silent.
‘Mr Love won’t play our CD, though.’
The speaker sounded aggrieved. Ludo Hall was head of choir; he had tightly waved marmalade hair and a pure treble voice reputed to have made several of the male members of staff weep. Because of this, and in spite of a staffroom mantra ‘not to let Ludo Hall think he’s special’, he was treated, ever so slightly, like a celebrity. Women of all ages responded to his fine, pale features, and Ludo had already begun to respond to this response. In class he was subtly disruptive, with a keen sense of injustice and a talent for figuring himself as the wronged party when caught.
Callum eyed him evenly then smiled before the boy could see him weighing his decision. ‘Ah, Charles?’ he said, turning back to Mr Love.
The CD was Loud by Rihanna, and it kept everyone happy all the way back to Denham Hall. Everyone except for Mr Love (Sex in the air, I don’t care I love the smell of it) and Sophie Witrand. Callum watched her with a mixture of pity and interest. She was twisted right round to face the class, trying to sing along with song lyrics she didn’t really know. After five minutes of being ignored she flopped back into her seat. But then she would pick herself up and start again.
During one of her ‘time-outs’, she asked him a question.
‘So the Romans, they didn’t believe in God, did they, sir?’
‘The Romans had lots of gods. You know that, Sophie.’ She was one of the brightest students in the class.
‘No, but not God God, like the Christian God – they didn’t even really know about him till the three hundreds ay dee, did they.’
‘Until the fourth century, that’s right. Very good. Emperor?’
‘Emperor Constantine. But, sir…’ Sophie was distracted by a chorus she evidently knew. She wriggled away from their conversation and launched herself back into Rihanna. ‘Want you to MAKE ME FEEL – like I’m the only girl in the world – like I’m the only one that you’ll ever luh-uv…’
Back at school, however, she stayed sitting in the bus long after the others had piled out. Callum held the door open for her, but she didn’t budge.
‘Sir, do you believe in God?’
‘Whew.’ Callum drummed his fingers on the top of the minibus door, looking up for inspiration. The bright flat blue sky was softer now, tinged with mauve and graduating to a clear eau de Nil at the horizon. ‘Well … let’s just say, on an evening like this, it’s hard not to feel something, eh?’
She was too intelligent to take this as a yes. Callum felt the reproach in her gaze and found himself apologising.
‘Sorry.’ He glanced at his watch. They were meeting Will for drinks at nine. Chris would be arriving at eight. ‘Sophie, I’m afraid I don’t really have time for this now. Ask me again some other day, I promise I’ll give you a better answer.’
Sophie nodded sadly and got out of the bus, ducking under his arm with a mumbled ‘Bye, sir’.
Her baggy shorts, rumpled from the long bus ride, had ridden up between her bum cheeks; unselfconsciously, she tugged the material free. The evening sun lit the downy hair of her legs in a soft halo. Callum thought of plant stems, brightly outlined by their greenly glowing fibres.
* * *
At ten o’clock that morning, Tamsin had known exactly what she’d be wearing for an evening in the pub with Callum, Will, and various of Will’s cronies: jeans and a T-shirt, minimal makeup. At midday, Callum had texted to say that Chris would be joining them. Now it was 6 p.m. and Tamsin was in her bedroom, deliberating between her two shortest dresses.
Tamsin tugged the dress up over her head and stood in her underwear for a moment, contemplating her near-naked reflection. The stretch marks encircling her breasts glinted slug-trail silver in the early evening sunlight. She forced herself to think dispassionately about Chris. He was good-looking and intelligent, but then she knew plenty of good-looking, intelligent people. Compared to Callum, he seemed unattractively young. Really, the thrill she felt at the thought of seeing him again made no sense at all.
It didn’t occur to her that just his reappearance might be enough to pique her interest in him. Tamsin prided herself on her pragmatism; unlike Chris, she had no time for fate or destiny or kismet. But coincidence is a powerful aphrodisiac. After their first encounter seven years ago, Tamsin remembered Chris chiefly because of the unusual circumstances in which they met. Then she forgot him, because he had been uninteresting to her. When she saw him again at Leo’s party, there was suddenly a pair of coincidences, mutually amplifying their significance. Then there had been that supper at Callum’s, and now here he was again, in town for the weekend, apparently, just wondering what she and Callum were up to, whether he could join them for supper, perhaps even stay the night … The effect of these repetitions was, subtly but surely, one of emphasis added, his name in italics in her mind.
As Tamsin struggled with the zip on dress number two, virtue abruptly won out. She loved Callum, very much: she had no business baring her legs for Chris, or anyone else. In the top left-hand corner of the mirror was a small sticker collection, comprising three holographic hearts in shades of puce, six fuzzy-felt teddy bears, a parakeet and a hamburger, placed there by the eight-year-old Tamsin. For years, Tamsin had barely even noticed the stickers; now, suddenly, she found herself irritated by them. She peeled them all off, crumpled them into a tacky ball, and rubbed ineffectually at their gummy ghosts with spit.
When she went down to the sitting room to say goodbye to her mother, Tamsin was wearing jeans, a plain white collared shirt and just a little more makeup than usual. She walked briskly, as in the wake of a job well done, though in fact the opposite was true: by identifying her attraction and labelling it forbidden, she had only succeeded in augmenting it. (Just as the impulsive, insignificant lie she had told Callum lent her dealings with Chris an element of the clandestine that contributed to his growing mystique.)
‘Mummy?’
Roz was absorbed in a text message. At the sound of her name, she started.
‘I’m just off. Who’s the message from?’ Tamsin tried to look but her mother whisked the phone out of sight.
‘Oh, no one, it’s nothing important.’
As they kissed goodbye, Tamsin felt a surprising heat radiating from her mother’s powdered cheek.
* * *
When Tamsin arrived at the Edgware Road flat at seven thirty, Callum wasn’t back – but Chris was there, sitting on the sofa, flicking through one of Callum’s sketchbooks. He looked up guiltily.
‘Sorry
