The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch by Beth O'Leary (i have read the book .txt) 📗

I continue the lesson. My voice has gone a bit squeaky, though by now I should be used to other teachers in the classroom – I’m always getting observed, it’s part of the training.

‘Tyson!’ Etienne barks suddenly.

I jump, then try to style it out, stepping smoothly to reach for something from my desk. Crap. I was supposed to notice whatever Etienne just noticed.

‘With me. Bring that.’ Etienne points at a piece of paper on Tyson’s desk. ‘Miss Gilbert, Tyson will be with me for the rest of the lesson.’

‘Of course,’ I say, trying to look stern. ‘Thank you.’

Thank you? Is that a bit pathetic? Oh well, too late now. Etienne walks behind Tyson, shooting me a weary look as he pulls the door closed behind them.

I head off in search of Tyson as soon as the lesson’s done and I’ve turfed the rest of the class out for their lunch break. He’s just walking out of the head teacher’s office when I get there. Etienne’s stood in the doorway, watching him go. He catches sight of me.

‘There you are, Tyson, now’s your opportunity,’ he calls.

‘Sorry, Miss Gilbert,’ Tyson mumbles in the general direction of my shoes.

‘Thank you, Tyson,’ I say. Then, when he’s moved by, I mouth at Etienne: ‘What did he do?’

Etienne gestures me into his office and closes the door.

‘Ah, you may want to brace yourself for this one,’ he says. He has the faintest French accent – I can hear it in that ah, but then it’s gone. ‘Tyson was indulging his artistic side.’

I look down at the sheet of paper torn from an exercise book, lying on Etienne’s desk.

It’s not bad, to be honest. I can tell right from the off that it’s meant to be me. Well, I can tell by the face. The rest is . . . much less accurate.

‘Wow,’ I say. My cheeks are getting warm. I keep my eyes on the picture. ‘That’s . . .’

‘Yes, quite,’ Etienne says. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that. Teenage boys . . .’ He spreads his hands, as if to say, Don’t you just despair?

In the drawing I’m naked, in the classic comic-book woman pose: facing away, but twisting to look over one shoulder, just to make sure you can see breasts and arse. I’m very . . . buxom. And my waist is about the same width as my wrist.

‘I hope you don’t mind me taking this one off your hands. I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’

I smile. ‘Thank you. No, I . . . It would have been an awkward one.’ I chew my lip, looking at the drawing.

‘Tyson will be in after-school detention for the rest of the month. He and I had a lengthy chat about the objectification of women, too,’ Etienne says, leaning back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. ‘I’d say less than one per cent of that went into his skull, but you never know.’

‘At least he apologised.’

‘Mm,’ Etienne says, sounding unimpressed.

‘Well, thanks for trying, anyway. I appreciate that.’

I turn the drawing over idly. Miss Gilbert the Seducter, it says on the back. I laugh, shifting the paper so Etienne can see. He leans forward to read it, and his lips twitch.

‘Oh, Jesus wept,’ he says, suddenly sounding very English.

‘At least it’s gender-neutral,’ I point out. ‘I think I’d prefer to be a “seducter” than a seductress.’

Etienne glances up at me, that smile still playing on his lips. He’s handsome in an obvious, symmetrical kind of way. Brown hair, brown eyes, the sort of white skin that tans easily.

‘It’s a good thing, your sense of humour, Addie,’ he says. ‘And your . . . realism.’

‘Cynicism, you mean?’ I say, before I can stop myself. It feels a bit like answering back to the head teacher, and I stiffen. But Etienne just shrugs, leaning back again.

‘The world’s full of dreamers,’ he says. ‘Practicality is underrated. You take these kids as they are. That’s what’ll make you a great teacher.’

I note the use of the future tense. Mainly because I did a lesson on it yesterday. But still, it’s the first time I’ve had real praise out of Etienne. He’s good at disguising criticism in a feedback sandwich, but I’ve always known the ‘positives’ he’s pulling out are a stretch. This is the first time I’ve felt like he’s seen something in me that I wanted him to see.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Etienne nods. It’s a clear dismissal, and I head for the door as Etienne folds Tyson’s drawing and tucks it carefully in a drawer.

Dylan

My parents’ house was very grand, once. It still retains some of its magnificence, like an old woman who used to be a Hollywood star. The whole west wing is closed off now – it’s too expensive to heat – and it shows the worst signs of wear from outside: there are several cracked windows, and the paint has peeled off almost entirely on the side that’s exposed to the winds.

Dad resists every money-making enterprise available: he’d never let us host weddings or sell to the National Trust and move somewhere less remote and ramshackle. This is his family home. But no matter how well his business does on the stock exchange, there’s never enough money to keep this place. The problem is a particularly dissolute great uncle – he squandered most of the family fortune playing poker, which makes him a charming romantic hero, but a very irritating ancestor. All he left when he died was the land and the house.

I stand on the doorstep and flinch at the sudden sound of gunshot. Shooting is the one enterprise Dad will allow on our lands, mainly because it’s something his father did before him. Grouse and pheasants are a permanent feature of life at home – I once went into the downstairs bathroom and found a pheasant sitting in the sink. She’d got in the window, which jammed some time ago