The Road Trip by Beth O'Leary (books for 6 year olds to read themselves .txt) 📗

should have known there’d be no grey area, no umming and ahhing. Deb is a yes-or-no sort of woman.

I wonder what she would do if she were me. Deb would never cry on the toilet over any man, and I feel a twinge of shame.

‘Why don’t you just get a donor? Aren’t there private companies that do that sort of thing for you?’ I ask.

‘That sounds complicated. And much less fun than having sex with Mike.’

‘Why Mike, just out of interest?’

‘Hmm? Oh, I told you, he doesn’t like condoms.’

I wait.

‘And I suppose he’s quite a good specimen. Tall, handsome, kind, funny, that sort of thing.’

‘Sounds like a catch.’

‘What? Irrelevant. I’m after a sperm donor, not a boyfriend.’

‘Would it be such a bad thing to get one of those too?’

‘You tell me,’ Deb says dryly. ‘You’re not the best advertisement for relationships at the minute.’

I rummage in the cupboard for a loaf of bread. Stale, but it’ll do for cheese on toast.

‘I’d say being in a relationship with one person is great,’ I tell her. ‘The trouble is, at the moment I feel like I’m in a relationship with two people.’

‘Dylan and Etienne?’

I freeze, holding a slice of bread hovering over the toaster.

‘What?’

‘No?’ Deb says, sounding uncertain.

‘Why did you say that?’

‘Sorry, did I upset you? I thought you fancied him.’

‘I meant I felt like I was in a relationship with Dylan and Marcus.’

‘Oh, of course. Right.’

My heart is beating too fast. Deb knows me better than anyone. If she thinks I fancy Etienne . . .

I mean, don’t I? A little bit? What have I just spent my evening thinking about? I rub my belly, feeling nauseous again. I love Dylan. I love Dylan.

‘Sorry, Ads.’

I push down the toaster. I need to eat. It occurs to me as soon as I’ve done it that I should have put the bread under the grill, with the cheese.

‘It’s OK,’ I manage. ‘It’s just . . . weird that you said that. I didn’t realise I’d even talked about him.’

‘You talk about him quite a bit, actually. But that’s probably just me getting the wrong end of the stick.’

There’s a long silence.

‘Not . . . totally,’ I say in a small voice.

‘Oh. So you do fancy him?’

‘Sometimes. I don’t know. Oh, God, I’m an awful person. I’m a cheat.’

‘Addie! Please. It’s not cheating to fancy someone else a little bit. Do you like him more than Dylan?’

‘What? No! Of course not! It’s just . . . I guess things are so – so fraught with Dylan. So it’s like an escapist thing.’

The sound of keys in the lock. I spin, guilty. The toaster pops and I jump.

‘I’ve got to go. Love you, Deb.’

‘What if Mike was the one who decided not to use a condom? Then it would be a known risk he was taking on his own.’

I close my eyes. ‘Bye, Deb.’

‘Oh, fine. Bye.’

Dylan looks exhausted. All the anger evaporates as I watch him stagger to the cupboard and pull out a glass, fill it with water, down it and pour another. I step towards him to hug him but he backs away.

‘I stink of vomit,’ he says. ‘I need a shower. Sorry.’

My stomach twists. ‘He was really bad?’

Dylan just nods. As he makes his way to the bathroom I stand there, sick with guilt and shame, because Marcus is unwell, and Dylan is helping him, and I am the most unreasonable girlfriend there has ever been.

The first text from Etienne comes ten days later, on a Saturday night.

How are you doing, Addie? I mean, really. I know it can be hard to talk about at school. X

I leave it sitting in my pocket, determined not to reply. It isn’t professional of him to text me about personal stuff outside school. But then I think, I wouldn’t find it strange if it was Moira. Or even Jamie, and Jamie is a single guy my age too. It’s me who’s making this unprofessional. Etienne’s just being a polite, supportive colleague and manager.

Dylan’s looking after Marcus again. We’ve had a good week – we had a proper conversation about Marcus and how he’s got this history of going off the rails. I promised to be more understanding.

Doing much better, thanks. Really appreciate you stepping in to sort cover for me the other day. Addie

There’s no reply. I begin to wonder if I’ve been too abrupt. But when I see Etienne on Monday he smiles at me, a supportive, I-know-you’ve-got-this smile, and I feel better.

It’s like this for a month or two. The occasional text – nothing flirtatious or inappropriate. Just ever so slightly friendlier than we are in person. As Dylan’s Masters begins to eat into his time even more, and as he takes more shifts at the bar, I’m alone a lot. Some nights I stay late at school. Etienne’s often around, and we have quiet chats over evening cups of tea. Nothing more than that.

But I can’t deny that it excites me. Nothing’s happening. On paper, nothing’s wrong. But I know otherwise.

I know Etienne wants me. Sometimes, I want him too.

It’s two days before the Christmas holidays, and late – nine at night. Nobody else is around, not even the caretaker. Etienne has keys. He’ll lock up.

‘Addie?’ he says, poking his head around the door to my classroom. I’m taking down a display that Tyson raked his fingernails through, Wolverine-style. ‘Fancy a nightcap?’

It takes me a moment to realise he has a bottle in his hand. Red wine, by the looks of it.

‘It’s nearly the end of term, and we’ve both worked ourselves to the bone this year,’ he says, waggling the bottle. ‘We deserve a treat.’

I say yes to the nightcap. I follow him to his office. I fetch us glasses from the kitchen, and we drink the wine out of water tumblers. I’m wearing lipstick, and I leave a pink kiss on the edge of the glass.

We talk about work stuff, mostly. Laugh about the kids that do our heads in, complain about the ever-changing