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 and still won’t close, letting in a steady arctic draught that always seems to be directed precisely towards the toilet.
If Dad is out shooting, that at least means he’ll come back in a good mood. I push the front door – it needs paring again, it’s harder than ever to lever open – and step into the hall, the most done-up part of the house. There are freshly cut flowers on the pedestal at the bottom of the staircase and the tiled floor has been recently polished.