Innocence

I look up. ‘What?’

Alex is watching me, his small face suddenly serious. ‘What is it?’

I stare at him.

Another face looks back at me.

‘Nothing.’ I stand up, forcing my brain back into the present day. ‘Put your coat on, darling. It’s time to go.’

Allyson appears in a Cossack-style fur hat and long grey wool coat—as always, every inch the diva. ‘Let’s go, mate! Come on! Have you got your gym kit?’

‘I need my crayons!’ Alex bounds upstairs.

Taking a final swig of coffee, she puts her cup down on the table with a flourish. ‘And this time I promise: no sweets, no swear words and in school on time!’

‘Yes. Fine.’ I move on auto pilot, clearing the table of our breakfast things.

‘Are you OK?’

I scrape the toast into the bin. ‘Yes. Fine.’

Allyson leafs idly through the magazine pages.

‘He’s still a good-looking man. Even after all these years.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That Jake Albery’ She holds up his picture. ‘Still handsome, don’t you think? God, I used to have such a crush on him!’

My heart’s racing, hammering in my chest. I force the corners of my mouth upwards into a smile. ‘You’re showing your age, Ally’

She laughs. ‘I know. I’m getting old. “Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, Baby Home Wrecker’s in town!’” she sings, dancing over to the door where Alex waits, dressed and ready to go. Grabbing his hands, she whirls him into the hallway. “Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, da, da, da, da, da, da, da!’”

The front door opens and closes, sealing the world out.

Lingering at the sink, I make myself wash up the plates and mugs, slowly rinsing them under the warm water.

Then I turn the tap off.

Fold the tea towel.

And pick the magazine up again. As I knew I would.

So, he’s back.

Allyson’s right; he does look good—slightly tanned; the kind of gentle wash of colour that’s the result of a couple of weeks in Monte Carlo or Beaulieu rather than a month in Mauritius—and effortlessly chic in a dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt. But there’s that familiar air about him, even in a photograph, a slightly edgy awkwardness as if even after all these years in the limelight he still doesn’t quite fit in. He remains, as always, the outsider, one eye forever on the door.

His hand rests on the shoulder of a glamorous blonde. She has the same glowing tan, amply displayed in her sheer, strappy pink dress, and similar expensively tousled bedroom hair. But her smile is harder, more focused. The cameras are on her and it’s a moment she’s been waiting for. She looks both terrified and intensely determined. Something in my stomach wrenches with recognition. ‘Jake Albery seen leaving a private party at the Café de Paris’ the caption reads. ‘A back catalogue of songs from his hit band Raven is due to be released in May’.

Opening a kitchen drawer, I take out a plastic carrier bag and stack all the magazines neatly inside.

And then I stand there, staring at it.

If only it were as simple as that.

But it never was simple.

Right from the start I should’ve known.

‘Nothing happened.’

‘Nothing?’ Imogene frowns.

We’re waiting for our first day of classes to begin, sitting in the basement studio beneath the North London Morris Dancing Association. It’s a vast square room with wooden floors and an old upright piano in the corner. Light filters in through small round windows near the ceiling; dust particles dance in the shafts of brilliant sunlight, slicing like lasers through the hazy calm.

‘That’s right. I mean, we just hung out. Went to see the band, talked.’ My cheeks are burning. I turn away, pretending to search for something in my brown corduroy handbag. All I can find is a mouldy old mint. I pop it into my mouth anyway.

Around us the room’s filling with students.

‘You’re blushing!’ She giggles. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

I smile back at her.

Yes, I like him.

And I shouldn’t. Jake’s not my type of guy, not that I’ve ever met anyone like him before. There’s something rough about him. I don’t mean physically rough. But he has this dark undercurrent of raw energy I’m not used to; like anything could happen, any time. Besides, I’m not meant to like anyone except Jonny.

Jonny is my type; polite, clean-shaven, on time…the kind of guy who celebrates the anniversary of your first kiss with flowers, even when he doesn’t have any money.

But if I love Jonny, why do I keep thinking about Jake?

I wish he’d kissed me good night. Not just a peck on the cheek but one of those full-on face-devouring sessions that don’t stop with kissing. But I can’t tell that to anyone.

Robbie, on the other hand, happily disappeared with Mr Chicken for ages.

‘Enough about me.’ I’m determined to rein in these thoughts. ‘Show me which one of these fine gentlemen is Lindsay Crufts.’

Now it’s her turn to blush. ‘Where’s Robbie?’ she skirts my question. ‘You guys got back so late last night.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I heard her alarm go off.’ I check my watch. ‘And I pounded on her door before I left. She should be here.’

A slender young man with soft, ashen hair walks in. He smiles at Imo and her whole face lights up. This must be Lindsay. But he takes a seat on the other side of the studio, folds his legs neatly over one another and fishes a worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. He reads intently, brow furrowed, nibbling away at his nails.

Imo gazes at him with unrestrained longing. I give her hand a gentle squeeze.

Soon the studio is full; there are about twenty of us and still no sign of Robbie.

At ten o’clock precisely, the door swings wide and Simon enters, wheeling expertly into the centre of the room. ‘Good morning!’ he bellows. ‘Welcome to the beginning of the spring semester! I’m Simon Garrett. I’ve spoken to most of you, and shall, no doubt, speak to you again. However, if you have any questions or problems, either my assistant Gwen or I will be available to help you. Gwen!’