Call It Fête - Prologue

When I signed up for this parent shit, I didn’t think it would include towing my kid through the halls of the worst place in the world while he fires a million questions at me.

“I’ve already done school today. Why’re we here?”

Christ. We’ve taken one step into Beechmill Primary, and the kid is already asking the most inane questions. He’s curious, I guess. Too much for his own good, and like a sucker, I have to answer every one.

“I told you.” I pull his coat off him and sling it over my arm. “I have a meeting with your teacher today.” Now, where’s the damn classroom so we can get this over and done with?

“Why? I was good.”

“Because they like to check in every so often, make sure you’re doing okay.”

“But what about football?”

“If you’re good and stop asking questions, we’ll be able to get back in time for the game. If you’re extra quiet, we can get a treat on the way home.”

“We can go see the new Avengers movie?” 

Well, no, because you’ve already failed on the no-questions thing. “Maybe. Or we can grab a pizza?”

“Uhm. No ta. Avengers, please. Oh! Is my art here?”

Rory stops in front of a colourful display. He stretches onto the tips of his toes, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he examines the scribbles pasted on the wall. He’s short — he’s only six — so at most he can see the bottom row. And I’m not too sure his reading skills are up for deciphering the scrawled names below the signs. He’s bright, but not that bright.

“We don’t have time for this, mate.”

But because I’m a chump, I stop anyway. Even though the detour derails my plans to get in and out of this bloody meeting as quickly as I can.

There’s nothing fucking worse than being forced back to my old junior school. Rory might want to show me all the pictures, or where he hangs his coat, or the exact spot on the playground where he cut his knee open and needed five stitches last month, but I don’t want to be here.

School was one of the worst times of my life. There were five of us spread across two schools, so Mum was almost always late dropping me off. That’s if she even remembered to pack me into the bloody car. Perks of being the youngest, I guess. Having four older brothers meant teachers had already formed opinions of me, even before they gave me a chance. And not all of them were good. Luke and Josh were always in trouble, and that reputation rubbed off on me. I swear I was in detention every other fucking day, even when I hadn’t played up.

Add in that I was a bit thick, and it’s a recipe for a pretty shit time. Learning, at least the type where you have to sit still and listen to some old crone rabbit on about fuck-knows-what, wasn’t my jam.

I barely scraped a high enough score in my SATs to move on to comp.

I have a kid now, a job and a house and proper responsibilities, but there’s a niggle at the back of my head warning me that I’ve not finished my homework, or that Ol’ Mop Head has found the cock and balls I graffitied under my desk, or that Palmer is going to tell Mum that I had another fight.

Rory hops on the spot, desperately trying to spot his picture. I sigh. If I don’t help him, he’ll drag this out for as long as he can. Or he’ll have a tantrum, and I definitely don’t want that. Won’t make a good impression on the teacher, for a start. Plus, when he’s miserable, so am I.

“I can’t find my art.” 

That’s because you’re a midget, mate. Rory slides his sticky fingers into my hand and pulls with all his might, which moves me an inch closer to him.

“Here, look.” I pick him up with a groan — the kid eats too much pizza — and point out a picture at the top of the display.

“That’s me and you and the chickens,” he tells me with the confidence of an art curator at the National.

“At the farm? That’s cool. But we need to move, or we’re going to be late. Can you show me where your classroom is?”

“Yeah.”

He wriggles in my arms, so I put him down before he gets the chance to kick me in the balls. Like a wind-up race car, he tears off as soon as his feet hit the parquet floor, his trainers squeaking.

The kid is getting harder to keep up with. His endless energy wears me out. Maybe bringing him was a bad idea. He won’t sit still and will probably interfere in everything the teacher has to say. Mum told me to keep him home, but since no fucker was up for looking after him, I had no choice.

She did the last conference for me, but when I asked her to come tonight, she gave me a whole spiel about how, if I want to be Rory’s parent, I have to accept all the responsibilities that come with it. I can’t be just about the fun stuff.

But responsibilities are boring, and parent-teacher conferences are the worst.

At least with Rory here, I have more of a reason to finish the meeting super quick. Also, I’m starving. He better behave so we can have that pizza.

We skid to a stop in front of the last room in the corridor. I fucking hate rushing. I’m sweaty and hot, and the steam from my skin fogs my glasses. All day at work, I made sure nothing spilled on me so I could make a good impression. Boller loved berating me for turning up to class in a mess. But I might as well have poured apple-flavoured custard down my top or something with how damp my armpits are.

I squint at the hand-written sign on the door welcoming me to Mr Jameson’s classroom. That’s not right. My education wasn’t shitty enough that I didn’t learn to read. Maybe it’s the kid who’s dull, if he can’t remember where he spent all day today.

Brilliant. This meeting is going to be awful.

I ruffle his hair. “Nah, you’ve got the wrong room.” 

“Nuh-huh. Mr Jameson is my teacher!”

“Since when?” 

“Since forever.”

Fuck. That’s another letter I missed, then. Good bloody riddance to Boller. She never liked kids and was fifty-million years old. She probably taught Mum and Dad as well as me and all my brothers.

Okay. Maybe this will go better than I thought. Nothing can be worse than a meeting with Boller. Well, maybe if it was with Palmer, but her classroom is halfway up the other corridor.

I’m still frowning at the door when it swings open.

Oh. My. God.

If I’d known Rory’s teacher was the world’s sexiest librarian, I’d have been down here straight away. Mr Jameson is a god-damn snack.

He’s young — at least about my age. I have to crane my neck up, up, up to drink in the straight, blond hair that frames the work of art that is his face. Seriously, they should put a photo of him up in the Tate or something. Silver flashes in his green eyes as they catch the fluorescent lights. His ginormous smile softens his sharp cheekbones.

Oh, I’ve been a real naughty boy, Mr Jameson.

“Mr Jameson!” Rory launches himself at his teacher. Me next, please.

I must look like a cartoon character, my jaw on the floor and my eyes bugging out of their sockets. Mr Jameson greets Rory, then clears his throat. As soon as Rory releases him, he straightens his thick, deep green jumper, stretching it over his chest, then thrusts his hand towards me.

“Mr Webster?”

That chest looks real firm under the cable-knit. I bet he has a six-pack. Shame there’s nothing I need from a really high-shelf so I could get a peek. Dammit.

“Mr Webster? Hello? I was just saying that it's nice to finally meet you. Rory talks about you all the time.”

Oh, he’s talking to me. Rory, who must think it’s hilarious that this hot man has stolen all my words and wit, pokes me in the leg. “Alex! Wake up!”

Fuck’s sake, kid. Way to embarrass me. The sharp prod is enough to stir me out of my stupor. I move to take Mr Jameson’s hand, remember that I’m pouring with sweat, and wipe my hand down my jeans first. I still grimace at the way my palm slides over his. It’s freaking spring. I had to defrost the damn car this morning. A sprint through the school shouldn’t have me this hot and bothered. Fat blokes have all the worst luck.

“Hi. Yeah. You too.”

Come on, Alex, you know more words than this. You’re not a complete idiot. But my brain is a blue loading circle, and nothing else comes out aside from, “Late.”

“I’m sorry?”

Fuck’s sake. “Sorry, I’m late. Work was a nightmare, and then I had to get across town to pick this little guy up.”

Why am I still holding Mr Jameson’s hand?

A muscle twitches in his jaw. It’s a small spasm, and I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t obsessed with every line and dimple in his face. If he’s annoyed, it’s the only sign. The rest of him is still all smiles. 

“These things happen. Luckily, you’re my last parent of the day, and I made sure to allocate plenty of time for these sessions so that we can get the most out of them.” Dammit. His eyes slip to Rory, who dangles from his leg. “We usually recommend that children stay home for these meetings. Gives us a chance to speak freely.”

Well, that’s done it. The kid is shit. A term and a half into his education, and they’re already giving up on him. It’s bloody history repeating itself. I just fucking knew I’d be a bad influence on him.

“But,” Mr Jameson continues, “we can make an exception for Rory. I do understand how hard it is being a single parent. Why don’t you come in, and Rory, you can finish your drawing from earlier?”

“Yeah!” He pushes past Mr Jameson and zooms across the room. 

I wince, but the teacher takes the minor assault as if it’s no more than a tickle. Guess he’s used to it.

Mr Jameson gestures to the empty table in the middle of his classroom. The world’s smallest chairs wait around it, and paperwork is piled high on one side. The chair’s ridiculously thin metal legs look like they may bend and snap if someone older than eight sits on them, but other than a suspicious-looking pile of bean bags or Mr Jameson’s desk, there are no other options. The tiny chairs will have to do.

Mr Jameson sits with ease, despite the fact that his legs are folded criss-cross applesauce on the floor, and the seat acts more like a perch. I jam my knees under my chin, ignoring the bite of the plastic against my humongous butt, and try to scoot as close to the table as I can get.

He riffles through a pile of cardboard folders, then slides one to the side before opening it. Bloody hell. He has a whole file on the kid. Has Rory really been this shit? Why hasn’t anyone spoken to me about it before now? It’s not fucking fair to dump all that bad behaviour on me in one go. What a way to ruin a guy’s confidence.

“Rory is an absolute star,” he says.

Oh.

To enforce Mr Jameson’s point, the kid empties a massive tub of pens and crayons right next to the table. They roll across the blue carpet. He lies belly down in front of a piece of paper that already has a green squiggle on it. The Hulk, then. A rainbow of colours streak the floor and a handful of crayons have rolled as far as the beanbags. It’s going to take forever to pick them all up.

Mr Jameson doesn’t stop smiling, though. Weird. I’d have been crucified if I’d made this much mess, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid. Maybe he’s not all there in the head.

When he doesn’t retract his compliment, warmth fills my chest, like the sun hitting my garden in just the right way to make it glow. 

I did good. Rory did good.

“That’s great.” I try not to sound too gushing. I don’t want to lose my cool in front of the hot teacher. “Rory absolutely loves coming to school.”

Most days. When he can be bothered to get out of bed. When I don’t have to lure him out of his pit with the promise of scrambled eggs and an Avengers Marathon when he gets home. Six-year-olds, man.

“Good. The earlier we can embed that joy in the children, the better. Rory gets on well with his classmates, although that sometimes means he can get a little too chatty—”

“Who isn’t, though?” I cut in. 

Mr Jameson’s lips tighten. Shit. This was going so well. 

“Uhm, I mean…he just…our family is big and loud. It’s a fight to get heard, so that must spill over into the classroom. I can have a word if you—”

“Oh, no need. We operate a star-award system in the classroom, and it’s amazing what you can get the kids to do if there’s a treat or two at the end of the day.”

Don’t I know it? I’m gonna have to remortgage at the rate Rory behaves.

“He’s mostly food motivated,” I tell Mr Jameson. “But honestly, stickers work just as well.”

He nods. “Oh yeah, the stickers. He’s decorated the whole inside of his cubby with everything he’s earned so far this term. Although I told him he can’t take it with him when the year is over, he still continues to stick them in there. He likes things to look pretty.”

“Yup. You should see his bedroom walls, my fridge freezer, and the wall behind my PC at work. Rory draws and colours all the time when we’re home, filling up any scrap of paper he can get a hold of. Designs us signs for the pub, then he’ll add a picture of me and my brother at work. Budding little artist, he is.”

“A storyteller, too.” Mr Jameson beams across the table, and it feels like my entire garden has bloomed all at once. What a lovely guy. Definitely wouldn’t mind being one of his students. Probably would have done better in class if I had a teacher like this. I could listen to him talk for fucking hours. Especially when he’s being so nice about my kid.

“Oh, yes!” Oh, grim. Now I’m gushing. “Rory, what was that story you made up at Nanny and Grandad’s the other day?”

He’s still scribbling away on his piece of paper, packing it with spirals of green and black. His tongue hangs out the side of his mouth, but he pulls it back in with a slurp, not bothering to lift his head. “The red chicken ran away from the circus, and the brown one met her at the beach.”

“And the cockerel?"

He laughs. “He’s the boss of them all.”

“Mum made us go feed them. So there he is, spreading the seeds and—”

I get into retelling the events, flinging my hands out to mime chucking out bird seed. In one huge sweep, my stupid, clumsy sausage fingers clip the side of Mr Jameson’s very full glass. In slow motion, it wobbles back, forth, then back again. Time then speeds up, and the glass flies across the table, spilling water everywhere.

Mr Jameson’s paperwork and his lap are soaked all the way through, and he just stares at me, wide-eyed as if he can’t work out why a buffoon like me is responsible for a child. I can’t respond because my entire self tries to crawl inside my body, desperate to get away from the fucking shame.

“Alex!” Rory cries out, sounding as if I’ve just insulted Captain America.

I tear my gaze away from the puddle in Mr Jameson’s lap to find Rory staring at his now soggy piece of work. His bottom lip wobbles in the same way it does when I make him finish his broccoli. Great. The depths of my inadequacy know no bounds. I’m the world’s worst parent. Ever.

“Oh, shit. I mean…sugar. I can’t believe I just…”

I shoot up from my seat, not giving the tiny chair a chance to stick to my stupid, fat butt. My knees knock into the table, spilling the water soaking Mr Jameson’s paperwork into his lap, further drenching his thighs. Why am I such a fucking oaf?

“Where are the—”

“There’s a sink in the corner.” He lifts a soggy piece of paper, and I wince at the downpour. It’s like I spilled a whole bucket over him. My body can’t zip into action. I’m staring at the deluge as if I can rewind the past five minutes and not embarrass myself in front of this gorgeous man.

I’d give anything to be the Doctor.

“Here, Alex.” With a sigh that sounds like it could have come from Mum, Rory pushes himself to his feet and takes hold of my hand. Just like Mum, he marches me over to the sink and points out the paper towels.

“Oh, thank you, mate.”

I eye up the plug hole in the hope I can crawl into it and get washed out to sea. Maybe I can start a new life in France? Or Wales? I like dragons. Mum can look after Rory. He’ll be okay.

Mr Jameson’s voice cuts across my spiralling. “Did your drawing get wet, too, Rory?”

The kid has gone back to his teacher. I can’t say I blame him. Bet perfect Mr Jameson has never ruined one of Rory’s masterpieces.

Despite the burning that’s consumed my entire body, I pull a wad of paper towels out of the holder and turn back to the table.

My feet stop working again. Mr Jameson brushes Rory’s brown, unruly curls off his forehead while the kid plays up to the attention. He has a pout the size of Thanos, like he’s truly devastated his drawing is ruined. It’s not like it was the best thing he’s ever done. You could only tell it was The Hulk if you squinted at it and turned it on its side. None of his scribbles really make sense.

It’s clear that Mr Jameson is a good teacher and really cares about the kids, though. He offers Rory a hug, and the kid falls straight into it, wrapping his tiny, stubby arms around Mr Jameson’s muscles.

If I had ovaries, they’d explode. There’s nothing more broody-making than watching a good-looking man look after your kid. God, I bet he’d make a good dad.

And an even better Daddy.

They only release each other when I creep back over and offer Mr Jameson half of the paper towels. It’s probably for the best that I don’t offer to mop up his crotch. I’ve been inappropriate enough for an entire term’s worth of meetings. 

If he’s that bothered by the incident, he doesn’t give it away. His wide smile lingers, and my shoulders relax a little. He’s so serene. He’s probably utilising all his best tools for calming down children, and it’s fucking working. Even on me.

I take charge of the table and Rory’s picture, trying to salvage what I can. “Oh God, I’ve ruined most of your files on the kids. And there was me thinking it was only Rory who needed that many notes.”

For the first time at this meeting, Mr Jameson frowns at me. “The files are mostly work examples. I like to show parents what I’m talking about, give them evidence, so to speak. There’s only a page of notes per child. This is my first parent-teacher conference, and I wanted to be prepared. I didn’t know what to expect.”

I really do jump to the worst conclusion straight away.

“Me neither. My mum did it last term. Keep or bin?” I gesture at the pile of still soggy papers.

“Bin. My notes are already on the system. I’ve been typing them up in the evenings after school.”

A teacher’s job is never done. Bet his wife hates that.

I chuck everything unsalvageable in the bin with the soaking paper towels and scratch my fingers through my curls. When I take my seat again, I tuck my hands under my thighs. From now on, I’m keeping my limbs to myself.

Rory chooses to climb onto Mr Jameson’s lap, and the teacher does nothing to stop him. He shifts his legs, probably to stop my kid from sitting in a wet patch of corduroy, then replies, “I’m used to it. At least it was only water. Children are sticky and prone to spillages.”

“I got the glitter all over the carpet yesterday,” Rory says. It’s his conference with Mr Jameson now. “And I’m not allowed drinks upstairs anymore cos I’m a…a…”

“A tap-dancing spider. Uncontrollable legs and arms.” I help the kid out.

“Oh, yes,” Mr Jameson agrees. “Or like a giraffe on a paddle board. All wobbly and unsteady.” He jiggles his legs around, and Rory giggles. Oh, stop it, Mr Jameson. Might as well replace my eyes with love hearts at this rate. 

He continues, “Well, his case file is ruined, but I can tell you that Rory is good at the other creative subjects as well. It might help if you spend more time working on his spellings in the evenings.”

Wait, is that my job? I can barely get him to sit down and do his homework every damn evening, and it’s not even rocket science yet. Christ, if I want a clever kid, I can never work again. Not when I’m doing all the things Rory’s teacher should be doing.

I’m not going to voice any of this out loud, though. Not when I want to stay in Mr Jameson’s good books. Throwing water over him didn’t ruin his impression of me, so I won’t risk it with my runaway mouth. If I can keep things nice between us, then he’ll be kind about Rory.

“We do practise them as much as we can,” I tell him, my voice annoyingly sweet, like I’m trying to make up for my little spillage.

“He’s nailed the basics — cat, mum, dog, bed. He loves those words and can spell them out even when they’re used in unusual sentences. But although he’s getting a grasp of the rules, he gets stuck when those rules change. If you could focus on those changes during his practice time, he’ll soon master it.”

“Rules?” I fucking hate rules. Especially rules about spelling. The dismay in my voice must be clear because that stunning smile drops off his face. Shit. “Oh, you mean like i before e except after c? Sorry, I’m a bit slow. Didn’t have a teacher as good as you when I was in school.”

Wait, am I flirting? After pouring a pint of water over his lap, I now have the audacity? It works, though. That smile is back, and his cheeks turn pink. My gaydar has been broken for years, but maybe I’m on to something here. Maybe he doesn’t have a wife.

“Do you have any tips for helping him?” Can’t push it too far. He is still my kid’s teacher, after all.

“Yes, of course.” He shuffles through the remaining dry paper, frowns, then eases Rory off his lap before getting to his feet. “I have a few worksheets you can take with you.”

I promise I don’t lick my lips when he bends down to rummage in a drawer. It would be entirely inappropriate, but I’m fixated enough on the view that I don’t notice Rory sliding onto my lap until he sinks his full weight into me. He squishes my legs to the floor, and I might as well be sitting on the carpet now. My toes already tingle from where he’s cutting off my circulation.

“Here we go. These will help.”

He holds them out for me, realises that my arms are full with Rory, then places the worksheets down on an almost dry patch on the table.

We spend the rest of the meeting chatting about other things that can help turn my kid into a genius. I’m gonna need all the help I can get, being a single parent and all. If Rory can get a PhD and cure cancer by the time he’s eighteen, then I can retire in peace and enjoy the life of luxury I was born to live. 

It’s not only hints and tips I get. Mr Jameson talks about Rory like he’s the most brilliant kid in the world. Of course, I already believed this, but he’s mine, so I kind of have to. Hearing it from an adult who isn’t obligated to sing his praises boosts me up, too. It’s like I’m walking on the springiest grass when Mr Jameson leads me and Rory back to the door, and I wonder where that half hour went.

Mr Jameson crouches in front of the kid and offers him a hug. “You’ve been so good today. You can redraw your Hulk picture tomorrow, if you want?”

When Rory pulls away from the cuddle, he’s frowning at his teacher. “It was a drawing of you at playtime.”

“Oh.”

At least I’m not the only one who has trouble working out what those scribbles really are.

Mr Jameson offers me his hand once he’s standing. And because I’m a clown that has no appreciation for personal boundaries, I take that hand and use it to pull him into me. It’s only when my arms are locked around his waist, my head resting on his shoulder, that I realise I’m fucking hugging Mr Jameson. Yes, right in there, his hard body against my squidgy one, with the smell of dry-erase pens and freshly cut grass invading every breath I pull in. 

Not that I can enjoy any of it, because I’m frozen in his arms. He pats my back a couple of times, and it’s the most awkward thing in the world.

Break away. Break away. Break away.

He steps out of the hug first, and I get a glimpse of his bright red face before I throw my gaze to the floor. That’s it. I can never come here again. Mum or Josh or Simon or Henry is going to have to do these meetings from now on. Even if he is gay, Mr Jameson will probably refuse to be in the same room or breathe the same air as me again.

“Well, uhm.” Yeah, no wonder he’s struggling for words now. I knocked them all out of him when I manhandled him. “Keep your eyes peeled for the next edition of the school newsletter. There’s a few socials coming up, and we’re looking for PTA volunteers, if you’re interested. I’m super keen to get working with the village. East Beechmill is a lovely place to live.”

Wait. Maybe I was wrong? If he didn’t want to breathe the same air as me again, then why would he invite me to the PTA? I lift my gaze to find him smiling at me, although his cheeks are still red.

“Thanks. I will. I mean. I’ll look out for the newsletter.”

Lies. I didn’t even know the school had a bloody newsletter. But I’m not going to tell him that.

He reaches for me, and I panic that he’s moving in to return my hug. I widen my arms, readying myself to pull him in. Then he opens the door.

No more hugs. He’s just desperate to see me go. And I’m torn between running out of here as fast as a fat man that’s towing a kid can, or just digging myself a hole under the parquet floor. I’m sure Mr Jameson can return Rory to Mum.

“See you soon, Mr Webster.”

“Yeah…thanks. Maybe at the PTA?”

“That would be nice.”

I can’t bring myself to look at him as I slither past and out of the room, hauling Rory along behind me. My face is on fire, but my body is cold. I’m such a fucking idiot.

“Can we go get pizza and then watch Avengers, Alex?” Rory asks, his voice uneven as he fights to keep up with me.

“I thought you wanted to watch the game? We can grab a pizza on the way home, watch the football tonight and then maybe this weekend, we can go to the cinema, yeah?”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

We step out into the cold spring air and I help him back into his coat. The chill scares away some of the heat in my cheeks, although I’m sure I’ll relive every damn mistake when I’m alone in bed tonight.

But despite everything, I’m keen to see Mr Jameson again. If I’m lucky, the PTA will be a few months away, giving him plenty of time to forget about how much of an idiot I am.

Then I can have a second go to prove I’m actually a normal lad when I set my mind to it.

Yeah fucking right.