Private Lives

Chapter 14

Seb’s body is bright with adrenaline. He slings his rucksack on his back, leaves the house he isn’t sure he can still call home and walks, as fast as he can, back to Eva’s. It feels like he’s pulling his slimy heart, heavy with shame, along the pavement behind him. Rosie had looked at those websites. She knew that he’d lied to her again. He can’t even really remember why he lied in the first place, but he remembers the moment he made his choice.

It had been after another one of their awful arguments last spring, when he was preparing for the head teacher interview. He’d opened his laptop to watch porn but, at the last minute, clicked on an advert for another adult site. He felt like some kind of beast that had been starving for hundreds of years finally being fed. He’d gone back again and again when the hunger to feel something with this body of his overwhelmed him. First at home in the early hours of the morning. Then at work, and then whenever he started to feel angry or afraid or unlovable, which he did, most of the time. He scrolled through thousands of pouting, beautiful women. More and more. Some pushing their breasts up, some with their arses aimed at the camera, some dressed up in corsets, some naked, some tall, some white, some Black, some strong, some thin; the array was dizzying. All of them told him through their plump, moist lips the same thing, the thing he needed to hear more than anything. The thing that Rosie wouldn’t – or couldn’t – seem to ever tell him. They told him that they wanted him. When he looked at them, he stopped worrying about Rosie. They wanted him, day or night, and whatever he wanted, they wanted. Whenever he wanted them, they wanted him too and, for a few short minutes, Seb felt less alone.

They were better than porn, these women; there was a realness to them, knowing they were just a train ride away. Some of them urged him to pay them to dance for him. They wanted him to pass over his card details so they could tell him all the stuff they longed to do to him, but Rosie tracked their credit card statement online and always asked Seb if there was a payment she didn’t recognize. It was enough, for a while at least, knowing that he could pick up the phone and just call one of them.

Until the night that Rosie told him she’d cancelled the counsellor he’d booked for the second time. They’d argued, ugly and loud, and Rosie had told him again that she didn’t care, didn’t fucking care what he wanted, what he did, and had disappeared into the bathroom. Seb had taken his laptop downstairs, his entire body electric with rage, and he’d opened the websites to scroll, to lose himself in flesh, to disappear for a while in the aching fantasy of being with one of them. But that night, they stopped working. Where usually they’d move him from anger to desire, he just felt numb. He was still hungry. They all felt too fake suddenly, the screen of his computer and his limp dick in his hand too real. Shame flooded him, Rosie’s words ringing like a bell in his ears.

I don’t give a shit!

Rosie had made it clear again and again that she didn’t want him, and now these women online weren’t working either. He felt the great maw of loneliness opening for him, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t turn towards it. So instead he picked up his phone as he opened the website for one of his favourites – a Brazilian in West London. Moving faster than his doubt, he called her, but the line was dead. He tried another favourite, and another, until finally one of the women who’d only existed in the abstract opened her mouth and said, ‘Hello, Emma speaking.’

Back at Eva’s he goes straight to his room like a moody teenager and hardly sleeps. He walks back to Rosie and the kids as the sun comes up. The morning is the usual combination of routine and frantic rushing; Seb’s the last to leave as he pulls the front door closed behind him and steps out into the bright morning. The kind of morning that makes the promise of winter seem like a bad joke. Martin is there again, across the road, standing on the pavement, his two girls on their bikes staring back at their dad impatiently, while Martin pats himself down like he’s lost something.

‘Morning, Martin. Hi, girls.’ Seb waves as he crosses the road towards his neighbour. ‘You all right, need some help?’

‘Seb,’ Martin responds.

‘What have you lost?’ Seb asks but Martin looks away and says, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Daddy left his phone at home,’ says the older girl, bored by her dad’s prevaricating.

‘I can keep an eye on these two if you want to run home and get it?’ Seb offers.

Martin’s eyes widen, like Seb’s just suggested they run away together. ‘No thanks, Seb, that’s fine.’

‘Really, Martin, I’m not in a rush, I don’t …’

‘I said no, Seb. OK?’ Martin pushes past Seb and, waving his hands, calls, ‘Come on, girls, let’s get going.’

The younger girl narrows her eyes at Seb, her mouth open.

‘Is he the man you and …?’

But Martin, flustered, interrupts her, ‘Come on, I said let’s go!’

He grabs her bike between the handlebars, pushing her forward, leaving Seb standing alone on the pavement.

It’s nothing, Seb tells himself as he turns left to take the longer way to school again. Martin has always been over-friendly, too keen. His wife has probably finally drummed it into poor old Martin that he needs to be less eager, that’s all. Seb keeps walking and as he approaches school he realizes that he’s being left strangely undisturbed. A parent whom he recognizes as a friend of Rosie’s passes him but keeps her head down, feigning absorption in something her son’s telling her. Vita, usually so overwhelming, keeps her eyes fixed on her phone, smiling and pretending not to notice him as he passes; another parent glues herself to a wall to avoid him. It’s like it’s his first day on the job at this school and no one knows who he is. The students seem normal, some calling out, ‘Hi, Mr Kent,’ while others totally ignore him.

As he walks through the school gates Seb falls into step with Mr Clegg.

‘Morning, Ben.’

Ben nods and Seb notices how his eyes widen. ‘Seb, hi.’

‘Have I got a massive boil on my face or something?’

Ben’s lips curl into a half-smile on one side of his mouth as he replies, ‘You haven’t checked your work emails yet, have you?’

Coldness creeps through Seb but he forces himself to shake his head and Ben, smiling properly now, says, ‘I think we’d better have a little chat.’

Ben steers Seb into the SEN room, a home office-style shed, separate to the rest of the school. Seb puts the ‘session in progress’ sign on the door so they won’t be disturbed. As soon as the door is closed, Ben hands Seb his work phone. It’s open on an email and Seb immediately recognizes the Action! website – an organization that hosts and facilitates online petitions. Seb has signed plenty in his time; he remembers one against a huge development just outside Waverly. He looks at the headline for the one Ben’s showing him.

Petition to Remove Sebastian Kent from Waverly Community Secondary School

Seb feels the initial shock of recognition, the sting of his name so formally written, and then every vein in his body seems to tighten and tighten as he reads on.

Since September, Sebastian Kent has been head teacher at our beloved school. But recently some disturbing truths have come to light that reveal his true nature. It transpires that Sebastian Kent has dubious moral standing and his values do not align with those of the school. He has recently been involved in disturbing, transgressive and immoral behaviours and we are very concerned for the safety and wellbeing of our children. We do not feel that he is safe to be around.

Seb can’t read any more, forcing himself to look at the bottom of the page. The petition to destroy him already has forty-two signatures.

His hands shake as he passes the phone back to Ben.

‘Well then,’ he says, having to stop to swallow, ‘at least that explains why no one said hello this morning.’

Ben looks serious as he asks, ‘Do you know who wrote it?’

Seb breathes out. Anna loves this website, often emailing links to various petitions.

‘I have a good idea.’ He adds, ‘Do you know who’s seen it?’

‘I don’t know any staff member who hasn’t, I’m afraid, and it’s …’ Ben looks at his watch. ‘Not yet quarter to nine,’ he says before hurriedly adding, ‘We’re all hoping there’s nothing to it, of course.’

Seb looks directly at him. ‘Do you think I’m unsafe?’

‘Seb, we’ve worked together for almost a decade. No, I don’t think you’re unsafe, but the rumour mill is in overdrive. There are already accusations flying around about secret drug issues, that sort of thing.’

Ben’s doing his best to ally himself, but Seb can still feel his eyes on him, uncertain, ready for Seb to twitch or give any sign that there might be some credence to the gossip.

‘I see.’

‘Maybe if you tell us what it is about, then all this insane speculation will come to an end …’

‘Maybe.’

‘So go on, then,’ Ben says, narrowing his eyes. ‘Have you gambled with school money?’

Seb feels like he’s going to vomit as Ben raises one eyebrow and asks, half joking, half not joking, ‘Or do you have a secret life no one knows about?’

Seb realizes he’s run out of energy to defend himself. He won’t do it, he can’t. Ben’s face drops as he sees that Seb can’t return his smile. ‘Thanks for filling me in, Ben. I’d better get going.’

‘Yeah, don’t want to add to the rumour mill. Mr Clegg and Mr Kent discovered in the SEN shed!’

Seb doesn’t acknowledge Ben’s lame joke, lets the door bang closed behind him as he leaves.

By midday the petition has seventy-two signatures and has been viewed hundreds of times. Seb heads out into the sunshine and walks quickly to the far end of the playing fields, behind the crumbling sports pavilion, just over the school boundary, where the older kids come to smoke and snog under the protective boughs of an ancient oak tree. He thinks about going to see his mum, but he can’t bear the thought of telling Eva about the petition. She is strong and clear-sighted, yes, but she isn’t immune to anguish. Feeling her shame at this new twist would uproot him entirely.

He takes out his phone, hovers his thumb over Anna’s number. It’d feel so good to call her and scare her, to tell her how small and pathetic she is, but talking to Anna would be like trying to unpick a hook from his own kidney. It would be agonizing and only make everything worse.

He scrolls down to Rosie’s name; he’d love to hear her voice. She must have seen the petition. But what if she hasn’t seen it, what if there is still a chance that he could keep it from her?

He presses the call button, and she picks up immediately. She’s walking somewhere fast, slightly out of breath. ‘Just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse!’ she says without greeting, and his heart sinks. She’s seen it.

‘It’s Anna,’ he says, his voice heavy.

‘Of course it’s Anna,’ she snaps back. ‘I thought you were going to talk to Eddy, get him to calm her down.’

‘Yeah, that didn’t go so well.’

‘Evidently.’

He hates how they sound more like Eddy and Anna than themselves. They’d listen to their friends argue like this, Seb raising an eyebrow at Rosie, Rosie smiling back, both feeling smug because they weren’t slowly destroying each other, their relationship was better. Steadier. That’s what he always believed. On the other end of the line Rosie sighs.

‘You OK?’ he asks, worried, and she snaps again, ‘Of course I’m not fucking OK! I’ve just had Lotte and Vita calling, both telling me how worried they are, that they’re here for me, and then digging, trying to find out what it is you’ve done. They’re both secretly delighted, of course.’

‘Shit.’

‘Well, what do you expect? It won’t take them long to figure out it was Anna who wrote the thing, and she’ll buckle and tell them as soon as they put any kind of pressure on.’

She pauses, sniffs, before adding, ‘She’s got a point, of course. After all, you were using school property to book whores. It’s a total ticking time bomb. I started looking up flights to Australia this morning right after reading the petition.’

Seb holds his breath and waits for Rosie to clarify, which she does, ‘For me and the kids, I mean, obviously.’

He doesn’t say anything.

The pause turns into silence. Wherever she is, she’s stopped walking. She sighs again before she asks, ‘Do the students know?’

Seb clears his throat to cut the vision of his kids boarding a plane to the other side of the world without him and manages to say, ‘Not yet. There’s a part in the email where she advises parents to keep their kids out of it until a “resolution” is reached, but it won’t be long until someone lets it slip.’

He wonders if Rosie, like him, is thinking about Abi, about Lily, but neither of them mentions their names.

Instead, Rosie asks, ‘What does she mean, “resolution”?’

‘The only one she suggests is my resignation.’

Rosie sighs again.

‘Do you think that’s what I should do? Resign today?’

‘I don’t think you have any choice, and if the students are about to find out, well, you’ll have hell to pay … I’m thinking about Sylvie, mostly.’

Sylvie is supposed to be joining the school next September. There’s a brief silence, both trying to imagine their daughter starting secondary school with everyone knowing about Seb. It would be impossible. He won’t let it happen. Rosie is right: there is no choice.

‘I’ll write to the governors and resign today.’

‘Fine,’ she says wearily. ‘Anything else?’ She asks like they’re writing their weekly shopping list.

‘No. I guess I might be back earlier today.’

‘Go to your mum’s,’ she says sharply before hanging up.

This is it. Forced to give up everything that he’s worked for for over twenty years. The job he adores, the work he is good at, the kids he’s watched grow, the kids he believes in. He kicks the base of the tree with the toe of his shoe before sitting on the grass, his elbows resting on his splayed knees. He holds his head and cries until his throat is raw and he feels his scar beating with blood. He stops, and is about to get ready to go again when he hears muffled laughter coming from the other side of the pavilion. He walks slowly around and watches Ethan and a couple of other kids whose backs he doesn’t recognize running away, across the playing field, back to school.

Back in his office, he opens a new document on his computer and, eyes still stinging, he types:

To: Chair of Governors

Dear Harriet Carvin,

I am writing to formally announce my resignation as head teacher at Waverly …

There’s a knock at the door. Seb considers pretending he’s not in; he can’t take another confrontation. All he wants is to write this shitty thing and go back to Eva’s, lock the door and never unlock it again.

‘Mr Kent?’

Seb looks up from his computer. Mrs Greene has opened the door and pushed her grave face into the gap. ‘Can I come in?’

Seb desperately doesn’t want anyone near him, but it’s Mrs Greene and the school, he knows, means everything to her. He suspects she’d be lost without it. She deserves an apology if not an explanation. Seb lifts his hands away from the keyboard. ‘Of course.’

She shuffles in, closes the door deliberately firmly behind her and stays standing, staring before she asks, ‘What is all this nonsense about, Mr Kent?’

What would Mrs Greene say if he told her the truth? She’d tell him to resign, that’s certain, but would she fly into a rage?

Either way, nothing would change if he told the truth, but he would at least have treated Mrs Greene with honesty, with respect.

‘If I tell you, Mrs Greene, I want to ask you to please remember the children – both the students here and my own children – and keep this information to yourself.’

Mrs Greene nods, a little impatient, a little irritated, because she’s known for her discretion.

Seb looks at her, this woman who has always had such faith – such misplaced faith – and he hears himself say the words, ‘I betrayed Rosie.’

‘You had an affair?’

Seb shakes his head. ‘No, I had sex with someone else. Someone I paid.’

He waits for it. The moment her belief in him shatters. She becomes very still, tilts her head, before saying plainly, ‘You had sex with a prostitute.’

Seb hangs his head and then lifts it up again in surprise because he thinks he hears her say, ‘OK.’

There must have been some communication issue.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

Mrs Greene shrugs. ‘I said, OK. This is based on the assumption, of course, that the woman was working legally, of her own free will.’

‘What?’

She moves forward and sits in the chair opposite Seb’s desk, breathes out like she’s just taken something heavy off her back. ‘I’ve been worried it was something much, much worse. Honestly, the things they’re saying in the staff room.’

Mrs Greene shudders and Seb feels as though he’s banged his head hard and woken up to some alternative reality.

‘Mrs Greene, you did just hear what I said?’

She looks up at him; her mouth flickers, suppressing a smile. ‘It might surprise you, Mr Kent, to hear that I don’t live under a rock, and it might surprise you even more to know I’ve lived what my parents always called a rather colourful life. Not many people know that about me – well, people here at school, anyway.’

She looks away from him for a moment, allows herself a little smile. Seb suddenly sees her as a child of the seventies. Long hair, baggy clothes, hitch-hiking somewhere exotic … but the image blurs. Seb doesn’t know what to say; he just stares.

‘Now, obviously I’m not going to start applauding your behaviour, but, well, people are people, and we all have … needs. And I do think this awful petition is completely wrong. What goes on in your marriage should, in my opinion, be between you and Mrs Kent. That’s it. The person who wrote it clearly doesn’t understand that what interests the public and what is in the public’s interest are two completely different things.’

Seb opens his mouth to say something but shuts it again. He just wants to listen.

‘Now, back to that resignation letter I think you’ve started writing. My advice to you is to delete it immediately.’

‘But …’ Seb starts before realizing he doesn’t know what to say so instead squeaks, ‘Why?’

‘Because, believe it or not, Mr Kent, this is a golden opportunity.’

‘What?’

Perhaps she’s gone mad. Mrs Greene leans forward in her chair, towards Seb, and says, ‘Us adults get this wrong time and time again, don’t you agree? We think we have to be perfect, blemish-free examples for young people but it’s complete nonsense!’ She throws her arms wide. ‘What young people need more than anything are role models who get things wrong, who mess up catastrophically, and when they do mess up, they need to see those authority figures apologize, accept their failings and try as hard as they can not to let people down again. They don’t need to watch you be hounded out of your position, tail between your legs, full of shame – especially not when your mistake should stay where it belongs: in your private life! These kids need to know that when they inevitably get something wrong or let themselves and others down, their lives are not over.’

As she says the last bit Mrs Greene’s eyes fill and she turns her head for a moment, pausing as though to tend to a private battle, before turning back to Seb.

‘You could be an excellent head teacher here for many years to come. You know it, I know it. But you’re going to have to fight this one tooth and nail. You’re going to have to decide who is more important: the young people at this school or what your friends, colleagues and acquaintances think about your choices in your personal life.’

They sit in silence for a moment. Seb feels like he’s taken a hallucinogen, each one of Mrs Greene’s words like a tiny drug lifting him into a new world of technicolour, an unvisited place of courage and possibility. She’s right. He is going to have to disappoint some people, but it’s up to him to decide which people he lets down. Mrs Greene stands slowly and says, ‘Well, that’s my two pennies’ worth. Hope I didn’t say too much – I do get riled up sometimes. It’s my half-day today so I’m heading off home now. Don’t forget the cleaners will be in later, so lock all confidential stuff away, and I very much hope to see you back in tomorrow.’