Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (7 page)

“Well, hello, Clara, I almost didn’t see ye
there,” he said, his Scottish accent relatively mild, suggesting he’d been
living in New Zealand for a while. “I swear, when Happy Meal graduates, we’re going
to throw a wee celebration party.”

Someone called out his name, drawing his
attention away from me, but I couldn’t see who it was, his large frame blocking
my view. He was incredibly tall, well over six foot, making me feel like I’d
just stepped out of Hobbiton. Though, I didn’t have big feet, only two left
ones.

Beverly emerged from behind him. As usual,
the other drama teacher was dressed in brightly coloured clothes, her skirt
always matching her glasses, which right now were yellow. She reminded me of a
character out of
Grease
, just older. I liked it, the woman adding some
colour to the sea of grey, black, and red uniforms.

“Are you coming?” she asked, tucking a ringlet
behind her ear. Her black hair was pulled up into a bun with a few ringlets
hanging loose.

“Where to?”

“For drinks. Paul was supposed to ask
you.” She threw him an accusatory glance.

He held up his hands. “Ye interrupted
before I had a chance.”

“Okay, ye’re forgiven, ma laddie,” she
said, putting on a Scottish accent. “I cannae stay mad with ye for long. It’s
nigh impossible.”

He smiled. “Are ye trying to imitate me,
because I don’t speak like that.”

“You do when you’re talking to your niece.
You sound like a totally different person, a Highlander who should be wearing a
kilt not pants.” She gave him a cheeky wink. “And we all know what Highlanders
wear under their kilts.”

He chuckled, making her smile, her chocolate-coloured
eyes looking at him with uncontained fondness. He stopped laughing and cocked a
reddish-brown eyebrow at her in question, her stare lasting slightly too long.

She quickly looked back at me, her cheeks
a touch rosier. “Quite a few of us get together after school on Fridays,” she
said, clearly embarrassed. “You should come. It’ll be a good way for you to get
to know the other teachers. Spouses are also welcome to tag along.”

My mind went to Markus, wishing he could
come along. “My husband’s still in England.”

“Which means you have no excuse not to
come,” Beverly said, hooking her arm through mine.

Paul followed us down the corridor,
barking at a couple of students blocking the exit. They moved out of our way,
allowing us to descend the stairs. Beverly pulled me in the direction of her
car, which was a blue Mini. To my surprise, Paul squeezed into the back seat,
his large frame taking up most of the space.

“I’m the designated driver tonight, so you
can catch a lift with us,” Beverly said, getting behind the wheel. “Actually,
I’m
It
every time.” She jerked her thumb at Paul. “Because this one’s a
lush.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Having a few wee drinks
once a week doesn’t equate to being a lush.”

Beverly went to say something back, but I
cut her off.  “What about my car?” I said, not making a move to get in.

“We’ll get it tomorrow,” she replied, fastening
her seatbelt. “It’ll be safe until then, since the school locks the grounds
overnight. Paul has a key to get in.”

I hesitated, not really wanting to come in
tomorrow. I had planned a day of reading books and lounging around in my PJs,
not having to converse with people.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a party pooper,”
Beverly said.

I glanced at my car. The yellow Volkswagen
was a few spaces away, shaded by a tall oak tree.

“It’ll be fun,” Beverly added. “Plus,
Paul’s great entertainment. We can bet on how fast it’ll take before he gets
slapped for being sleazy. I won last week for guessing right.”

“That’s because it was
you
who
slapped me,” Paul said.

“Well,
you
shouldn’t have been
sleazy then, you dirty bugger.”

I
laughed and got into the front passenger seat, keen on getting to know Beverly
better, the woman funny.

***

We got to the pub just after four. Despite
it still being the afternoon, the place was more than half full. A number of
the male patrons were staring up at the two flat-screen TVs hanging on walls,
their expressions almost reverent. A cricket match was playing, with an
Australian batter about to go up against one of New Zealand’s fast bowlers. A raucous
cheer rose through the air as our man took out the Aussie’s wicket, sending him
back to the stands.

Beverly steered me past the bar, which
curved out to our left. A number of the stools framing it were full, with casually-dressed
women and men nursing their drinks and chatting to one another.

“This way,” Beverly said.

She guided me to the far corner, where a medley
of people were either sitting or standing around a cluster of tables. I
recognised a number of them from the staffroom, mostly teachers with a couple
of admin personnel thrown into the mix. Beverly pulled me over to a woman, who
looked either in her late sixties or early seventies. She had a thick layer of
makeup caked onto her face, her red lipstick bleeding into the cracks around
her mouth. It made me want to check my lipstick, the look definitely not
attractive.

“Where’s Harry?” the woman asked, focusing
on Paul. He was hovering behind me, his close proximity starting to put me on
edge, the man not understanding personal space.

“Sorry, Marcia, he’s not coming,” Paul
replied, talking about the other half of Britain. “His ma’s unwell.”

Grimacing, the woman pushed up and left
without saying goodbye.

“What was that about?” I asked, glancing
at Beverly.

Paul answered instead, “She’s a cranky auld
cow, who only comes because she wants me friend to clean oot her cobwebbed
knickers.”

“Paul!” Beverly gasped. “Don’t say that.”

“Well, it’s true. And she’s dreaming if
she thinks Harry will ever be interested in her. He only talks to her because
he’s too much of a pussy to tell her to piss off.”

Beverly shook her head. “More like it’s
because he’s a gentleman,
unlike
someone else I know.”

Paul looked around. “Who?” he said,
sounding amused.

“You know who, you horrid man.”

He laughed. “Just being honest.” His gaze
moved to me. “What can I get ye, sweet Clara? A wine, a beer?” he asked, his green-eyed
stare almost intrusive.

“You don’t offer me any free drinks,” Beverly
harrumphed. “And kindly keep your adjectives to yourself. It sounds creepy when
you add them.”

He smirked. “Ye only say that when it’s
not
you
I’m complimenting, and I was just being a
gentleman
like
Harry.”

“No, you were being sleazy.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “For offering Clara
a drink?”

She crossed her arms over her ample chest.
“You know what I mean by that.”

He mirrored her. “No I don’t, please enlighten
me.”

She glanced at me, seemingly embarrassed.
“You’re hitting on her.”

“No, I’m being friendly, so don’t get yer
granny knickers in a twist.”

She smacked his arm. “I don’t wear granny
knickers.”

“Aye, ye do. Remember that time ye arsed
over?” He glanced at me with a smirk. “She had her legs up in the air for all the
world to see.”

“Stop being an arsehole, Paul,” she
growled out, looking immensely embarrassed.

He rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, ye women
cannae take a wee joke.”

“Because it wasn’t funny.”

“It was to me.”

“Just go away if you’re not going to be
nice.”

“Fine.” He turned and headed for a table
full of men.

Beverly shook her head, her annoyed gaze
following him. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss him or hit him,” she
said, through gritted teeth.

“Are you two an item?”

“I wish.”

I focused on the table Paul was now
sitting at. A couple of the men glanced our way, whispering between themselves,
making me wonder whether Paul had said something to them.

Grimacing at the men, Beverly grabbed my
arm and pulled me over to the bar. She let go and climbed onto a barstool. “Don’t
broadcast it to everyone,” she said.

“Broadcast what?”

“That I fancy him.” She nervously smoothed
out her yellow skirt, the flutter of her fingers stopping on the hemline,
yanking it over her knees. “But I’m not a blonde bimbo or Harry, so I don’t
have a chance.” Her face dropped a second later. “I wasn’t referring to you as being
a bimbo; you’re definitely not one. He just has a thing for blondes.”

“Why did you mention Harry, then?” I
asked, not taking offence.

A smile pulled at her lips, wiping away
the worry from her face. “Just a fantasy I like to have of Scotland topping
England.”

“Topping?”

She leaned her head forward. “Fucking,”
she whispered.

I spluttered out a cough, not having
expected her to say that. “I can just imagine what Paul would say to that.”

She grinned wickedly, her chocolate eyes
sparkling. “You don’t have to imagine, his face went redder than his hair.”

“You seriously said that to him?” I asked
in disbelief.

She nodded. “And the next time we have a school
camp, I’m going to suggest they go
Brokeback Mountain
and share a tent.”

I snorted out a laugh this time, sounding
like a pig getting its tail pulled. “I like you, Bev, I really do.”

She nudged me. “I like you too; just not
in a girl on girl way, you know what I mean.”

I continued to laugh, drawing people’s attention.

Beverly grinned wide. “Laugh at Paul like
that; he won’t hit on you ever again.”

I covered my mouth, trying to stifle my
snorts, fully aware my laugh was godawful.

“So, what’s your poison? First drink’s on
me.”

I dropped my hand. “A lemon, lime, and
bitters, thanks.”

“Sure thing.” She indicated to the
bartender, who came straight over, giving her a friendly hello, the tall man
appearing to know her. She ordered our drinks, passing over mine once he’d made
it.

“So, how’d your first week go?” she asked,
taking a sip of her virgin cocktail.

“Really good,” I replied, stirring my
drink with the straw. “The first day was a bit rough, but once I got past it,
I’ve had hardly any trouble.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m glad Dante
Rata didn’t drive you away like the last English teacher. She lasted only a few
days before she quit.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “You must be an angel or have
an ironclad will to put up with that ratbag. Paul’s always losing his temper
with him. Last year, Dante spent more time standing outside his class than in
it. Anyway, enough talk about school. What do you do in your spare time?”

“I mostly read, go to the gym, or hang out
with my husband when he’s not halfway around the world. What do you do?”

“Watch infomercials and order exercise
equipment I never use. Got Ab Master last week. Did one sit-up and decided to
give it to my younger brother for his birthday.”

I laughed, finding her fun to talk with.
We spent the next half hour chatting about infomercials and everything she’d
ever bought off TV before Paul interrupted the conversation. He pushed in
between us rudely, ignoring Beverly’s loud complaint. He flagged the bartender
and ordered an ale, then leaned his back against the bar, openly looking me up and
down. Sleazy was definitely the right word for him, his gaze making me feel
dirty.

“So, Clara...” he paused, “how long have
ye been married for?”

“A year.”

“Och, I was married once. The bitch took
me for all I had.” He scratched his chest, a puff of reddish hair peeking out
from underneath his blue button-down shirt. “Marriage is a waste of time; it’s
more fun being single.” He glanced at Beverly. “Ain’t that right, Bev?”

“I’d rather be married,” she replied.

“That’s because ye have no clue what it’s
like.”

“Don’t be mean, Paul.”

He frowned, appearing perplexed. “What was
so mean aboot that? It’s a fact.”

“You know damn well.”

“No, I don’t, and right now I’m not
interested in ye starting another argument, so stop assuming I know what ye’re
talking aboot.” He shook his head at her and took his ale from the bartender.
He sculled it and slammed the glass down on the bar, ordering another one.

“Take it easy, Paul,” Beverly said. “We
have all night.”

“I don’t plan on being here all night,” he
looked at me again. “I plan on getting laid.” He yelped as Beverly hit his arm.
“What was that for?”

“Stop being rude to Clara. For goodness’
sake, we have to work with each other.”