CHAPTER ONE
The class revision session went really well. Simon was easily on track for the A* grade he wanted for Maths; university was just a small step away on the other side of summer. Exams held no fear for him. He'd had a good friendly chat with Mrs Franklin about how he could score extra credit, but now he had to head home or he'd miss the bus.
As he made his way down the back stairs from the school upper level, he heard a noise - sniffing, snivelling - and paused. It sounded like crying. Not something he, as a certified introvert, wanted to have to deal with; he'd used up his coping-with-people quota for the day. He turned, as silently as he could, and started to creep back up the stairs. He could just carry on across the top landing to the other staircase, and not have to handle whatever it was going on down below.
"Hello?" called out a girl's voice.
Damn, Simon thought. They know I'm here.
Ignore them, his brain urged him. Go quickly and quietly. They won't know who you are, so they won't be able to hold it against you.
He was already turning, when she called out again, nervously: "Is there someone there?"
Guilt-laden, he started making his way back down the stairs. She sounded scared. It was late, and dark, and he guessed the school was kind-of creepy without hordes of teenagers roaming the corridors. Or maybe he'd just watched too many horror movies.
"Um, yeah, hello," he called back.
"Simon?" she replied.
He made the bottom of the stairs, looked round underneath. It was Claire. He hadn't recognised the voice because her distress, and the hollow echo of the empty corridors, had made her sound so weak - nothing at all like her usual brash confidence. Claire was one of the popular, good-looking girls in the school. If they'd had cheerleaders at this typical British comprehensive, she'd have been one of them - possibly the head girl - but that American tradition hadn't made it over to England just yet (thank goodness, he thought). Claire hung around with the other popular girls, the ones who'd incessantly tease him, call him names - gaylord, virgin - just because he didn't hit on them like the male bullies (who also went after him). He really regretted not running the other way, now. But he was here and had to make the most of it.
"Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?"
She sniffed, wiping her nose with the tissue she'd just been dabbing under her eyes. A couple of faint mascara lines trailed to her rosy cheeks. "Not really," she admitted.
Simon sighed. He was so not the person for the job of comforting a beautiful young lady in distress, but it looked like he was the only one available. And he couldn't just leave her like this - he was introverted, not heartless. He sat down beside her.
"What's the matter?"
"I can't do it!"
"Do what?" he asked.
"This! A levels! Maths, particularly, but the biology as well. It's so hard! GCSEs were so easy but this... Mrs Franklin marked me as a D for my mock in maths. D! It's not enough! How am I going to become a vet if I can't get into university?!"
Simon didn't understand. Maths was so easy - it was logical. Biology, now that was properly difficult. It wasn't a real science, like chemistry or physics. Those were sensible, precise sciences. But biology? That was messy. He didn't quite know what to say, but he knew enough not to have said any of that out loud to her.
"I ask you, a D! I've never got a D in my life!"
Well, I don't think that's true, he thought. Look at you - perfect face, perfect hair, big perky boobs, great ass, trim figure. She had, shall we say, a certain reputation; Simon was pretty sure she'd got the D plenty of times. He'd often dreamed about her, that she was working her way through all the boys in class, so one day it was bound to be his turn. Was he jealous of the others? Well, yes and no. Part of him thought he was better off out of that; the rest of him, particularly the lower parts, lusted after the chance of sex.
Yeah, if you don't bottle it, the devil whispered in his ear. Remember that girl at Sandy Shores holiday park, the one who kept touching you up in the arcade, and you freaked out? That was your chance for a bit of share-and-share-alike, but no. You didn't grab her ass or tits in response. You didn't even talk to her. You got all flustered, stormed away from the machine in a panic. Simon could still hear that girl's mocking laughter, and that of her friends, when he closed his eyes.
The silence dragged out, and he knew he had to break it...
"I could help you, if you like?"
You idiot. Why did you say that? Do you really want to spend time with her, alone? No, don't answer that either, that's not what I meant. Obviously, she wouldn't spend time with you. What were you thinking? See, this is why we should have ignored her and just gone home. Now you're gonna be the sad case that got inevitably shot down by the hottest girl in school. How clueless of you to even suggest it.
"Oh, would you? I'd be ever so grateful. This stuff makes me hopelessly lost. A bit of help with revision would be really appreciated."
"No problem," he heard himself saying. "It's a date." A beat. "Well, not a date obviously, that's ridiculous, sorry, not what I meant at all." He could feel himself blushing. "I mean, of course not. Just, um..."
She was smiling - kindly, not in a mocking way at all, like he'd expected. "I'll let you know," she said.
They walked out of the school together, chatting normally - or as normally as Simon was able to talk to a pretty girl; an event that was in itself most abnormal. At the gates they went their separate ways; her off to the posh houses, him back towards his council flat.
///
Nothing happened for a week or so. Simon assumed she had just been being polite, so he got on with his own life, resolving to forget the encounter - except perhaps in the darkness and solitude of his bedroom, where his dirty teenage brain spun an implausible fantasy out of the already unlikely scenario of Claire deeming him worth talking to.
But after class one day, out of sight of their classmates, she beckoned him aside. "Are you still up for helping me out?" she whispered.
"Sure," he said, in surprise. "When?"
"Can you make it this Saturday?"
As if he had plans for a weekend that didn't involve just playing computer games. "Yeah. Do you want to meet up at the library?"
She looked baffled. "Err, no thanks," she said. "Come to my place, say around midday?" She passed him a crumpled note. "At least we can get drinks and stuff there."
Simon was dumbstruck. A cute girl had just asked him round to her home! His mouth flapped for a bit; before he could regain control of his voice she was already gone, not wanting to be seen with him. He understood. Nobody wanted to get caught talking to the nerd.
That night, he had considerable trouble getting to sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about her. About her long blonde hair, blue eyes, cute freckled face. Of the way her outfits complemented her fabulous figure - always appropriate for school, and yet fuel for the imagination of even the geekiest horny teenage boy.
He'd fancied her for years. He remembered how he used to sit beside her in Geography GCSE, being sure to sit to her left so that he could cast furtive glances at her, peeking between the buttons of her uniform blouse to catch even the slightest glimpse of a curve of round flesh held in white lace. He'd seen much more than that on the internet, of course; but that wasn't real, and more importantly it wasn't her.
Now she'd asked him round - to work, admittedly, but she could have asked anyone. Could have changed her mind and got help from anybody else. But no, she followed through, and asked him. What did it mean? Did it even mean anything?
Eventually, he gave in to the temptation, and let his hand do what it wanted. It wasn't long before the waves of guilty pleasure flooded through him, carrying him off into sleep.
///
Her house looked like one of the ones you see on TV - detached, with several rooms each side of a front door, a double garage to one side. By English standards, it was a palace. Real people couldn't afford to live in places like this, he thought. Maybe she's just playing a prank on me, sending me to some toff's house who'll call the police on me.
Nevertheless, he rang the bell, stepped back from the door, and waited. Simon was worried that - even if it was her house - Claire's parents would answer, and he'd have to explain himself. What are your intentions towards my daughter, they'd say, and he'd soil himself on the spot. But no, when the door opened, it was Claire standing there, welcoming him in. She was dressed quite conservatively by her standards; a dark bodysuit that was opaque enough not to reveal her underwear, and skinny pale blue jeans. Not flashing the flesh... but skin-tight, nevertheless. Her hair hung loosely, flowing over her shoulders to mid back.
They grabbed a drink from the kitchen and headed upstairs to her bedroom. Simon had been half-hoping they'd work in the dining room, or a home office, or something - yet also was secretly delighted that she was taking him up to her room. "My parents are out for the day, so it's just us," she said. There was no tone, nothing to hint that she'd meant anything untoward, but Simon's mind raced nonetheless. The mere thought of being left unsupervised, in her bedroom...
"Are your parents okay with me being here, alone, with you?" he asked.
Claire looked at him like he had two heads. "Why, what are you thinking of doing?" she asked, all serious, pretending to be shocked. Then she laughed. "Don't worry, they don't give a shit. I'm the youngest of three daughters, they've seen it all before and really couldn't care less what I get up to." Besides, she thought - from what mum's told me, she had a pretty wild youth of her own.
A double bed on one side, fitted wardrobes all along another. An ensuite bathroom, no less, and this wasn't even the master bedroom of the house! Such luxury. A large desk, wide enough for the two of them to comfortably sit side by side and work, covered in books and papers.
A photo frame sat prominently on the windowsill. Claire at the bottom right-hand corner, next to her two elder sisters. Behind stood the proud parents, and in front sat their three Labradors - one gold, one brown and the other black. "Elisabeth and Imogen, you know. That's my dad, Paul, and mum, Samantha," she said. Simon noticed that Claire was the very image of her mother - freckled face, button nose, cute features, and a killer rack. Not that he should think that way about a woman over twice his age. Only the hair was different; Claire was blonde while her mother was brunette.
At the end of the bed there was a large heavy wooden trunk, ornately carved, presumably filled with bedding or towels or suchlike.
"That's a nice big chest you have there," Simon said, before he'd given his brain a chance to vet the words that were escaping his mouth. Oh god, what a faux pas, he thought. Kill me now, let the ground swallow me up.
"Why thank you, kind sir," Claire fake-blushed, flapping her hands in the style of a Victorian lady, then curtseying and pressing her boobs together with her elbows as she did so. "I got that from my mother."
