School Love

There can't be many more embarrassing things for a teacher than coming apart in front of your class. When it happened to me I was mortified. Fortunately there were only eight students there, a sixth form English Lit class, not 30 horrible 14-year olds. I'd had a particularly venomous row with my husband that morning, and I'd been feeling fragile all day. Then one of the girls in this class started reading what was, in all honesty, a very maudlin poem she'd written about some medieval knight and his lost love. I could feel myself tearing up, thinking about how miserable I was feeling, and I sat pinching the back of my hand under the table, forbidding myself to cry in front of these kids -- but it all just welled up inside me, and suddenly I was sobbing my heart out. Poor little Alison must have thought she'd written the most emotionally charged poem in history!

My name's Mel -- short for Melek, a gift from my Turkish mother -- and at the time I was 28 years old, and teaching at a well respected school in the south east of England. I was going through a major depression about the fact that my five-year old marriage was crumbling apart, and like someone watching a slow motion film of a train wreck there wasn't a thing I could do about it. There wasn't anyone else involved -- not at that point, anyway; it was just that Peter and I weren't really involved either.

Looking back now, I wonder if he ever really loved me. I think I was just a tick on his list of things he had to do in his life: get a driving licence -- check; get a degree -- check; get a wife -- check. Oh, and I was a convenient receptacle for his cock when he fancied a screw once or twice a month. When we married I was madly in love with him -- along with half the women in the university -- but after five years we were living like strangers, barely connecting. The wit and charm that had so attracted me had disappeared, to be replaced by a cold formality as he turned into a paunchy middle-aged 30-year old. The box marked 'have children' remained unchecked, and I was determined it would remain so. I love teaching kids, but I've never really felt a maternal instinct.

Anyway, as I sat in that class room, desperately trying to master my emotions, Alison's voice trailed off and she sank in shock back into her seat. I felt eight pairs of eyes staring at me bewildered, and buried my face in my hands. Then, a few moments later, a sympathetic hand rested gently on my shoulder, and I felt a handkerchief brushing against my hands. A gentle male voice said, "Here Mrs Fellowes, use this. Look guys, there's only ten minutes to lunch, why don't we knock off a bit early and make a start on our projects -- okay?"

Managing to regain some semblance of dignity, I mumbled, "Yes, that's a good idea. Off you go. Alison, I'm sorry, the poem was lovely, really." As seven of my pupils scrambled to get through the classroom door and away from their loony teacher, the eighth, my rescuer, drew up a chair and sat close to me while I blew my nose and wiped my eyes, smearing mascara across my face. Then I gave him a warm smile and thanked him.

It was Anthony, of course. Anthony Simmons, my star pupil. One of the nicest things about teaching is seeing tiny kids come into the school, and gradually watching the ones with real talent mature into wonderful young adults with a brilliant future ahead of them. Anthony was definitely one of those. You try to treat all the kids equally, and not have favourites, but I'd always had a soft spot for him. All the other teachers and kids called him Tony, but I'd found out early on that he preferred the full version of his name and I'd always used it, even though that sometimes led to his classmates winding him up. He was a chirpy little guy when I first met him, with a bit of a crush on me, always ready to help me hand out workbooks in class, or clean the chalkboard for me. He'd quickly overtaken me in height though and, just turned 18, he was fully six feet tall, towering over my five-feet-two. He was also the most intellectually gifted student I'd ever had the privilege of teaching. I assumed he'd grown out of the crush, and was someone who now simply liked and respected me as a teacher.

As I started to pull myself together, I declined Anthony's offer to get me a drink of water. "I'm really grateful to you Anthony, I'm sorry I put you in that position. I feel fine now, honestly, I'm just a bit under the weather. You get off to lunch." He still looked a bit dubious, but gave me a smile and left. It was only then that I realised I was still clutching his cotton hankie, smeared with my make-up. Checking the coast was relatively clear in the corridor, I made a dash for the nearby female teachers' loo. Standing in front of the mirror I looked in horror at the Impressionist's pallet my tear-smudged make-up had turned my face into, and started to repair the damage.

As I did so I gazed at my face, thinking about the disaster my marriage had become. I was still young, and still attractive. I had inherited Mum's dusky complexion, her round face, big dark eyes, full lips and dramatic cheekbones. My jet black hair was cut fashionably short, curled around my small delicate ears. I was slim and athletic, with a small but nicely rounded set of boobs, a cute bum and shapely legs. I had had my own set of admirers at uni, and at least two of my male colleagues at the school would have dropped their pants for me in an instant. How did I manage to end up with a self-satisfied shit with the looks (five years ago, anyway) of a male model and all the personality (now) of a brick wall? My mother had never liked him.

I jumped as I heard an amused voice behind me. "Yes, you are truly beautiful. The mirror is about to weep with jealousy." My best friend on the staff stood watching me - our language teacher Julene Berriex, a Basque who spoke French and Spanish as a native. Jules and I had a reputation as the bad girls in the staffroom, forever whispering together in French and giggling over the idiosyncrasies of our colleagues. Her grin faded when she saw I had been crying. "Oh, ma petite colombe, what is it?" Standing five-feet-ten herself, she often called me her little dove. Sniffling, I told her what had happened. She gave me a hug and, realising I might want to avoid the school refectory, took me to our favourite sandwich bar, not far away.

That afternoon I buried myself in a corner of the staffroom, marking essays and planning my lessons for the next week. I was still there at half past five, when it was getting dark outside and the only other people left around the place were the cleaners. I finally ran out of excuses not to leave, but I wasn't ready to go home and resume the morning's argument. I couldn't even remember what it was about, but I was certain Peter would be too petty to let it go. Jules had asked if I wanted to go for a drink, but I just wasn't in the mood. Leaving my car at the school, I turned up the collar of my coat and aimlessly wandered the shopping precinct which started a couple of streets from the school gates.

I don't know how long I'd been ambling along staring into the windows of closed shops -- maybe half an hour -- when the bright lights of a greasy spoon café caught my eye. My hands stuffed deep into my pockets, I stared through the condensation which obscured much of the plate glass window. There were people in there having a joke with their mates, holding hands with their lovers, smiling and laughing, while I stood on the pavement, feeling miserable and excluded. I was just turning away, furious at my pathetic self-pity, when a group in a far corner caught my eye. They were kids from the school, and Anthony was among them. I didn't want them to see me, I'd already been humiliated enough for one day, but as I started to move away Anthony looked up and caught my eye. A moment of surprise crossed his face, then he waved a hand at me, beckoning me in to join them. The other kids looked up, trying to see who it was outside.

I hunched my shoulders and made to scuttle away, but a moment later I heard Anthony's voice calling to me. He caught me up and asked if I'd like to come in for a coffee. I shook my head. "It's okay Anthony, you guys are out to enjoy yourselves, the last thing you want's a teacher looking over your shoulders. Even if you don't mind, your mates wouldn't be too happy."

He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder, smiling down at me. "Please Mrs Fellowes, you'd be welcome, really." He looked so sincere that I decided to go in with him. I knew it was a stupid idea, but I was cold and miserable and I thought a nice cappuccino might steel me for my return home. As we entered, the five kids sitting around the table, most of whom I knew, stared at us with a mixture of irritation and amusement. One girl looked daggers at me. At first I had no idea why, but when Anthony sat down she wrapped both her arms round one of his in a most proprietorial manner and threw me a challenging glance. I barely knew her -- I thought her name was Terri something -- and I was mildly amused that she apparently felt threatened by an authority figure ten years older than her boyfriend.

As the combination of the steam-clogged atmosphere in the café and my drink began to warm me I felt myself relaxing, which was more than could be said for most of the company. Within ten minutes there were just three of us left -- Anthony, his admirer, and me. He and I were discussing the exam project I'd given him, and I began to lose myself in the details, and forget my woes. I didn't notice the time passing until Terri stood up, looked meaningfully at the wall clock, and said, "Tony, are you coming? I've got to get home." Barely glancing at her, as he continued to talk to me, he vaguely waved a hand and said he'd be a few minutes yet. It was only when she repeated his name with an emphasis on each syllable -- "TO-NY!" -- half-whine, half-snarl, that he reluctantly looked up and nodded.

Standing slowly, he placed a hand on my shoulder, for the third time that day, and said, "Thanks Mrs F, I've really enjoyed this. It's been so helpful." For a few moments our eyes locked and we both ignored the thunder cloud forming on his girlfriend's face, until she grabbed his arm and virtually dragged him out of the door. Finally realising how much time had passed I knocked back the cold dregs of my coffee and rushed back to the school, hoping I'd get to my car before the janitor locked the gates for the night. Driving home I reflected how much I'd enjoyed my conversation with my student, and what a nice lad he really was. It was a pity his silly little girlfriend had spoilt it, with her ridiculous jealousy. I was just Anthony's teacher. Okay, maybe it was a bit more than that, maybe we were starting to become genuine friends, but to read any more into it than that was ludicrous.

I got through the evening with Peter, and a rather tense weekend, but by Tuesday I was feeling completely frazzled. As I sat in the staffroom drinking foul instant coffee I thought about how much I'd enjoyed the other night in the café. I hadn't had a class with Anthony since then, just seen him in the corridor a couple of times, where he'd smiled at me and apologised for Terri's rudeness. As I packed up my things for the day, on the spur of the moment I decided to go to the café for a cappuccino; not because it even occurred to me that Anthony might be there, but just because I liked the bustling atmosphere of the place and, hell, it was damn fine coffee, as they say. I actually asked Jules to go with me, but she had a salsa dancing class that evening. As it turned out, that was a lucky break for me.

I spotted him the moment I entered the place, sitting at the same rear table, nose buried in a book. Unlike the previous occasion, the café was almost empty, and Anthony sat quite alone. He looked so deep in concentration I was about to slip out again, not wanting to disturb him, but he looked up and saw me. Giving me a delighted grin, he said, "Hi Mrs F, I didn't expect to see you here again. Will you join me -- please?" I was happy to do so. Once I'd ordered my drink I said I hadn't expected him to be there either. He explained, "It's quiet in here mid-week. At home my dad loves watching TV and my kid sister plays loud music in her bedroom at night, so this is a little oasis of tranquillity. I do a lot of thinking here."

I asked Anthony what he was reading, and he showed me -- it was Le Morte d'Arthur, a medieval collection of stories about England's legendary king: heavy stuff for a teenager to be into. He explained he loved classics from history, and we were soon lost in a wide-ranging discussion about some of the greats of world literature, from Chaucer through Machiavelli to Wilkie Collins. I knew Anthony was bright, but I was amazed at how well read he was for one so young. It was a fascinating evening, and again I lost track of time. When he finally said he had to get home I offered him a lift. We continued the discussion in my car, and when I pulled up outside his home Anthony turned to me. "Mrs F -- I know this might sound a bit forward of me, and I won't be upset if you say I'm being stupid, but...I've really enjoyed the chat's we've had at Luigi's. I don't suppose...well, that we could do it again sometime? I mean just talk about literature."

I didn't think it was stupid at all. I'd had a good time too, and I could see nothing wrong about it. So I said I'd like to, and we agreed to meet there again the following Tuesday. As he was about to get out of the car, Anthony dipped his head to mine and gave me a kiss on the cheek, just a light brush with his lips. Then he said "Goodnight Mrs F -- sweet dreams", and he was gone. As I started the engine I felt my cheeks flush, and my pulse drumming more quickly than usual. All the way home I told myself it was fine, we were just friends, and there was nothing wrong with a friend giving another a peck on the cheek.

Our Tuesday rendezvous became a regular thing. We discussed all sorts of things, not just literature, but Anthony's home life, his hopes and dreams, my path through university and into teaching...he never mentioned Terri, and I never saw her around him again. He was hoping to be the first member of his family to go to university, and had his heart set on Durham, one of the most prestigious establishments in the country. One of my fellow teachers had studied there, and I promised to get him to have a chat with Anthony. I began to think of him very much as a friend, and told him he should call me Mel outside school: the formality of 'Mrs F' was ridiculous.

In talking about myself I told him things I really shouldn't have done, things about my personal life which I shouldn't have shared, especially with a young man I really didn't know that well. I was sure I actually saw his eyes moisten when I spoke of my marital problems. It really wasn't fair of me, but it felt good to unburden myself, and I said things I hadn't even told Jules. Increasingly those Tuesday evenings became the highlight of my week, and I started to get excited all day just thinking about our meetings. I found it increasingly hard to look at Anthony no differently from the other pupils during lessons, and felt a little frisson of anticipation when I knew he was going to be in the class. But I still tried to convince myself that what I was feeling was perfectly normal, and I regarded Anthony just as a young platonic friend. Each time after our meetings at Luigi's I drove Anthony home, and the kiss on the cheek became that little bit more lingering. Then one night one of us -- I'm not sure which -- adjusted our position slightly, and his lips slipped onto mine. The kiss lasted maybe five seconds, and I relaxed into it, my eyes fluttering closed. I lay awake in bed thinking about Anthony for hours that night before I finally got to sleep.

The next day, just after the class of 15-year olds I was teaching broke up for lunch, there was a light knock on the open classroom door and Anthony wandered in. The moment I saw him I felt my cheeks growing warm. He said, "Hi Mrs F, sorry to bother you but...well, the Lumière Is showing Women In Love tomorrow night, and, um, I wondered if you'd be interested in seeing it with me? Feel free to say no, of course" Our local art-house cinema often did one-off screenings of classic films, and the 1969 production of D H Lawrence's novel is a favourite of mine. I should have at least thought about it before accepting; but commonsense had flown out of the window where Anthony was concerned, and I immediately agreed to go. We arranged that I'd buy the tickets and we'd meet in the cinema lobby; I at least had enough sense of self-preservation to not want anyone seeing me meeting an 18-year old pupil outside the place.

On the Thursday I rushed home and changed into a smart casual set of jeans, T-shirt and open-toed slingback sandals, changed my earrings for a more glittery pair, and applied a couple of sprays of my favourite fragrance. Just before I pulled the shirt on, I unsnapped my bra and dropped it in the washing basket. I often go unfettered outside work, and I told myself I'd done it purely for the sake of comfort. Then, before Peter returned from his work, I slipped back out, butterflies in my tummy. It was ridiculous, I told myself, I'm just sharing an educational experience with a talented student.

When I arrived at the cinema Anthony was already there. I felt my stomach lurch when I saw him. He had changed into a lilac polo shirt that revealed a few dark strands of chest hair, and arm muscles rather better defined than I would have expected. His curly dark hair parted around his ear to reveal a gold stud which he never wore in school. It flickered through my mind that he looked not unlike a hero of romantic period fiction -- my very own Heathcliff! Banishing the thought, I fumbled for my purse and bought our tickets. I noticed that Anthony's eyes scanned me from head to toe, pausing momentarily at the ripples in my T-shirt caused by my nipples.

The small auditorium was low-lit and we took seats near the back, not speaking much, just making the odd comment about the film and Lawrence's life. There was nobody else sitting within two rows of us. As the lights dropped and the opening titles of the picture began to roll, Anthony took my hand in his. A tiny corner of my mind screamed at me how inappropriate that was, but I told it to shut up: I liked the feel of his big warm hand wrapped around mine.

It happened as the scene began where Oliver Reed and Alan Bates wrestle nude. I've always found that particularly erotic, and that was my only excuse. I didn't even think about what I was doing: on auto-pilot, my hand disengaged from Anthony's and dropped into his lap. I sensed his whole body tense, and through his jeans I could feel a stiff rod. Still gazing at the two bodies rolling about on the screen, I tugged at the zip of his fly and slipped my fingers inside. The cock I wrapped them around felt both longer and thicker than Peter's. Anthony gave a small gasp as I eased him free and began stroking my fingers up and down him. We didn't look at each other, both staring intently at the screen, as if our lives depended on it, as Ollie and Alan grunted and strained, and in the intimate darkness I gave my young boyfriend a hand job.

I'd been right, his cock was a lot more impressive than my husband's, and in my hand it felt like an iron bar, covered in burning velvet. He didn't last long, and I quickly felt a wet warmth splatter onto my fingers. Still not turning my eyes in his direction I reached into my handbag and passed him a couple of tissues. He immediately made a bolt for the toilet. It was only then that I wondered what the hell I'd just done. I think I knew, at a sub-conscious level, that we were building up to something; but did it really have to be me, the supposedly responsible adult, who started it? When Anthony returned, without hesitation he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him. When we kissed that time it was full on, his tongue slipping between my lips and exploring my teeth and gums. I felt him tugging at my shirt, and didn't resist as his hand slipped inside and cupped one of my small breasts. We spent the rest of the film with his arm around my shoulders, kissing each other every few minutes.