The Two Week Wait by Sarah Rayner

Author:Sarah Rayner [Rayner, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781447209911
Google: 16M_rD8qPYEC
Amazon: B006Z9SNG8
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2012-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

26

Lou is in the staffroom. Opposite her is Shirley, the Head, forking the contents of her plastic lunchbox into her mouth while she talks about the last day of term. But Lou’s had a thumping headache all morning and is finding it difficult to concentrate. Presumably it’s the medication – she woke repeatedly in the night pouring with sweat. She could miss vital information; she should say she is feeling unwell. It’s just the two of them, an opportunity to bring her boss up to speed, yet Lou is worried she’ll need time off in the future and doesn’t want to try Shirley’s patience. All the staff are under enough pressure as it is; the pupils are demanding and funding is tight. If she can just make it through to the holidays, by September she’ll know if she’s pregnant. Most women hold off on telling their employers at least that long, why should she be an exception?

The door opens. It’s Brian, the maths teacher. ‘Budge up.’ He wants a space at the table. There’s a waft of peanut butter – Brian’s favourite – as he unwraps his sandwiches from their silver foil. The smell is a fast track to Lou’s childhood.

*

‘Pea-Mite,’ her father is saying. ‘That’s what I call it.’

‘Goodness, Frank, how disgusting,’ says her mother.

Lou’s sister, Georgia, pulls apart the white bread and wrinkles her nose at the brown smears. ‘Ew.’ She discards the sandwich, reaching instead for the ham ones Irene has prepared.

‘Mm . . . delicious,’ says Frank, pointedly. ‘Can I tempt you, Louloubelle?’ He holds out a triangle, winks in camaraderie.

‘OK.’ Lou reaches across the picnic rug, takes a bite. She can appreciate why he likes it; the yeasty tang of Marmite combined with the sweetness of peanut butter is strangely appealing, and she’s enjoying the fact that her father has made his own lunch in defiance of his wife. Her mother is a perfectly adequate cook, but never experimental.

Lou finishes the sandwich, takes a pack of Chipsticks and sits on the rug, legs crossed, the sound of crunching filling her ears, looking out over the tall grasses. Next to her Georgia is lying on her tummy, reading a photo love story in My Guy magazine, riveted. Not far away two boys close to Lou’s age are playing football on a stretch of lawn; a man she supposes must be the father of one is in goal.

They’re not bad, she thinks, watching them tackle one another, and wanders over to take a closer look, trying to appear nonchalant. She stands there, breeze against her bare legs, on the edge of the pitch, eyes scrunched up against the sun.

‘Hey! You wanna join us?’ shouts one of the lads.

Lou thinks they mean someone else: turns, looks behind her. No; it’s her they’re asking.

‘Oh, yes,’ she says. She likes football but rarely gets the chance to play. At school she is only ever offered netball and hockey in winter, tennis in summer, and there’s no way Georgia would kick about with her.

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