Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author. Suzy Quinn K
A live band strikes up behind us, playing a Beatles cover – ‘Love Me Do’.
Olly’s shoulders move to the music.
Mine do too.
‘You like the Beatles?’ Olly asks.
‘Yes.’ I look at him shyly, hoping this is the right answer.
‘Me too! I have a massive collection of Sixties vinyl.’
‘You collect vinyl?’ I ask.
‘No, well … not really. Most of my records are my mum’s. She listens to CDs now. It feels like time-travelling when I play vinyl, you know? Like I’m part of the swinging Sixties.’
‘Olly!’ A tall, red-cheeked man swaggers over, holding out a beer bottle. ‘Olly Kinnock. This is supposed to be a lads’ night out and here you are chatting up girls again.’
Olly smiles at me, staring with blue, blue eyes. ‘Not girls. A girl. A very interesting girl.’
I feel myself blushing.
‘Fair enough,’ announces the red-cheeked man, thrusting the beer into Olly’s hand. ‘We’ll see you in the morning then.’ He returns to his group of friends, who break into guffaws of laughter.
‘Sorry about them,’ says Olly, putting his elbow on the balcony and, in the process, leaning nearer to me. ‘They can be morons.’
‘You can go back to them if you like.’
‘Actually, I’ve always preferred female company,’ says Olly. ‘Girls smell better. But you must have a boyfriend, surely? A pretty girl like you. So tell me to get lost if you want.’
I blush again and stammer, ‘Um … no, I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Have a drink with me then.’
Surely he’s just teasing me? Handsome snowboarders don’t chat up chalet girls. And he really is handsome, with his lean, toned arms and perfect white teeth.
His eyes are serious, holding my gaze.
Maybe he isn’t joking.
‘Okay,’ I hear myself say. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s a date.’ Olly takes my hand like he’s won a prize.
I laugh, sucking in my breath as his strong fingers close around mine.
‘So what are you drinking?’ Olly asks.
‘Um … white wine?’
‘Chardonnay?’
‘Sure. Yes please.’
He winks at me. ‘I love Chardonnay. Best wine ever. Just don’t tell the lads. It’s a bit girly. I’ve been noticing you for weeks, Lizzie Riley. I think we should spend lots and lots of time together. And then get married.’
I can barely believe this is happening. A nobody chalet girl like me, being chatted up by this confident, tanned athlete. I guess I should enjoy it while it lasts. When he works out what a nothing I am, he’ll run a mile.
I laugh. ‘Are you always so forward with your wedding plans?’
‘Only with my future wife.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘Yes, but I’ve been watching you and your purple puffer jacket for ages, wondering how you don’t freeze to death in those DM boots.’
‘Where have you noticed me?’
‘Drinking black coffee in the café, buying a ginger cookie and giving crumbs to the birds on your way out. Always carrying a pile of books under your arm. Are you a student?’
‘I’m training to be a nurse.’
‘A nurse? Well, Lizzie Nightingale, you’ll have to put your career aside when you have my five children.’
‘Five children?’
‘At least five. And I hope they all look just like you.’
Our eyes meet, and in that second I feel totally, utterly alive.
I’ve never been noticed like this.
It’s electrifying.
And I feel myself hoping, like I’ve never hoped before, that this man feels the same sparks in his chest as I do.
8 a.m.
I’m eating Kellogg’s All-Bran at my desk, silently chanting my morning mantra: Be grateful, Kate. Be grateful. This is the job you wanted.
Apparently, social workers suffer more nervous breakdowns than any other profession.
I already have stress-related eczema, insomnia and an unhealthy relationship with the office vending machine – specifically the coils holding the KitKats and Mars bars.
Last night I got home at 9 p.m., and this morning I was called in at 7.30 a.m. I have a huge caseload and I’m firefighting. There isn’t time to help anyone. Just prevent disaster.
Be grateful, Kate.
My computer screen displays my caseload: thirty children.
This morning, I’ve had to add one more. A transfer case from Hammersmith and Fulham: Tom Kinnock.
I click update and watch my screen change: thirty-one children.
Then I put my head in my hands, already exhausted by what I won’t manage to do today.
Be grateful, Kate. You have a proper grown-up job. You’re one of the lucky ones.
My husband Col is a qualified occupational therapist, but he’s working at the Odeon cinema. It could be worse. At least he gets free popcorn.
‘Well, you’re bright and shiny, aren’t you?’ Tessa Warwick, my manager, strides into the office, clicking on her Nespresso machine – a personal cappuccino maker she won’t let anyone else use.
I jolt upright and start tapping keys.
‘And what’s that, a new hairdo?’ Tessa is a big, shouty lady with high blood pressure and red cheeks. Her brown hair is wiry and cut into a slightly wonky bob. She wears a lot of polyester.
‘I’ve just tied it back, that’s all,’ I say, pulling my curly black hair tighter in its hairband. ‘I’m not really a new hairdo sort of person.’
I’ve had the same hair since I was eight years old – long and curly, sometimes up, sometimes down. No layers. Just long.
‘I might have known. Yes, you’re very, very sensible, aren’t you?’
This is a dig at me, but I don’t mind because Tessa is absolutely right. I wear plain, functional trouser suits and no makeup. My glasses are from the twenty-pound range at Specsavers. I’ve never signed up for monthly contact lenses – I’d rather put money in my savings account.
‘I’m glad you’re in early anyway,’ Tessa continues. ‘There is a lot to do this week.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Leanne Neilson is in hospital again. Gary and I were up until nine on Friday trying to get her boys into bed.