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Richard Branson.

      Marsha, who had a soft spot for Rajiv, explained that she aimed to become a fireman-woman, so that she could help Rajiv in his brave adventures. They could be a team – firefighting heroes but also husband and wife with six children. Rajiv buried his head in his hands, wishing his spacecraft could be ready that afternoon. Miss Lomax succeeded – but only just – in suppressing potentially uncontrollable giggles. Rajiv, however, quickly succumbed to a tell-tale redness which travelled all over his face and burnt right through to his ears. A roar of ‘Ugghh’ and a spatter of laughter erupted. Marsha stared straight at him and at Miss Lomax alternately, imploring, ‘But it’s true, it’s true.’

      Law and order was easily re-established, the class was keen to listen and tell. Ambitions were mooted: to win the Grand National on a small Welsh pony; to become a very famous actress and appear on This Is Your Life; to take England to victory as the top goal scorer in the next World Cup (‘Come on now, Andrew, be slightly realistic’, ‘Well, maybe the World Cup after next’); to be the Queen’s favourite chef. The children were loose, stimulated and creative. They produced some of their best work that day without realizing it was work at all. Miss Lomax felt proud. She was having fun.

      ‘Yes, Alice? Tell you my fantasy or daydream?’ The bell for break clanged. Saved by the bell, ho ho, thought Sally. Yet for once none of the children moved. Pen lids were left off pens, books lay threateningly open. Thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes said that break did not matter, they wanted Miss Lomax’s dreams.

      ‘My dream?’

      Yes, Miss, your dream.

      ‘Maybe next time, it’s break-time.’

      We don’t want our break, we want your fantasy!

      There was no escape, she could not punish them for showing such enthusiasm for her lesson. She could not disappoint them by merely taking theirs and not giving them hers.

      ‘Okay, okay. In a nutshell, I would like to live in Tuscany – that’s in Italy, here on the map. In a beautiful stone villa set amidst flowers and cypress trees, with its own pool and near a perfect little village. I’d like a devilishly good-looking Italian husband who is a pasta wizard, a batch of beautiful babies and a satisfying job teaching perfectly behaved, diligent (look it up in the dictionary) pupils.’

      Sally only sort-of lied. It had certainly been her fantasy right up until last week, but that was before Richard Stonehill and her current fantasies, which would most certainly earn her a dismissal and severely disturb the fresh, absorbent minds of her young charges. The Tuscan Idyll would have to suffice.

      ‘Now scram!’ Thirty pairs of androgynous legs scrammed. Out, out into the playground to munch chocolate, elaborate further on their stories and to discuss whether or not they believed Miss Lomax. The majority (all except Paula-Teacher’s-Pet-Thomson) did not.

      As she headed towards the staff-room, Miss Lomax talked silently to the satchels and gym shoes which lined the walls.

       My fantasy? Best daydream? If it’s come true, or is coming true, is it still valid? I want the memory of me, the feel of me, my taste, my smell, my touch, to stay with Richard Stonehill for the rest of his life. The knowledge that it has done so will give me the pleasure and strength never to let myself feel small and worthless. Actually, maybe that’s all a little too metaphysical. Let’s start again. On a physical level. My fantasy is to have the most delicious, wicked, life-enhancing affair with this Adonis, this Richard ‘call me Conan’ Stonehill.

      ‘Hullo, Sal!’ (Don’t call me that.) Mr Bernard – John – (Head of Maths), greeted Miss Lomax – Sally (great at giving head).

      ‘You certainly look radiant today. Don’t tell me Class Five had done their homework? All of them? I’ve a double period with them after break, so help me God. Might you be free for a drink this evening? No? A shame, a great pity. Some other time, perhaps, maybe?’

      Miss Lomax, who had never talked much more than shop with Bernard, was a little taken aback.

      It’s not the short skirt, is it? She hastily persuaded herself it must be her aura instead.

      Miss Lomax made coffee in a mug bearing the school’s emblem and maxim, In Loco Parentis, and sauntered over to where Miss Lewis – Diana – (teacher of Art and Craft) sat. They were close friends and allies in the field of staff-room politics. Diana, the dictionary definition of a wacky art teacher, was always bowled over by the small happenings and vagaries of life. Indeed, great interest and pure enthusiasm were expressed for practically everything and everyone around her. Her exaggerated inflection assisted the expression of such fascinations. To her great amusement, this rendered her a willing sitting duck for many a playground impersonation. She had an absolute field day with Sally that break-time.

      ‘Look at you! You look fab-u-lous. Who is he?’

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘Sal-lly!’

      But all Diana had for a reply was Sally taking a noncommittal gulp at her coffee.

      ‘Okay then, Miss Sexy Sal.’ (Don’t call me that!) ‘What did you do over the weekend? Apart from plun-der your bank account?’

      ‘Actually, that was about it. Just a quiet weekend, a bit of sewing, finishing a novel, generally pottering about. You know, one of those weekends.’

      I do know ‘those weekends’, thought Diana, and you most certainly did not have one! You’re fibbing to me, but you have your reasons. Only tell me soon, Sally, Sexy Sal, do!

      FIVE

      ‘He’s late today, isn’t he? Most unusual. Did he have a meeting? Check for me, will you? I don’t think I could stand these butterflies all day!’

      ‘No, Sandra, no meeting for him. Maybe he’s sick? Or maybe he’s eloped.’

      ‘Stop it, Mary, that’s not fair.’

      ‘But you’ve been working here over two years and you get the same courteous “Good Morning, Good Evening, Merry Christmas” as the rest of us. You know he’ll only ever be married to his work. He’s probably a lousy lover anyway. No one female ever rings for him. You never know, maybe women aren’t his thing anyway.’

      ‘Oh, shut it. Let me have my hopes and fantasies. It’s all right for you, with your mortgage and your steady Steve and your … oh my God, he’s coming! Oh my Gordon Flipping Bennett. Keep cool and sophis, San. Hello, Mr Stonehill!’

      ‘Good morning, Sandra. Morning Mary.’

      Morning, morning. Mourning.

      Sandra’s gaze followed him down the corridor. Mary watched her closely. Smitten. Sandra absorbed every detail, storing it for later, for the arduous journey that she would make, always made, seatless and depressed, back to High Barnet.

       I love that navy suit, I love the way he walks. His hair lifts slightly with each stride, the trousers outline his calf muscles with every step. Why was he late? How can I find out? Please, please, please not a woman in his life. Pretty please a gas leak or something. One day, me, please. One day, me. Or, for one day, me. All I ask.

      0181 348 6523. No answer. Of course not, Sally’s at school. But does she have an answering machine? Richard wonders, hanging on. Obviously not. But does she go home for lunch? he wonders two hours later as he re-dials. Obviously not. Does school end at 3.30 nowadays? No, apparently it does not.

      Richard has done little work. As the working day nears a close, his drawing board remains irritatingly bare. He just could not seem to settle down to concentrate on the plan for the quasi-Georgian building commissioned by the Americans. Instead, he doodles and a Play School house stares back, with a chimney, a door, and windows; one, two, three, four. You never know the Americans, they might like it. He twirls around in his swivel chair; his jacket is off, his shirt sleeves rolled

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