Chapter One: Cupcakes

"Morning," Tom sighed, sinking down into his chair.

He realised that sounded a little possessive – his chair – but it was true; the staff at Waterloo Road were creatures of habit, and tended to claim particular furniture as their own. Grantly was incredibly attached to his coffee table.

Michael's reply was muffled, "M-morning."

On closer inspection, his colleagues weren't in their usual seats around the room, but instead huddled around at the back. He slipped his coat from his shoulders and straightened his tie, then moved closer.

"Oh, hi Tom," Nicki said.

"Hi."

She was looking at his chest. She was looking at his chest. He glanced down, and realised there was a smear of jam across the collar. He rubbed at it self-consciously. "Was a bit of a rush this morning. Josh trying to finish his Maths homework, you know?"

Michael nodded, "It's fine."

Tom raised his eyebrows. Normally, his boss would've understood the lame attempt to blame Josh as what it really was. I slept in. The alarm didn't go off. I've got a hangover. Today, he didn't seem at all interested.

"What's happening? Grantly?" Tom looked around his colleagues. They all looked shifty, wiping their mouths, brushing down their tops. "Sian? Anyone?"

"Well," Nicki looked back up again, paused, then began to speak quickly, her voice higher than usual, her words jumbling together, "I made cupcakes. And we were... we were eating them."

"Rather nice," Grantly said approvingly, "Actually."

"Oh, right," Tom smirked, "So where's mine?"

"Um, that's the thing, you see, Tom, I..."

"What?"

"I... we... we thought you weren't coming in, or something... so we thought there was no point in saving you any cake." Nicki mumbled, licking a splodge of pink icing from the corner of her mouth, "Chalky just had the last one."

"Oh, right." You've just said that, Tom. Sounding like a Dalek isn't cool. She won't be attracted by that. "Right."

"I'm sorry, Tom, I didn't..."

"No, it's fine."

Chalky gave him an apologetic smile and held out a fragment of fluffy sponge with sticky fingers. Tom shook his head, tried to smile back, tried to calm himself down.

Why am I getting flustered over a cake? What the hell is wrong with me? It's not like I'm hungry – I've just eaten toast and jam. As Nicki now knows; does she think I'm a pig, expecting toast and cake? Why do I care?

"Anyway," Michael raised his voice over the contented chatter of the staffroom, "I think that concludes our meeting nicely. I'm sure you need no reminding of parents' evening tomorrow night – make sure you've done your prep. And thank you for the cakes, Nicki; they really were lovely."

She smiled, "Well, you know, when you're bored at the weekend..."

Tom felt a flutter of jealousy. Cake was the way to a man's heart, and evidently compliments were the route to a woman's. He needed to work on compliments. What exactly did he say to her, though? Her eyes – he loved her eyes, how clear and piercing they were. You've got beautiful eyes. No, no, no.

"Are you alright, Tom?"

He looked up to see Michael hanging over him, his voice concerned, his eyes questioning. The smell of mint in his breath was overpowering; Tom felt suddenly claustrophobic.

As a boy, he'd been frightened of being close to people. Not in the emotional sense – although he'd been pretty crap at friendship too, and romance had been a definite no-go – but the physical one. He got scared when people came close. He didn't like his teachers to touch his arm supportively, or his neighbours to pat him on the shoulder.

People didn't believe him now, if he told them about his childhood, but he'd been an unhappy boy. Not unpopular, really – he was never really bullied or ostracised from circles of kids. He just did his own thing, never felt like he fitted in with anyone else. It had taken him a long time to trust anyone.

"Tom?"

"Yeah," he shook his head, "Yeah, sorry."

"Are you alright? You look a bit wiped out."

The only day Michael hadn't lectured him on getting drunk on a work night, the only day he hadn't been bothered by his deputy's late arrival, and Tom stepped right into the trap, because it was easier than telling the truth. "Just a bit of a hangover. Sorry. I'll be alright once the Paracetamol kicks in."

The disapproving glare he was used to. "Right."

His colleagues began to file out of the room. Chalky and Grantly were arguing about something or other, probably whether English or Maths was more important – they never really argued about anything else. Tom buried his head in the latest edition of the school newspaper, taking deep breaths.

This month we welcome a new arrival to the school, in the shape of Head of English Miss Boston, he read.

Oh, great. There was no escaping this bloody woman, was there? The photograph next to the article was of her in a strappy vest-top, casual and free, although somehow she still looked beautiful without seeming to make any effort.

Her eyes bore into his. Even though the image portrayed only a fraction of the emotion her features held in real life, it was enough to shock him. He'd never managed to look at her for more than a few seconds without averting his gaze like a nervous schoolchild, but now...

Miss Boston was previously in the army, but also has a passion for English, and will bring a great deal to the community at Waterloo Road. She has already made suggestions for a self-defence club, and will be organising a poetry competition later on in the term.

A couple of years ago, Tom had arranged a poetry competition. He'd received a total of twelve entries, eight of them no longer than five lines. One had involved a bundle of randomly thrown-together words, including bimblydink and fedingson. He had absolutely no idea what either of those words meant, and he had a sneaking feeling that the poet didn't either.

The tenth and eleventh poems had been valiant attempts, but with the kind of atrocious rhyme that set his teeth on edge – the equivalent of the cat with a hat on a mat, but with less appeal.

He'd cried when he'd read the final poem. Absolutely beautiful, absolutely perfect, real raw talent that he'd clasped in his hands and hadn't wanted ever to have to release. But the poem had been marked anonymous in red ink, and nobody had ever come forward, despite his pleas. He still had that poem, somewhere. He wondered if he'd ever know who'd written it.

Another failure, then. And now Nicki was going to run one, and she'd get hundreds of entries and find brilliant poets and... and... what? Why did that bother him?

Miss Boston told us, "I'm really excited about working at Waterloo Road – from what I've seen already it's a wonderful school."

"Tom?"

"Oh, hi," he closed the paper quickly. Shit. Shit.

"Are you sure you're okay? Michael's right; you do look ill."

"Hangover."

"Yeah," she smiled, and somehow she seemed to be laughing at him, "Right."

"So, you're having a poetry competition."

"Yeah," the smile faded. He realised how bitter he sounded, like an old man. How concerned she looked, frightened that she'd upset him, not entirely sure what she'd done. "You don't mind, do you? I just thought it would be a nice idea. I asked Grantly, and he said nobody else did anything like that, so..."

"No, no. It's fine. Of course. Go ahead."

"Thanks," she nodded.

Why does she need your approval, Tom? You don't need to sound like you're her boss, because you're not, really. Well, you are. But not when it's about English. Don't make her feel bad, when she's new and enthusiastic, and beautiful.

"Actually, would you..." she looked nervous.

"Would I..."

"You wouldn't like to help me judge it, would you? You know, I'm still sort of finding my feet here, and it would be quite nice to..." she paused again, seemed uncomfortable, but equally hopeful, "Have someone to help. Only if you're interested."

He smiled, "Of course I will."

"Okay. Well, I'd better... see you later?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Good idea."

XxXxX

When Tom entered his classroom the following morning – early, in case Michael was still on the warpath – there was a cardboard box on his desk, dotted with holes. He wondered if someone had brought him a stray animal, but then wiped the sleep from his eyes and dismissed the suggestion. Psychopath.

Inside, wrapped in a pink napkin, were two little cakes. One was marked with a T, and one with an N, and a little card was tucked between them. Just to make up for yesterday, he read. Even her writing was beautiful. I'll be in my classroom at lunch, so if you're free and want to pop along, we could think about planning the poetry competition. Or just eat the cakes.

He took a piece of paper from his back pocket, unfolded it, stared down at the article entitled 'Miss Boston' again. His eyes moved to the last line. Miss Boston also likes to make cupcakes. He grinned. He didn't think he had anything on at lunch.

XxXxX

Please review! If anyone has any suggestions for titles of the later chapters, I'd be more than happy to listen to them! xx