Chapter 8 – Plink Plink Fizz

'Anyone got any Alka Seltzer?' Imogen rested her fists on her hips and squinted against the midday glare which flooded through the staffroom windows. Her head had been subject to a relentless throbbing since the morning, despite her having consumed copious amounts of water and, to her annoyance, Davina and Amelia appeared to be entirely unscathed following their exertions the previous night. One of the many benefits of having magic at their disposal, she thought, watching the chanting mistress knitting manically as she hummed a cheery tune.

Constance was bent over her desk marking mock exam papers, and had barely acknowledged Imogen when she entered the room.

'I'll take that as a no, shall I?' Imogen said, after several moments' silence.

'Oh, sorry dear –' Amelia looked up from her newspaper. 'I would offer a quick charm but as you know we're not supposed to practice on the non-magical community.'

Davina picked up her bowl of fruit salad and offered it, wordlessly. Heaving a sigh, Imogen turned towards the door.

'Don't worry, I'll pop into town and get something. I've got my car with me – and nothing'll be open in the village.'

Constance sat bolt upright and surveyed the gym mistress with a concerned expression.

'Are you all right, Constance' Imogen asked. Amelia peered over the top of her paper.

'Yes,' she said, eventually. 'Just… be careful,'

Imogen looked questioningly at Amelia, who casually returned her attention to the paper.

'Be careful about what?'

Rearranging the exams in front of her with forced nonchalance, Constance stamped them into order against the desktop and slid them into a wallet.

'I'm sure it's not an easy journey from here to the town by car – after all, you have to negotiate the mountain's gradient – and then there's the thick woodland...' she rose to her feet and tucked the file under her arm. 'You can never be too careful, Miss Drill.' And with that, she walked briskly out of the room.

Imogen looked back to the other two teachers.

'Is this her version of a hangover?'

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With a basket hooked over her forearm, Imogen hurled various supposed hangover cures into it. The shelves of the town's small convenience store were stocked full of the sorts of things she'd seen advertised on TV when she'd spent her weekends at the flat, all claiming this miracle cure and that burst of energy. Feeling groggy and dehydrated, she threw in a multi-pack of Mars bars for good measure.

As she grabbed a tub of moisturiser from the shelf, Imogen inexplicably felt as though she were being watched. Raising her head towards the shop's window-front, she cast her eyes along the length of it. There was nobody there of note – just a few Sunday pedestrians with newspapers tucked under their arms. The sun was bright but it was a chilly summer morning, the sort that promised to be warmer around midday. Satisfying herself that her imagination was running away with her, Imogen paid and walked quickly across the road, flicking the switch on her keys so that her car blipped in indication that it was unlocked.

'Imogen?' Her stomach was gripped by a pang of trepidation as she heard the familiar voice. Imogen turned around to see Serge on the other side of the road, his hands in his denim pockets, observing her like a nightclub bouncer eyeing up a potential troublemaker.

Clutching her shopping, Imogen tried to appear calm as her heart beat erratically inside her chest.

'How are you doing?' he asked, walking across the road towards her. 'Can I treat you to breakfast?'

'I don't think that's a good –'

'Hey – it's fine, honey. If you're worried about what happened the last week,' he paused to massage the back of his neck, 'That's all forgotten about. Friends?'

Imogen studied his face. He seemed to have colour back in his cheeks and he'd had a shave. His hair was clean and he was wearing a new checked shirt in two contrasting shades of blue. He smiled fondly at her, and for a moment she was reminded how his broad, white smile had first attracted her to him.

'How about a "fry up"?' he said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. It had always made her laugh when he used typically British terminology and tried to put on a cut-glass accent. Finally allowing herself to smile, she opened the boot door of her off-roader and swung the shopping bag inside.

'OK then – fry up.'

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The ketchup dispenser was a plastic bottle in the shape of a tomato. Imogen had been fiddling nervously with it since they had taken their seats and were now awaiting the arrival of their breakfast.

Ron's "Caff", as it seemed to be pronounced, was about as rough and ready as a greasy spoon could be. Ron himself, seemingly exempt from the law, puffed on a cigarette which drooped lazily from the side of his mouth as he cooked, an inch long accumulation of ash looking as though it might end up garnishing the fried eggs.

'So – how's life at the school?' Serge ripped the end off a paper sachet of brown sugar and tipped it into his mug of steaming tea.

'You mean the freak show?' said Imogen, sarcastically. He rolled his eyes.

'No, I don't mean the freak show, OK? Look – I'm sorry about that. I was upset. Have you never said anything you didn't mean when you were upset?'

Imogen watched as he slurped his tea, loudly, a habit she had found endearing at first yet which had become increasingly irksome.

'OK, I'm sorry. They're all fine. We had dinner last night, actually.' Imogen puffed up proudly as she said this. It still gave her a buzz to think she was almost "one of them".

'Dinner? That's a bit indulgent for your thrifty headmistress, isn't it?'

'It was to welcome me to the school, now that I'm there on a more permanent basis.'

A cry from behind the counter caused Imogen to jump and Ron, cigarette in one hand and plate in the other, launched into a rather intrusive broadcast:

'EGGS, BEANS, HASH BROWNS, TWO BACON, SAUSAGE, TOMATO,'

'That's mine,' Serge scraped his chair across the floor and Imogen watched him as he walked over to the counter, exchanging words with Ron who handed him two plates and nodded in the direction of the cutlery. Serge would have been many a woman's ideal – tall, but not too tall, broad shoulders, full head of chestnut hair – and then there was that Canadian drawl...

She deliberately turned her gaze away as he returned to the table. Yes, she thought – he would have been many a woman's ideal – but he wasn't hers.

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Imogen grimaced slightly as she watched Serge wipe the remaining sauce from his plate with a slice of buttered white bread. That was one thing she couldn't abide – cleaning crockery with the food. He smiled up at her as she shoved the last of the bread in his mouth.

'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'I'm sure they'll give it a proper soaping down later. How was yours?'

Imogen looked down at the discarded food which was now forming an unappetising skin in the stagnant air of the café.

'Very nice thanks. A bit much for me though.'

'Well – how about you come back to the flat for a rest before you head back?' Serge slid his cutlery from her plate onto his and stacked it neatly, not looking at her as he spoke. Feeling slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of being alone with him for the first time since their argument, Imogen hesitated.

'It's OK,' he said, finally. 'Like I said, last week is forgotten about. Plus you might as well pick up the rest of your stuff.'

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Imogen entered the flat cautiously, her eyes surveying the place as though it were the first time she had ever been there. There was a sweet, vanilla scent in the air, and she glanced towards the kitchen to see it looking spick and span.

'You must have a new girlfriend!' she mocked. 'It was never this tidy when I lived here.'

Her smile faded as she passed the bedroom and noticed the entire mirror missing from the door which Serge had collided with. He noticed her staring and walked across to the door, patting the glassless panel.

'Replacement ordered,' he smiled. 'Don't worry, these things happen. But you know I won't be telling my friends about how my girlfriend hurled me across the room like she was suddenly something out of the X-Men. How the hell did that happen, by the way?'

Imogen pulled her cuffs over her knuckles and fiddled with the fabric. 'I don't know,' she said, thinking back to the incident and briefly remembering the door that Mildred had insisted had been locked that she had apparently miraculously managed to prise open. 'You must have lost your balance.'

'Well,' he said, walking over to her and slipping an arm around her waist. 'Never mind. It's not like it's going to happen again, is it?'

His grip, and his eyes on hers with their glint of seriousness that seemed to dare her to disagree, caused Imogen to feel anxious. She didn't belong to him anymore, and she didn't like him having his arm around her – but she didn't want to protest and risk his wrath. Deciding that the only option was to humour him, she hoped with a feeling of dread that he didn't have any reconciliation tactics in mind…

'Whiskey?' said Serge.

'Better not. Still feel a bit ropey after last night. Can I get myself some water for the tablets, though?' and as Imogen turned to head for the kitchen her eyes widened in panic as she felt him grab her from behind, clamping a thick cloth over her face.