The New Samurai (2 page)

“Sorry about that, everyone. New York office. You know how it is.”

Juliet looked bored and didn’t offer to introduce her husband to Sam.

Sam hid an irritated frown and introduced himself.

“Hi. You must be Alex. I’m Sam,” and he held out his hand for the second time.

“Sam? Oh, right: always a pleasure meeting one of Ellie’s new chaps.”

They shook hands damply. Alex winked conspiratorially at Elle, who looked as if she wanted to rip his head off. At least she felt the same way as he did now, Sam thought, a slow anger beginning to build.

He gave himself a mental shake: this was Elle’s family after all. Seeing them like this, well, it explained a few things. He felt a new compassion for her. She looked so small and fragile, perched on the edge of the sofa – it made him feel protective of her, even though he knew the image was an illusion. Eleanor was as fragile as a Rottweiler with toothache, with a not dissimilar temperament. She hadn’t got to be Creative Director of a West End ad agency at 30 by being overly concerned with how people felt.

Even though he hadn’t been invited, Sam went and sat next to her. He let his hand touch her thigh briefly, just to show he was on her side. She didn’t look at him, but moved slightly closer so their elbows were touching.

“So, Sammy-boy,” said Alex, broadly, “what is it you do? You don’t look like one of those slick advertising types that Ellie usually brings back.”

Sam smiled tightly.

“No, I’m a teacher.”

Alex looked taken aback. “A teacher? In a school?”

Sam managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Yes. I teach English in a secondary school. In Kidbrooke. South east London,” he added for the benefit of his largely baffled audience.

“Good Heavens!” laughed Mrs Wilkinson, entering the room with impeccable timing. “I imagine they probably do need an
English
teacher in that part of London! Do any of the children actually speak the language?”

Sam didn’t respond. It was true that his school had a large percentage of kids whose first language wasn’t English, but most of them had better manners than this family so far. Better, just a bit rougher. He smiled, thinking of what Ayesha in his tutor group would have said to Mrs Wilkinson.

“Can’t imagine that pays very well,” said Alex, “although you do get all those long holidays…”

Sam felt the smile slip away. As if he hadn’t heard comments like that before! But it still grated. Every teacher he knew worked 13 hours a day just to keep up with the marking and paperwork – and that included most weekends. Holidays were spent planning the next term’s work; the PPA allowance hadn’t made much difference to that.

He realised that Alex was waiting for a reply.

“The pay isn’t too bad,” he lied. “Or at least it won’t be once I’ve paid off my student loan.”

Juliet’s eyes were wide with enjoyment. “A
student
loan? How recently were you a student, Sam?”

Sam was slightly puzzled by her question but he answered anyway.

“I qualified as a teacher two years ago,” he said.

“So that would make you… what… 24, 25?” said Juliet, pretending to be thoughtful.

Eleanor interrupted suddenly.

“Pour me another sherry, would you, darling?” she said in a bored tone to Sam, waving her now empty glass at him.

Without comment, he stood up and refilled her sherry from the decanter. He knew very well that her diversion was to cut off his reply that he was 24. She was rather sensitive of the fact that she was six years older than him.

Sam gazed at the clock on the mantelpiece and was staggered to see that it was still only 6.30 pm. He felt as if he’d been here for days, maybe even weeks.

Elle snatched the glass of sherry from him too quickly and the dark, ruby liquid sloshed dangerously near the rim.

He felt sorry for her. It occurred to him that this was nearly as tortuous for her as it was for him. He wondered again why she’d been so insistent that he spend Christmas with her family; she didn’t seem to like any of them very much.

After the initial exchange, Alex and Mr Wilkinson ignored Sam and chatted loudly about stocks and shares and the state of city trading, and whether or not banking business would end up moving to Hong Kong or Shanghai, and which city they’d prefer to live in if that were the case.

He felt relieved when they went in to supper, as they called it, but was then immediately disappointed because Elle was seated at the opposite end of the table from him. Instead, he was sandwiched between Juliet and Mrs Wilkinson.

It soon became clear that Juliet had been imbibing even more before she came down.

“So, tell me, Sam,” she said, leaning on her elbow and staring into his eyes. He tried subtly to lean away from her whisky breath. “What’s it like being a teacher these days?” she whispered loudly. “Any naughty schoolgirls after you? Notes under the desk… an apple for the teacher? I bet English is their favourite subject!”

Sam frowned.

“Oh, come on!” smirked Juliet. “I’m intrigued: a good-looking boy like you in a school full of girls. You must have some wonderful stories to tell!”

“Actually,” said Sam, dodging the question, “it’s a mixed comprehensive: I teach boys and girls. Although I think boys are easier in some ways.”

“Ooh! That sounds intriguing! And why is that?” said Juliet, moving closer, her hand resting on Sam’s knee.

Across the table, Elle’s looks were murderous.

Sam tried to move away, but he was already as close to Mrs Wilkinson as he could go without sitting on her lap.

“I just think boys are a bit more straightforward,” said Sam, awkwardly. “I can tell a boy off in a lesson but he’ll have forgotten all about it by the time the lesson ends; with a girl, she’ll hold it against me for at least a term.”

Juliet snickered. “I bet
all
the girls like to hold it against you.”

Against his will, Sam felt himself blushing at her innuendo and Juliet shrieked with laughter.

“Rein it in a bit, Jules,” said Alex, in a bored voice. “Sammy-boy is right: chaps are much easier to work with. Don’t have to deal with all those hormones. And as for the maternity rules, well, they’ll cripple any business if you let ‘em. Dropping babies all over the place, expecting crèches and shorter working hours. Hmm. Much better to employ men: they get the job done – just like Sammy-boy said.”

Sam felt like banging his head against the table, but smiled thinly instead. He threw a glance at Elle: she seemed to be having the same feeling. They swapped a sly smile and Sam immediately began to feel better.

The food wasn’t half bad and a welcome distraction. Sam tried to praise Mrs W for her cooking but she rather stiffly pointed out that she had a woman from the village for that sort of thing.

When the dessert dishes had finally been cleared away, Sam had hoped that he might be able to get near to Elle again. She’d looked bored rigid seated in between Alex and her father, both of whom had rudely been talking over her. But instead the three women stood up, intending to retreat to the drawing room. Sam looked around him in panic and Elle shrugged sympathetically.

Mrs Wilkinson caught the look and said rather coolly,

“We’ll leave you gentlemen to your cigars then.”

The way she emphasised ‘gentlemen’ made it quite clear that she didn’t include Sam in that category.

Juliet stumbled as she tried to stand and almost landed in Sam’s lap. She cackled loudly and Mrs Wilkinson looked irritated.

“Pissed again,” snorted Alex.

He made no attempt to help his wife.

Sam made sure Juliet was more or less upright, and felt grateful when Elle helped escort her sister from the room.

Mr Wilkinson watched the door close and huffed,

“Thank God we’ve got rid of the women at last. Don’t get any sensible conversation with them around.”

He drew a small, wooden box out of the sideboard and opened it. Alex helped himself to a cigar as broad as a Lincolnshire sausage, then passed it to Sam.

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Mr Wilkinson raised his eyebrows.

“Why not? It’s Cuban. Rolled on the thighs of virgins. Ho! Ho!”

Sam shrugged.

“Just never started. I used to play a lot of sport…”

“Well, a cigar now and then doesn’t keep me off the golf course,” brayed Alex. “Go on, try one. Puts hairs on your chest. Ha! Ha!”

“No, thanks,” said Sam.

If Alex hadn’t been knocking back the Shiraz he might have noticed that Sam’s voice had a slight edge to it.

“What sort of sport
do
you play then?” said Mr Wilkinson, narrowing his eyes to keep Sam in focus.

Sam’s mouth twisted unhappily.

“Not much these days. I don’t have the time…”

“Bloody hell!” roared Alex laughing. “School’s only from nine till three – what do you do with the rest of your time? Read poetry? You should try a proper job.”

Sam felt intensely irritated and had had enough wine himself to feel the control on his temper slipping slightly; but telling off this moron, Eleanor’s brother-in-law, wasn’t going to help anyone.

“What sport did you play,” continued Mr Wilkinson, “before you were so… busy?”

“Rugby.”

The reply surprised them.

“Really?” said Mr Wilkinson, looking interested for the first time. “Did you play rugby at school? I would have thought you were a football chap. What position did you play?”

“I was a fly-half,” said Sam.

“I liked a bit of rugger at school,” said Alex. “Always good as a Prop.”

That figured, looking at Alex’s flabby bulk.

“Which school did you go to?” said Mr Wilkinson.

Sam shrugged, smiling slightly.

“Not one you would have heard of: the local comp.”

“And they played rugby there? Well, well. Did you play for the school team?” asked Mr Wilkinson, raising his eyebrows to peer owlishly at Sam.

“Yes. And later at university.”

That surprised them. Sam didn’t bother to mention that he’d played professionally for one season for the Saracens. A cruciate ligament knee injury had put a permanent end to that career path.

“Now I teach rugby after school,” said Sam. “We’ve got quite a good a girls team…”

Alex hooted. “A girls team!? Playing rugby! Good grief, whatever next. I can just imagine it: ooh, ref! I broke a nail!”

Sam laughed. Keeping Ayesha from breaking her opponents’ face in the scrum was more of a challenge.

“It’s not really like that: they’re a competitive group. There’s a good league of girls’ teams in London. We get a lot of support at matches.”

Alex and Mr Wilkinson shook their heads in disbelief.

At that moment, Poppy the retriever pushed her way into the smoke-filled dining room. Nominally she was Juliet and Alex’s dog, but they didn’t seem to pay her much attention. Instead she made a beeline for Sam, wagging her tail so briskly that her whole body undulated with joy. She was a cutie, and certainly the nicest member of the family that Sam had met so far.

She rested her heavy head on Sam’s knee and gazed up adoringly, her chocolate-brown eyes begging for affection. He stroked her silky head and she sighed happily. If only all females were that easy to please.

Just then Poppy eyed the haunch of ham that was still resting on the window seat. Before Sam could react she vaulted over his legs and wrestled the ham to the floor.

“Get that dog out of here!” roared Mr Wilkinson, aiming a kick at Poppy. The dog danced out of the way, the ham swinging from her teeth. She was enjoying this game.

“Put that down, Poppy!” yelled Alex impotently, his face red with anger. “Drop! Drop!”

But Poppy had no intention of dropping the ham. Sam tried not to laugh but when he saw the vengeful look in Alex’s eyes, he grabbed hold of the dog and prised the ham from her jaws. She looked at him, unabashed.

“I think I’d better take you out,” said Sam.

Poppy wagged her tail happily.

“Bloody dog!” snarled Alex.

Sam tugged Poppy from the dining room and pulled her into the kitchen. Juliet was slumped across an old easy chair and Elle was leaning with her back to the sink, smoking a cigarette. It was something she only did when she was feeling particularly stressed.

“What was that all about?” she said. “I heard shouting.”

“Oh,” said Sam, a smile making his eyes crinkle in a way that she couldn’t help adoring. “There was an incident with Poppy and… er… the joint of ham.”

Elle rolled her eyes as Juliet slurred, “Jus’ run it under the tap,” from the corner.

Poppy wagged her tail and smeared some drool on Juliet’s skirt.

Still smiling, Sam wrapped his arms around Elle’s waist and kissed her hair lightly. She stubbed out the cigarette on a dirty plate and roughly pulled his face down to hers. He could taste the nicotine on her breath but didn’t comment.

He kissed her slowly but seriously, feeling the tension in her body. She twisted her fingers into his hair, her breathing becoming uneven.

Just as things were starting to get interesting, Mrs Wilkinson arrived carrying the violated ham.

Poppy looked up hopefully, then sighed when the meat was consigned to the bin.

Elle pulled away from Sam when her mother said scathingly,

“I really don’t think
this
is the place for
that
.”

“Nowhere is the place for
that
as far as anyone in this bloody family is concerned,” slurred Juliet from the armchair.

Mrs Wilkinson’s withering glare rebounded off Juliet’s inert body.

“Church in one hour,” she sniffed, marching from the kitchen.

Sam and Elle dissolved into giggles. Now he knew how his pupils felt when he found them snogging behind the science block.

“Church?” he said, questioningly.

Elle shrugged. “Family tradition: Christmas Eve midnight mass. Actually it’s rather sweet. The church is candlelit and everyone bellows carols out of tune. Then there’s punch and mince pies in the hall afterwards. Do you want to go?”

“If it makes you happy,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear so he could run his lips along her neck.

Elle sighed.

“Oh for God’s sake,” mumbled Juliet from the armchair, “just get a room.”