Authors: Tillie Cole
I put my hands on my
hips and a massively confused frown on my face. “What? Why is
everyone acting so weir-,”
“
Ms. Munro? Ms.
Munro! Mom, it’s Ms. Munro!”
It was that moment that
every teacher dreads while a little bit intoxicated, dancing like a
stripper working for tips and frankly making an absolute tit out of
themselves, the call that has you running for the hills.
Shit, a student.
I plastered a fake
smile on my face and turned around, flashing the pearly whites at a
table of about six people all staring at me. They were in a very dark
corner with only a red table-candle illuminating the area, meaning I
couldn’t initially make out individual faces. I cast a quick glance
at Tink who was looking a bit pale and clammy.
What the heck is
going on? Why are people eating in the back room? And what is up with
Tink, he couldn’t have known one of my students is here?
At the table, someone
second-to-right was waving their arms around like a jacked-up air
traffic controller, and was frantically gesturing for me to come
over. Ah, recognition hit like a smack to the face. It was Boleyn
Jones.
Fuck.
Sucking in a breath, I
began to make my way over to the table. Bloody hell, it was like
walking the Green Mile. I searched for any holes along the way to
throw myself into, but tonight, it seemed, was not my night. Only
smooth and polished floors led me to my doom.
“Ms. Munro! Oh my
God, I can’t believe it’s you, you look so different,” squealed
Boleyn excitedly.
Looking down at myself
I nodded, taking in my micro-mini LBD that tied in a
cleavage-enhancing structured-cup halter and flared out with a net
tutu skirt that just about covered my more-than-ample arse. I
realised I looked absolutely nothing like a teacher, but like a bad
extra on the set of
Moulin Rouge
.
This is just
awesome.
“Hey,” I said
weakly, feeling like an utter knob. “Hope you’re all having a
nice meal.”
I briefly surveyed the
dimly-lit table, noting that there seemed to be near-equal numbers of
men and women, all around my age or older.
In the corner farthest
away from me sat an enormous hulk of a man sporting a grey woolly
beanie hat, with his head resting on the heavily-tattooed arm
covering his face from view. It all seemed very mafia-like.
“Yeah, we are. We are
out celebrating my part in
Les Mis
. It was the first night all
the family could get together in weeks,” Boleyn bubbled.
Getting up from the
table, Mrs. Jones held out her hands and greeted me. “Hello, Ms.
Munro, nice to see you again. Sorry if Boleyn got a bit over-excited
then. We didn’t mean to interrupt your night.”
“No problem, it’s
nice to see her so lively. I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone
back here. Sorry if you witnessed my little performance just now.
It’s kind of a tradition I have with the staff, it’s not really
meant for public viewing,” I squirmed, looking down at my hands
while I beamed a lovely shade of crimson.
A few laughs came from
the table, and Boleyn chimed in. “I thought it was funny, Miss!”
Having not dared make
too much eye contact with the rest of the patrons through utter
mortification, I decided it was probably best to make my excuses as
soon as possible. “Well, I’ll leave you to it; I don't want to
keep you from your evening.
Buon appetito
.”
I quickly turned to
scurry off, and heard muffled voices behind me. I could hear Boleyn
throwing an uncharacteristic strop and a gruff male voice spit
something out sharply in response, but ultimately making grunts of
defeat.
What is all that
about? Ignore it and run. Stop embarrassing yourself.
“Oh, Ms. Munro!”
shouted Mrs. Jones.
Arghhh!
I turned
my head slightly towards her call.
“Could we introduce
you to the rest of the family?”
Noooo!!! I must have
sinned badly in a past life. I just want to go and hide under a rock!
In a fake, cheery tone
I answered. “Sure, I’d love to.”
Tink and what seemed
like every Italian immigrant in Canada were all watching me with
their mouths wide open.
What the fuck is
going on? Is my train wreck of embarrassment really that bad? Shit,
is my skirt tucked into my knickers?
Mrs. Jones (or Pamela,
as she urged me to call her) came over, took my arm, and escorted me
back to the table while I discreetly checked the back of my skirt,
making sure I didn’t have a whopping wedgie. You’ll be pleased to
learn that it was all good.
The introductions
started with Boleyn’s side of the table.
I put my hand out and
said to my student. “Hi, I don’t think that we’ve met? I’m
Ms. Munro.”
Boleyn began laughing
whole-heartedly and shook my hand right back. “Hi! I’m Boleyn,”
“Like Anne?” I
teased.
“Yeah, but don’t
behead me,” she joked.
“Well, only if you’re
a good singer and can rock out to Adele like no-one’s business!”
Blushing, but obviously
flattered, she answered, “I think I can do that.”
I winked and looked at
the next person, a beautiful blonde with blue eyes who looked about
my age.
“Ms. Munro, this is
Samantha; she is married to my eldest son, Henry,” Pamela
explained, pointing to Samantha and a casually dressed man next to
her.
I nodded, smiled and
shook both their hands. “Hi, nice to meet you Samantha, and you
too, Henry.”
They both smiled back,
reciprocating the pleasantries. Henry had longish dirty-blonde hair
that ran just enough to tuck behind his ears. He looked like a surfer
– a very good-looking surfer – maybe in his mid-thirties.
Together they looked like Barbie and Ken, all good-looking and
obviously madly in love. It was lovely to see.
“Next is Tate, a
friend of the family,” continued Pamela.
Tate was very cute,
with an extremely happy disposition. I liked him instantly. He had
the preppy look down to a T, with a crisp white shirt, dark denim
jeans and a red dickey bow tie. He had dark hair styled in a
comb-over and was cute as a button. I would bet any money that he
batted for Tink’s team.
“And this is?” I
asked, turning to the massive bloke on the end with the beanie hat
hiding most of his face. He peeked up reluctantly, and I went to
introduce myself, and then stopped.
Well, shave my head
and call me baldy!
“Holy shit!” I
gasped and covered my hands with my mouth as if I could stuff my
inappropriate cursing back in. “I’m sorry. But–”
“
Yes
, Ms.
Munro. Please let me introduce my youngest son, Tudor,” Pamela
announced, chuckling to herself.
“Hi,” he looked up
briefly sporting a disgusted scowl, clearly not at all happy about my
presence.
“You’re Tudor
North!” I blurted out.
“Am I?” he said,
patting himself and feigning shock. “Shit, that’s why I’ve been
getting gawked at all night. I couldn't figure out why before you
kindly reminded me of who I am. Thanks for that, you
really
must be a good teacher, so witty and quick!” he quipped dryly,
turning up the right side of his mouth in a snotty smirk.
“
Tudor
!”
admonished all of his family in unison.
I however, just stood
there in shock. Partly because of who I had just been introduced to,
but mainly because he had just been such an arse. If there’s a
sure-fire way to stop the awe of meeting a celeb, it was for them to
be a complete and utter twat.
Looking rather sheepish
at being shouted at by his family, he held up his hands in surrender
and muttered an insincere “I’m sorry,” under his breath.
That quickly snapped me
out of my trance. “Apology accepted,
Mr. North
, and I’m
happy that it was one that sounded so heartfelt and sincere,” I
retorted with venom. “I admit, I was a bit wowed there for a
moment. You are Tudor
bloody
North! I’ve never met anyone
famous before,
and
kind of don’t want to ever again now. I
heard that fame could do things to a man's ego,” I pointed right at
his face. “Exhibit A. Tudor North: arrogant and rude – alert the
media.” I shouted, flinging my hands in the air. I had always been
one for the dramatics!
Perhaps I shouldn’t
speak to him like this in front of Boleyn, you know, professionalism
and all – but hey, I am bloomin’ pissed off!
“Yep, that’s me,
Tudor North: arrogant as hell, rude to anyone outside of my family,
and public property to the whole fuckin' world,” he remarked slyly.
This was spiralling out
of control and my annoyance was at an all-time high. If we were back
in Newcastle, I’d have bottled the bastard!
“Tudor! Stop it.
Don’t speak to Ms. Munro like that!” cried Boleyn, getting
visibly upset.
Seeing that, I began to
laugh, pretending his jibes had no effect on me. “Boleyn, don’t
get upset, I’m sure your brother is just annoyed that your meal has
been interrupted. No harm done,” I said soothingly.
She seemed somewhat
appeased, but her eyes were wide and embarrassed.
Okay, okay, I can
hear what you’re asking. Who the hell is Tudor North?
Well,
Tudor North is a thirty-one-year-old bonafide superstar actor, as in
Hollywood actor, the real McCoy. No, I’m not shitting you.
He is six foot three,
ridiculously muscular in build – and by ridiculously, I mean like a
four-storey brick shithouse. He has stunningly beautiful green eyes;
sometimes shaven, sometimes fair, cropped hair and sports a full body
of tattoos, all of which are tribal and cover most of the left side
of his body.
And
he is fitter in person than he is in real
life, I can now testify to that fact.
He has been on the
scene for about four years, but he had recently been catapulted to
the A-list with his lead role in
The Blade Reaper
, a story
about a ruthless criminal-hunting vigilante, which made a
record-breaking amount of money on its first weekend.
After meeting the
brooding actor, I could see why he was cast as the dark superhero.
And, as pissed as I was with him at that moment, I couldn't deny that
he was all muscle and pure gorgeousness. Bad attitude though. What a
bloody shame.
Tudor pushed his hand
over the table and grabbed Boleyn’s in his. He began apologising
and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles to calm her down, a
surprisingly gentle gesture considering the verbal rinsing I'd just
received.
Slanting his eyes up
towards me, he sighed. “Ms. Munro, I apologise. It’s no excuse
for my behaviour, but it’s difficult to go unnoticed these days,
and I can get slightly uncomfortable with it.”
I simply nodded my
head, not knowing the proper etiquette for this situation. Turning to
the rest of the group, their faces all embarrassed and awkward at my
expense, I decided I had made a reasonable enough idiot of myself for
one night, and made my excuses to go.
“Well, I’ll leave
you to enjoy the rest of the night. I’ll move on your adoring fans
too, so you don’t have to feel them ‘gawking’ at you for the
remainder of your meal,” I told Tudor, using my fingers to
accentuate the air quotes.
“Thanks,” he
whispered quietly, still clutching his sister’s hand. I would have
thought he was kind of sweet really, if I hadn’t just been the
target of his anger.
I swiftly walked back
to the gaggle of waiters and laughed at their ludicrously shocked
faces. Tink ran to the front and grabbed my arm, pulling me into the
kitchen, out of view and out of ear shot. The Roman army followed.
“Fucking hell, Wil,
you just met Tudor North! What was he like? I almost shit a disco
ball tonight when he came in and asked if we could arrange a private
table for him and his family. Arghhhh! Tudor
‘sex on legs’
North! What I wouldn’t give to sink my ball in his hole,” he
shrieked.
“Calm down, Tink. And
you lot,” I pointed to the rest of the staff, “are creeping him
the hell out, so back off.”
They all scurried away
at the insistence of Nonna Girasoli and her trusted pasta roller,
leaving me and the Tinkster alone.
“Wil, who was that
girl?” he quizzed when we were no longer subject to eavesdroppers.
“That was my student,
Boleyn, one of ‘Destiny’s Delinquents’. Think I now know why
she’s so secretive. Turns out her brother’s Tudor bloody North,
who’d have guessed that?” I mused.
“What about him? I
saw him talking to you. What’d he say?”
I crossed my arms
defensively. “Just introduced himself and then ripped the piss at
my star-struck reaction. Came off as a moody knob really, which is a
shame as I think he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,”
I admitted, expressing my disappointment.
“Apart from me of
course?” asked Tink, in all seriousness.
“Yes, apart from
you,” I sighed.
“Well, he couldn’t
take his eyes off you, Wil. It was so strange. He kept staring at you
before you had even realised who he was. He laughed when you came in
dancing and continued watching everything you did until you went
over, and then he just seemed pissed off,” Tink exclaimed.
“No wonder! Have you
seen the clip of me? I’m dressed up like a tart. Rule one of
teaching: students and their family should not see you dressed for
clubbing. Oh my God! I pulled out the slut drop too! Do you think
I’ll get fired over this?” I asked, suddenly panicked. “Plus, I
think he hates me. Was that not obvious?”
Tink snorted in
indignation. “The slut drop is your signature move, ham slice, and
he doesn’t hate you. He was drawn to you without a doubt. Then
again it could have been your titties. They look unreal tonight,”
he remarked as he pushed my breasts up with his hands.