Helen picked her way around the bags and boxes of marking in the cramped staff-room, careful not to tread on toes, murmuring little apologies as she searched for a vacant seat. There was a tiny space between the liberally spread Mrs Edwards, who taught Reception class, and the ebulliently gestured Mrs Lloyd, the peripatetic music teacher. (Helen had, until recently, believed that 'peripatetic' was some kind of nervous disorder. She was only disabused of this notion when she had suggested, to the roaring mirth of the Head that Michael Jones in year 3 might need specialist support for his 'peripatetic behaviour'.)

The two older teachers were deep in conversation, so Helen perched her bag on the side of the sink, at the far end of the room, unpacked her sandwiches and proceeded to nibble them, standing up. Having not had any breakfast that morning, she was starving and would have liked to have eaten her lunch in the solitude of her classroom, as usual, but it was Wet Play. The horror of eating in front of the children and the lunchtime supervisors outweighed the terror of entering the crowded staffroom.

Helen occasionally pushed her heavy, thick-lensed glasses back up to the bridge of her nose as she tried to eat as daintily as possible. A piece of mayonnaise-lubricated cucumber slid from her sandwich and splatted onto her brown, suede shoe. As she bent down to remove it, her glasses slid from her face and landed at her feet. She was about to pick them up with her sandwich-free hand, but was frozen in her action by a pair of track-suited knees squatting at face height and a waft of Lynx deodorant. Mr. McCarthy’s tanned, golden-haired arm was proffering her glasses to her. As she looked into his lightly stubbled, smiling face, she became hotly aware of the pressure marks from her glasses on the bridge of her nose and the small glob of mayonnaise at the side of her mouth.

'Miss Reed?...'

Helen stood up, placed her half-eaten sandwich on the wet draining-board, hastily wiped her mouth and bushed the crumbs from her blouse. Mr. McCarthy rose from his squatting position and handed the glasses to Helen.

'You have green eyes,' he remarked and leaned one hand on the sink unit, effectively trapping her against the wall.

Helen was in the confusing situation of simultaneously wanting to scream, giggle furiously and sink her teeth ravenously into his shoulder but was literally saved by the bell. Lunchtime was over.

Mr. McCarthy winked.

'See you later,' he said and sidled off.

Helen visibly deflated, almost sliding down the wall with the relieved pressure. She took a moment to compose her features, readjust her glasses and collect her belongings. As she swung her bag onto her shoulder, she looked across, to see the Mistresses Edwards and Lloyd barely disguising their laughter.

It was dark when Helen arrived home. She had popped into town on the way and was now hauling her bags of shopping up the stairs. She kicked her bedroom door shut and tipped out her purchases on to the bed. She arranged them all neatly – the basque, stockings, thigh-high leather boots and riding crop.

Helen smiled and took off her glasses.