What’s more, he’d kissed her goodbye and a paparazzo had snapped a picture and run off, delighted. Anjuli’s lips twisted. If she could make a pound off of every photo taken of her she would be rich again. There was nothing for it, a teacher’s salary and a bank loan would have to see her through the restoration. That is, if she convinced Rob to take it on.
Trying to feel confident, Anjuli walked up the tree-lined path to Heaverlock Primary School, hoping with all her heart that she made a good impression. The 1960s eyesore she remembered had disappeared, and in its place was a building that looked like a cross between a space ship and a wagon wheel. It was on one level, circular, with classrooms on the outer rim and the library at the hub. Rounded glass walls overlooked grassy areas between the centre paths. A separate, domed walkway led to similar building, smaller in scale, which housed the school gym.
The headmistress’s office was as charming as the rest of the school, though its occupant looked anything but. Mac had warned Anjuli that Mrs. Spedding was a difficult boss. At the time she’d wondered whether that was a euphemism for “occasionally moody” or “coldhearted bitch.” Looking at the middle-aged woman’s rigid posture and unsmiling face, Anjuli hoped for the former but suspected the latter.
The headmistress brusquely shook her hand and invited her to sit. Then she glanced at Anjuli’s top, frowned, and perused her CV. Self-consciously, Anjuli smoothed a hand down her skirt. Had she worn the wrong thing? She’d gone for her best interpretation of the “teachery” look in a brown, pinstriped pencil skirt and blue silk top. The skirt was a bit tight around the hips, but it was a far cry from the sexy dresses she’d worn for her concerts.
For a second Anjuli wished she was backstage, preparing to sing to thousands of fans. Sitting in front of Mrs. Spedding was more nerve-racking than her first live performance at Wembley Stadium.
Sharp blue eyes seemed to cut straight through her thoughts. “Am I right in assuming that you don’t have any formal teaching qualifications, Ms. Carver?”
“That’s right, but all the same I believe I can inspire a younger generation of students to pursue their love of music.”
Long lines indented Mrs. Spedding’s thin cheeks as she spoke. “Please forgive me for being candid, but I read that you were in a rehabilitation centre in America.”
And I read that all middle-aged headmistresses are frigid. “Not everything one reads is true,” Anjuli said, aiming for confident dismissal. “I decided early on in my career to ignore the tabloid press. I can assure you that I am not, nor have I ever been, addicted to illegal substances or a resident at a rehabilitation centre.”
Mrs. Spedding nodded and her posture relaxed—somewhat. “The Local Education Authority takes drug and alcohol abuse very seriously. Teachers are expected to be of upstanding moral fibre. And also qualified.” She handed Anjuli her CV. “That means a post-graduate certificate in England or a diploma in Scotland. As you have neither, I suggest you look into Teaching Assistant positions, for which you would need to undergo the appropriate training. At the moment, there are no such vacancies at Heaverlock Primary.”
Mrs. Spedding scanned her computer screen and wrote something down on a yellow sticky note. “Here’s the number for a countywide tutoring service. Failing that I suggest you put an advertisement in The Borders Chronicle or the Southern Reporter. A woman of your renown should have no problems in acquiring students. If you decide to pursue a career in teaching we would love to have you some day.”
Anjuli accepted the note dejectedly. There would be no regular paycheque coming her way, no buying a car. And to think she used to rent flats in New York and Paris that cost more each month than a teacher’s annual salary. She had bought whatever she wanted without thinking about the cost. Gifts for her agents and the people who surrounded her; expensive cars for some and jewellery for others.
How many times had she “loaned” people money and never asked for it back? She could afford to help and did so gladly. But she had slowly discovered that gifting people with the money they wanted was a mistake. Perversely, they resented her for giving it to them. So-called friends suddenly began to avoid her. Others, she’d later discovered, only wanted to be around her so they could take pictures, doctor them and sell “insider” fabrications to the press. If she had been less naive, less willing to trust in people’s integrity, she never would have provided them with a reason to hate her.
Generosity could be as lethal as stupidity.
Mrs. Spedding held out her hand. “We would love it if you came back and sang for us at the Summer Fair. We’re raising funds for our new computer suite.”