A Piece of Cake: The Broughton Trilogy, #2

By A J Smith

Following a drunken weekend in London, Sarah and Ed confront their mutual attraction.  To take it further?  Or back off?  A sticky enough decision, even when you haven't got commitment issues, or twenty-two years of marriage behind you.  And with Angie King discovering Ed's infidelity, a vicious parent on the prowl, and the Secretary of State for Education homing in for revenge, the situation gets even stickier … resulting in consequences no one could have foreseen.

Will a psychopathic School inspector put an end to Ed's career?  Will Sarah and Ed find their happy ever after?  And who baked those brownies in the meeting room?

A Piece of Cake is the second book in The Broughton Trilogy: a comedy about love, hate and education.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mandy Lee
• Release date: Aug 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386968481

Book preview

Copyright

Copyright © A. J. Smith 2018 – A Piece of Cake

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

Content

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

Author’s Note

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday 22nd September

8.05 am

The North Circular, London

The driver opened his window an inch or two, leaned to the right and sniffed in a few lungfuls of North London air.

‘There must be a better way than this.’  The Secretary of State for Education glared at the back of the driver’s head.  ‘This man’s a fucking idiot.’

‘I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, sir.  And it is rush hour.’

While Bob Andrews pinched the end of his nose and grimaced, Anthony Fish let out a sigh.  He was sighing an awful lot today but that wasn’t surprising, seeing as he had an awful lot to sigh about.  So far, his one modest aim – to reach the Broughton School in Leicester and destroy its idiot of a head teacher – had been thwarted at every turn.  With his usual car called in for a service, he’d been picked up half an hour late by the replacement: a third rate, eco-friendly Government pool car driven by an overweight, greasy-haired cretin who clearly knew nothing about London, and possessed a defective satnav with a Swedish accent.  Caught in one traffic jam after another, they’d crawled through the constipated streets of Central London, led astray by what sounded like a has-been porn star.  And then the constipated streets of Central London had given way to the semi-constipated streets of North London, and somewhere between Camden Lock and Primrose Hill the gut ache had returned with a vengeance, rumbling in his intestines like some sort of gastric perfect storm ... and causing all manner of smells.

‘We’re supposed to be at this fucking school for eleven.’

He stared out of the window at the swathes of concrete and tarmac, the endless lines of cars.  He hadn’t expected an answer to his comment but suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, a thick drawling voice filled the air.

‘We’ll never make it.’

It was the first time the driver had opened his mouth, and he shouldn’t have bothered.  At the sound of a whining Birmingham accent, Anthony Fish felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.  Of all the things he loathed (and these were legion), pointless regional accents were close to the top of the list.

‘What do you mean, ‘nivva’?’ he demanded.

‘I mean never,’ the driver repeated.  ‘At least not by eleven.’

He scowled at the driver’s big, fat, sticking-out ears, deciding that people from Birmingham should be contained within Birmingham, and only ever allowed to leave if they promised never to speak in that ridiculous accent.

‘Well, when will we get there?’

The driver turned.  Anthony Fish recoiled at the sight of a big, fat, droopy face.  Everything about it seemed to slouch: the mouth, the ears, the hangdog eyes.  Even the nose was losing a long-term battle with gravity.

‘It’s an hour to Leicester,’ the driver said.  ‘And that’s not in rush hour.’  Slowly, he turned back to the windscreen.

‘‘Owah’?’ Anthony Fish snarled at Bob.  ‘What the fuck is an owah?  And why couldn’t they give me a driver who speaks English?’

‘He does speak English, sir.  He’s got a regional accent.’

‘I know that.  I’m not a total fucking moron.  And it’s an abomination.  That’s what it is.  Schools should teach people to speak properly.  Make a note of that, Bob.  We can’t have people going around talking like this.’

‘Received Pronunciation, sir?’

‘What the fuck are you going on about now?’  He rubbed his belly.  Something ominous was happening.

‘Received Pronunciation, sir.  Newsreaders use it.’

‘Fuck newsreaders!’  Anthony Fish barked.

He hated newsreaders, the whole fucking lot of them.  They might all speak with pristine accents that belonged nowhere, but they’d harped on for far too long about the peanut thing.  At the very thought of it, his stomach cramped.

‘Sir,’ Bob said, offering up a document.  ‘We really ought to go through the future of teachers’ pay.’

‘Not now.’  He waved it away.

‘But you need to give a response, sir.’

‘Not now.  I’ve got ... indigestion.’

‘Do you want a Rennie, sir?’

‘A Rennie?’

‘It might help.’

‘A Rennie?’

He stared at his aide in disbelief.  A Rennie?  A single fucking Rennie?  The mother of all gastric problems was about to explode in his stomach, sending a windstorm of devastation through his rectum, and this imbecile actually believed a single Rennie could undo all the intestinal chaos caused by Edward King?

‘Fuck off,’ the Secretary of State snarled.

Up ahead, there was a movement in the queue.  The car edged forward and came to another halt.  Anthony Fish craned his neck.  He could see the M1 slip road now.  If they could just disentangle themselves from the roundabout, they’d be free.  And they’d reach a service station in no time.  And there’d be toilets ...

He grabbed his side.  The cramp mutated into a searing pain and climbed to his chest.  He gasped.  Oh God, he was having a heart attack.  He was going to die, right here on the North Circular, beneath the flyover at Staples Corner.  ‘No.’  A sudden vibration against his rib cage.  The muffled tones of Beethoven’s Fifth.  ‘Oh, thank God.’  The vibrations were coming from his phone.  He retrieved it from his jacket pocket and glanced at the screen.  ‘Bellingham.’  Finally, the fucker was getting in touch.  ‘About fucking time.’  He passed a finger over the ‘accept call’ icon.  ‘Why didn’t you call me last night?’

A flurry of sniggering greeted him.  The sniggering continued for a few seconds, before petering out into little more than the sound of heavy breathing.

‘Bellingham?’

‘Wanker.’

‘Bellingham?’

‘Wanker.’

The Secretary of State held the phone away from his ear and stared at it, perplexed.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ Bob asked.

‘Someone’s calling me a wanker.’

The fat, greasy-haired driver coughed.  Knowing full well the cough had been a suppressed laugh, Anthony Fish swallowed hard, thought about throwing the phone at the back of the driver’s head, and then thought again.  When the day was over, he’d simply have him sacked.

‘Who’s calling you a wanker now, sir?’ Bob asked.

‘I don’t fucking know.’  Tentatively, he moved the phone back to his ear.  ‘Who is this?’

‘Who is this?’ the voice repeated.  It definitely didn’t belong to Bellingham.  In fact, it didn’t even belong to an adult.  This was a young boy’s voice, all squeaky and snotty and full of disrespect.

‘I asked first.  Who is this?’

‘Mr Pussy Pants,’ the voice returned, mimicking a public-school accent.

‘Well, Mr Pussy Pants, where’s John Bellingham?’

‘Having a wank,’ the voice called triumphantly.

‘Fuck off.’

At the other end of the line, sniggering bubbled up again, quickly boiling over into fullblown laughter.  Disappointed he couldn’t slam down the receiver, the Secretary of State jabbed at the ‘end call’ icon.  If there was one thing guaranteed to get him going, it was a disrespectful, cretinous teenager.

‘Who was that, sir?’ Bob asked.

‘An idiot child.’

An almighty spasm erupted deep in the pits of his gut.  Something moved along his rectum and pressed against his sphincter.  He caught his breath.

‘What’s a child doing with Bellingham’s mobile, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps he’s been kidnapped.’

‘Don’t be so fucking ridiculous.  He’s left his phone somewhere.  Some kid’s stolen it.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

‘And that useless fucker hasn’t put a password on it.’

‘Oh dear, sir.  That’s a bit remiss.’

‘Too fucking right it’s a bit remiss.  Even I know you have to put a fucking password on your phone.  When I get my hands on that useless piece of shit, I’m going to finish him off.’

‘Absolutely, sir.  Would you like me to contact the school?  You can always speak to Mr Bellingham over a landline.’

‘What’s the point?’

Returning the mobile to his pocket, the Secretary of State decided he’d already wasted enough time trying to speak to the feckless fuckwit.  And it hadn’t been easy.  Dragged to the ballet by his wife, he’d rung the lead inspector five times over the course of the previous evening, slipping away from Swan Lake to the toilets of the Royal Opera House on four separate occasions.  He’d been about to make a fifth attempt when his wife threatened to throw his phone over the edge of the box.  He’d given up then ... and sulked ... totally ignoring the bunch of swans fucking about onstage.  He’d tried again in the taxi home.  No reply.  And there’d been no contact that morning.  He’d called Bellingham three times before the car turned up at the Department for Education.  No answer.  He’d begun to suspect he might have been stitched up.  After all, Bellingham had once been a teacher too.

‘Shit head,’ he muttered.

His phone vibrated again.  Clenching his buttocks, he pulled it from his pocket.  Bellingham, again.  Only it wasn’t Bellingham.  It was some teenage twat with a tiny brain and a sorely limited vocabulary.  Determined to give this kid a piece of his mind, he answered the call.

‘Tit wank,’ the voice purred.

‘What?’

‘Tit wank.’

‘What do you mean tit wank?  What sort of vocabulary is that?’

‘Titty titty wank wank.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Who is this?’

‘This is the fucking Secretary of State for Education.  And if you haven’t got the balls to tell me who you are, then I’ll tell you what you are.’

‘Bum-licker!’

‘You’re a good for nothing piece of crap.  That’s what you are.  You’ll end up on the dole.  You’ll end up on drugs.  You’ll end up an alcoholic.  You’ll end up dying in a pool of your own vomit, you little shit!’

‘Fuck off, twat.’

‘You fuck off!’ he shouted, and ended the call.  He was hyperventilating.

‘Calm down, sir,’ Bob pleaded.

Something flared in his bowels.  Anxiously, he inspected the lines of stationary traffic.  They were still nowhere near the slip road.  And given the state of his innards, that left him with only two choices: either he could soil himself on the back seat of a Government pool car, or he could find somewhere outside to squat in relative privacy and see to his business.  The first option didn’t seem like any option at all.  He’d have to sit in his own filth until they reached the services.  He’d have to get from the car to a toilet cubicle with all manner of faecal matter running down his legs.  He’d have to wait for Bob to source another pair of pants and trousers.  And how would he clean himself up?  It would be impossible.  And the smell would be disgusting.  It would cling to him for the rest of the day.  No.  There was simply no alternative.  It was the only logical thing to do.  He’d have to take a dump at Staples Corner.

Grasping the door handle, he pushed hard.

‘Why are there fucking child locks on this thing?  Let me out.’

‘I can’t, sir.  Not here,’ the driver drawled.

‘I need to get out.’

He scanned the terrain for a suitable spot, finding it beneath the flyover, at the back of a concrete island, where a billboard had been propped against a concrete leg.  Just tall enough, just wide enough to shield a man from public view.  And if he was quick, no one would ever know.

‘Open the doors.  I need to go.’

‘You’ll have to hang on, sir.’

‘I can’t.  I’m going over there.’

‘I can’t let you do that, sir.’

‘Open the fucking door and let me out!  I’m the Secretary of fucking State for fucking Education and I need a shit!’

At last, realising the severity of the situation, the driver released the central locking system.  With a deep breath, Anthony Fish threw open the door and sprinted through the queues of traffic.  Knowing the moment was dangerously close, he clambered onto the concrete island, staggered to the billboard and made it just in time.  Secreting himself behind a sign that declared ‘25% off most things’ in a local bathroom store sale, he pulled down his pants and sighed at the glorious sound of his bowels exploding.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday 19th September

10.48 am

Leicester

Fingers wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea, Sarah Pickering sat at her desk and watched the rain chuck itself against the window pane.  Droplets of water gathered across the smeared glass, each one holding its shape for a moment before falling apart and streaming down to the ledge.  The class were drawing pictures and learning nothing, but she didn’t care.  She was too busy thinking about the dream.  Even now, twenty-four hours after the fact, it was still bothering her.  In London, she’d been almost certain she’d made a mistake.  But the dream had dislodged her almost certainty, and she couldn’t work out why.

‘Miss, there’s a cake in the bin.’  Sigourney White sharpened her pencil.  She’d been sharpening it for almost five minutes now, transfixed by the contents of the bin.  ‘Can I have it, Miss?’

‘No, Sigourney.  Leave it.’

‘But I haven’t had any breakfast.’

‘Trust me, you don’t want that for breakfast.’

‘But my stomach’s rumbling.’

‘Just leave it, Sigourney.  You don’t know where it’s been.’

Finally, Sigourney White returned her rumbling stomach and the over-sharpened pencil to her seat.  Sarah took a sip of tea and looked at the bin.  It wasn’t just any old cake in there.  It was Monday’s brownie.  And nobody knew what was in it.  Nobody, apart from its creator.  All weekend, she’d been preoccupied by the consequences of consuming those brownies.  But who, in fact, had fashioned them?  That was the real question.  She’d always assumed they’d been left on her desk by some well-meaning child.  But now she wasn’t so sure.  Monday’s brownie had appeared on her desk first thing that morning, neatly packaged – as usual – in a plastic bag.  Too neatly packaged, Sarah decided.

‘Miss, I don’t get it.’

The voice roused her from her thoughts.

‘What’s not to get?’

‘Why does Romeo leave Juliet?’

She looked up at Liam.  He was seated in front of her desk, the only place in the room where she could keep some sort of control over his endless chatter.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she asked.

‘Not really.  They’ve just got married.  They’ve just had a shag, and he’s off.’

‘Liam, please don’t swear.’

‘When did I swear, Miss?’

‘You know what you said.’

Another sip of tea.  From nowhere, images of Ed – and yes, she was going to call him Ed – began to flash through her mind.  Ever since she’d vowed to push him out of her brain, he’d simply dug in his heels and refused to go.  And here he was again, kissing her against the mirror, dancing round the bedroom wrestling a pair of trousers from his legs, kissing the space between her breasts, slowly, patiently working his way down to her belly button.

‘Oh,’ she groaned.

‘What’s up, Miss?’

‘Nothing.  Get back to work.’

Liam Smith shrugged, leaned back in his chair and inspected his effort so far: a picture of Romeo in black leather trousers, sporting a Cheryl Cole T-shirt.

‘My mum says they’re all the bleeding same,’ he mused.

‘Who’s all the same?’

‘Men.’

‘I’m sure they’re not.’

‘My mum says they get what they want, and then they get bored, and then they ...’

‘No,’ she interrupted.  ‘Work.’

With another shrug, Liam selected a pencil from the collection in front of him and began to colour Cheryl Cole’s face a deep shade of orange.

‘So why does Romeo leave Juliet?’

‘It’s not because he wants to,’ she explained.  ‘He leaves because he has no choice.’

‘Doesn’t he?’  As if she’d just informed him the sky was green, Liam stared at his English teacher in disbelief.

‘Because he’s banished,’ she went on, as patiently as she could.  ‘We only read it last week, Liam.  You do remember, don’t you?’

The boy bit his lip, rolled his eyes and looked up, as if the answer to Sarah’s question was written on the ceiling tiles.

‘No, not really.’

‘Romeo killed Tybalt.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Tybalt killed Mercutio.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’  He frowned.  ‘And who’s Tybalt?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter.’

Giving up on Liam, she listened to the rain as it gurgled through the guttering, and thought about Ed again.  He was in school today.  She’d seen his Jaguar in the car park.  And maybe, just maybe, he’d sent her a message ... Putting down her mug, she reached for the computer mouse and checked her emails.  One unopened envelope.  From Carol.  Telling herself she wasn’t disappointed, she clicked onto it.  ‘Why weren’t you in briefing?  Why didn’t you reply to my texts?  What’s happened to Ted?’  Her mouth twitched at the mention of his name.  She clicked on the reply button.  Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

‘Miss,’ Liam said.  ‘Why does Romeo get varnished?’

‘Banished?’

‘Yeah, that.’

‘Because the Prince banished him.’

‘Did he?’

‘You were here last week, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you have been listening?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Sometimes?’  Really, what was the point?

‘Miss, what does brandished mean?’

‘Banished.  It means he’s got to leave Verona.  He can’t ever come back.’

‘I wish Ellis would get banished.’

‘And I wish Edward King would get banished,’ she thought, ‘at least from my brain.’

She looked to the back of the classroom, where Ellis Burton was lying low in the shadows, separated from the rest of humanity by a sea of resentment.  Finally, after a threatening letter had landed on his doorstep, Mr Burton had reluctantly dragged his son into school.  Presided over by a deputy head and a different Governor, the disciplinary meeting had passed without drama.  The school had agreed to take him back.  After all, no matter what his father had done, the boy deserved another chance.  And for almost two weeks now, he’d managed to get by without incident.

‘Miss,’ Liam whispered conspiratorially.  ‘I don’t think Ellis is doing anything.’

‘I’ll have a look in a minute,’ she whispered back.

Turning back to the keyboard, she typed her reply: ‘I didn’t come to briefing because I was late.’  She paused, thinking about the real reason she hadn’t been in briefing: she wasn’t ready to face him yet.  The dream had left her weakened, questioning everything.  And if she saw him now, God knows how she might react.  She typed again.  ‘I didn’t reply to your texts because my phone ran out of battery.  And Ed got mugged.’  She tapped the backspace, replaced ‘Ed’ with ‘Ted,’ and hit the reply button.  Job done.  She got up and went to check on Ellis.

‘How are you doing?’

Remaining mute, he stared up at her, beady eyes gleaming with malice.

‘Let me see.  Who have you done?’

The eyes continued to gleam.  The thick lips remained closed.

‘Come on, Ellis.  Which character are you drawing?’

Slowly, he turned over his sheet.  Sarah gasped.  Ellis Burton hadn’t drawn a character from Romeo and Juliet at all.  Instead, he’d drawn a massive penis, complete with a pair of hairy balls.

‘Ellis, this isn’t what I asked you to do.  Put it in the bin, and start again.’

‘No.’

‘Well, give it to me then, and I’ll put it in the bin.’

‘No.’

‘Ellis, give it to me now, please.’

‘Fuck off.’

At first, she wasn’t sure what she’d heard.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said fuck off.’

‘There’s no need for that.  Remember your manners.’

‘Fuck off ... Miss.’

‘Okay, stand up, Ellis.  You need to come with me.’

‘I ain’t going nowhere.’

‘You need to come outside.’

‘I ain’t fucking going nowhere.’

Like some evil Cheshire cat, all manic eyes and toothy grin, he smiled up at her.

‘Miss, shall I get someone?’  Liam asked from the doorway.  As if he could smell danger, he’d already made a move.

‘Yes, get someone.  Only don’t get Mr King.’  No way could she deal with that.  ‘Get one of the deputies.’

With a nod, Liam shot from the room.  It was only a matter of seconds before he returned.

‘Is someone coming?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Who?’

‘Tedmaster.’

‘No!’  A dose of adrenaline spiked through her veins.  ‘What?  I told you not to get Mr King.’

‘I didn’t hear you, Miss.’

Skittering across the front of the classroom, he glanced at Ellis Burton, as if he were some sort of unexploded bomb, and sat down.

And then it began.  While her heart embarked on a boxing session, using her rib cage as a punch bag, her lungs floundered like a couple of recently landed fish.  And now she was gasping for air, each breath coming in a stuttering fit.  This was exactly why she’d avoided briefing, because that bloody dream had done its damage, and now she couldn’t trust herself.  She’d