Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 2 - never mention Johnnie Wilkinson when being interviewed by a rugby nut

'So... did you get it?'

I lie in the bath, water up to my chin, a beard of soap bubbles and a bottle of wine with a straw.

'Don't ask.'

'But I've got to know...I'll bust! And, anyway, I need last month's rent and the one before and...'

'Yes. I'm quite aware of how much in debt I am. There's only my student loan and my overdraft and the rent and a credit card bill and the new shoes that I'm going to have to buy you tomorrow...'

'Shoes?'

'It's a long story.'

'Just tell me whether you got the bloody job or not. I take it from the quantity of alcohol and the deep water that you didn't!'

'Actually...I was offered the job but...'

'But what?'

'I'm not sure its right for me.'

'Did you accept it?'

'I don't really have a choice.'

'So why the fuck are you so miserable.'

'It's a long story.'

Pippa runs to the kitchen, grabs a wineglass and sits on the toilet seat after filling up from my bottle.

'I'm all ears.'

I follow dragon woman's swaying floral skirt down the corridor in my bare feet, leg hairs scraping together like Velcro ripping. I've shoved the shoes in my capacious handbag: all is lost so I may as well be comfortable. Dr Beeter is front runner in the game: he's already beaten me with his chess and proper shoes and a suit that isn't held together by a safety pin and buttons about to pop! His armpits are daisy fresh and I'm sure those blackheads would be very appealing in an all male environment.

We turn a corner and I see a heavy oak panelled door at the end with the words Headmaster burned into the wood.

Dragon woman knocks brusquely and puts her head round the door, one leg sticking out coquettishly. I can see now that she's wearing knee high nylon pop socks and her legs are in serious need of a good shave: mine by comparison are silky smooth. I can't imagine what the rest of her body is like. Perhaps she's a man in drag – she's ugly enough – or maybe she's a secret fan of the Brazilian and underneath that white vest (which I can see through her opaque polyester blouse) and the high waisted gathered skirt, she is wearing an Agent Provocateur thong and has the body of a supermodel.

'You can go in. The Head is rather busy at the moment so don't disturb him until he's ready.'

'Thank you.' My voice sounds small and childish but at least I remembered my manners.

As she whisks past me, dragon woman hisses under her breath.

I'm sure it was something to do with onions.

The room is big with huge windows overlooking vast playing fields where tiny white dots – which must be boys – are buzzing around each other, presumably with a ball involved somewhere. I stand at the door and look round for the Headmaster. The walls are lined with book cases, floor to ceiling and there are a couple of shabby easy chairs near an empty fireplace. Next to the window on a raised platform, is a gigantic wood desk completely covered with papers, trays, books, mugs, a computer, printer, angle poise lamp knick knack trophies and dozens of pictures of young, beautiful girls posing in scanty designer swimwear. In front is an ominous hard-backed wooden seat, presumably electrically wired for the interviewee.

But there's no sign of life.

I start looking over my shoulder, scanning the room for any secret doors through which this revered Headmaster may pop at any second and shout 'boo!' at me. I daren't take a step forward or start poking round in case dragon woman comes in and finds me.