The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress

By: Cathy Williams



‘You’re a very important tree,’ she said gently. ‘Very important. The manger wouldn’t be a manger without a very important tree next to it!’ She looked at her watch and mentally tried to calculate how much time she had to convince this tree to take his leading role on stage—a role which involved nothing more strenuous than waving his arms and swaying. She had only been at this particular school for a term, but she had already sussed the difficult ones, and had cleverly steered them away from any roles that involved speech.

‘I want my mummy. She’ll tell you that I can be whatever I want to be! And I want to be a donkey.’

‘Lucy’s the donkey, darling.’

‘I want to be a donkey!’

Tree; donkey; donkey; tree. Right now, Megan was heartily wishing that she had listened to her friend Charlotte, when she had decided to leave St Margaret’s and opted for another private school. Somewhere a little more normal. She could deal with normal fractious children. She had spent three years dealing with them at St Nick’s in Scotland, after she had qualified as a teacher. None of them had ever threatened her with prison.

‘Okay. How about if we fetch your mummy and she can tell you how important it is for you to play your part? Remember, Dominic! It’s all about teamwork and not letting other people down!’

‘Donkey,’ was his response to her bracing statement, and Megan sighed and looked across to where the head of the junior department was shaking her head sympathetically.

‘Happened last year,’ she confided, as Megan stood up. ‘He’s not one of our easier pupils, and fetching his mum is going to be tricky. I’ve had a look outside and there’s no sign of her.’ Jessica Ambles sighed.

‘What about the father?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Poor kid,’ Megan said sympathetically, and the other teacher grinned.

‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you had witnessed him throwing his egg at Ellie Maycock last Sports Day.’

‘Final offer.’ Megan stooped back down and held both Dominic’s hands. ‘You play the tree, and I’ll ask your mummy if you can come and watch me play football over the vacation if you have time.’

Forty-five minutes later and she could say with utter conviction that she had won. Dominic Park had played a very convincing tree and had behaved immaculately. He had swayed to command, doing no damage whatsoever, either accidental or intentional, to the doll or the crib.

There was just the small matter of the promised football game, but she was pretty sure that Chelsea mummies, even the ones without daddies, were not going to be spending their Christmas vacation at home. Cold? Wet? Grey? Somehow she didn’t think so.

Not that she had any problem with six-year-old Dominic watching her play football. She didn’t. She just didn’t see the point of extending herself beyond her normal working hours. She wasn’t sure what exactly the school policy was on pupils watching their teachers play football, and she wasn’t going to risk taking any chances. Not if she could help it. She was enjoying her job and she deserved to. Hadn’t it taken her long enough to wake up in the morning and look forward to what the day ahead held in store for her?

From behind the curtain she could hear the sound of applause. Throughout the performance cameras and video recorders had been going mad. Absentee parents had shown up for the one day in the year they could spare for parental duty, and they were all determined to have some proof of their devotion.

Megan smiled to herself, knowing that she was being a little unfair, but teaching the children of the rich and famous took a little getting used to.

In a minute everyone would start filtering out of the hall, and she would do her duty and present a smiling face to the proud parents. To the very well-entertained parents—because, aside from the play, they would be treated to substantial snacks, including crudités, delicate salmon-wrapped filo pastries, miniature meatballs and sushi for the more discerning palate. Megan had gaped at the extravaganza of canapés. She still hadn’t quite got to grips with cooking, and marvelled at anyone who could produce anything edible that actually resembled food.

Out of nowhere came the memory of Alessandro, of how he’d used to laugh at her attempts at cooking. When it came to recipe books she was, she had told him, severely dyslexic.

It was weird, but seven years down the road she still thought of him. Not in the obsessive, heartbroken, every-second-of-every-minute-of-every-waking-hour way that she once had, but randomly. Just little memories, leaping out at her from nowhere that would make her catch her breath until she blinked them away, and then things would return to normal.

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