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.”
Anjuli suppressed a sigh
.
Singing. It always came down to singing. That’s all people saw when they looked at her. A walking, talking, singing machine.
“I’m sorry, I’m very busy at the moment.”
“Of course you are,” Mrs. Spedding said thinly.
Definitely coldhearted bitch
,
then.
Great, her first week back home and already she had snubbed Councillor Hamish and managed to disappoint the influential headmistress of Heaverlock Primary. She should probably head home before she bumped into the Provost. Unfortunately, she had a shift at the pub so she could only hope he didn’t come in for a pint.
Anjuli walked into the colour-coded library and looked around for Mac. A petite, dark-haired woman of about fifty was shelving books in the red zone.
“What a great library,” Anjuli said.
The woman smiled proudly. “The entire school is beautiful. Not only that, Heaverlock Primary is the first eco-friendly primary in the Borders. We get our energy from solar panels and recycle almost everything. I’m the librarian by the way, Florinda Montrose.”
“It must have cost a fortune to build.”
Florinda smiled. “Not as much as it might have. The village rallied round and we raised enough money to add to the Council’s budget. It helped immensely that the architect—our own Robert Douglas—only charged for labour and materials.”
Anjuli’s brows lifted. Why hadn’t she realised that Rob had designed and built the school? It had his attention to ecological detail imprinted in every sleekly rounded corner. Ash had mentioned the drab old building had been torn down, but what she hadn’t said was that Rob had built the new school.
“Oh, it’s true,” Florinda said, misinterpreting Anjuli’s expression. “Mr. Douglas didn’t charge for the hours he spent designing our school, or his time on-site, or any of his expenses, although the man himself wouldn’t admit it if you asked him.”
“I can imagine.” Rob would have refused to charge because he thought it was the right thing to do, not because he wanted the village’s admiration.
Florinda
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.”
Anjuli suppressed a sigh
.
Singing. It always came down to singing. That’s all people saw when they looked at her. A walking, talking, singing machine.
“I’m sorry, I’m very busy at the moment.”
“Of course you are,” Mrs. Spedding said thinly.
Definitely coldhearted bitch
,
then.
Great, her first week back home and already she had snubbed Councillor Hamish and managed to disappoint the influential headmistress of Heaverlock Primary. She should probably head home before she bumped into the Provost. Unfortunately, she had a shift at the pub so she could only hope he didn’t come in for a pint.
Anjuli walked into the colour-coded library and looked around for Mac. A petite, dark-haired woman of about fifty was shelving books in the red zone.
“What a great library,” Anjuli said.
The woman smiled proudly. “The entire school is beautiful. Not only that, Heaverlock Primary is the first eco-friendly primary in the Borders. We get our energy from solar panels and recycle almost everything. I’m the librarian by the way, Florinda Montrose.”
“It must have cost a fortune to build.”
Florinda smiled. “Not as much as it might have. The village rallied round and we raised enough money to add to the Council’s budget. It helped immensely that the architect—our own Robert Douglas—only charged for labour and materials.”
Anjuli’s brows lifted. Why hadn’t she realised that Rob had designed and built the school? It had his attention to ecological detail imprinted in every sleekly rounded corner. Ash had mentioned the drab old building had been torn down, but what she hadn’t said was that Rob had built the new school.
“Oh, it’s true,” Florinda said, misinterpreting Anjuli’s expression. “Mr. Douglas didn’t charge for the hours he spent designing our school, or his time on-site, or any of his expenses, although the man himself wouldn’t admit it if you asked him.”
“I can imagine.” Rob would have refused to charge because he thought it was the right thing to do, not because he wanted the village’s admiration.
Florinda
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