Smiling, I answered back. “You too, chuck. Always have, and always will.”

“Honestly, you’re my soul mate. It’s such a bugger that you don’t have a nice big juicy dick.”

Shaking my head, I retorted, “Yeah, but I’m happy with what I’ve got, thanks. But speaking of big dicks, aren’t you expecting company of the glorified-waitress variety?”

Chuckling, he glanced at his Rolex. “Yep, in twenty minutes.”

“On that note, I’m going to unpack and catch a few Zs… I’m goosey-goosed!”

After unpacking and sorting out my whopping big new bedroom, I climbed into my California King sporting 1000 thread count sheets, and had drifted off to sleep before my head had even hit the pillow.

Tink arrived back after a few hours, and, being a good boy, returned alone; he may talk like a two-bit dollar whore, but he does have some morals. Well, most of the time anyway. It seemed the lights of downtown Calgary could wait – he was too excited to try out his new Jacuzzi.

Hearing him fire up the bubbles, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my favourite red polka dot one-piece, and we wasted the evening knocking back the champers provided by Suzy and singing to the Britney back-catalogue.

Chapter 4

No ordinary teacher

After a lazy summer of acclimatising to our new homeland, arriving at The Calgary School of Excellence to prepare for the impending new term was a tad daunting.

The building was enormous and, by the looks of things, had cost a fortune to build. It boasted an ice hockey rink, American football pitch and state-of-the-art gym. It just screamed money.

I could tell from the outset that this was going to make or break me as a school teacher. However, if there was one thing Natasha Munro could do, it was teach.

Fast forward thirty minutes and I was sitting in the principal’s – Mrs. Thomas’ − office, where she went on to tell me about the school, the ethics and rules. It was strict, a lot stricter than my old school, but I had expected it. That was stressed further by her horrified expression as she watched me unwrap my rolls of army camouflage and cow-print wallpaper for my display boards which had me quickly feeding them back into my oversized bag, along with the other contraband items I’d normally use to spruce up my classroom. Come on, a mini Henry Hoover for the desk is just too cute!

She showed me the classroom and gave me time to settle in and get everything sorted for the pupils, who would be coming in tomorrow.

Just before she left, she asked, “Natasha, can I have a word with you in my office at one?”

“Sure.” I answered hesitantly.

With a smile, she assured me, “No need to worry, you’re not in trouble.”

“Phew! That’s a relief.”

“Okay, I’ll see you this afternoon.”

At twelve fifty-five that afternoon, I knocked on the door of Mrs. Thomas’ office. She shouted me through, and asked me to take a seat.

I had met Mrs. Thomas during our Skype interview and subsequent web-based planning meetings. She seemed nice. She was in her late forties and was from Vancouver. She was married to a Scottish man who had moved to British Columbia in his twenties to coach rugby. I put her good sense of humour down to this, and suspected that was why she seemed to like me so much. You know, Celtic clans sticking together.

She had talked to Maureen several times about my teaching practice and how to ‘best utilise my skills’. I assumed, or rather hoped, that this was the reason for this impromptu meeting.

“Natasha, I have an interesting proposition for you. I have a project that I have been working on. You seem like an approachable young woman and Maureen has told me how good you are with the kids, especially the naughty ones. Is that true?” she queried.

“Well, yes, I suppose. I haven’t had many problems with discipline in the past. I feel most kids like me,” I shrugged, wondering where this was going.

“Obviously, my intention is that you are going to be running the performing arts programme after school, and we have a few students who, for various reasons, have begun misbehaving in class. Nothing big, just bad attitude, being rude to teachers, getting in fights, ditching classes, that kind of thing.

“This summer, I read an article about a teacher in Australia who became a mentor to children just like ours, and, through performing arts, managed to help them work through their problems. After talking to you and Maureen, I have been convinced of you being able to do this. What do you think?” She sat back in her leather swivel office chair and awaited my response.

“It sounds amazing!” I answered back excitedly. “I’d love to see if I could get through to them. Oooh, I’m already getting ideas of how to help. One question though, do I find out why they may be acting up, for example their family situations?” I asked.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Thomas explained. “That’s the kicker. You go in blind. There are laws, etc., on why, but also some information can’t be shared as per request of the families. They fully support the initiative, but for their own reasons ask that you don’t ask questions or delve into the girls’ backgrounds. With one girl in particular, a Miss. Jones – this is her first year here, she has just transferred from another school in the local area in which she only lasted one year due to personal issues – discretion is imperative,” she informed me, stressing the point.

“Okay, intriguing, but I respect the need for privacy. It’s a prestigious school, I’m sure that means some of the students come from powerful and prestigious parents. I’m kind of on the right lines, huh?” I cheekily probed, knowing by her small smirk that I was close to the mark.