Bride, Bought and Paid For. HELEN BIANCHIN

wasn’t on the agenda.

      At the end of class, she merely thanked them for attending and asked them to provide ten more comparisons for their next English class.

      Lunch was eaten in the staffroom, whose occupants seemed grateful for the brief respite prior to taking on the afternoon.

      Romy’s cellphone beeped with an incoming text message as she ascended a flight of stairs en route to an afternoon class.

      Xavier, she determined, alerting her he’d ring her at seven that evening. Why? she quickly keyed and received wedding details within a few seconds.

      Romy bit back an unladylike oath, stowed the cellphone in her bag, summoned a smile and entered a classroom where several students either lolled against their desks or sat on them, and whose belligerent expressions promised a difficult session.

      One teenager, he of the class clown species, made a conscientious point of addressing her as Miz too frequently with such faux-angelic regard she was sorely tempted to laugh, something she managed to avoid as she suggested he move to the front of the class and read two verses of Byron out loud.

      An edict which saw him slide to the floor on his knees, bow his head in mock prayer and beseech—‘Anything, Miz, but not Byron.’

      ‘William Wordsworth,’ Romy responded without hesitation. ‘“The Daffodils.”’ She waited a beat. ‘In its entirety.’

      A subtle irony that was lost as the class leafed to the index and turned to the section on Wordsworth.

      Two lines in, the class clown lifted his head, looked heavenward, cursed, then uttered a pitiful, ‘Sheesh, you have to be joking.’

      ‘Begin again,’ Romy instructed evenly. ‘This time, restrain from adding your own comments.’

      Did she win points? Doubtful. A smidgen of respect? Unlikely.

      It came as a relief to wind up the school day, gather papers into her satchel and slip behind the wheel of her Mini Cooper.

      There were things she needed to do, and persuading her father to exchange his meagre digs for her apartment held priority. Something which took a while, and involved his pride and her perspicacity until he reluctantly accepted her insistent decision to continue paying the monthly leasing fee. Relevant phone calls cemented the arrangement, making it a done deal before Andre could change his mind.

      ‘Now?’

      His incredulous query brought a determined smile as she reiterated, ‘Now. I’ll help you pack.’

      ‘Since when did you become so bossy?’ His voice held a tinge of amusement, something she welcomed, and her answering grin was genuine.

      ‘It’s been a while.’

      Not that there was much to fold into a suitcase, and she held back the tears as she saw just how little he’d kept from his former lifestyle. A framed wedding photograph, one of Romy the day she began school, another when she graduated. A treasured miniature crystal Waterford world globe, a gift to him from her mother, and clothes.

      ‘I’ll take the couch,’ he said firmly as they entered her St Kilda apartment.