Coming Home

By KJ

What would happen if your regular, ordinary, safe, everyday existence suddenly became…not any of those things? When Samantha Markson, Ordinary Person, is thrust into the life of Abigail Taylor, Not At All Ordinary Person, it proves to be an experience like she's never had before. World famous actress, Abigail Taylor, is in Melbourne filming her new movie, and is accompanied by her nine year old daughter, Grace, because Abigail wants her to experience an Australian education for three months. Sam Markson is a teacher at one of the best schools in Melbourne, and is perfectly happy doing that, thank you very much, when she's suddenly redirected from the classroom into the job as Grace's teacher; a move so fast that even blinking would feel like slow motion. Sam has never met anyone like Abigail Taylor, and she starts to realise that her ordinary life might actually be missing something extraordinary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KJ
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224576159

Book preview

KJ

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2019

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Coming Home

Copyright © 2019 KJ

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other–except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

Dedication

For Roanne, my home

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CONTENTS

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Acknowledgements

Writing is a strange activity in which to engage. At any given moment of any given day, I am having a conversation with a character, observing a conversation between two characters, walking beside a character and taking note of their mannerisms, or sitting next to a character as they contemplate the scenery and trying to understand what they see. I’m asking myself, how would that character feel if they’d just witnessed this? or I wonder if that character would enjoy this meal? Apart from the occasional startling movement when a writing journal or phone is jerked out of a bag and an idea is frantically written down, all of the above happens inside my head. It’s a busy place.

When all of those thoughts are finally written somewhere and a manuscript is produced, I hand my characters—my friends and companions—to three people who I hope will love my characters just as much as I do. So, thank you to Bek, Sarah, and Roanne for taking ‘Coming Home’ for a spin, testing it out, and bringing it back with suggestions for improvements. But most of all, thank you for your unfettered delight in Sam and Abby’s story.

REVIEWS

I sincerely hope you enjoy reading ‘Coming Home’. If you do, I would greatly appreciate a review on your favourite book website. Reviews are crucial for any author, and even just a line or two can make a huge difference.

SYNOPSIS

What would happen if your regular, ordinary, safe, everyday existence suddenly became...not any of those things? When Samantha Markson, Ordinary Person, is thrust into the life of Abigail Taylor, Not At All Ordinary Person, it proves to be an experience like she’s never had before. World famous actress Abigail Taylor is in Melbourne filming her new movie, and is accompanied by her nine year old daughter, Grace, because Abigail wants her to experience an Australian education for three months. Sam Markson is a teacher at one of the best schools in Melbourne, and is perfectly happy doing that, thank you very much, when she’s suddenly redirected from the classroom into the job as Grace’s teacher; a move so fast that even blinking would feel like slow motion. Sam has never met anyone like Abigail Taylor, and she starts to realise that her ordinary life might actually be missing something extraordinary.

Chapter One

Smiling at some familiar faces, Samantha Markson eased her tall frame around the mass of people and into the auditorium of Rawson Girls Grammar, thrilled to find that the air-conditioning was not only on, but blasting across the entire space. The last few days of January was a brutal time to start the school year. Stepping to the side to allow more coming and going through the door, she scanned over the tops of heads and finally spotted the chestnut bob of her teaching partner and friend sitting on a chair in the back row. She quirked a smile, and Cath Monroe jumped up, waving as Sam angled her body through the clumps of staff members who were catching up after the holidays.

Hey! Cath grabbed Sam’s shoulders, pulled her down into a hug, and then pushed her back to beam into her face. You look fabulous. She flicked at the new collar-length ends of Sam’s blonde hair. And I like this. It’s sexy.

Sam scooted her messenger bag under the seat as she sat down, and smirked at her friend. Thanks. You’re looking pretty swish yourself. She waggled her eyebrows at Cath’s blouse, which was clearly new, and advertised her full breasts, and the flare of her waist.

What? This? Cath ran her palms down the side of her torso, highlighting the curves, flicking her hands elaborately at the end. Sam rolled her eyes and grinned. The easy pick-up of their conversation after six weeks away was testament to their strong friendship.

She faced the front, flopped her head sideways onto Cath’s shoulder and groaned. God, it’s so hot. She felt the hum of acknowledgement rumble through Cath’s body. Okay. Sam sat up, twisted towards Cath, and rested her elbow on the back of the seat. How was your Christmas? What did you get up to?

Cath mirrored Sam’s pose. Well, I went to Mum and Dad’s place in Mildura for a week, which was, she flipped her hands around in the air, alternatively awful and lovely. Christmas Day was beautiful, but apparently I’m wasting my life as a teacher of pre-pubescent girls from ridiculously wealthy homes who should all be learning to live in the real world.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Your mother?

Yes. However, Cath lifted a finger, I look well, which means I’m happy with my life, which could mean a number of things, and that’s lovely, Cath dear, but is there a man around?

Sam grinned. Your dad.

Seriously, Sam. I feel like a teenager when I go home, instead of a thirty-one-year-old. Jesus, imagine if I do eventually bring home one of my dates. It’d be a nightmare of food, pleasantries, and the re-enactment of the Inquisition. She shuddered, her blue eyes flashing, and then she pointed at Sam. You. Go.

Sam bobbed her head from side to side. Um...well, you know I was going to Bali for a week, and, of course, it was amazing. I sat on the beach for pretty much the whole time. But! She held up her hand. I’m into equal opportunities, so I also sat by the pool to make sure it wouldn’t feel left out. She nodded in mock seriousness. I was busy, Cath. Busy. Busy reading my book, sipping drinks with miniature umbrellas, gazing at the scenery. Busy, I tell you. They laughed and Sam grabbed Cath’s forearm. There were a lot, I mean a lot, of men covered in oil and wearing...not much. You would have loved it. They grinned at each other. Sam leaned her head on her palm. So then, Christmas was quiet. Dad came down from Sydney, which was kind of cool, and totally unexpected. Normally, he’s much too occupied with his clients and cases to visit me, because of, you know, life as a high-flying international corporate lawyer and all that. But we had lunch and it was nice to catch up in person. She lifted a corner of her mouth, and lowered her voice. I think he had something to talk to Felicity about.

Cath was absolutely the only person on staff who knew that Felicity Davis—cue the orchestra—was the principal of Rawson Girls Grammar, the all-encompassing boss of the three campuses, the woman in charge of the two hundred member faculty, the visionary and commanding leader to nine hundred girls ranging in ages from five through to eighteen, and Samantha Markson’s dad’s cousin. Sam’s brain hurt trying to work out on which twigs of their family tree she and Felicity perched. The fact that they were even in the same forest, let alone cuddled up on a tree together, alarmed her.  Cath raised her eyebrows, and Sam shrugged. I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I’m not about to march over the road to ask... Her words faded as the microphone, attached to the lectern at the side of the stage, amplified the clicking of heels as they ascended the steps. Felicity Davis, six-feet of business skirt, shirt, jacket, Jimmy Choos, very expensive pixie-style haircut, Pilates-created body, skin resistant to shine, and laser-beam blue eyes that could read people’s minds and reduce an antagonistic staff member to a puddle of apologetic goo, strolled across the wooden floor. She picked up the remote control and clicked the first slide onto the large drop-down screen, which hung from the ceiling over the centre of the stage. She smiled calmly at the audience, and with that single gesture all conversation stopped.

Jesus, how does she do that? Cath whispered.

Shut up.

Hello, everyone, and welcome back to another exciting year. Sam tuned out the confident and slightly husky I-just-woke-up voice of her...whatever Felicity was. In another universe, Sam decided, that voice, the whole package in fact, would have been the stuff of fantasies. She rolled her eyes. Felicity Davis is twenty years older than your thirty-two, and she’s your boss, and you’re related, and just no. I’d now like to introduce our new staff members who will be joining us at Rawson in various capacities across a number of faculties. Sam blinked, and mentally patted herself on the back. She’d successfully missed the entire policies and procedures spiel, which was heartening because Felicity’s PA always emailed out the presentation by the end of the day anyway, so at least Sam wouldn’t be shoving all that information into her brain for a second time. She glanced sideways at Cath, who was slightly hunched, clasping her phone in the folds of her floral skirt, and surreptitiously scrolling through Twitter. Sam elbowed her in the ribs.

New staff, she whispered, and Cath’s head shot up.

...and in the Science Department, I’d like to welcome Sarah Norton, who will be teaching chemistry classes from Years Seven to Twelve. A blonde woman stood up from her seat near the front, turned gracefully to the large room, and quickly waved, her full lips arranged in a shy smile. There was a short round of applause, and Felicity moved on to the next recruit.

Cath leaned in to Sam’s shoulder and whispered, She’s hot.

Who?

The new science teacher.

God, Cath. Stop it.

Cath leaned closer to Sam’s ear. What? I’m just looking out for you, Sammy. You need to be more active in the dating world. I’m serious. It’s a scientific fact that if you don’t use it, it dries up.

Sam inhaled her own saliva, and lapsed into a violent coughing fit. The teachers in the seats in front of them turned to glare, and she held up her hand in a gesture of ‘I’m fine’. Breathing deeply, she glared at Cath. There is a special place in hell for you, she whispered hoarsely.

Cath stared at her phone, a smirk planted on her face. I’ll have a velvet-covered throne with naked men clutching grapes, please.

The morning droned on as they sat through a workplace health and safety seminar, and an update on the kids with allergies. Sam slid the printouts of the medical alerts into her class folder as she walked with Cath across the street to the Junior School campus. Even though she wore shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers— professional development days were so good for throwing on any old thing—the dry heat wicked away the sweat from the skin on her athletic frame as quickly as it appeared, leaving her feeling like a dead leaf on the footpath in winter. Her eyeballs were so scratchy. I reckon my irises are probably the colour of dried up mud instead of chocolate. That’d be an interesting science lesson. Hey kids, let’s dry out an eyeball to see what happens. The sliding glass door of the school’s entrance beckoned and Sam picked up her pace. Once inside the foyer, which was operating in a whole different climate zone, she and Cath stopped opposite the reception desk, and let their arms flop, heads resting back on their necks.

Oh my God, moaned Cath.

Uh huh. It’s almost orgasmic.

Just as well there are no kids yet, because I’d love to see you explain that last sentence to a gaggle of nine-year-olds. The new voice, they saw when they dropped their heads forward, belonged to Gail Mitchell, the fifty-six year old head of the Junior School. She grinned. Hello, you two. I can see that you’re enjoying our traditional start-of-year weather. She walked behind the reception desk, and slid badges and swipe cards across, her red nail polish reflecting the fluorescent lighting. This year’s name badges and access cards. Sam picked up her own and Cath’s.

Hey, Gail. Welcome back. The class lists look great, by the way. Thanks for keeping the numbers so even. Sam grinned, and passed Cath’s badge and card to her.

Gail smiled. Yes, well, when there are only two of you teaching Year 4, it’s not hard. She levelled her gaze at Sam. Although, I did get quite a few parent requests for you, but I nipped that sort of thing in the bud.

Cath laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. That’s because all the parents love Sam. She’s like a hard-arse fairy godmother.

Gail laughed and Sam rolled her eyes. Okay, okay. She regarded their stylish Junior School leader, admiring the tailored black pants and blouse, which Gail wore with ease, and then pointed to the ceiling. We’ll head up, and get out of your hair. She flung an arm around Cath’s shoulders to steer her towards the lift. The classroom—or learning studio, as the school’s brochure labelled it—was an open-plan space, with interactive whiteboards, floor-to-ceiling windows, dark blue carpet—it looked like it had been laid during the holidays—trapezoid-shaped desks, and ergonomic chairs. The teacher desks were butted up against each other in the centre. It was a beautiful learning environment and, every now and then, Sam felt a huge wave of guilt that only girls of wealthy parents interacted with this type of space. But, Sam reasoned, this was her job, her career, and she was damn good at it. Private schools existed, and Rawson happened to be where she practised those damn good teaching skills, and that was okay. Sam dumped her folder, bag, and paperwork haphazardly on her desk and collapsed onto the office chair, sending it into a slow spin. Cath slouched forward at her own desk and stared across the landscape of pens in mugs and pencils in containers, folders, in-trays, and the bundles of rulers and scissors contained within elastic bands. Sam stopped spinning.

So, what else did you get up to on the break, besides checking out Bali babes, and having a Christmas meal with your dad? Cath rested her chin in her hands.

Sam chortled, and mimicked Cath’s pose. We’re clearly not doing any work, are we?

Work? What is this strange concept? Cath tossed her hands about, a confused expression on her face.

Sam laughed. God, I love working with you. Okay, well, um, I did some extra days at the animal shelter. Cath nodded, knowing that Sam volunteered at the South Melbourne Animal Home, where she walked dogs, and wrote the copy for their advertising and website. "And, hmm. Oh, I saw the new Abigail Taylor movie last week. ‘Exigent’. She shrugged. It was good, you know, for a political thriller. She studied the ceiling above Cath. It was supposed to give an insight into American politics apparently." She dropped her gaze.

Cath smirked. You’d rather have an insight into what’s under Abigail Taylor’s shirt.

Sam blushed, but grinned. You’re horrible.

Oh, you are so easy. And adorable, by the way, at how you fangirl all over her. Cath laughed.

I do not...fangirl. I appreciate her from a distance in a refined, non-stalker-y manner. She is but one of many gorgeous and completely unattainable beacons of light that I keep within my soul. Sam clasped her hands together over her chest.

Cath snorted, and shook her head, her hair sweeping her collar. She pointed to the desks holding piles of workbooks, which were awaiting labels. Those. Those are our new beacons of light.

Chapter Two

Checking the temperature on the app as soon as she woke up the next day confirmed to Sam that she was truly a Melbournian. Weather was an obsessive topic of conversation amongst the residents of the city, and today’s cooler temperature would be on everyone’s lips. Sam rang Cath as she slung her messenger bag across her body, locked up her second floor studio apartment, and made her way down the stairs.

Morning, blondie. Looks like the change came through last night. Sam had discovered early in their friendship that Cath was a disgustingly cheerful morning person.

-lo, Cath. You on your way to work yet? Want me to pick up coffee? Sam spotted the tram in the distance and quickened her pace to the tram stop.

Does a wombat have a backwards-facing pouch?

Sam rolled her eyes, and pulled her Metro card from the back pocket of her jeans. That’s not even a saying.

It should be. It’s catchy. Maybe I’ll try it on the next guy I date. He’ll be naked in five seconds. Sam could hear the smile. We can’t all be tall, blonde, and gorgeous, Ms. That’s-Not-A-Saying. There was a pause. Fine. Yes, Sammy love, I would adore a coffee, and I will put your assessment rubrics up on the server as a token of my appreciation. Cath’s laughter came through the speaker, as Sam snorted.

Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you in half an hour or so. By the way, I’m not gorgeous. I’m interesting looking. It’s an important difference.

The tram doors cracked open, concertina-folding to the edges, and Sam boarded, swiped her card, and sighed in resignation at the lack of empty seats. Holding on to the hand strap above her head meant that she didn’t have to brace her body as much while the tram rattled along, stopping and starting abruptly. But it still gave her thigh muscles a workout.

Seven stops along, a very pregnant young woman struggled up the three steps, and stared forlornly at the occupied special consideration seats near the entrance. Sam regarded her for a second, then threw a look at the seats where three teenagers—two boys and a girl—were highly involved with their phones, heads hunched over the screens. They were probably not even aware the woman had boarded the tram, just like all the other passengers in the vicinity. Come on, people. Pay attention. Sam gave the woman a nod and indicated to the railing. Hang on to that when the tram starts, she said, and then, grabbing the next few hang straps, she moved, like a monkey in a forest, to stand in front of the kids. Hey guys. It was loud enough to get their attention. The girl looked up in surprise, and Sam kept her tone light and relaxed. Just checking, but I really hope you three know how to treat—she hunted around in her brain for a medical condition that sounded like something a pregnant person might have—pre-eclampsia because, well, that lady over there, she twisted her body and tipped her chin, if she doesn’t sit down pretty soon, then your medical skills might be called into action. The boys lifted their heads, and all three kids widened their eyes.

The one in the middle nodded quickly, his exclamation of Shit! prompting the trio to leap up, shuffle to the side, and drape themselves against the upright poles and railings. Sam looked over her shoulder and reached her hand out to the woman, who smiled and awkwardly made her way over to the seat.

Thank you, she said warmly, in heavily accented English, and Sam grinned.

You’re welcome. Have a great day. Sam spotted the name of her stop flashing on the LED bar above the driver, then with a quick wave at the teenage girl, who was smiling shyly, she skipped down the steps and onto the footpath.

The tram stop was located at the entrance to the Botanic Gardens down the hill from the school. Not far really, but far enough for an extra workout if she ran. Nah, I’m coffee courier today, a much more important task. Coffee, incongruously, was purchased from the little Japanese takeaway place across the road. It was basically a window in the wall, but the owners roasted and brewed the most amazing coffee, and so the ratio of popularity to size of cafe was now completely unbalanced. There was always a queue no matter what time of day, and people were happy to wait, often socialising to pass the time. I wonder how many dates have been organised while waiting in that line? Standing half a head taller than the average customer allowed Sam to catch the eye of one of the baristas. Chloe, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, busty bombshell—now that’s an alliteration example I could never use in class—grinned out through the window, and when Sam held up two fingers to indicate a double order, she nodded and turned her head to repeat the instructions to the barista behind her. Being