Sunshine on a Rainy Day: A funny, feel-good romantic comedy. Bryony Fraser

he really did miss his chance.’

      ‘Listen, much as all this talk of the homosexual lifeguards of my childhood is turning me on, shouldn’t we be consummating our marriage or something?’

      ‘Is that an invitation?’

      I responded by stripping off as quickly as possible, despite my sore, sugar-rushing head.

      ‘Do you remember when we used to worry about sophisticated chat-up lines?’

      ‘Jack, I said “I do”. What more do you need?’ I started trying to pull his trainers off.

      ‘You’re such a femme fatale.’

      ‘I’ll give you femme fatale.’

      ‘Ooh, will you?’ Jack’s face lit up.

      ‘If you mean will I put on red lipstick, then yes, I’m willing to do that. If you mean literally anything else, then no, unless you do it too.’

      ‘I knew married life was going to change you.’

      I stopped trying to pull his other trainer off.

      ‘Yeah, you’ve got me. Now, are you going to get this kit off or am I going to have to go and visit my local pool for any heterosexual leftovers from my teenage years?’

      Jack pulled his top off. ‘You had me at heterosexual leftovers.’

      We couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Dad had said, Dad-like, that he’d never even been out of the country until he was in his thirties, which made Mum narrow her eyes at him until he’d offered us another cup of tea and a biscuit. Friends and family sent hampers and vouchers, and the three days after the wedding were spent mostly wrapped around each other in our flat, occasionally moving upright to get more smoked salmon or chocolate eclairs or boar pâté down us, or to tighten the curtains against the cold January winds. But just as I started worrying I might be coming down with either gout or scurvy, the honeymoon was over, and we were due back at work the next day.

      It was a cold Monday morning as Jack handed over my packed lunch, kissing me goodbye outside our front door. ‘Back to school. Have a good day, wife.’ I was still uncomfortable with that. I’d swallow it down, though, just like that second tier of wedding cake.

      ‘Have a good day, dearest husband of mine.’

      We both made mock-vomiting faces, kissed again, then went in our separate directions: me a bus ride away to Walker High School, the secondary where I’d been teaching Science for the last four years, and Jack to the shoe shop he owns and designs for, all slick white spaces and open brickwork and handmade shoes strewn artfully around.

      When I got into the Science office, I immediately set eyes on a tray of bubbling prosecco laid out on a table piled high with cards and gifts, with balloons sellotaped to each corner. No one was about. I walked around to the small kitchenette, where everyone was clustered around something on the other side of the room.

      ‘Happy New Year. Is it someone’s birthday?’ I asked, making everyone scream in surprise. Our lab assistant, Miks, yelped and knocked the cake they’d all been huddled around off the counter. We all stared at the mush of icing and crumbs on the floor, the candles still somehow burning as they lay at odd angles from the side of the pile.

      ‘You’re early! You’re never early, darling!’ wailed Benni. ‘These guys just wanted to do something to mark your wedding—’

      ‘Since not all of us made the exclusive guest list,’ Miks interjected, eyes rolling cartoonishly.

      ‘And I said, Oh, don’t worry, Zoe’s never early, we’ve got plenty of time, and now …’

      We all stared at the pile on the floor again.

      ‘I solemnly swear never to be early to work again.’

      ‘Better,’ said Benni. ‘Darling, you know I find it immensely unnerving when you get all Motivated Teacher. Or is this Jack’s magical influence? Has marriage finally uncovered your work ethic?’

      ‘If my work ethic involves eating wedding cake from unlikely places – not like that, Miks – then you might just be right. If you mean am I likely to be willing to stay until 9 p.m. to attend a four-hour school performance of Annie for you, then no, I’m afraid my marriage certificate has not yet altered the fact that I still prefer home to school. Just. Much as you’re the best boss in the world, Benni.’

      Benni, head of Science, smiled at me, then gave me a hug. ‘Don’t tell the Head about the prosecco. Anyway, I’ve given them a blow-by-blow of the actual wedding, so everyone can pretend they were actually there. I told them about the ceremony, your outfit, how drunk the priest got, how you punched a barman, how that fire spread so fast—’

      ‘I’m sorry you guys couldn’t all be there,’ I laughed.

      ‘You didn’t invite us!’ called Miks.

      ‘But that’s it now. We eat this cake, we open these gifts – thank you, by the way – and then all of life is as before. Ok?’

      A look passed between Benni, Miks and the dozen other Science teachers and technicians.

      ‘What? What’s happened?’

      ‘Nothing’s happened,’ soothed Benni. ‘But, darling, we’d all just like to take a moment to remind you what a great sport you are.’

      ‘Oh god.’

      She led me back around to my space in the Science office, where the computer screen, keyboard, back and top of my desk were papered with ‘Mrs Bestwick’ signs, in a hundred different fonts and colours. I wanted to cry and set the desk alight immediately, but I threw my hands up and shrieked, laughing and shaking my fist at them. I left most of it there for the rest of the day.

      I managed to escape comment throughout the day, but in my Year 11 class after lunch, my most promising and least delivering student put her hand up and said, ‘Miss Lewis! Miss Lewis! I heard you got married, Miss.’ At least my students didn’t think it was funny to call me by Jack’s surname, even if he did.

      There was a buzz around the classroom: teachers aren’t supposed to have lives, eat meals and go shopping, let alone get married, which is so inextricably linked with sex. The thought of your teacher doing it with someone is enough to start a riot.

      ‘I did, Michaela.’

      ‘Why, Miss?’

      Of all the questions, this was the last one I was expecting. I’d expected a barrage of Did I take a helicopter? Did I go in a carriage? Did I have a bridezilla meltdown? Was there a fight? But this …

      ‘That’s enough, Michaela. This is a Physics lesson, not a Facebook status update.’ The class hissed its approval.

      ‘Ooh, you got burnt by Miss …’

      And that was the only mention I got all day. I felt like I had somehow got away with something.

      By six o’clock, everyone had gone except me and Benni. She came over and perched at the edge of my desk, fingering the tattered ‘Mrs Bestwick’ print-outs.

      ‘You did well.’

      ‘Did I leave them up too long?’ I asked, indicating the celebratory remnants strewed around my desk. ‘Should I have taken them off sooner?’

      ‘No, that would have been too obvious. If I had medals to give, you’d be next in line, darling. After my mother, obviously, and possibly after my poor sons, but you’d certainly be on the shortlist.’

      ‘If I open my mouth can you tell me if I’ve any teeth left at all, or just stumps?’

      ‘It’s fine. People just like to make assumptions, particularly after something as black and white as a wedding. Give it another week and they’ll all be expecting the patter of tiny feet.’