I breathe a sigh of relief. Something I said last night must have got through. She’s back on board the sane train. But only for a minute. She wants me to take a bunch of flyers to the staffroom at school. Is she kidding? No. And it’s hard to argue with her logic. Teachers are always getting married. It’s like their number one hobby or something. I’m pretty sure being the PR boy for a wedding cake business is another rung on the social suicide ladder, so I make sure I’m in early the next morning to jam some flyers under the staff-room door. And that’s it. I’ll try to get rid of some more at the shops after school. Relief at getting the job done without being spotted is short-lived when Jayzo grabs a handful of flyers from my bag at the lockers. ‘Are you having a party, jerk-off?’ he asks. But then – proof that he can actually read – he says, ‘What’s this lame-arsed cake business got to do with you?’ I try ignoring him. Great tactic in theory. Practical success rate?
