The Third Decimal

I wasn’t there at the end. I suppose I had no right to be; I wasn't a family member or regarded as a close friend. Whilst our relationship was incredibly important to me - both professionally and personally - in the grand scheme of things I was little more than a mistake on an answer sheet, the remainder from a long division equation.
Yet, despite our casual / professional acquaintance, when I heard the news I found myself conflicted with emotions. It first came to my attention like most stories of interest at the school, through overheard conversation in the staff room. Unable to react or seek clarity from my colleagues I had to wait until later that morning when the sad news was announced to the entire school - staff and students alike - by the head teacher.
I remained indifferent to my own feelings; sympathetic and supportive to my students, whilst at the same time refusing to acknowledge my own grief. The school was in mourning, which should have enabled me to express my sorrow, but in actual fact it only served to remind me of my selfishness in misinterpreting my own importance within this tragedy.
What was I to her? To her family? What was I within this tragic situation other than an unwelcome integer in an unbalanced equation?
We met at school, in my first and only full time teaching post. She was the newly promoted head of mathematics at Elmore Academy and one of her first tasks was to employ a new maths teacher to replace the outgoing Mr Fahsbury. That is how we met for the first time; I was bright eyed and eager for my first teaching assignment and she was encouraging and enthusiastic for young talent.
I arrived for my interview on a Wednesday morning. It was a warm summer day, the school term was just a couple of weeks away from the summer break, and I found myself sweating heavily in my bargain basement three piece suit. When I arrived, I was greeted in reception by Chantelle, one of the reception staff.
Chantelle was stunning; a natural beauty with golden blonde hair, large blue eyes and perfect smile. She was about 5’8” in height, only a couple of inches shorter than myself with a slim athletic figure, whilst retaining the feminine curves that would have fit a Hollywood movie star.
She was about the same age as myself, but had worked at the school since leaving college. She was really friendly, picking up on my nerves early on, she attempted to put me at ease: “You’ll do fine, I'm sure of it.” She said placing her hand on mine as I sat on a chair by the reception area, nervously checking my watch every 10 – 20 seconds.
I laughed, it was the only thing I could do that didn't involve running straight out of the school and to the nearest bar. “That's very kind of you, but you don't know me. I could mess up an audition for my own biopic.”
“Well at least you've done well enough to have your own biopic.” She replied with a smile.
I was surprised by her response, I had expected her to recognise the sarcasm in my voice. Perhaps I had been too dry in my delivery. “Oh no. I don't really have a biopic.” I corrected her.
She laughed. “Don't worry, I know.” And placed her hand on my arm again.
I felt like an idiot. Of course she knew I was joking. She was merely joining the joke and I had failed to recognise the fact. “Of course.” I responded, feeling my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. “Can we put it down to nerves?”
“Absolutely. And don't worry. Mrs Swanson is really lovely, she'll be gentle. I promise.” She then took a glance at the clock on the wall directly opposite where I was sat and with a smile made a suggestion. “Come on, let me take you for a walk around the school, help take your mind off it.”
I looked at my watch nervously – I appreciate I could have looked at the clock on the wall, but to do so retained some kind of eye contact with Chantelle, something I was keen not to do. I didn't feel I could turn her down, but likewise, I didn't want to miss my interview because I was gallivanting around the school with the receptionist.
Chantelle was incredibly perceptive and picked up on my reluctance. “Don't worry, you're very early. We've got plenty of time. Just a quick ten minute stroll, I'll have you back here with plenty of time to spare.”
I agreed, albeit still a little nervous about how long we would be away. The tour took in a number of departments such as Music, English, Humanities and Maths, but it was at the drama studios near the end of our walkabout that things took an unexpected turn.
There was a class acting out a scene from Hamlet. I had only limited knowledge of Shakespeare, drama not really being one of my strong points, but I could see immediately Hamlet knelt down, holding a skull. It was the iconic scene:
“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”
Chantelle must have spotted me mouthing the words. “Are you a big fan of Shakespeare then?” She smiled.
“Me?” Once again she'd caught me off guard, I had no idea how to respond. I must have appeared a complete idiot, as I eventually responded to her query quite earnestly,  completely missing the playful tone of humour in her voice, “Oh no, not really. It's the only line I know. My sister is the actor in our family. She's starring in her first West end production next month.”
“Oh really? That's amazing. What's the show?” she seemed genuinely impressed.
“Well, she's only one of the sporting cast members, but it's quite a popular show. It's the Lion King, so I suppose it’s quite impressive. The family are all very proud of her.” I tried to sound genuine. Not that I wasn’t proud of my little sister for her accomplishments, but if I am honest there's a small part of me, hidden in the dark places we never speak of, that held a certain resentment for the level of delight and pride that my parents shared for everything Tiana did – regardless of the level of remarkability or lack of.
“That's still amazing. I love that show.” Chantelle enthused. “Maybe you could get us backstage passes?” She laughed and once again placed her hand on my arm giving me another slight squeeze, but this time retained contact as we continued our tour.
I noted that Chantelle engaged in a lot of physical contact. Was she like this with everyone or just limited to a select few? I didn't want to get ahead of myself, we'd only just met ten minutes earlier and I was already considering the possibility she might be interested in me romantically.
The most likely scenario was that she was simply being friendly, and as a mathematician I had lived my life on pragmatism and probability over emotions and impulse and so should have really concluded as such given the available evidence.
We continued to walk past the drama studios, Chantelle cheerfully chatting and holding onto my arm like a couple taking a stroll along the promenade. It felt so natural walking down the corridor, arm in arm, I’d had girlfriends in the past, but nothing that felt like this. I’d known Chantelle for just ten minutes, yet something about this felt right, like we belonged like this.
Had the opportunity presented itself I would have asked her out there and then, but as quickly as I had found myself being drawn towards my chaperone, the rug was all too quickly pulled out from under me with one single sentence, spoken with a much deeper, male voice emanating from behind us.
“What's this? You trying to make me jealous?”
We both turned around and from one of the drama studios I saw Mr Wright. Probably early thirties, he was an athletic build with tight short sleeved shirt – probably a size too small to accentuate his biceps – and neatly trimmed facial hair. Chantelle gave a high pitched squeak of excitement then immediately released my arm and ran over to him.
My heart immediately sank. I was no match for this guy, an awkward, skinny mathematician against a drama teacher with a chiselled jaw that wouldn't have been out of place on the TV show, Love Island.
I looked away and feigned looking at some posters of what appeared to be random theatre productions on the wall. There was one for a theatrical production of the Graduate which caught my eye; I had seen the film starring Dustin Hoffman whilst at university. I can't say I particularly cared for it much, though the theme tune performed by Simon and Garfunkel was a particular favourite of mine.
In the background I heard Chantelle giggling like a school girl. It was becoming clear that Chantelle was just a very friendly person who felt comfortable with physical contact without it having to result in marriage. And yet, I felt hurt by these events.
It must have only been a couple of minutes before I heard Chantelle behind me and we continued our tour of the school. I attempted to keep my distance, the idea of walking back to the office, arm in arm felt demeaning. I didn't want her pity.
I remained silent for remainder of the tour. I don't know if Chantelle noticed, I don't recall her acting any differently towards me. When we returned to the office, she sat me back on the same seat and brought me a glass of water.
“We’re ready for you now.” A head poked out from the headteachers’ office, and I rose to my feet.
“Just be yourself.” I heard Chantelle softly say as I walked slowly past her.
“Thanks.” I replied under my breath. I don't know if she heard me.

Chantelle was right, Mrs Swanson – or Jodie as she preferred to be called by her friends – was incredibly supportive and encouraging throughout the interview. When I received a phone call from her later that day, she seemed even more excited to be offering me the position, than I was in receiving the offer. Naturally I accepted it on the spot, without a second thought. When someone like Mrs Swanson offers you such an opportunity you don't look back.
I started in the September. I had my own form class which did offer a nice opportunity to get to know some of the less mathematically minded students.
I soon discovered that the hardest part of teaching wasn't the curriculum, the after hours marking or even the students, it was without doubt the parents. Parents’ evening was a living hell, just the thought of coming face to face with this diverse group of individuals all convinced they know how to do my job far better than I can, completely unwilling to accept their perfect child might not be the little genius they think he is and constantly challenging the manner in which the curriculum is set out because “it wasn't like that” in their day.
One example was the bus stop method, a quicker, more efficient version of long division. For all intensive purposes it is the same process, but for a couple of visual adjustments and yet I frequently found myself being challenged by parents on the decision to teach this new method apparently rendering all of their previous mathematical experience obsolete.
After my first parents’ evening,  I turned to my head of department, Mrs Swanson. I didn't want her thinking I was weak, or even that I was doubting her decisions as head of mathematics, but at the same time such confrontation from the parents was a new experience to me. I wanted some kind of reassurance that what we were doing was in the best interests of the students.
She was early to mid forties and had been a teacher at the school for nearly 20 years. She was a strong minded, ferocious woman at times, with her short dark hair and fierce brown eyes which pierced through your very soul.
She was beautiful. Not in the way Chantelle was. More of a sexy older woman, commanding and confident. The type that took your breath away, had you crawling on your hands and knees to appease her. but at the same time she could be incredibly warm and supportive. She was the kind of person you always wanted on your side.
Mrs Swanson laughed. “Don't take it to heart my dear; you're a fantastic teacher, I can see that and so can the students.”
“But I'm new. I don't want any of my students to fall because they had the new teacher who didn't know what he was doing.” I explained.
“Have you ever heard of Imposter Syndrome?” Mrs Swanson asked.
“I have.” I responded. “But is it still Imposter Syndrome if you really don't deserve the praise you receive?”
Mrs Swanson smiled. “I think that's probably more of a conversation for the psychology department. Luckily you have nothing to worry about. You’re a very talented young mathematician not to mention handsome.”
“But the parents don't seem to think so.”
“When it comes to their children, parents will find fault in literally anything. I wouldn't worry too much about what they say. I've got compete faith in you, and the head has every confidence in me. And that should be enough.”
“Is there not anything I can do to alleviate some of the parents’ concerns?”
“Look. We've offered all these parents multiple opportunities to come in and learn these new (she raised her hands and indicated inverted commas over the word new) techniques and only a handful have ever taken us up on the offer.”
She put her arm around my shoulder and smiled. Her touch was warm and comforting. “Just think of it like an equation.” She continued. “I’m afraid dealing with parents is much like factorising a polynomial, you can try to come up with some fancy algorithm, but often it just takes trial and error until you get it right.” She then gave out a loud laugh.
I’d never heard anybody use factor theorem in a comedic context before. The nerdiness of it made me laugh out loud myself. This seemed to please Mrs Swanson. She placed both arms around me, “I’m so glad I hired you.” She declared before releasing me and walking away.
Our little talk hadn't exactly given me any answers, but I had felt reassured about her confidence in me; although i often wondered why as I hadn't really done anything to warrant such belief. Mrs Swanson seemed to appreciate my skills, whether the rest of the staff felt the same way I didn't know.
I often found myself covering playground duties at break or lunch, so had little time socialise with other members of staff. When I did sit down for lunch, Chantelle would sometimes join me. She often brought in her own food; consisting of salad and exotic fruit of names I struggle to pronounce. My initial suspicions had been correct; she was a social butterfly, just as friendly to everyone without prejudice. This made her slightly unpopular with some of the older, experienced female teachers at the school, but none of them ever showed her any form of disfavour and in turn she treated them with the same affection as everybody else.
I don't recall anytime when I felt Chantelle showed any favouritism towards me. She was often friendly and affectionate, but as mentioned earlier that was just her. However, it didn't take long until people started to ask me whether there was a romantic connection between myself and Chantelle. It would appear that the two of us had been the topic of conversation on more than one occasion in the staff room – a fact I felt to be a huge compliment.
However, unbeknown to me, this rumour had reached the ears of Mrs Swanson. It was at the end of a maths department meeting that I first heard Mrs Swanson raise the subject of myself and Chantelle. Chantelle had just come into the classroom and was in the process of clearing away a tray of tea and biscuits that had been provided for our meeting. As she did so, she turned to me:
“How was your meeting?” With her usual upbeat tone. I don't believe I ever saw her not able to raise a smile, even whilst dealing with some of the most challenging of parents.
“Ok.” I replied. I smiled back.
“A bit harsh making you stay behind on a Friday evening isn't it? You probably had something better to do than this?”
I chuckled lightly. “I wish I did. What about you? Surely you had plans on a Friday night?”
“Oh. I still do.” She laughed. “Me and the girls are going out, hitting the town. But must of them won't be ready until at least nine, so I've got plenty of time.”
Chantelle had mentioned the girls on previous occasions. It was a mixture of friends from various groups; former school friends, netball team mates, some she had only met whilst doing ballet as a junior but still stayed in contact. It was a real hybrid of social classes, mostly with one thing in common, Chantelle.
Chantelle had previously invited me to join her and her friends in multiple occasions and never seemed discouraged by my reluctance. “You can bring your mates.” She offered as a bargaining tool, but truth be told I had very few friends that I would spend a Friday evening with and even less that I would be willing to impose on Chantelle – make that zero.
She seemed to be looking at me awaiting some kind of response, but I didn't really know what to say. I elected to smile politely, “Have a great night.” And I looked down at my bag to continue packing my things away.
Perhaps it was my own awkwardness and sense of time, but it felt like Chantelle lingered before eventually wiring me farewell and departing with the test of empty cups and biscuits crumbs. I looked up to see her leaving the classroom.
“You know, if you hurry, you might still catch her.”
I looked up, and to my surprise it was Mrs Swanson looking over at me from across the classroom with a sympathetic smile on her face. It left me puzzled, whilst I understood the insinuation she was making – she wasn't the only one who had made such a remark – I was surprised it had come from her.
“I don't know what you mean? I don't need to catch her.”
Mrs Swanson began to walk over towards me, she had her coat over her arm and was carrying her bag in the other hand. “Bless you. I honestly can't tell if you really are that naive or if it's just an act.”
There was something in her voice that made me a little wary, it was a tone I hadn't heard from her before. It was hard to describe; slow and deliberate and slightly deeper than usual, it created a peculiar feeling just under my skin. I felt my heart starting to pound in my chest, my pulse beating in my ear, so much so I could barely hear her approaching – but I could sense her presence drawing ever closer.
“Are you telling me you haven't noticed how Chantelle looks at you?”
I frowned to empathise my confusion. Sure, I had noticed she was friendly, but she was like that with everyone.
“You know she was waiting for you to ask her out just now? When she said she had plenty of time, that was your chance to invite her to join you for dinner or drinks or both?”
Her tone made it sound like a question, but I really didn't know how to answer her, or even if there was an acceptable answer. My eyes remained on my bag which I had now lifted onto the table and was fiddling with the contents in an excuse to avoid eye contact.
“In sure she was just being polite. She's not my type.” This was only a half truth, I was incredibly attracted to Chantelle, more than I would openly admit to. But, she was way out of my league, there was no way I would be happy in any kind of relationship with someone who looked like Chantelle, constantly worrying she was about to leave me for a bigger, better looking guy.
Being my head of department I felt my denial of any chemistry between myself and Chantelle was what Mrs Swanson wanted to hear. The last thing she needed was staff members embarking on an ill advised relationship.
“You’re telling me you don't find Chantelle attractive?”
“I think she's quite pretty.” I responded, not sure where this conversation was headed.
“But?” She asked expectantly. “It felt like there was a but there.”
I thought for a moment, “No. I just think she's attractive, but I'm not attracted to her. If that makes sense?”
“I see.” Mrs Swanson seemed happy with my response.
“She's not my type.” I hurriedly tried to explain, not really knowing what that really meant.
I could sense Mrs Swanson beside me now, leaning over my left shoulder, her chest just lightly pressing against my arm. I could feel her breath on my cheek. “So, what are you attracted to?”
The smell of her perfume started to overwhelm me. She was so close, my heart was beating rapidly in my chest, my palms were beginning to sweat. I wanted to answer and tell her, “You, Jodie! I'm attracted to you!” I wanted to take her in my arms, sweep her off her feet and kiss her passionately there and then. But I couldn't find the words, it was like I was having an out of body experience and watching over myself, paralysed.
“Maybe you'd be attracted to somebody a little older?” she asked. Her words were slow and deliberate. She took hold of my face and turned my head so that we were face to face, our noises almost touching, her eyes staring deep into mine, “Someone with a little more experience?”
I remained still like a statue. I couldn't believe what was happening. Her voice was so seductive, her scent intoxicating.
“Someone like me perhaps?”
And then we kissed. Did I make the first move? Did she? I don't recall. I don't remember if I responded to her, or if our carnal instincts took over where words had failed me.
My first time and it had been with a woman almost twice my age. They say your first time is often disappointing, that the expectation far outweighs the reality, but for me this was far from the truth. Mrs Swanson had been everything I'd imagined and more. That evening I went home a man.

Everybody knows the first three digits of Pi. 3.14, we're all taught it at school; the number with infinite decimal places used to calculate the area and circumference of a circle.
I have had multiple discussions with friends and family over the importance of learning the formula A=πr². Of course my answer is that it is not so much the literal application of the formula, but the skills gained into the brain by carrying out the calculation. In truth, I had another more personal reason for promoting Pi; as a child I learnt the first 20 decimals of Pi to impress my parents. Sadly, neither had much interest in mathematics and even less interest in me reciting a series of seemingly random digits – especially as my siblings were busy with far more exciting achievements like performing as lead in the school play or competing their GCSE exams with the highest grades in the year.
3.14159265358979846264 includes the first 20 decimal places. Of course, most people will stop after the first two decimal places, there is little need to go much further, as the third decimal place is somewhat insignificant. In addition to this, if you do choose to stop at three, the third decimal place also needs to be rounded up from one to two owing to the forth placed digit being five. This means in order to round to three decimal places correctly, one must be aware that the fourth is a five in which case why stop there? Why not go to five or six decimal places?
I understood how that third decimal place felt, as the middle child and second born son I often felt surplus to requirements. I had a place in the family dynamic, but would things have been any different if I'd not existed? I doubt my absence would have ever been fully noted.
That evening was the last time I ever found myself alone with Mrs Swanson. After that she seemed to grow distant.
She was married, it was clearly a mistake on her part, one she didn't want reminding of. And so I tried to respect this fact and gave her the space she clearly needed.
There was talk in the staffroom that her marriage was in turmoil, that they were seeking support from a marriage counsellor even speculation of another lover. Meanwhile Mrs Swanson became increasingly withdrawn from the rest of the faculty. And then, one day, she was gone.
Mrs Swanson had failed to turn up one Monday morning, no call to say she was sick. On the Tuesday, the rumours started to spread across the school that she had taken her own life.
I didn't know the truth behind it all. I had no-one to speak to, no-one I could turn to and seek any answers or closure. Instead I was reliant on the speculation in the staff room to fill in the blanks.
Not long after the funeral I handed in my resignation, I couldn't stand to be there any longer. To be among all those people whose lives had been touched by her, and meant so much to her; knowing I wasn't worthy of the grief that I felt compared to those others. I barely knew her, one evening of passion couldn’t compare to the years she had devoted to her family; to her husband and children, to her colleagues at the school and every student who had had the good fortune of knowing her.
I’d only known Mrs Swanson a matter months; to me she had changed my life in more ways than I could explain. But I knew from the other angle, I was merely an insignificant extra, the third decimal place in the circle of life.
I gave notice on my flat and moved back into my parents’ house. I don't suppose they were surprised, and whilst they welcomed me with open arms I sensed there was a certain inevitability in their response as though they always expected this to happen.
Now I work as an accountant, earning double, if not more than I ever could have hoped for as a modest maths teacher.
I still think about Chantelle; whether she stayed at the school or moved on to bigger, better things. Did she ever meet anyone? I wonder what might have happened if I'd have asked her out. I guess I always knew it would never have worked out; even if she had been willing to give me a try I would have forever been doubtful of her feelings for me and my own insecurities would most likely have driven a wedge between us.
I think of seeking her out, but five years on would she even remember who I am? I know the answer.