One Perfect Summer

I’m on playground duty and my class has returned to school after the Christmas holidays with even more energy than usual. I’m blaming all the sugar. It’s had the opposite effect on me. It’s a cold and dreary January and I feel lethargic and bloated after eating too much gingerbread in Germany. I’ve become oddly addicted to the stuff.
    Bennie continues to karate-kick an imaginary villain near the climbing frame.
    ‘POW! POW!’ he shouts.
    ‘You’ll need a cold compress for your foot if you’re not careful,’ I warn him again. ‘Cold compress’ has been part of my everyday vocabulary since I became a teacher. Something which greatly amuses Lukas.
    He continues to ignore me. He’s one of my more challenging pupils. Another child comes a bit too close so I hurry over to him. ‘Bennie.’
    ‘No!’ he shouts. ‘I’m Joseph Strike! POW! POW!’ Kick! Kick!
    That imaginary villain might as well be my stomach.
    ‘Who did you say you were?’ I feel like someone has just walked over my grave as I bend down to speak to him.
    ‘Joseph Strike. POW! POW!’
    I try to regain my composure and stand up. ‘Go and play on the slide. Now!’
    His shoulders slump dejectedly and he sulks off.
    I don’t know how I get through break time, but as soon as I’m in the staff room I make a beeline for a computer and type the name Joseph Strike into Google. I feel light-headed as a gazillion links come up. I click on one which takes me to the IMDb: the Internet Movie Database.
    It’s his actor page. My stomach cartwheels when I see his head-shot. He’s unbelievably good-looking, his jawline appearing more defined than it was at the age of eighteen, and there’s a shadow of stubble across his tanned features. His hair is short, his eyes are as black as night, and he’s looking past the camera, only half-smiling.
    ‘Look at you, checking out pictures of Joseph Strike.’
    I jolt at the sound of my colleague’s voice. It’s Roxy. She teaches the eight-year-olds.
    ‘He’s well hot, isn’t he?’
    ‘How . . . how do you know about him?’ I stammer.
    She laughs in disbelief. ‘Where have you been for the last few weeks? Haven’t you seen Sky Rocket ?’
    ‘We’ve just got back from Germany,’ I say weakly.
    ‘Don’t they have cinemas over there, love?’ She’s teasing me, but I can’t smile. Lukas’s family aren’t into film or watching TV. It’s all about walking, skiing, reading and, when I’m lucky, playing snooker.
    Sky Rocket does sound familiar. ‘I have heard of it,’ I murmur.
    ‘I should think so. That movie has been an even bigger hit than Santa this Christmas. You’ve got to check it out,’ she urges.
    Roxy leans forward and nudges my hand off the mouse, scrolling down to reveal a film poster. There are five actors in the picture, but Joe is almost unrecognisable. He’s wearing a futuristic outfit and is looking up, so I can’t see his face properly. I vaguely remember seeing this image now, but I wouldn’t have known this was him.
    Roxy continues to scroll down to his filmography. There are seven movies listed.
    ‘Wait!’
    ‘What?’ she asks.
    How could I not have known about all of these films? Strike is at the very bottom. ‘Have you seen all of them?’ I feel like my throat is closing up.
    ‘Half of them haven’t come out yet,’ she says, tutting good-naturedly at my stupidity. ‘I saw Strike just last weekend. I bought it on Amazon straight after seeing Sky Rocket . Phwoar! And I did see Hong Kong Kid and Capture when they came out a year or so ago, but he only had small parts in them. Look –’ she peers closely at the screen – ‘ Night Fox is still in post-production. So is Phoenix Seven , and he’s currently filming Magnitude Mile .’
    My heart is pounding like a jackhammer.
    ‘Can you go back to the top?’ I ask. She does. It says he was born Joseph Strike, but that’s not true; his name is Joe Strickwold. His age is correct, though: he’s two months older than me, which makes us both twenty-six.
    ‘He’s so hot,’ she sighs, nodding at his headshot. ‘Although that picture doesn’t do him justice. Damn, I was devastated when Johnny Jefferson married that girl recently. Thank God there’s some fresh eye candy on the scene . . .’
    But I’m not listening to her rant about a rock star. I’ve got other things on my mind.
    I spend the rest of the day on autopilot. As soon as I can escape I go home and call Jessie.
    ‘Jessie? It’s me,