GETTY IMAGES, ALAMY, BEVERLEY GOODWAY/REX / SHUTTERSTOCK
NEW JOB ALERT
Who Bertie, 11, is applying for a place at St Paul’s and
would like some help with preparation
Where Notting HillThursday, October 15, Notting Hill
I was standing face to face with a stuffed alpaca. Next
to that was a faux-marble statue of a Greek philosopher
wearing a cowboy hat. Jocasta showed me into her
living room, which was lined floor to ceiling with
books — the house was a Bloomsbury fantasy come
to life — and then we heard the front door open.
“Is that you, darling?” “It’s me!” a child’s voice
warbled. “I’m Cathy, I’ve come home!” Jocasta turned
to me. “You see what I mean?”
I wasn’t sure I did, having zoned out during a crucial
moment in my interview for the job. But if what she
had told me was that her son was the kind of person
who drops Kate Bush samples into everyday
conversation, we weren’t going to have a problem.
Bertie had a natural elegance that was at once
childlike and beyond his years. As he looked at me
he flicked his fringe several times, as if he had perfected
its ideal configuration through hours of carefully
studying the films of Zac Efron. I felt like I understood
him already.
Bertie proved to be a good student, answering
every question I put to him and having the syllabus
memorised. Bored of his own brilliance, he began
responding in a perfect Texan drawl. Soon he was
serving full-throated impersonations of what appeared
to be a sexually rapacious American socialite.Thursday, January 14, Notting Hill
“Shall we say £30 a week?” said Jocasta. She had heard
I was keen to escape my current living arrangement.
I was aware that sharing a three-bedroom flat with two
other lodgers and a family of seven was unsustainable
in the long term, but for Jocasta it was beyond the
bounds of comprehension. “You can’t stay there, Matt.
You should move in here! I won’t charge you much if
you throw in some dog walks and tutoring.”
“Great.” I wasn’t sure if Jocasta thought of me as a
charity case or just had no idea that £30 a week on the
London rental market wouldn’t get you a bed in a litter
tray. Either way I suspected her ludicrously favourable
room rates didn’t extend beyond floppy-haired
Cambridge graduates.Thursday, March 18, Notting Hill
“Matty darling!” Bertie said. “Good news.” As always
with Bertie it was impossible to know whether he was
being himself or performing a character. But there was
no questioning the news. Despite never doubting that
Bertie would be awarded a place at St Paul’s — widely
regarded as London’s top boys’ school — Jocasta was
delighted and took the rare step of inviting her
ex-husband, Giles, in for a drink.
Giles was trim and well dressed, with the kind of
middle-aged good looks that convince a certain type of
man it is time to leave his wife for a 27-year-old. I knew
instantly that we had nothing in common and was
delighted our encounter would be limited to a polite
glass of champagne.
But Bertie had other ideas. “Can we show Dad the
film we made?” “Ah, yes,” Giles said. “I forgot you’re
Mr Spielberg.” The previous month Bertie had
conceived a story that centred on a detective named
Garbo Folly and decided we should film ourselves
playing the parts. “Are you going to be Garbo Folly?”
I asked. “No, no,” Bertie said. “You are. I’m playing twin
sisters accused of murdering each other.”
I had no desire for Giles to sneer over my performance
as Garbo Folly, but as the film began to play I realised
the person most concerned about Giles’s reaction was
Bertie. While his twin alter egos pranced about on
screen I thought of the day when, aged 18, I got an offer
from Cambridge, then came out to my parents that
evening. I chose a day when I presumed myself high in
their estimations because I was scared — needlessly, it
turned out — that my other news would not clear such
a bar. Bertie appeared to have made a similar calculation.
“Hilarious!” Jocasta said.
“Yes,” Giles said tightly. “Very fun.”
Bertie’s face fell. He needed more than that.
I suddenly felt like I knew why Jocasta had wanted
to meet prospective tutors.
It might seem unlikely that all it took was a look,
especially one that on the surface amounted to little
more than that mildly benevolent puckering of the
dimples you give someone who has just passed you
the divider at a supermarket checkout. But behind my
eyes was a kinship only visible to someone who has felt
that same stirring of difference.
Bertie’s place at St Paul’s
hadn’t taken an ounce of
effort. But as he looked back
in gratitude, I realised his
parents had got their
money’s worth n© Matt Knott 2022. Extracted from
A Class of Their Own: Adventures
in Tutoring the Super-Rich by
Matt Knott, plus additional
material by the author. It is
published by Orion on
February 3 at £16.99The schools’ admissions
process strips applicants of their
individuality and turns them into
high-achieving automatons
“The plan is to become prime
minister. Obviously we’ve got
back-up options — governor of the
Bank of England or head of the UN”