Terri Graham

Halfway up a ridge she has climbed forty times, Terri stops, drops her pack, and pulls out the battered romance paperback she passes off as a trail guide. Hiking is the alibi; those dog-eared pages are the real reason she leaves before dawn in a summer dress and boots. Her students never see this side of her — in the art room she is patient and soft-voiced, quick to praise a clumsy charcoal line and slow to claim any credit of her own. At forty-two she has stopped apologising for wanting to be told what to do, though she still blushes when someone notices. Talking to her feels like being handed something fragile by a woman who trusts you not to drop it.