School Run (21 page)

Martine reached for her bag under the desk. Carefully, she slid her phone under a book so she could open the text message without the tutor seeing.

‘Bck early on Thursday. C U then.’

That was it. No time or place. Martine felt warmth flood through her. He was coming home, and even though the details were scant, her beau, as her mother called him, would find her.

‘You look pale,’ muttered Véronique. ‘Are you all right?’

‘My family work me so hard. Now I have to be their cleaning lady too. And last night, Simon, he came back drunk again. They had a big row and I cannot sleep.’

Véronique whistled. ‘You should tell the newspaper. You could make some money. They love gossip like that.’

‘Really?’ Martine hesitated. ‘But that would not be kind.’

Veronique pouted. ‘
Chérie
, they are not kind to you. As the English say, teet for tat.
Tu comprends
?’

BETTY

I don’t feel like the radio today.

I think it’s because Terry’s face is on the lamp post, in black and white, smiling at me. ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ he’s saying. ‘Honest.’

Luckily he’s in a plastic folder from that nice office shop down the road so he won’t get wet when it rains.

They tried to wrap him in plastic afterwards but I soon ripped that off. ‘He needs his duvet,’ I told the ambulance man. ‘He’ll get cold without it. How would you like it if someone put you in a polythene bag?’

He didn’t have an answer for that so we tucked him up in his red and blue duvet, the one with the Simpsons on it, and then he was all right.

I had other babies before Terry. But they came too soon.

Terry was only five pounds two ounces but I fed him until he grew. He got so tall that once someone in the supermarket thought he was my husband! We still laugh about that, don’t we, duck? The kids in the playground opposite are laughing. That’s why I moved here – to keep an eye on them. Never enough teachers on duty.

Hang on. Who’s that man over there? The one in the suit, talking to the girls on the other side of the fence. I’ll just get my binoculars. That’s better. The girls look identical. Twins, maybe. I’d have liked twins. Sometimes I wondered if one of the early babies might have been twins.

That odd bloke is trying to put his hand through the wire fence. What does he think he’s doing? Now he’s going and the girls are waving at him. Perhaps they know him but that doesn’t mean it’s all right. Sixty per cent – or is it fifty-five? – of victims know their attackers. It was on the radio.

He’s getting on a bus now. Funny. You’d think a man in a suit like that would have a car. I’m good at observing things like that. ‘Spot on,’ Terry says, when we watch detective films on telly and I always get the one who did it.

Should I ring the school? They didn’t like it last time. Better to stand here and watch, in case he comes back. Like Terry’s always telling me, you can’t be too careful nowadays.

WEDNESDAY P.M.

‘Evie? It’s us. Didn’t you say Dad was picking us up? He’s not here again.’

‘Sorry I’m a bit late. I had a lunch. No, Beth, my breath doesn’t smell of wine. It’s water. Very expensive water, actually. Bruce, do you mind not kicking my seat, dear? You’re hurting my back. And
please
keep your head inside the car or I might cut it off by accident when the window goes up. Hang on, Kate. Don’t get out until I’ve stopped. Just sit there for a minute, girls, can you? I need to tell Harriet something about tomorrow.’

‘Why is that woman screaming in the car, Mum? Look over there. The blonde woman in that old Saab. Yes, Beth, it
is
a Saab. Didn’t you know that? She’s got her mouth open. Listen, you can hear her if you turn the radio down.’

‘Please refrain from playing football in the car, Josh. Or I tell your mother when she emerges from the screen. And do not talk to me in those words.’

‘I c-c-can’t help swearing, Farty Marty. Maybe I’ve got Tourette’s syndrome. Like that f-f-footballer. You know. The one who won’t give interviews to the paper because he can’t help saying r-r-rude things. Hugo swears and his n-nanny doesn’t mind.’

I can’t take any more. Not the kids, not Robin and not Bulmer. I feel like screaming and why not? No one can hear me in the car, particularly if I turn up the radio.

That’s better. I’ve got it out now. Maybe I ought to do that more often. Perhaps it could be a feature. ‘How to Destress on the School Run’. Not bad. At least, it would be if I didn’t have this crap with Robin to sort out. He sounded really odd when I asked him about those figures. A mistake, he said. The bank had got it wrong. He said he’d explain later, but why isn’t he answering the phone? Well, he’d better have some answers when I get home.

‘Why can’t I go out tomorrow, Dad? I never have any homework on Thursday nights. Mum would let me, I know she would.’

‘Betty from Balham has just rung to remind everyone about the new speed restriction along the Wimbledon road.

Thanks for reminding us, Betty. Like you say, we can’t drive too safely.’

21

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

KITTY

If she tried really hard to block out the music, which reminded her of a cheap hotel lobby, she could just about pretend to be at a private party. Kitty had to admit that the room, in a London club, looked pretty with its clusters of small tables and bright red cloths, each with a matching carnation in the middle. The food was delicious – that asparagus starter had melted in her mouth. She looked quite nice too, if the mirror in the ladies’ was anything to go by; she was glad she’d worn her longish green skirt instead of a dress, which would have been too formal. All in all, the evening would have been quite bearable – if it hadn’t been for the company.

‘So, tell me, Kitty, as a teacher, what do you think of the new A-level system?’

She groaned inwardly. Anthony was exactly the kind of man she had known would come to an event like this. Not only was he an accountant (boring) but he also had an urgent need for whatever it was that men put on their hair nowadays to get rid of the grey or make it grow – preferably over that shiny bald patch at the front. He had already mentioned at least three times that he was in his thirties, but Kitty suspected he was much older. He also had an unnerving habit of repeating her name in every sentence.

‘It has its good and bad points,’ she began. ‘It’s good that the workload is spread out so it doesn’t all rest on the final exams. But there’s a lot of pressure with the coursework.’

‘I agree, Kitty. My sister, who has two children, says that . . .’

But the view of Anthony’s sister who, Kitty had already been informed, lived in Cirencester and had five children ranging from two to seventeen, remained unexpressed: much to Kitty’s relief, a loud bell rang, indicating that the men had to move one table to the right. As he got up, Anthony pushed a business card in front of her. ‘Please give me a ring, Kitty,’ he said. ‘I mean it. I’d really like to see you again.’

Vivienne, who was across the table, gave her a sympathetic look. Even she thought he was a sad case – and she was desperate. Kitty felt even worse. She should never have come and for two pins she’d just get up and go – but no, too late, here came the next.

‘Hi, my name’s Keith.’ He extended a bony hand. ‘How do you do?’

If there was one thing she loathed more than anything else, thought Kitty, it was a limp handshake.

‘I’m in electronics,’ he added, tucking his napkin into his purple shirt (top two buttons open, no tie). ‘What do you do?’

Kitty smiled brightly, checked that Vivienne was listening and leaned forward confidentially. ‘Actually, I’m an actress.’

Keith looked startled. ‘Gosh, really? I’ve never met an actress before. What are you in?’

‘Oh, nothing big. I do mainly voiceovers. For cat food, that sort of thing.’

‘Ah.’ Keith looked disappointed. ‘Not
EastEnders
, then. That’s my favourite. I once had a mate who did the electrics for the set . . .’

By the time they’d reached pudding (or ‘afters’, as Kitty’s next companion, John, described it), she’d had enough. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go,’ she said, as the coffee arrived. ‘Still got some marking to do before tomorrow.’

‘Marking?’ John looked taken back. ‘But I thought you said you were a riding instructor.’

‘I am. But there’s theory involved too, you know.’ She glanced across at Vivienne, who was happily involved in deep conversation with an older man called Justin. ‘Sorry, Viv, I’ve really got to make a move. Do you want to come with me?’

Vivienne looked crestfallen. ‘Can’t you wait until we’ve had coffee?’

‘Please, allow me to get you a taxi home,’ said Justin.

Vivienne flushed. ‘If you’re sure.’

Kitty didn’t need further reassurance. ‘See you, John. ’Bye, Vivienne. See you tomorrow at – er – the stables.’

Vivienne gave her a peculiar look. ‘What?’

‘Must dash.’

Kitty grabbed her coat and walked briskly down the street towards the tube station. It was dusk but there were so many people around that she felt quite safe. Even on the tube she felt secure – more secure than she had felt at that awful dinner. In some ways, though, she was glad she’d gone. If the only men available were the Anthonys and Johns of this world, she’d rather be alone. Maybe she’d be one of those women who didn’t find the right man until they were much older. That wasn’t what she’d had in mind but it was better than second best.

Her flat was only a short walk from the tube. Kitty opened the door and felt pleased to be home even though, just a few months ago, home had been with her parents in Reading. Perhaps if she hadn’t taken the easy route after university and moved back with her parents to avoid paying expensive rent, she’d have found someone sooner.

Kitty took off her shoes, sank down on the sofa and pressed the play button on her answerphone. ‘Kitty? It’s Mark. Look, I’m really sorry about Monday. I wondered if we could reschedule.’

Reschedule? What kind of man used that word outside the office? She pressed delete.

‘Hi, er, Kitty. My name’s Duncan. I’m a friend of Rod and Mandy’s. I live in London, not far from you, actually, and I wondered if you’d like to meet up on Friday for a drink . . .’

Delete.

Forget that stupid bet, thought Kitty, as she sat down on the sofa with the marking that she really did have to finish before tomorrow. She wasn’t going to find a proper boyfriend by Sunday. And, what was more, she was beginning not to care if she didn’t find one this year. Champneys would just have to wait.

THURSDAY

22

HARRIET

‘It’s coming up to eight but first the weather. Cool to start off with, followed by scattered showers and light winds . . .’

Harriet knocked again on Pippa’s door. She was late – which was a sin on the school run when every minute counted. Last year, a mother had actually missed the school coach for a trip to France and taken her son to Calais to catch up with it.

She knocked again. Odd. Pippa usually had the girls ready and waiting, Lucy’s plaits neatly tied and Beth with her music case. But today the upstairs curtains were still drawn. Dear God, don’t let her be ill, not really ill. Harriet didn’t usually pray but since Pippa had told her about the lump, she had made more than one angry plea to whoever was up there.

‘Knock again,’ demanded Bruce, who had dashed out of the car, leaving the door open on the roadside.

‘I am. And shut that door, quickly, before something goes into it. Bruce, go
on
.’

‘I’ll do it,’ called Kate.

‘Honestly, Bruce, you’re impossible,’ muttered Harriet, and knocked a fourth time.

‘Sorry.’ The door opened to reveal Derek in his dressing gown. ‘We’re running a bit late this morning. Bad night, I’m afraid.’

Derek was never home at this time. He worked in the City, which meant a six thirty start from home. Something must have happened.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Harriet, cautiously. Beth had just appeared behind her father, and she didn’t want to ask too much in front of her.

Derek nodded tersely. His skin looked grey with worry and he hadn’t shaved. ‘The hospital rang. There’s been a cancellation so Pippa’s seeing the consultant today.’

‘She might be a bit late for sports day,’ announced Beth, importantly, ‘but she’ll do her best to be there.’

Sports day! With all the panic about Charlie coming back early, she’d forgotten. His plane landed at eleven o’clock. Would she have enough time to get to school by two thirty – and had the children got their sports kits? She tried to remember. She was pretty certain Bruce’s was still in the dirty linen bin. But did any of it matter when Pippa might have something seriously wrong with her?