More Than Just Mum
REBECCA SMITH

Published by ONE MORE CHAPTER

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Rebecca Smith 2019

Cover Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Rebecca Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © December 2019; ISBN: 9780008370169

Version: 2019-08-30

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

For Polly.

May women everywhere have a friend as supportive, strong and bloody hilarious as you. xxx

Chapter 1

The first question is stupid and illogical. It is also highly personal. I pause for a moment, unsure about whether I should really be doing this. But there’s nobody else here, and I am on a break. It’s not as if what I’m doing is illegal or anything.

Returning to the question, I chew the end of my pencil and mull over the multiple-choice answers.

A) Eight or more times a week. Well, that’s obviously ridiculous. It’s clearly been added as the amusing option. That’s more than once a day. Who on earth has the time for that? Or the inclination, when it comes to it?

B) Up to five times a week. Possibly, when I was in my early twenties and didn’t have anything better to be doing; like the laundry or preparing the next day’s packed lunches or catching up on Netflix or sleeping.

C) Two or three times a week. Now we’re moving away from the fantastical and heading into the realms of reality. But honestly, whoever wrote this question needs a good talking to. There is a world of difference between twice a week and three times a week – ask anyone. Twice a week is enough to feel smugly adequate. Three times a week is pushing it a bit, but perfectly possible if there’s been a birthday or it’s Christmas or a bank holiday.

D) Less than once a week. Again, this is impossible to answer without being more specific. Which week am I meant to be basing my answer on? If it’s the weeks after I gave birth then the answer is a resounding D. If it’s the week that Nick surprised me with a romantic trip to Devon then I can circle B with confidence. Or am I supposed to be taking a mean average over the course of one year?

I scan my eyes across the page, searching for advice. But other than the questions and the screamingly large quiz title, there’s nothing.

The end-of-break bell rings and hundreds of feet start pounding down the corridor. I’m not teaching for the next hour, but I keep my eyes fixed on the classroom door, just in case a hapless Year Seven takes a wrong turn. I don’t need anyone to catch me in the act of reading the magazine that I confiscated from Elise in Year Nine during the last lesson. And I am probably old enough to identify my own areas of sexual competence without taking a quiz entitled ‘Are You A Sex Goddess?’. But I’ve started now and I’m feeling curious about what the verdict will be.

Dissatisfied with the choices, and wishing that there was a ‘once or twice a week’ category, I recklessly break with tradition and circle both C and D. Then I move onto the next question.

Which of these positions is your favourite?

Good god. The list of answers reads like a cocktail menu. I haven’t heard of any of them, never mind having an actual preferred position. Flicking back to the front cover, I look again at the title of the magazine. Surely Elise has got her hands on some kind of black-market, top-shelf publication and I should be handing this straight to the Headteacher? This kind of question is completely unsuitable for girls of her age.

Magazines and their content have clearly moved on from my day; this is definitely aimed at the teenage market. Or maybe they haven’t moved on. Maybe it’s me. I do remember poring over magazines with sketch drawings showing the ‘Position of the Week’ and sniggering with my friends. But that seemed more innocent somehow, like it was a serving suggestion rather than an assumption that we were all getting it on at every available moment.

I ignore the second question and move onto the next, which rather intrusively wants to know how many sexual partners I’ve had. Interestingly, zero is not an option – I suppose that’s because the quiz writers assume that one needs to have actually had sex in order to identify whether one is, in fact, a sexual goddess. Answer A is a bit alarming though. I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have the energy to have that many different liaisons, and I feel a grudging respect for the sheer work ethic that must be required. I look down the list towards the more sedate numbers, while running my own experiences through my head.

It doesn’t take that long. I was a late developer, and a combination of worry about how my body looked and terror about getting pregnant meant that I waited until I’d left home and gone to university, where quite frankly, it was relief to get the whole first-time thing out of the way. And no, there were no fireworks and the earth didn’t move and the sky did not fall in. Instead, I spent the entire time wondering where I was supposed to put my legs and trying to politely ask if he could take his elbow off my hair because I thought that there was a risk of me getting scalped, which wasn’t really what I’d envisaged from the whole affair. And yes, it got better after that (or maybe I got better after that) and there were several longer-term boyfriends, one of whom I remember fondly and the other two who have been consigned to my he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken list.

So, five if I include Nick, which of course I should, because we’ve been married forever and that counts, surely? That doesn’t seem too shoddy or too promiscuous. I can live with five.

Circling answer C (which is slightly disappointing as I’d have thought five partners would place me slightly higher up the scoreboard than that) I read on.

How good are you at undoing a belt?

Ha! Now this is the kind of question that was written for me. I am the queen of undoing belts, thanks to the fact that my irresponsible family are constantly putting their dirty jeans and trousers in the laundry basket with the belts still attached. I can sort whites from darks and unbutton shirts and whip belts out from trouser loops with my eyes closed. I am an expert.

Except I have clearly overestimated my skills. The options suggest that there are women out there whose talents at belt removal far exceed my own pathetic offerings. No, I cannot undo a belt with my teeth. I can’t think of a single time that I would wish to do so. Doing it with my eyes closed is actually answer B, which gives me a brief thrill of achievement – but then I read on and see that it’s only eligible if I have done a sexy pole dance first. The image of me strutting my stuff as I sort through the day’s washing pile makes me snort.

I whizz through the remaining questions, revealing my most personal secrets, tot up my total points and turn the page to discover my fate. And it was just as I suspected all along. I am Hannah Thompson, Ultimate Sex Goddess: all lesser mortals bow down before my sultry and provocative nature.

I’m lying. My score puts me in the bottom league. Instead of achieving the heady heights of ‘Sex on Legs’, I am firmly placed in the ‘Could Try Harder’ category. I think the pun is intended but it’s difficult to know for sure.

Standing up, I head towards the door. If I’m quick I’ve got time to pop to the staffroom and grab a coffee before the next session of riot-control-slash-listening-to-new-and-innovative-homework-excuses.

I drop the magazine in the recycling bin as I walk past, wishing that I could abandon my slightly dented ego just as easily. Not that it matters. It’s just a stupid quiz and it doesn’t mean anything. I bet virtually every woman my age would get the same result that I did. There are far more important things in life than sex, and I’m sure that if I took a quiz called ‘How Nice Are You?’ or ‘How Efficient Are You?’ then I’d totally score in the top percentile.

I would on the efficiency quiz, anyway. I am very well organised. The jury would probably be hung on their verdict as to whether I’m nice. All they’d be able to say for sure is that since I’ve been doing this job, I appear to be getting less nice by the day.

Chapter 2

Taylor Swift is admonishing me as I stumble into the room, my arms laden with yet another load of laundry. She informs me, in her dulcet tones, that she knew I was trouble when I walked in, which I think is fairly rude when all I’m doing is attempting to navigate from the kitchen door to the washing machine while avoiding the obstacles that my youngest child, Benji, and Dogger, the dog, have kindly put in place. Clearly they both felt that I needed the extra challenge.

‘Scarlet, can you please turn your phone off and set the table?’ I step nimbly over a skateboard. ‘Benji! Clear your stuff away now.’

Taylor segues into her next song like the professional that she is, asking me why I had to rain on her parade.

It is my lot as a mother, Taylor, I tell her silently. It’s just what I do. So if you’ve organised some kind of parade, or perhaps a party, then you can be fairly sure that I’m not going to like it. Especially if there will be boys or alcohol involved. And judging from your song lyrics, Ms Swift, I believe that there is a high possibility of that.

‘Hello, people!’ Dylan bounds into the room, throwing his arms out like Hugh Jackman in The Greatest Showman. ‘I am here!’

‘Congratulations for you,’ snarls Scarlet, finally turning off the music. ‘I’ve been here for the last sixteen years but I don’t make a song and dance about it.’

She does, though. In the last six months especially, Scarlet has started behaving as if her life is some kind of dramatic theatre production. And clearly, this particular production requires a lot of tortured expressions, self-introspection and extended monologues.

Dylan strolls across to his sister and flings his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re just not as special as I am,’ he says, pulling a sad face. ‘But don’t worry, little sis. I’m here for you.’

Scarlet gives him an almighty shove in the chest and he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding Benji, who is attempting to remove his skateboard (as per my instructions) by putting Dogger on top and pushing her along.

I ram the washing into the machine and straighten up, sniffing the air. It smells suspiciously like burnt sausages.

‘Has anyone checked the oven?’ I politely enquire. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that I asked you all to keep an eye on the cooking while I sorted out the laundry.’

‘I’ve been revising for my Maths exam!’ Scarlet’s voice is laden with persecution. Nobody does aggrieved like my daughter.

‘I was in the bathroom.’ Dylan sits down and starts prodding at his phone.

‘Again?’ asks Benji, voicing what we’re all thinking. ‘You were in there for hours when we got home from school. Have you got diarrhoea or something?’

‘Why are you so gross?’ Scarlet glowers at him. ‘Nobody actually says stuff like that.’

Benji glances across the room at me, his face a picture of confusion.

‘I was only asking,’ he says. ‘Because we’ve been learning about germs in Science and I was just going to say that Dylan should probably wash his hands a bit better after he’s been to the toilet. Then he won’t keep needing to go.’

‘The supper?’ I ask, but nobody hears me. Dylan is exclaiming his disbelief that Benji could be so hypocritical as to talk to him about personal hygiene when we all know that Benji runs the tap and pretends to put his hands underneath but for some ungodly reason refuses to actually get them wet, and Scarlet is furiously slamming knives and forks onto the table and muttering loudly that she is the only person in this family to actually do anything helpful ever, while Benji is repeating the word ‘diarrhoea’ over and over again like some kind of hideous mantra.

So it is left to me to rescue the sausages and chips and heat up a tin of baked beans before screaming at them all to shut up and sit down.

‘I’ve cooked you a delicious meal and the least you can do is have enough respect to eat it nicely,’ I roar, slamming the charred contents of the oven onto three plates. ‘I’ve been at work all day listening to Year Nine mutilate the English language, which is enough to send the sanest teacher over the edge, and I’ve got lessons to plan and your dirty pants aren’t going to clean themselves and Dad won’t be home until late and we’ve run out of wine.’

They all pause for a moment and I see Dylan eyeing me warily.

‘It looks great, Mum,’ he says.

‘Yeah, thanks for cooking for us,’ says Scarlet. ‘We’ll do the washing up.’

‘Thank you for everything,’ adds Benji, passionately. ‘Like, thanks for making our food and doing the shopping and washing our clothes and making our packed lunches, and also thank you for giving birth to us and driving us to places and just for being our mum.’

He pauses for breath and gives me a big, ten-year-old beam.

‘You are such a suck-up,’ mutters Scarlet. ‘And I think you’ll find that it’s me who makes the packed lunches, actually.’

‘You’re all very helpful,’ I say, sinking down into a chair. ‘It’s why people have children in the first place, you know? For an easy life and for all the extra help that they get.’

Dylan laughs and starts squirting tomato ketchup copiously over his plate. I would normally make a cutting remark about the ratio of sauce to food but today I keep quiet. The sausages and chips have been cremated almost to the point of ash and I think a little extra moisture is acceptable in this case.

For a few moments, the only sound is that of knives attempting to ineffectually carve their way through several layers of pyrolysed pork. I lean back and start to relax. Nick was going out with a couple of mates after work but hopefully he won’t be home too late. We’ll eat pasta in front of whatever American crime series we’re currently working our way through on Netflix and it’s Wednesday, which means no school for me tomorrow. If I use my imagination and powers of delusion, I can almost make myself believe that it’s the weekend.

‘I started following Zoe on Instagram today,’ says Scarlet, giving up on her knife and picking up the sausage with her fingers. Her voice is casual but the look she shoots at Dylan is distinctly shifty.

‘Why did you do that?’ Dylan rounds on her, his face screwed up in displeasure. ‘You don’t even know her!’

‘So?’ Scarlet shrugs, her grin stretching from ear to ear. ‘That’s what social media is for, Dylan. Getting to know new people.’

‘But you know that I—’ he stops and gestures wildly at Scarlet, before slamming his hands over his face.

‘I know that you what?’ purrs Scarlet. This is her favourite game. ‘I know that you fancy Zoe? Is that what you were going to say?’

Dylan groans. A good mother would probably stop this but there’s no chance of me doing that. This is the first thing I’ve heard about any Zoe character, and if Dylan is interested in her then I want to know everything that there is to know. And fortunately for me, Scarlet is an excellent source of information.

‘Dylan’s got a girlfriend!’ crows Benji, his eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Are you going to get married? You’re allowed, you know. You can do that when you’re eighteen. And you can also vote and get a tattoo and be sued.’

‘I do not have a girlfriend!’ snaps Dylan. ‘So shut up!’

‘You are not allowed to get a tattoo,’ I say, but even as the words come out of my mouth, I’m wondering why I’ve never thought about having one.

Maybe something tasteful, like a small butterfly or a daisy? Maybe something that would prove I’m not old and past it. Or perhaps I could get my eyebrows shaved off and perfectly arched brows tattooed in their place? That could be worth looking into. I think I could achieve a lot more in life if I had eyebrows that were on fleek, as Scarlet would say. It sounds quite French. I wonder if it’s actually spelt en flique? I must remember to ask her.

‘But you’d like to have a girlfriend, wouldn’t you?’ says Scarlet, resting her chin on her hands. ‘And fortunately for you, my Instagram stalking would suggest that Zoe is currently boyfriendless and looking for luuuurve.’

‘You are a hideous sister,’ Dylan tells her, but I can see that he’s keen to hear more.

‘I’m never going to get married,’ Benji informs us while attempting to surreptitiously feed the rest of his sausage to Dogger. Clearly my youngest child does not have a future in espionage. ‘And I’m definitely not having any kids.’

This distracts my attention from the Zoe situation for a second.

‘Why not, darling?’ I ask. ‘Having children is wonderful and fulfilling and life-affirming and …’ I trail off, aware that all other conversation has ceased.

‘Are you kidding us?’ says Scarlet. ‘You’re constantly knackered and you’re always saying that you’ve got no money because we’re so expensive.’

‘Well, yes, but you see, that’s all—’

‘And you and Dad are always talking about the holidays you could have if it was just the two of you,’ adds Dylan. ‘You could be going to Mauritius this summer and not having two weeks camping in France.’

Scarlet shudders. ‘God. It’s a no-brainer. Dirty nappies and crying babies and never losing your baby belly. I’m never having kids.’

I instinctively suck in my tummy. ‘Those things are true, but—’

‘I’m going to live with Logan,’ Benji tells us. ‘We’re going to live in this house and go to work on quad bikes and play on the Xbox and eat pizza every night.’

‘Are you both going to live with Dad and me?’ I smile, momentarily warmed by my youngest child. ‘That’ll be nice.’

He loads up his fork and rams it into his mouth.

‘No. You’ll both be dead by then,’ he mumbles through a mouthful of masticated beans, which takes the wind out of my sails just a little bit.

‘I don’t even know why you had kids,’ says Scarlet. ‘I’ve seen photos of you from before and you look way younger.’

‘That’s because I was way younger,’ I retort. ‘And people get older regardless of whether they’ve had kids or not.’

‘It’s not the same though, is it?’ Scarlet is on a roll. ‘Like, you’re always moaning that you’ve lost all sense of your own identity and that you have no time for yourself.’

‘I’m not,’ I protest feebly.

I am.

‘Okay.’ Scarlet raises her eyebrows at me. ‘So that wasn’t you earlier, telling Jennifer Aniston to piss off?’

‘Who is Jennifer Aniston and why were you telling her to piss off, Mum?’ asks Benji. ‘That was a bit rude of you.’

‘Language!’ I say automatically. ‘And I didn’t tell Jennifer Aniston to piss off.’

‘You did!’ crows Scarlet. ‘I heard you! You were on your laptop and Jennifer Aniston was on the screen, going on about how important it is to have some “me time” every day and you said, “Oh, piss off, Jennifer Aniston and get back to me about ‘me time’ when you’ve spent all day sprinting around after other people.” Or something like that.’

‘I’d rather have a dog than a kid,’ says Dylan. We all automatically look at Dogger who, embarrassed by the attention, starts licking her vagina.

‘Well, at least none of you guys ever tried to do that,’ I gesture towards her. ‘Although Benji did once manage to wee in his own ear when he was a baby.’ I remember exhaustedly cleaning him up at three o’clock in the morning and trying to sob silently so that he’d go back to sleep. Happy times.

Scarlet smirks smugly. ‘I bet I never did anything as disgusting as the boys, did I, Mum?’

I smile back at her. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I don’t think a mealtime is the right occasion to talk about all the foul things that you got up to when you were little.’ I pause. ‘And also, not so little.’

Dylan and Benji laugh and Scarlet pulls a face at them.

‘So, are you going to ask Zoe out, then?’ she asks Dylan, retreating to safer ground.

‘None of your business,’ he snarls. ‘And if I were you, I’d be too busy worrying about the identity of my mystery online boyfriend to be bothered with my brother’s love life.’

‘What mystery online boyfriend?’ I ask.

‘So you’re admitting that you have a love life!’ screeches Scarlet. ‘Ha! A loveless life, more like it.’

‘So you’re not denying that he exists, then?’ returns Dylan.

‘What mystery online boyfriend?’ I repeat, louder this time. ‘Will someone please tell me what you’re talking about?’

‘Scarlet’s got a boyfriend but she’s only met him online,’ says Dylan, not breaking eye contact with his sister.

‘He’s just a friend and it’s nothing to worry about,’ Scarlet says, glaring back at him.

‘Nothing to worry about as long as he isn’t actually a fifty-six-year-old weirdo, you mean?’ Dylan grins at her.

‘Scarlet?’ I tap my hand on the table to get her attention. ‘Who is this person? Is he actually fifty-six? Because you are aware that would not actually be okay?’

Scarlet gives Dylan a withering look, which manages to concisely convey that she will be having words with him at a later date, before turning to me and putting on her reassuring face, which only serves to make me more wary.

‘He’s a friend of a friend and he’s not fifty-six, Mum. He’s sixteen and he lives in the Czech Republic and he’s totally fine.’

I frown. ‘And you know this how?’

Scarlet sighs dramatically. ‘Because I’ve seen photos of him and he’s a teenager, not a pervy old man.’

‘What does “pervy” mean?’ asks Benji.

‘She said nervy,’ I tell him. ‘Pervy’ does not feel like a word that should be in a ten-year-old’s vocabulary and the last thing I want is a phone call from the school, complaining about his language. ‘Go on, Scarlet.’

‘I’ll show you his photo,’ she says. ‘Then you can chill.’

‘I want to see your conversations. So that I know he isn’t being inappropriate.’

And also, so that I know that you aren’t engaging in sexting or nudes or anything else terrifying.

Scarlet’s face wrinkles up. ‘That’s an invasion of my privacy,’ she complains. ‘Those conversations are private.’

I eyeball her. ‘There’s no such thing as private on the Internet, you know that. The government can read anything you write online.’

‘God,’ she groans. ‘No wonder our country is in such a mess, if politicians are spending all their time snooping at my emails and messages instead of actually doing stuff.’

‘We’ll discuss this again later,’ I assure her, gathering up the plates. ‘Now, who wants some pudding? We’ve got apples and bananas.’

‘An apple is not a pudding,’ complains Dylan. ‘I need more than that if I’m going to keep my energy up.’

‘And he does need a lot of energy,’ Scarlet agrees. ‘If he’s going to be pursuing the lovely Zoe.’

It never ceases, their enthusiasm for winding each other up.

I think about the worries that are stacking up in my brain, like jumbo jets circling to land at Heathrow airport. Dylan and his potential girlfriend. Scarlet’s online liaison with a stranger. Benji’s insistence that he won’t ever be having children, which makes me question whether Nick and I have done such a terrible job of parenting that it’s the last thing that they want to do with their lives.

I think about all the conversations that I need to have with my offspring and I bitterly regret my decision to be self-righteous and virtuous and not drink during the school week.

Chapter 3

I gaze out across the classroom, looking at the twenty-six faces that are staring back at me. Elise has just asked me a question and I absolutely know the answer. Of course I do. I am a teacher, and therefore I possess all knowledge.

‘So is it true then, miss? Did Shakespeare steal all of his good ideas from someone else?’ she asks again, leaning forward and fixing me with a steely glare. ‘Because that’s called plagiarism, that is.’

‘It’s called cheating actually,’ Brody informs her haughtily, before turning back to look at me. ‘Why do we have to read his stuff, if he’s a cheating scumbag?’

‘I’m sure that William Shakespeare wrote all of his own works,’ I say, trying to sound authoritative. I hold up a copy of Romeo and Juliet. ‘His name is on the front, after all!’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ calls Vincent from the back row. ‘I once got Wayne to do my Maths homework and then put my name on the top and Mr Jenkins didn’t suspect a thing.’

We all turn to look at Wayne, who is inspecting the contents of his nose. Vincent’s life choices clearly leave something to be desired.

‘That was stupid,’ states Elise. ‘There’s a girl in Year Eleven who’ll do your homework for five pounds and she puts load of mistakes in so that it doesn’t look too suspicious.’

‘Anyway,’ I say, attempting to regain control of the lesson. ‘As I was saying, Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, and—’

‘The tragedy is that we have to read it,’ interjects Brody, earning a laugh from the rest of the class. ‘I don’t know why you can’t just let us watch the film. That’s what Miss Wallace did last year when we had to study Macbeth.’

A mutter of agreement spreads throughout the room and I resist the urge to groan. Not this again. I’ve spent the last five months hearing about what Miriam Wallace got them to do in their English lessons last year – the conclusion being that she didn’t actually get them to do very much. Which means that I now have the thankless task of attempting to teach them everything that they should have learnt in Years Seven and Eight.

This is not the job I signed up for.

‘I want you to get into pairs and make a mind map showing how the theme of love is portrayed in the play,’ I tell the class. ‘Think about Romeo first. Who is he?’

‘Leonardo DiCaprio!’ shouts Brandon Hopkins.

I ignore him. ‘Consider how Romeo professes to feel about Rosaline right at the start and how quickly he switches his affections to Juliet.’

‘Romeo is a proper lad,’ calls Brody. ‘Way to go, Ro-may-o!’

‘You have twenty-five minutes,’ I snap. ‘And anyone who doesn’t take this task seriously will be doing it as homework.’

This gets zero response. I can set as much homework as I like but I can’t make them do it. We all know that.

Year Nine start organising themselves into pairs. By ‘organising’ I mean that they squabble and bicker and barge around the room until at least half the girls are sulking and the boys are all crowded around the back desks in one messy group.

‘Ahem.’ I clear my throat to get their attention. ‘Brandon Hopkins! Can you please tell me how many people are in a pair?’

‘Depends how large the pair is, miss.’ He snorts and elbows the boy next to him who dutifully sniggers.

That literally makes no sense. These kids can make an innuendo out of absolutely anything. It is exhausting.

‘Very entertaining,’ I tell him, narrowing my eyes. ‘There are two people in a pair, Mr Hopkins, and if you can’t all sort yourselves into pairs in the next thirty seconds then I shall be forced to select your partnerships myself.’ I pause, looking around the room. ‘And they will be mixed gender.’

There is a horrified gasp and a flurry of movement as everyone scurries to find themselves a partner. I watch the clock, counting down the last ten seconds, and then, once everybody is seated, I walk around the room dispensing large sheets of paper and coloured pens.

‘Ooh, felt tips,’ coos Wayne. ‘Miss Wallace never trusted us with the felt tips.’

This statement fills me with joy. Finally, my teaching style is being compared favourably to hers.

‘Get started on your mind maps,’ I instruct. ‘I will be coming round in ten minutes to see how you’re getting on.’

The class start pulling the lids off the pens and I return to the front, sinking down into my chair. The chair is the only good part about this job. It used to belong to Miriam and she left it behind when she got promoted to Deputy Head. I spent the entire first term having to defend it from the other members of the English department who complained that, as a part-time member of staff, my needs were less important than theirs. I’m no fool though. I set out my terms and conditions at the start of January, making it clear that the chair is the bonus for teaching Year Nine, Class C and that anyone who wished to negotiate for its extra padding and swivel seat would be expected to take on the aforementioned class along with the chair.

Unsurprisingly, nobody has come after it since then.

A superior chair is, quite frankly, the least that I deserve. In my humble opinion, Miriam could have left me a sofa and a coffee maker and my own personal water fountain and it still wouldn’t have been enough to soften the blow of making me teach English.

Because I am not an English teacher. I am a Biology teacher. When I started at this school it was in the Science department, after I’d left university with a Biology degree but couldn’t get a job. The choice between teacher training or moving back in with my mother was an easy one to make and things kind of snowballed from there. Teaching wasn’t ever what I intended to spend my life doing but once Nick and I started having kids, the long school holidays and vaguely decent pay made it a no-brainer.

But then the inept government started making ludicrous cuts and our school became an academy and all the rules changed overnight. I didn’t even see it coming, that’s the humiliating part. I strutted into the Head’s office last July ready for my annual appraisal, wondering whether I’d have time to pop to the shops on my way home. If I was vaguely surprised to see Miriam in there then it wasn’t enough to register any thoughts of alarm. We all knew that she’d just been promoted to Deputy Head and it seemed obvious that she’d want to be involved in staff evaluations.

The panic bells only began when Miriam took the lead, telling me that sadly, financial cuts meant that the Biology department was being downsized but that I wasn’t to worry, they had found a new position for me. It would be fewer hours and less pay. Worst of all, it would be taking on her old post in the English department.

I had stutteringly queried my suitability for such a job, but Miriam had glossed over my concerns.

‘We’ve been looking back over your curriculum vitae,’ she told me, brandishing a file with my name on the front. ‘And it states quite clearly that you are an avid reader of books and an aspiring writer. If anything, you are overqualified to teach the students at this school.’

I tried to tell her that the phrase ‘aspiring writer’ referred to my one attempt at writing a collection of short stories, after I took a creative writing module as part of my teaching course. When I presented my efforts to the tutor, he informed me that my writing was too try-hard and that it lacked any sparkle. My CV was the last fictitious work that I ever wrote.

I also attempted to explain that my life has changed quite dramatically since then. Not least with the addition of three children, which hasn’t left me with a lot of spare time for pursuing my own hobbies and interests. But Miriam is like a very efficient bulldozer, and before I knew what had really happened I had agreed to a one-year temporary contract, teaching English, three days a week.

‘We will review your progress on a regular basis,’ Miriam assured me. It sounded like the threat that it was meant to be.

And so, for the last six months I have faked my way through agonising grammar lessons and un-creative writing lessons and lively debates where nobody says anything remotely linked to the topic at hand. I have diverted and distracted and downright lied when asked a question to which I do not know the answer and I have stood at the front of the class pretending that I am not an imposter, a charlatan and a complete and utter con artist.

It has been the most exhausting six months of my life and I have hated every single second of it. But I can’t afford to lose this job, and Miriam knows it. If we were playing a game of poker, she would have the entire royal family and I’d just be left with a few twos and a three, and maybe the joker.

The noise in the room has escalated to uncomfortable levels so I bang my hand on the desk.

‘All that talking had better be about the theme of love,’ I warn. ‘Vincent. What have you got so far?’

Before Vincent can reply, the door swings open and Miriam Wallace walks in, as if my thoughts have magically summoned her from whichever dark corner she’d been lurking in. She casts a beady glance around the desks, her eyes narrowing.

I stand to attention and resist the urge to curtsey. Or salute.

‘You’ve given them felt tips, Mrs Thompson?’ she asks, her voice frosty.

And that, Year Nine, Class C, is a perfect example of a rhetorical question. Beautifully executed with a hint of power play. Round One to Ms Wallace.

‘Yes.’ I attempt a smile. ‘I always find that mind maps are much more powerful if the words stand out in a vibrant colour.’

Round Two to me. I am taking control of my choices. This is my classroom now.

Miriam sneers at me. ‘It’s the “vibrant colours” that cause me concern,’ she says. ‘We are encouraging a professional, corporate look here at Westhill Academy and that includes crisp, white shirts that are unadorned with childish scribbles.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we need to worry about that,’ I laugh. ‘This is Year Nine, Ms Wallace. They’re quite capable of—’

‘It’s Year Nine, Class C, Mrs Thompson,’ she snaps back. ‘Wayne! Stand up!’

‘Honestly, Miriam,’ I murmur. ‘I’d have noticed if they were doing anything untoward. Look. His shirt is fine.’

Wayne is standing in the middle of the room, a large smirk on his face. I smile at him reassuringly and turn back to the Deputy Head.

‘We’ve been doing a lot of work on responsibility and appropriate behaviour,’ I tell her, not wanting to lose this opportunity to brag about my teaching. ‘I really do think that I’m getting somewhere with them. I’ve seen a real improvement in their levels of maturity and their ability to focus. For example, this lesson is all about identifying the way that the theme of love is addressed in Romeo and Juliet which, I think you’ll agree, is a complex and highly nuanced topic.’

Miriam ignores me, choosing instead to direct her full attention at Wayne.

‘Turn around!’ she barks. ‘Now!’

At the back of the room, I see Brody and Vincent start to laugh. An icy droplet of dread trickles down my spine, but I am powerless to do anything except watch as Wayne raises his hands in the air like he’s being arrested and slowly, slowly turn so that his back is facing towards us.

How did she know? She can’t possibly have known.

‘What do you have to say about that?’ Miriam enquires. There is silence for a moment before I realise that the question is aimed at me, not Wayne.

I stare at his shirt for a second and then I walk closer, weaving my way in between the desks until I’m standing right behind him, reading what is written in very bold and very permanent pen.

Love is beautiful like #nofilter.

Love is precious like an iPhone X.

Love is sex and drugs and rock and roll.

Love is chaos and death.

‘Who was working with Wayne?’ My voice is quiet and nobody speaks. I do a slow one hundred and eighty degree turn, looking at every single member of the class. ‘Who was working with Wayne?’

Very slowly, three sets of hands rise into the air.

So much for working as a pair.

‘I said that we—’ starts Elise but Miriam sticks her hand out, palm towards the class. Elise wisely shuts up.

‘Stand up, all of you,’ I snap. Brody, Vincent and Elise all move to stand beside Wayne. ‘Whose idea was it to write on Wayne’s shirt?’

More silence, but I am not surprised. These kids would rather chop off their own arm than risk looking like a snitch; even Elise, who is currently chewing on her bottom lip and looking slightly pale.

‘If they aren’t prepared to tell the truth then they must all suffer the consequences,’ intones Miriam. ‘Destruction of property is a serious offence.’

I nod at the four delinquents to sit down and gesture Miriam to the side of the class.

‘Have you read their mind map, though?’ I whisper. ‘It’s actually pretty good. They’ve really considered the complexities of love as it’s portrayed in the play.’

She stares at me like I’ve just grown devil horns.

‘They drew on Wayne’s school shirt, Mrs Thompson. The quality of the work is absolutely irrelevant here.’

No. It isn’t. This is the first time that I have seen any member of Year Nine, Class C exhibit even a modicum of intelligence. I could give literally zero fucks about the method of display. They could have smeared it in lipstick across the wall for all I care – the entire point is that they have clearly, despite every single piece of evidence to the contrary, been listening to my lessons.

It is an actual miracle. I refuse to let Miriam Wallace and her stupid rules take this away from me.

‘I expect to see all four pupils in after-school detention for the rest of the week,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘You too, Mrs Thompson.’

‘You’re putting me in after-school detention?’ I say weakly.

She’s gone too far now. She might think that I’m doing a crappy job but she can’t treat me like one of the kids. I will not be sent to after-school detention – it’s a complete violation of my rights.

Miriam nods. ‘I’ve been revising the rota and you are now down to cover after-school detention duty today, tomorrow and Wednesday.’ She pinpoints her laser focus onto me. ‘Is that going to be a problem? It is part of your temporary contract.’

Of course it’s a problem. And it’s completely unfair. She’s punishing me and there’s nothing that I can do about it if I want to keep my job. The job that she takes great pleasure in reminding me is only guaranteed until the end of the year. I’m putting my foot down over this. She’s pushed the wrong woman this time. Brace yourself, Miriam, and prepare to witness my wrath.

‘No problem at all, Ms Wallace,’ I trill brightly, through gritted teeth. ‘I shall be there.’

Miriam nods at me and with a last glower at Year Nine, Class C, storms back out of the door.

I stagger to my desk and sink back into the chair. I am not living my best life right now. Not in the slightest.

‘We told you that she never let us use the felt tips, miss.’ Vincent’s voice rings out loud and clear. ‘She thinks we’re too thick to be let loose on anything permanent.’

‘You and me both, Vincent,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘You and me both.’

Chapter 4

There’s no questioning the facts. It is one hundred per cent there and I have one hundred per cent got to deal with this situation immediately. Part of me was hoping that it was a joke, but the more that I stare into the magnifying side of my mirror the more the evidence stares back at me.

Brandon Hopkins was correct, which must surely be the first time since I started teaching him that such an event has actually occurred. I would find this cause for celebration if it weren’t for the fact that on this particular occasion, I would be happy to prove him wrong.

But as he so accurately and loudly pointed out during period six on Wednesday afternoon, I have a lady-moustache.

And I am about to do something about it.

The instructions on the packet are pretty basic but the page of safety precautions goes on forever. I start to read, squinting to see the tiny words.

This product is suitable for upper lip, cheeks and chin.

Chin? Brandon Hopkins didn’t mention anything about me having a lady-beard, but I’d rather be safe than humiliated in front of Year Nine, Class C next week. Grabbing the mirror, I scrutinise the skin below my mouth, searching for errant hairs. Fortunately for me, the majority of my facial growth appears to be confined to the area between lips and nose; I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m pretty sure I didn’t buy enough product to deforest my entire face.

I keep reading.

This item is NOT SUITABLE for the rest of the face, the head, the ears, or around the anus, genitals or nipples.

What now? Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to put wax there? What would be the purpose? Are there really people in the world who care about whether they have a hairless arse? And who would even know if they did have the odd hair or two in the vicinity of their rectal opening? I mean, I’ve never thought to check but now I’m wondering if I need to have a quick look.

Shuddering, I shove the instruction leaflet in the bin. It lost me at anus and I don’t care to read one more word. Not that I need instructions, anyway. The wax strips are laid out in front of me and it’s obvious what I need to do. I have two X chromosomes after all. The skills that I need to complete this task are inherent in my DNA. It’s genetic memory – I have inherited the knowledge that I need to remove my excessive and unwanted moustache from my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, and – well, I’m not sure how long waxing your upper lip has been a thing, but it’s not as if candles are a new invention, so the craft probably goes back for many generations.

I pick up a strip and warm it between my hands before peeling off one side. Then I apply it to my skin, pressing it into place to make sure that it’s stuck down really firmly. And now it is the moment of reckoning. I’m quite looking forward to this bit. I’m not stupid – I’m aware that there may be a small degree of pain involved – but surely it won’t be worse than pulling off a plaster? And these things can often be quite satisfying, in their own way.

I take a deep breath and yank the wax away from my upper lip in one smooth movement.

‘Fuck it, that hurts!’

On the floor, Dogger gives me a baleful look. I ignore her and peer eagerly at the wax strip, keen to see how much hair I have managed to remove.

There is bugger all there. Not one single strand.

I am not feeling satisfied in the slightest.

I lean towards the mirror again, trying to ascertain the current status of my moustache, but the skin is tingling and slightly pink and I can’t tell if the hairs are still there. But it’s okay because this is my first go and sometimes it takes a while to get the knack of doing something technical like this. Otherwise, beauty technicians wouldn’t need to exist, would they? And I have loads more wax strips left. I’ll just keep going until I’ve got rid of them all.

The next fifteen minutes are not the best fifteen minutes of my life. On a scale from stubbing a toe to giving birth, I would say that the pain threshold hovers somewhere around the time I accidentally shaved off an entire strip of skin from my ankle to my knee. Both the bath and I looked like we’d been involved in a particularly gruesome episode of CSI: The Shires. At least this time there isn’t any blood.

Finally, when I have waxed over the same piece of upper lip with every wax strip that was in the box, I admit defeat. I haven’t seen a single hair come out and my lip is sore and suspiciously red.

There are worse things than a slight smattering of hair on my face, I tell myself. I am a grown-ass woman and I do not have to conform to the stereotypes imposed upon me by society. In fact, it is my duty as both a parent and a teacher to educate the next generation and show them, by my example, that it is possible to be successful and professional and intelligent and a worthwhile member of society while sporting a tiny lady-moustache. These things are not mutually exclusive.

Glancing at the time, I realise that unless I get moving then I’m going to be seriously late. I am experimenting with trying to keep as busy as humanly possible on Thursdays and Fridays, in a pathetic attempt to convince myself that not being at work is a treat and basically a good thing. My plan for today is to pamper myself. I have a lovely, relaxing appointment at the hair salon – which I probably can’t afford, hence the DIY hair removal, rather than paying an extortionate amount for someone else to get up close and personal with my lip-fringe.

Coaxing Dogger downstairs, I shoo her out into the back garden, so that she can take care of her own personal hygiene, before grabbing my coat. I call her back inside, give her a biscuit, dash out to the hall and pause briefly to appraise myself in the mirror. My face isn’t looking too exhausted, and while my hair is a bit of a state, that’s okay – it would be a complete waste of a salon trip if it weren’t.

The drive across town is slow due to it being market day. It’s freezing cold but the sun is shining; there is an optimistic sense of spring just around the corner. Despite this, as the minutes tick by, I become increasingly aware that something is wrong.

Hideously, badly, catastrophically wrong.

On my face.

The tingling sensation that I had from the moment I yanked off the first wax strip has increased. In fact, it would be highly inaccurate to even describe it as tingling anymore. It is more an agonising, burning, stinging, throbbing torment that is making it difficult to think about anything else. I brake for a red traffic light and risk a glance in the rear-view mirror.

Fuckety fuck. My lip looks like I’ve been stung by a thousand bees, and not in a good way.

Now I come to think of it, who ever thought that ‘bee-stung lips’ could be a positive thing? Nothing good can ever come from being stung by a bee on the mouth. It’s utterly ridiculous.

A honking noise from behind alerts me to the now-green traffic light. I drive carefully down the road, trying to focus on parking the car safely, all the while wondering if I require immediate medical attention. The sign for the car park is up ahead and I take the corner, gently easing into a space and then turning off the engine before pulling down the sun visor so that I can examine the damage more closely.

The skin above my mouth is swollen, stretched so taut that it is shiny. But worse than that are the weeping, oozing spots that seem to have appeared from nowhere.

And I was wrong earlier. There is a little bit of blood.

On a scale from terrible to fucked up, this is very, very bad.

And I’m late for my appointment.

Grabbing my bag, I leap out of the car and race across the car park, my hand held defensively in front of my face as a precautionary measure. I don’t want to upset any small children who may catch sight of me. Dodging between little old ladies with pull-along baskets and mums with prams, I speed down the street and then, with a huge sigh of relief, push open the door and fling myself into the sanctuary of the salon. I will be safe here. They are professionals and their business is to take the lame and make them beautiful again. I am among friends.

‘Morning!’ Caroline emerges from the staff area as I catch my breath by the front desk. ‘How’s it going, Hannah? How are your kids? I saw Scarlet in town yesterday afternoon – I can’t believe how tall she’s getting!’

‘It’s going really well,’ I mumble, from behind my hand. ‘And the kids are fine, thanks. How about you?’

What does she mean, she saw Scarlet in town? Scarlet was at school yesterday. Caroline must be confusing her with someone else – maybe she’s got a doppelganger, or a clone. God, what a thought – I love my daughter deeply but two of her is a bit of an overwhelming possibility.

‘I’m good, thanks. Shall I take your jacket?’ She reaches towards me for my coat and I realise that I’m going to have to move my hand.

‘Thanks, Caroline.’

I turn my back on her and hastily lower the zip before shrugging the jacket off and turning back to face her, my hand once again in place across my mouth.

Caroline gives me a slightly weird look but says nothing as she takes a gown from the row of hooks by the door and hangs my coat in its place.

‘Just pop this on,’ she tells me. ‘And then come on through.’

I repeat the performance with the gown and then follow her into the main part of the salon, sitting down at the seat that she is pulling out for me.

‘So, what are we doing today?’ she asks my reflection in the large mirror. ‘Same as normal?’

I smile in agreement and then realise that she can’t see my mouth behind my hand. ‘Yes, please. I need my grey roots sorting out and a quick trim on the ends.’

‘No problem! I’ll just mix the colour and then we’ll get started. Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’

A cup of tea would be lovely. It’s exactly what I need to calm myself down after all the stress of the morning. I would kill for a cup of tea right now. But they bring the milk in a little jug here; I will either have to drink black tea or move my hand from my face. Neither of those is an acceptable option right now.

‘No thanks,’ I mumble. ‘I’m fine.’

Caroline shoots me another look before retreating to the staff area and I stare bleakly at my reflection, my hand pressed tightly across my mouth. It seems very unfair that I am sitting in front of the world’s largest mirror, today of all days.

‘Here we are then.’ Caroline is back with the tiny amount of dye needed to eliminate my barely-existent grey hair. ‘Shall we make a start?’

‘Let’s do it,’ I mutter. ‘Work your magic.’

She places the bowl on top of her hairdresser trolley and swivels my chair round so that she can begin with the front of my head. I give her an encouraging smile with my eyes and hope that she’s not in a chatty mood.

‘Erm, Hannah?’ Caroline looks awkward. ‘I’m going to need you to move your hand. I can’t reach your hair with your arm blocking the way.’

Bugger.

I spend three seconds debating the pros and cons of asking her to just dye one side of my head before coming to the harsh realisation that there is nothing for it. I am just going to have to lower my hand and hope for the best.

And I’m probably being totally melodramatic, anyway. I haven’t actually looked at the stricken area since I left the car. The biting winter wind will no doubt have done a lot to bring the swelling down. Caroline probably won’t even notice anything wrong.

I lower my hand.

‘Bloody hell!’ Caroline’s shriek gets the attention of the rest of the salon; I feel five pairs of eyes turn to gaze upon my terrible form. ‘What have you done?’

‘I was trying to wax my upper lip,’ I whisper. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’

‘Not that bad?’ howls Caroline. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, Hannah! And we’ve seen most things in here,’ she turns to the gawping audience, ‘haven’t we?’

‘We’ve seen some shocking things,’ agrees her colleague from across the room. ‘But none as awful as that.’ He’s new since the last time I came here and I don’t know his name but, from the sneering look on his face, I suspect it’s something mean.

Caroline pats my hand in what I think is an attempt to be reassuring.

‘Maybe you’re allergic to the hair wax?’ she suggests. ‘I can’t think of any other reason you’d get a reaction like that. You did do an allergy test first, didn’t you?’

I shrug. ‘I didn’t know that I was supposed to.’

Caroline looks shocked. ‘Hannah! You must always test out any new product. You can’t just go playing life and death with your skin.’

I allow myself a small laugh. ‘I hardly think this is a life and death situation, Caroline. Let’s get it into perspective, shall we?’

Her response is to spin my chair so that I’m facing the mirror.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is so not okay.

I look like I’ve dipped my top lip into a raging inferno. I wonder if I will forever bear the scars of vainly trying to remove the tiny bit of hair that nobody except that little maggot, Brandon Hopkins, ever noticed in the first place.

The new hairdresser wanders over, his scissors in one hand, an industrial amount of mockery and contempt in the other.

‘You know, it looks to me like you’ve removed several layers of skin,’ he tells me helpfully, peering closer. ‘Did you wax the area more than once?’

‘That is a potential possibility,’ I murmur, closing my eyes for a second so that I can avoid seeing the horror on Caroline’s face and the amusement on his. ‘I thought it wasn’t working so I used each strip several times.’

‘And how many strips did you use?’ he enquires.

‘All of them.’ I swallow loudly. ‘Was that wrong?’

There is a brief moment of silence while everyone takes in my words.

‘You waxed your upper lip using all the strips?’ breathes Caroline. ‘How many strips were in the box?’

I think back. ‘Maybe six?’

‘Didn’t you read the instructions at all?’ She is literally incredulous that anyone could be so stupid.

I think we can all agree, Caroline, that it is quite clear that I did not, in fact, read the instructions. Not after the word ‘anus’, anyway.

I nod my head vigorously. ‘Of course I read them. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’

‘Hmmm.’ The new hairdresser looks at me appraisingly. ‘Then you’ll know that absolutely, under no circumstances, are you supposed to wax the same bit of skin more than once. You’ve given yourself a first degree burn.’

‘Will it take long to heal?’ I think about the fact that I am due in the classroom on Monday morning. I will never live it down if I walk in looking like this.

Caroline tilts her head to one side. ‘It’ll probably take a few days if you treat the burn and stop it from getting infected.’

‘How do I do that?’

The new hairdresser grins at me wickedly. ‘You need to get some of those burn pads from the supermarket and cut one down to size,’ he tells me. I sense that he’s enjoying himself. ‘And then stick it to the affected area.’

I look at him in disbelief. ‘You want me to walk around with a massive pad stuck to my top lip? Are you serious?’

‘I don’t care what you do, lady.’ He puts his hands on his hips and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘It’s your call. Do you want a permanently scarred lip or are you prepared to suffer in the short term?’

He struts back to his client who has been watching the whole thing as if she’s never seen a woman with a mutilated lip before. The rest of the salon resumes their business and Caroline gently spins my chair so that I am once again facing her and not my evil nemesis, the mirror.

‘Let’s get rid of these grey hairs, shall we?’ Her voice is shaking as if she’s trying not to laugh, but I don’t care. I’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether I’ve just made myself a complete laughing stock.

I care. I really, really care.

I sit in silence while Caroline starts slopping hair dye onto my head. I have three choices that I can see.

One: ignore the entire situation. Act normally and pretend that it never happened. If I don’t mention it then maybe nobody else will and my lip will heal before I have to walk into school on Monday.

Two: take the new hairdresser’s advice. Buy a burn pad and walk around looking like Groucho Marx all weekend. Hope that anyone I encounter, including my loving family, doesn’t mock me too enthusiastically.

Three: Wear a balaclava. It is still February, after all. People wear all manner of headgear during the arctic winter months here in southern England.

Okay, so option two is out straight away. Wearing a burn pad is going to look almost as ridiculous as my current appearance. And I don’t think much of option three. I can’t go into the supermarket wearing a balaclava – they have a very enthusiastic security guard who spends his days ensuring that nobody tries to steal the trollies. I’ll be rugby-tackled to the floor and put in a deadlock before I can say ‘lip trauma’.

Not that I can see the first option working too well for me either. I might be able to pretend that this hasn’t happened but there’s no way that my darling children will ignore it.

Which means that I’m going to have to choose door number four.

‘Is Laura in today?’ I ask Caroline. ‘And can you ask her if she has any spare appointment slots.’

And so it is that two hours later, I am sidling down the frozen food aisle with my beautifully manicured hands held out in front of my face. I have chosen a particularly zesty shade of azure blue and my nails are sparkling like the Mediterranean Sea. They will surely distract even the most observant of viewers from the car crash that is going on in the vicinity of my mouth.

And if that fails, then the very teensy bottle of Prosecco that I am currently purchasing will mean that I really don’t care.

Chapter 5

The bottom falls out of my car as I pull into the school car park. I know this because the accompanying noise is enough to attract the attention of the teenagers who loiter by the gates; they won’t draw their gaze away from their phones for anything but the direst of emergencies. And from the look of delight on their faces, my ancient old car is breathing its last, fume-filled breath. I won’t hear the end of it when I’m attempting to teach them the finer points of passive voice on Monday morning.

‘Maybe it’s not that bad,’ I tell myself, closing my eyes briefly and clutching the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps I just went over a pothole or a small cat? Maybe this isn’t actually a complete, unmitigated disaster?’

I inhale deeply, trying desperately to remember the mindfulness training that we had to endure on the last Inset day at work.

Be in the moment. That’s what the infuriatingly calm woman leading the course told us. Make sure that you have times of peace and serenity throughout your day. It was tricky enough finding peace and serenity in the comfort of the school staffroom; I am unconvinced about my ability to bring forth my inner tranquillity right now. However, I refuse to be deterred. Desperate times and all that. I rack my brains for any of the other words of wisdom that fell from her calm and composed lips.

FOFBOC. That’s what she told us we had to do when things felt overwhelming. We are supposed to ground ourselves in the here and now, which ironically is also what my car appears to have done. Clenching the steering wheel harder, I run through mindfulness lady’s instructions.

Feet On Floor? Check.

Bottom On Chair? Also check. If by ‘chair’, she meant slightly fraying and tatty car upholstery that has seen better days.

I am making a concerted effort to step away from my worries and towards my happy place when a rapping sound on the glass distracts me. I open my eyes and see that Elise from Year Nine is frowning at me through the window while simultaneously gesturing at the car and furiously stabbing away at her mobile phone.

I open the door. It’s not like I could have stayed in here indefinitely, no matter how appealing a prospect that might be.

‘Hello, Elise.’ I plaster on a big smile.

‘You do know that your car has just fallen apart, don’t you, miss?’ Elise punctuates the end of her proclamation with a smack of bubble-gum. ‘And also, there’s something wrong with your lips. Looks like stubble rash to me.’

‘I was aware that something was amiss, yes.’ I feel that my reply is sufficient for both observations. Sighing, I step out of the car and then crouch down to peer underneath. Something large and dirty and metallic looking is hanging down onto the road. It looks like it’s a vital component and probably fairly necessary for actually driving. ‘Oh, shit.’

Behind me, Elise gasps dramatically. I do not for one second believe that she is genuinely shocked to hear an adult swear, but still, I suppose I am on school property.

‘I’m sorry, Elise,’ I say, standing up. ‘That was unprofessional of me. But my car appears to have died and I’m feeling slightly upset.’

Elise is saved from having to answer by the appearance of Scarlet who instantly forms the impression that the car has broken down to shame her.

‘Mum!’ she hisses, standing several feet away as if she can’t be seen talking to me. ‘Why is the car in pieces? Why are you standing in the car park? You know the rules if you must insist on collecting us. Stay. In. The. Car.’

‘It’s broken down,’ I hiss back at her. ‘And I’m standing here because I’m going to have to sort this mess out.’

‘God!’ Scarlet’s shoulders droop down and her bag slides onto the floor. ‘This is so embarrassing. I told you we should get a better car.’

I am not in the mood. Not today. My brain is whirring with everything that I’ve got to do and I can’t even begin to figure out how we’re going to pay for the repairs, if it can even be repaired in the first place.

‘What’s going on?’ Dylan lopes up to us. ‘Has the old rust-bucket finally died, then?’

I leap into action. ‘Right, you two need to get over to the primary school and collect Benji,’ I pull out my phone. ‘Then bring him back here to me.’

Scarlet grimaces. ‘Can’t I just get the bus home?’

Both she and Dylan get the bus home on the days that I’m at work. Benji goes to the after-school club at his school. I had fondly imagined, back when Dylan started in Year Seven and later when Scarlet joined two years later, that they would hang around in my classroom at the end of the day and we would swap witty anecdotes about what we’d been up to while I got my marking done. The reality is that neither teenager will even acknowledge my existence when they pass me in the corridor and I suspect that they would far prefer to get the bus home every day. But on Thursdays and Fridays, when I’m not at work, I like to collect them myself. It gives my days off a sense of purpose.

Scarlet reaches out her hand and grabs Elise’s arm. ‘We’ve got loads of homework to do, haven’t we?’

Elise nods her head earnestly. ‘It’s true, Mrs Thompson. So much homework.’

I glance at my phone and see that Benji’s class will be coming out in ten minutes. I do not have time for this.

‘You aren’t even in the same year group as Elise,’ I snap at my daughter. ‘Stop trying to drag her into your web of deceit. Now go! Get your brother and bring him back here. I’ll ring the breakdown people and they’ll fix the car. And run!’

Dylan launches into action, flinging his bag to the ground and setting off at a run. Scarlet hesitates for a brief second but the thrill of the competition is too much for her to resist.

‘Good luck with all that homework,’ she yells at Elise and then she’s off, sprinting after Dylan with a determined look on her face.

I scroll through my phone and find the number for the breakdown helpline.

‘I hope your car gets sorted, miss,’ says Elise, giving me a wave before plodding off in the direction of the buses.

‘Have a good evening!’ I call back, and then a nice lady answers the phone and reassures me that all of my problems are about to be solved because I had the magnificent foresight to join the nation’s most elite breakdown service.

I might ask for advice about how to handle being forty-three years old, permanently strapped for cash and doing a job I hate while trying to deal with three exhausting kids. That’s the kind of breakdown service for which I would happily pay a monthly premium.

*

The nice lady lied. I’m sure that she didn’t mean to – she was probably just trying to bolster me with her calming and encouraging words – but all the same, she told me a massive fib. All my problems have not been solved. The evidence for this is the fact that we are making the three-mile journey from school to home in the crew cab of a breakdown lorry while my poor, geriatric car rides in regal splendour on the back of the truck.

Scarlet is sulking about the time wasted when she could be revising and muttering about the ridiculousness of not just getting the bus home. I really am going to have to speak to her about her attitude. Dylan can tell that I’m worried about the car and the money and is helpfully attempting to distract me by explaining an idea he’s had for an amazing app that will make him thousands of pounds. I’d be more enthusiastic if I hadn’t already heard this speech about fifty times. Benji is bouncing up and down in his seat, excitedly pointing out familiar landmarks even though we make this journey at least twice a day. Clearly, seeing the world from a higher perspective is pretty fabulous when you’re ten years old.

And me? I am frantically doing sums in my head, trying to work out how I can get the car fixed and pay the mortgage and buy food and get the oil tank filled up yet again because our ancient old radiators seem to guzzle fuel like it’s going out of fashion and apparently it’s going to snow next week and we’re all likely to get hypothermia; but it will definitely be all right.

I’m sure it will be all right.

There’s a remote chance that it will be all right.

The mechanic drops us off at home and we wave goodbye as he drives off up the road, taking the car to the local garage where they are primed and on standby, ready to try and revive it. Then we go inside and Scarlet puts the kettle on and Benji unpacks his school lunchbox without me even asking and I start to relax, just a little bit.

‘There’s a school trip to the theatre coming up.’ Scarlet turns to look at me. ‘It costs fifteen quid and I have to pay by tomorrow – can I go?’

I wearily reach for my purse and open it up. Of course she needs money today of all days, when I’m already haemorrhaging cash.

‘I’ve only got a twenty-pound note,’ I tell her. ‘You’re going to have to wait until I can get some change.’

Scarlet reaches her hand into her pocket and pulls out a wodge of five-pound notes. ‘No worries – I’ll swap you for one of these.’

She swipes the twenty out of my hand and hands me one of her notes in return.

‘Where did you get all of that from?’ I ask, easing my shoes off. ‘And can you pass the biscuit tin?’

‘Oh, you know – birthday money and stuff.’ She hands me a cup of tea. ‘Also, Mum, I was just wondering how illegal it is to do other people’s homework and charge them money for doing it?’

I nearly splutter out my drink. ‘What? Why are you asking that?’

Scarlet assumes her most innocent expression. ‘I’m just asking, that’s all,’ she says. ‘For a friend.’

I frown at her. Is it possible that she knows the Year Eleven girl mentioned by Elise? Is my daughter hanging out with the kind of racketeer who would run an illicit homework ring at Westhill Academy? Oh my god, maybe she’s being forced to launder the dirty money and I’m now in possession of a hot five-pound note.

‘Scarlet—’ I begin, but I’m distracted by the sound of the front door opening. As Nick walks into the kitchen, Scarlet takes the opportunity to make her escape. Before I can yell at her to come back, Nick tells me that he popped into the garage on his way home and the car will be fixed by tomorrow afternoon. And then he quotes an eye-watering price and I forget about everything except the spiralling panic in my stomach.

‘We can’t afford that,’ I tell him, shaking my head. ‘That’s a stupid amount of money.’

‘I do keep saying that we need a car fund,’ he says, pouring me a glass of wine. ‘It’d help when we have emergencies like this.’

‘Well, it’s all very easy to be sensible in hindsight, isn’t it?’ I snap. ‘I don’t see you holding back on the spending.’

Nick holds his hands out in self-defence. ‘What spending? I’m at work all week. I don’t get the chance to spend any money! And anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.’

Unfortunately for my argument, he’s right. Every penny we earn (and he earns more than I do now that I’m on a three-day working week) goes straight into our joint account and it’s almost all accounted for with the mortgage and food and electricity and oil and insurance and taxes and petrol – and that’s before we’ve paid for music lessons and vet bills and driving lessons and new school shoes (because Benji’s feet seem to have a dedicated growth mindset all of their own). Nick never has any spare cash and he rarely complains about it, even though he works so hard.

Not that any of this makes me feel any better.

‘You could always sell Betty,’ I suggest, feeling like a bitch the instant that the words are out of my mouth. Nick’s old Land Rover is his pride and joy and after a challenging week at work, tinkering about on it is one of the only things that helps him unwind.

‘You could always go back to work full time,’ he counters and for a second, the air is heavy.

Then he gives me a grin. ‘But I told you, I’ve got some news.’ He pauses, milking the moment. ‘I got that contract that I was after. You are now looking at the new head tree surgeon for Urban Tree Surgeons Limited!’

‘That’s fantastic!’ I leap off the stool and fling my arms around him. ‘I’m so proud of you. You didn’t think you’d get it!’

‘Head Office called me in at the end of the day and told me.’ Nick’s arms tighten around me. ‘It means a bit of a pay rise, Hannah.’

I squeeze his waist and close my eyes. I love this man as much today as I did when we first got together, twenty-two years ago. Probably more, actually, because he was a bit of a knob back then and neither of us had a clue that our first drunken kiss in a tacky nightclub would end up with the life we have now. And the life we have now is manic and constantly changing and filled with adventures but never, ever boring.

His pay rise will probably cover the cost of two driving lessons for Dylan and we both know it. Consultant arborists are never going to be living a champagne lifestyle, even with a new contract like this one. But it would be a criminal shame to waste an opportunity for a celebration, and it isn’t about the money. Not always, anyway.

‘Fish and chip supper?’ I ask him, pulling away and giving him a grin.

‘Only if we’ve got some raspberry ripple ice cream for pudding,’ he says, smiling back at me.

We are the epitome of classiness.

*

Later, lying in bed, I think about what Nick said. He’s been mentioning me going back to work full time more and more recently, although we’ve yet to have a serious conversation about it. Mostly because I can’t decide how I feel. Next to me, Nick snores and rolls over. It doesn’t seem to matter how stressed out he is, he’s always fast asleep the instant that his head hits the pillow.

I get up and tiptoe to the bathroom, hoping that a drink of water might help me settle. But getting out of bed was a mistake; now I’m wide awake, mulling over the pros and cons of trying to apply for a new full-time teaching job.

Pros:

1. We need the money. Urgently.

2. I never intended to be working part time. And I have discovered to my cost that teaching three days a week usually ends up meaning that I have to work twice as hard when I’m in school and I still end up doing all my planning and marking at home. It’s not really half a job.

3. I can reinvent myself. I can present Hannah Thompson in whichever way I choose to my new colleagues and they won’t know any better. Like, I can become a fitness fanatic or an ambitious career woman – basically, as someone who has got their shit together. You can’t do that when everyone knows that you last exercised in 1999 and your only ambition is to make it through the school day without crying and/or swearing.

4. I can escape from Miriam Wallace’s power-mad clutches and go back to teaching Biology. She’s never going to renew my contract for next year anyway so I may as well get ahead of an inevitable situation.

Cons:

1. There aren’t any jobs out there for Biology teachers. I know this because I check the Times Educational Supplement every week.

2. Since I’ve been spending more time at home, I’ve been amazed by how much the kids still seem to need me. I thought it would be different when they weren’t tiny but I was wrong. And their issues and worries are way more intense now than when they were toddlers.

3. I will have to actually apply for a job. I’ll need to dust off my ancient CV and write an application letter and then go to an interview and talk about all the recent developments in schools and honestly, the thought of all that fills me with dread. The bloody Education Secretary can’t keep up with all the changes so how on earth I’m supposed to I have no idea.

4. I am scared. I am scared that I am going to disappear completely. Just another forty-something woman with a list of predictable and unimaginative titles. Wife. Mother. Teacher. Daughter. Friend. And I love that I am all of those things and I try not to take them for granted – but they aren’t exactly unique. They aren’t the sum total of who I thought I would be.

The facts are irrefutable. I need to work. I want to work. But I don’t want to lose my soul in the process. Which means that it might be time to begin a whole new chapter of my life. A chapter where I get to play the starring role for a change.

I clamber into bed and spoon into Nick’s back, feeling a frisson of excitement. I will find something that allows me to explore my own interests and challenges me and reminds me that I am more than just a forty-three-year-old wife and mother with a part-time job. And I will be a fabulous role model for Dylan, Scarlet and Benji and they will all see me with new eyes and respect me as Hannah, not just Mum.

And while I am pushing my boundaries and learning new things about myself, and exploring my hidden talents, I will also make a shitload of money and everything will be great.

I drift off to sleep feeling more content than I have done in ages. This is going to be the start of a whole new me.

Chapter 6

I look again at the computer screen and try to resist the urge to throw it onto the floor. Surely there must be some kind of mistake? This can’t actually be right; the figures just don’t add up.

Sighing, I press the back arrow and go back to the start of the online form.

‘Maybe we entered the details in the wrong place,’ I say to Nick, who is sitting next to me and looking as stressed as I feel. ‘Let’s do it again, really slowly this time.’

‘We must have done,’ agrees Nick. ‘That amount of money isn’t enough to feed a newborn baby, never mind a teenage boy.’

We both lean forward and read the instructions on the screen for the student finance calculator. Behind us, Dylan cranes over our shoulders.

When does your course start?

That’s easy. I click the option for this September and move onto the next page.

What type of student are you?

‘A lazy one?’ suggests Nick. ‘A student who needs to get a job?’

‘Hey!’ protests Dylan. ‘I have a job, thanks very much. And I’d like to see you dealing with stupid customers who are asking you for the gazillionth time if they can have an item for free when it won’t scan through the till.’

‘He’s going to be a full-time UK student,’ I say, clicking the box. ‘Next question.’

How much are your tuition fees per year?

‘Too much,’ snaps Nick. ‘Honestly, is he really going to be getting nine grand’s worth of education? I don’t think so!’ He turns to me. ‘We spent most of our time either in bed or in the student bar, remember?’

‘You might have done,’ I reply, primly. ‘I seem to recall that I attended virtually every lecture and handed in every assignment on time and took my higher education incredibly seriously.’

Nick laughs. ‘In what alternate universe? You were as slack as I was, Hannah – don’t try to rewrite history!’

I pause, thinking back to my student days. ‘I do remember a fair bit of shopping for clothes,’ I say. ‘And nights out. And afternoon naps to recover from the nights out. And sitting around watching kids’ television – we seemed to do a lot of that.’

‘Well, it isn’t like that now,’ Dylan tells us. ‘Not now we’re all going to be leaving university with sixty grand’s worth of debt.’

I pale. ‘We bought our first house for sixty thousand pounds.’

‘I’m not going to be wasting time watching television and partying, am I?’ Our son is sounding suspiciously sanctimonious. ‘Oh no. It’s not like the olden days, you know. Back in the nineties, you guys had it made. Everything cost five pence and there were no pressures. Not like it is for us.’

‘Less of the olden days,’ grunts Nick. ‘And we had our fair share of pressure.’

Dylan smirks. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Anyway,’ I say, getting their attention back to the task at hand. ‘Can we just get on with this, please? I do have things to be doing today, other than freaking out about how we’re going to afford for you to ever leave home.’

Where will you live while studying?

‘Who would choose to live with their parents?’ asks Dylan in disbelief, reading the options over my shoulder. ‘Surely that’s the entire point of going to uni in the first place? To get away from you lot.’

‘In that case, we can stop worrying,’ says Nick, his face brightening. ‘There’s plenty of things you can do in September, if leaving home is your main priority. You can join the army, or emigrate, or move in with Granny, or—’

‘He isn’t doing any of those things,’ I interject. ‘He’s going to university and he’s going to get a good degree and then he can get a decent job doing something that he loves and he’ll be able to afford to be an independent, fully functioning and worthwhile member of society who is capable of giving back to his community while also not forgetting that it was us who gave him such an excellent start in life and he therefore needs to spend every Christmas and holiday here at home with us and not with anyone else.’

Nick and Dylan stare at me as I stop for breath.

‘That’s asking quite a lot from a degree, Hannah,’ Nick tells me. ‘If it can do all that then maybe it is worth nine grand a year, after all.’

I click the correct option and we move on to the next page. And this is where my heart rate starts to race, because now we’re getting down to business.

What is your annual household income?

I pull two pieces of paper towards me and once again look at the figures at the bottom of each page. Then I pick up my phone and for the third time today, add up our total salaries. Nick does the same and when we are agreed on the amount I type it onto the screen. We go through the remaining questions about dependents and additional income and then we arrive at the final page, which gives us two numbers. And despite the fact that I am crossing all my fingers and toes, it is the same two numbers that we had last time.

There is no mistake. Dylan will get a loan for his tuition fees, but his maintenance loan isn’t even enough to pay for his accommodation.

I drop my head into my hands.

‘How do they think kids are supposed to go to university when they literally can’t afford to eat?’ I moan. ‘It’s beyond ridiculous.’

‘They expect them to work,’ says Nick. ‘And they expect parents to pay up.’

‘I know I’ll need to get a job when I’m there,’ says Dylan, his voice quiet. ‘I’m not expecting you to give me any money.’

I look up at him and smile. ‘Of course we’ll help you out,’ I say. ‘But you’re right. You’re going to need to fund some of this too.’

There is silence for a moment as we all consider the facts. I’ve been talking to Nick about this for a few weeks, ever since Dylan firmed up his university place on UCAS and we could see how much his accommodation is going to cost. The deficit between income and outgoings is much bigger than I anticipated, though, and there’s no way that Dylan can find it all by himself.

‘Maybe he’ll fail his A Levels and won’t be able to go?’ suggests Nick eventually, trying to make his voice light.

‘I’m standing right here!’ Dylan tells him. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’

Nick twists round and puts his hand on Dylan’s arm. ‘I’m kidding,’ he tells him. ‘You let us worry about the money and concentrate on passing those exams, okay?’

Dylan nods slowly. ‘The uni has got a Facebook page. I can probably use that to start figuring out where the best jobs are. That way I’ll be ahead of the rush when we all start.’

‘That sounds like a great idea,’ I say, forcing myself to smile. ‘And in the meantime, Dad and I will look at our budget and let you know how much we can give you each month.’

Dylan steps forward, giving me a quick hug before loping out of the room. His phone is already out of his pocket, his thumbs speeding over the screen.

‘Oh my god.’ I flop down onto the table as soon as he’s left the room. ‘This is a genuine, arsing disaster. Everything just seems to be going wrong at the moment.’

Although on the plus side, my lip has almost cleared up and the scarring appears to be minimal. Dr Google has reassuringly informed me that the numbness will almost certainly pass with time and at least I’m not going to have to find the money for plastic surgery, which is definitely something to celebrate.

‘Calm down,’ Nick says, standing up and moving across the kitchen. I watch as he fills the kettle and pulls two mugs off the shelf. In a crisis, we drink tea, just like the rest of the population of the British Isles. And if we’re out of tea then we just have to make do with wine. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Were you even listening last week when I told you how much he needs for food and stuff? And that was before we knew how pathetically small his loan was going to be.’

Nick turns to face me, looking a bit sheepish. ‘Was that when I was watching Game of Thrones?’ he asks. ‘Because you started talking just as it got to a good bit and there’s a remote possibility that I wasn’t listening.’

I glare at him. ‘Well, let me outline our financial situation once more, for those of you in the back who were too busy fantasizing about scantily clad women riding dragons.’ I stand up and rest my hands on the table. ‘We need to give Dylan at least three hundred pounds each month. Plus, in two years’ time, we’re going to have to do the same for Scarlet. And as it stands, I do not know where that extra money is coming from because we don’t have a secret stash of savings hidden under the bed and every time I think we might be able to put some money away, we seem to have a new disaster.’

I hold up my hand and count off on my fingers. ‘The car breaking down. The oven deciding that it didn’t feel like actually heating up. Dogger hurting her leg and needing the emergency vet, which cost us the equivalent of two week’s food shopping. The school trip that Benji needs to go on unless we want him to be the only child in his class who doesn’t attend.’

I pause for breath while Nick gawps at me. ‘Winter is coming, Nick,’ I tell him, as dramatically as I can. ‘Winter is coming and we don’t have any warm coats.’

There is silence while my husband digests my words.

‘Three hundred quid a month?’ he says eventually. ‘Are you sure?’

I nod and we stare at each other across the kitchen.

‘We’re going to have to rethink a few things around here then.’ He hands me a cup of tea, his fingers brushing against mine. ‘We knew that this day was coming, Hannah. You said it yourself a few weeks ago. We need to increase our earnings.’

He means my earnings, and he’s right. I need to earn a full-time wage.

I need a plan.

Chapter 7

I spend days brainstorming ideas for a new career path, letting my mind explore the sensible, the wild and the downright obscure. On Saturday night, Benji has a sleepover at Logan’s house and Dylan is in his room watching god-knows-what on his laptop and talking to god-knows-who on his phone. Scarlet is diligently ploughing on with the ever-increasing amount of homework that she’s been given (I really think I might need to have a quiet word with her teachers; it’s unacceptable how much work that child is getting at the moment). So Nick and I have the kitchen to ourselves, which is a rare event. I’m intending to wait until after we’ve eaten to talk to him about my new plan, but just as we clear away the plates, my mobile pings with a text from Logan’s mum.

That’s her genuine contact name on my phone, along with Nina’s mum and Franco’s mum. And I am very aware that I don’t exist as Hannah in the lives of these people – I am Dylan/Scarlet/Benji’s mum, despite the fact that I have shared some of my most traumatic parenting situations with them while waiting in the school playground at the end of the day. We are all women who have been relegated to the status of ‘someone’s mum’ from the moment that our children started making friends with other kids.

Benji wants to come home. His teddy’s arm has fallen off & I think it’s upset him a bit x

‘Are you kidding me?’ I read the text aloud to Nick and we stare at each other for a moment. ‘Teddy’s arm?’

Nick shakes his head. ‘I sewed it back on after the last time. It must have come loose.’

I slam the dishwasher closed and wait for a second to hear the tell-tale gushing of water. A new dishwasher is not in my budget right now.

‘I think you’re missing the point,’ I tell Nick. ‘He’s going into Year Six in September and then he’ll be starting at Westhill Academy before we know it. How is he going to cope in a world of constant fights and drug-dealing and rampant sex when his teddy’s arm falling off sends him into a meltdown?’

Nick raises his eyebrows at me. ‘I think you’re being a little bit dramatic there, Hannah. He’s got a whole year to grow up and anyway, it’s secondary school, not prison.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ I mutter darkly, pulling my shoes off the rack next to the door. ‘You’re not there all week.’

‘Neither are you,’ Nick points out, slightly unreasonably. ‘I’ll drive – I want to check if Betty’s new windscreen wipers work.’

He hasn’t got a clue. He doesn’t see the kids scurrying down our school corridors like there’s a herd of zombies hot on their heels. He isn’t the one who has to lurk outside the girls’ toilets, ready to catch the smokers red-handed. He isn’t here after school when Scarlet and Dylan (although mostly Scarlet, to be honest) regale us with terrifying stories of crime and punishment that never make it as far as the staff room. And Benji is our baby. It was only two minutes ago that he couldn’t wear shoes without Velcro.

I yell up the stairs, telling the older two that we’ll be back soon, and then we head out into the dark. It’s a clear night without a cloud in the sky and the stars are out in force. I stand for a second, wondering when the world got so big.

The sound of Betty roaring to life jolts me back to the task in hand. I clamber into the Land Rover and we rattle our way up the road, the heater making a complete song and dance about being turned on full. It clearly has little man syndrome because it certainly isn’t producing anything even vaguely warming. Nick flicks the wipers on and they manage two half-hearted swipes of the glass before freezing in position across the windscreen and I have to endure the rest of the journey listening to him mutter about how he just can’t understand it and he fitted them perfectly and he read the instruction manual and watched a YouTube video and there’s no reason at all why they shouldn’t be working.

I love my husband very much but when he gets started on the topic of Land Rover maintenance I am sometimes tempted to shove his diff lock where the sun doesn’t shine.

We get to Logan’s house and his mother opens the door, depositing a teary and rather subdued-looking Benji onto the front step.

‘I’m sorry, Mum!’ he says, the instant that he sees me. ‘I just felt weird and you said to call you if I wasn’t okay.’

I pull him into a hug and Logan’s mum nods understandingly at me over the top of his head.

Oh god. He should be sorry. She probably thinks that he’s a complete wimp and that I have failed in my duty to provide him with the life skills that he should have acquired by the ripe old age of ten. She’ll tell all the other mums and they’ll mock me behind my back, saying that I baby him because he’s my last child and I’m incapable of letting him grow up.

‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘And you don’t need to be sorry.’

Logan’s mum hands me his rucksack. ‘I think all his things are in there. We’ve put Teddy’s arm in a sling but it’s possible that he’s going to need a bit of surgery.’

I look gratefully at her and raise my eyebrows. ‘Kids, hey?’

She smiles. ‘I know – and we haven’t even started on the teenage years with Logan yet! Speaking of which, I saw your Scarlet walking out of the park yesterday morning when I was coming back from yoga. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Have you thought about sending her photo off to one of those modelling agencies?’

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea,’ I tell her, shuddering. ‘She’s difficult enough to handle as it is, without getting any big ideas from a bunch of supermodels.’

Logan’s mum laughs gently. ‘And you must join us one of these days. Honestly – one hot yoga session with Orlando and you won’t ever look back!’

I open my mouth with the intention of making a hilarious quip about the fact that yoga is supposed to aid flexibility, and therefore surely my ability to look back would only be improved after a session with hot Orlando, but then I pause. Some of the mothers in the school playground take their exercise regimes incredibly seriously and the last thing I need right now is to piss off the PTA.

‘Maybe one day!’ I trill, trying to look like attending a yoga class isn’t my definition of hell.

I usher Benji towards the garden gate where Nick is waiting. And then a thought hits me and I spin round.

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘it can’t have been Scarlet who you saw, because I dropped her at school myself yesterday.’

But Logan’s mum has closed the door. Benji trips over his own feet and starts to wail.

When we get home, the fairy lights are on outside the front door. I always put them on if Scarlet or Dylan are coming home late but I was in too much of a rush to think about doing it tonight. One of them must have come downstairs and switched them on while we were getting Benji.

We get inside and I’m intending on scooting him upstairs to bed, but as we walk into the living room, I see Scarlet and Dylan draped across the sofa.

‘Hey!’ calls Scarlet. ‘We heard you were coming home. It’s just as well – the house was too quiet without you here.’

‘Get over here, little dude,’ says Dylan, opening his arms.

Benji dashes across the room and flings himself down between them, snuggling his feet onto Scarlet’s lap and his head against Dylan’s shoulder. Nick and I sit down, and we spend the next fifteen minutes watching our teenage children comfort, reassure and finally get a smile out of their little brother.

*

It isn’t until Sunday lunchtime that I finally get to discuss my new plan with the rest of the family. Nick cooks a roast dinner and I wait until everyone’s plate is full before clearing my throat and getting their attention.

‘I have an announcement to make,’ I say, hitting my water glass with my fork.

Nick cringes and puts out his hand to stop me. ‘Don’t do that, Hannah. Those glasses are only cheap. They’ll shatter if you look at them the wrong way.’

‘An announcement!’ Scarlet’s reaction is far more satisfying than my boring health-and-safety-conscious husband, so I turn to her, a big smile on my face. ‘Are you finally going to let me change my name to Scarlett with two ts, which is obviously how it was supposed to be spelt in the first place?’

I squint at her, wondering what she’s wittering on about now.

‘No, and I have no idea why you would think that’s what I’m about to say. Anyway, I’m really excited to be talking to you guys about this. So, the thing is—’

‘We’re going somewhere amazing on holiday, aren’t we!’ squeals Scarlet. ‘Oh my god, Mum! Where is it? Is it America?’

‘Is it Disneyland?’ yells Benji. ‘Logan went there last year and he said it was fantastic. You can go on rides and eat candy floss and meet Mickey Mouse and—’

‘It’s not Disneyland, numbnuts.’ Scarlet waves her hand, dismissing Benji’s suggestion. ‘Can you imagine Dad somewhere like that?’

We all turn to look at Nick, who is staring at us all like we’ve grown three heads.

‘What are you going on about?’ he asks. ‘And can you please eat this roast before it goes cold.’

‘We’re just saying that you wouldn’t be seen dead at Disneyland,’ Dylan informs him, ramming a huge piece of chicken into his mouth. ‘You know. Not with all that expectation that you might actually have a good time.’

Nick frowns. ‘You’re damn right I wouldn’t. What a waste of money! I don’t need some wet-behind-the-ears, spotty juvenile in a mouse costume telling me that it’s time to enjoy myself, thank you very much.’

Scarlet groans. ‘Well, not everyone is a killjoy like you, Dad.’

Nick looks hurt at this accusation.

‘I am not a killjoy. I just can’t stand organised fun.’ He spits out the last two words like they’re putting him off his food. ‘I don’t need permission to have a good time.’

It is for this very reason that the Thompson family will never step over the boundaries of Center Parcs or anything Disney-related or indeed any campsite that has the audacity to offer entertainment of any kind. We did once visit Legoland when Dylan was younger, mostly because Nick was under the innocent illusion that it would just be about Lego bricks. The car journey home was mostly spent listening to him bang on about the ratio of activity to queuing time and the cost of a can of coke. The day only managed to avoid being a complete disaster because Dylan had quite a lot of birthday money to spend and Nick convinced him to buy a box that consisted of boring, grey Lego, which he then spent three solid days turning into a replica of something from Star Wars that Dylan wasn’t allowed to play with.

‘I think we’re going to Morocco,’ says Dylan, having finally swallowed his chicken. ‘That’s on your bucket list, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not going to Morocco,’ I say. ‘And what I actually wanted to—’

‘Not with any of you, anyway,’ adds Nick. ‘We’re going to wait until you’ve all left home and then me and your mum are going to have the holiday of a lifetime.’ His eyes glaze over slightly. ‘We’re going to shop in the souqs of Marrakech and hike in the Atlas Mountains and drink funky cold medina.’

He sings the last three words, wiggling his shoulders in what I can only assume is his interpretation of a hip-hop dance move.

Scarlet’s eyes narrow. ‘You do know that song is talking about date rape, don’t you? Medina was a drug that the guy put in people’s drinks to make them have sex with him because they didn’t like him.’ She holds up her hand and starts counting off on her fingers. ‘It’s all there in the lyrics, Dad. He thinks that girls should be with him just because he has nice clothes and it condones animal testing and it is totally transphobic.’

We both stare at her and I run through the song lyrics in my head. The dog doing the wild thing on his leg. Sheena. The comment about making sure that the girl is pure.

‘Scarlet’s right,’ I tell Nick, feeling shocked. ‘He drugs them. And we’ve been playing it to the kids since they were tiny.’

‘Exactly.’ Scarlet smacks her lips with relish. ‘What kind of parent forces their kids to listen to lyrics like that?’

‘And anyway, the medina that you’re thinking of is a part of some cities in North Africa,’ Dylan informs Nick. ‘The streets are like mazes and it’s really easy to get lost.’

‘Thanks,’ says Nick, nodding. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

‘That song is ruined for me now,’ I mutter. ‘Forever.’

‘So if we’re not going to Morocco and we’re not going to Disneyland then where are we going?’ asks Benji, waving his hand to get our attention back on the topic.

Which is absolutely not the topic that I actually want to discuss.

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ I say firmly. ‘The announcement that I want to make has nothing to do with any holiday.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ asks Dylan and there is silence as four pairs of eyes bore into my stomach.

‘No, I’m not!’ I snap. ‘And Nick, you shouldn’t be looking so panicked, for god’s sake.’

‘So – if you’re not having a baby, which I’m glad about by the way because babies are annoying and Dogger wouldn’t like it, and we’re not going on holiday, then what are we doing?’ asks Scarlet.

‘It’s not what we’re doing, it’s what I’m doing,’ I tell her and everyone puts down their knives and forks and I finally have their unadulterated attention. Because I don’t do anything without any of them. Not ever.

‘I feel like we should have a drum roll.’ Scarlet raises one eyebrow. ‘You’re really building this up, Mum. I’ve got places to be this afternoon.’

I frown. ‘What places? And speaking of which, have you been bunking off school? Because I’ve been told by two different people now that you’ve been spotted out and about in places that you shouldn’t be.’

Scarlet inhales sharply and turns to glower at Dylan. ‘What people? As if I can’t guess.’

Dylan shrugs. ‘Wasn’t me, so you can stop giving me the evil eye,’

I bang my hand on the table. ‘Scarlet! Have you or have you not been hanging out in town when you should be at school? This is incredibly serious, you know. You’re supposed to be getting an education, not wasting these precious years shopping and lazing about in the park.’

‘I’d probably get more of an education in the park than I would at our crappy school,’ she mutters.

She does have a point. Not that I’m prepared to concede it.

‘Scarlet’s not daft enough to skive school,’ states Nick. ‘So it must have been someone else who looks like her. Anyway, about this big announcement, Hannah.’

‘God. Imagine looking like Scarlet.’ Dylan rocks back on his chair and smirks at his sister.

‘At least I’ve got all my own teeth,’ she snarls back.

Dylan laughs. ‘So have I. Is that the best you’ve got? You’re slacking, Scarlet – maybe you should start attending school a bit more.’

Scarlet’s growl of anger is drowned out by Nick’s voice. ‘Your mother is trying to tell us something and I for one am very keen to hear what she has to say. So either be quiet or you can leave the room.’ He turns to face me. ‘Hannah. Please ignore our horribly behaved offspring and tell me about this announcement.’

I clear my throat, making sure that I have the full attention of the room.

‘What I want to talk to you all about is the fact that I have made a big decision,’ I declare, rather grandly. ‘And my decision is that I am going to be getting a new job, which I’m really, really excited about.’

‘Thank god for that,’ murmurs Nick and when I look across the table, he is holding his hands together and looking up at the ceiling, as if he’s praying. With any luck he’ll notice that two of the spotlights are out and finally get around to changing the bulbs.

‘I’m not going back to full-time teaching,’ I say, just to clarify the situation. ‘Probably not, anyway.’

Nick’s face falls. ‘What are you going to be doing then?’ he asks. ‘Do you actually have a new job or is this whole thing still in the let’s-talk-about-it-for-the-next-six-months stage?’

I frown at him. ‘Don’t be like that, Nick. This is a fledgling idea and I don’t need your negativity to squash it before I’ve even begun.’

He gives me a firm look. ‘So it’s not going to be like the time that you watched a television programme about being a paramedic and decided that you could retrain during your maternity leave?’

It’s unfair of him to bring that up. Dylan was a few months old and I was sleep deprived and the fact that I can’t stand the sight of blood seemed like a trivial point. I attended one first-aid training session and had to leave at the coffee break. And right now, when I am flushed with the excitement of a new project, I do not need reminding of my past mistakes. Besides, this is going to be nothing like that.

‘This is going to be nothing like that,’ I inform Nick, haughtily. ‘This is going to be an actual serious venture.’

‘So what are you going to do, Mum?’ asks Dylan. ‘Are there seconds of potatoes?’

Nick passes him the bowl. ‘Help yourself. And yes, what are you going to do, Hannah?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you all about,’ I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. ‘I wanted to see if you have any ideas.’

In my head, they all take a moment to consider my talents and attributes before offering helpful and exciting job suggestions.

In reality, they react before the words are barely out of my mouth.

‘You could work at the supermarket,’ says Dylan. ‘You’re always saying that it’s your second home.’

‘One of my friends has started doing Saturday shifts at Nando’s and he gets free chicken,’ Scarlet tells me. ‘You could see if they’ve got any vacancies there.’

‘Mmmm,’ groans Dylan appreciatively, in his best Homer Simpson voice. ‘Free chicken.’

I force a smile. ‘I was rather thinking of a job that would utilise my years of experience. You know, something where my transferable skills will really come into their own.’

‘So we need to identify your transferable skills,’ says Nick, looking thoughtful.

The room goes silent.

‘Oh, come on!’ I break after thirty seconds. ‘I’ve not exactly spent the last twenty years sitting on my backside. I have tons of expertise.’

The faces in front of me are now demonstrating their best thinking poses. Nick’s eyes are looking up and to the left as he tries to retrieve memories of my brilliance. Scarlet is biting her finger and staring at me while Dylan is scratching his head and scrunching up his mouth. Only Benji looks confident and that’s because he is making the most of their distraction to load his plate with more food.

None of which is particularly reassuring or complimentary.

Eventually, after an interminable hush, Dylan speaks.

‘You could always be a party planner?’ It’s more of a question than a statement.

‘What does a party planner do?’ asks Benji, looking up from his plate.

Scarlet rolls her eyes. ‘They clean toilets,’ she tells him.

‘Seriously?’ Benji looks puzzled. ‘So why are they called—’

‘Oh my god! Why are you so retarded?’ groans Scarlet, slapping the palm of her hand against her forehead.

‘Don’t call your brother retarded,’ growls Nick.

‘The clue is in the name,’ Dylan tells Benji. ‘They plan parties, genius.’

‘Don’t call your brother a genius,’ I snap, not really thinking about what I’m saying. ‘And becoming a party planner isn’t really the direction that I’m thinking of going in.’

‘You are good at organising things,’ says Nick. I stare at him suspiciously to see if this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m bossy, but his smile seems genuine enough so I let it go.

Maybe I should consider it, as it’s the first vaguely sensible suggestion that I’ve been given. I let the possibility percolate round my brain, imagining myself floating around a fancy venue, ensuring that the champagne fountain and the table decorations are all in place. I could do that, no problem. But I bet the party planner doesn’t actually ever get to enjoy the festivities. I’ll probably be in the back, sleeves rolled up and doing the washing up or sorting the blocked toilets or dealing with rowdy partygoers who don’t know when they’ve had enough of a good thing. So basically doing what I have to do at home.

‘How illegal is it to punch someone in self-defence?’ asks Scarlet casually, whipping my thoughts away from my doomed party planner career. ‘Is it okay if they start it?’

I put down my cutlery and give my daughter a concerned look. ‘Why do you want to know? Has something happened?’

Scarlet shrugs. ‘Just wondering,’ she mumbles around a mouthful of potato.

And then Benji knocks over the gravy jug and in the ensuing carnage, I push any ridiculous thoughts of party planning or new careers to the recesses of my mind.

Chapter 8

Benji has a football match today and my mother has kindly agreed to go and stand on the freezing cold touchline and cheer him on. This has the added benefit that when I finally stagger into the house, laden with twenty thousand books that need marking by next Monday, she is sitting at the kitchen table and the house has an air of calm that is non-existent whenever Dylan and Scarlet are here on their own.

‘Good day, Hannah?’ she asks, grimacing as I dump my bags onto the floor. ‘You should get yourself one of those tartan shopping-trolley things. You’re going to give yourself a hernia, going on like that.’

I give her a look and plonk myself down into the seat opposite her.

‘Have you got one, then?’

Mum shudders. ‘Good god, no! They’re for pensioners. I wouldn’t be seen dead dragging one of those round with me.’

‘Yet you think I should get one.’ I start massaging the back of my neck in a pathetic attempt to ease out some of the knots. ‘How was the football match?’

‘Bloody arctic.’ She looks around, checking that we’re alone. ‘You are aware that Benji is totally abysmal at sport, aren’t you?’

I nod. ‘Yep.’

He takes after me, bless his two uncoordinated left feet. I am still waiting for the right sport to present itself to me. I had a brief moment of hopefulness when Nick bought me flashy new trainers and some spanx-like running shorts for my last birthday, but sadly it seems that having all the gear does not counter the fact that I am not built for aerobic activity.

‘Which raises the question: why was he chosen to participate in the match in the first place? You can’t be telling me that he’s the best that the school has to offer?’

‘Of course he isn’t,’ I tell her, slipping off my shoes and wondering if it’s too early to open the wine. ‘It’s equality, isn’t it?’

Mum looks confused. ‘What is? Letting the rubbish kids play instead of the good ones?’

I wince. ‘Don’t let him hear you say that. And it’s just how it is these days. There’d be an uproar if teachers only ever chose the talented kids to represent the school.’

‘Why?’ Mum seems genuinely interested, so even though I’m tired and I really can’t be bothered to talk about anything even remotely related to education, I try to explain.

‘It’s different to how it was when you or I were at school,’ I say. ‘Everything has to be fair. Benji has a right to play football, even if he is a little bit crap.’

Mum frowns. ‘Well yes, he should be allowed to kick a ball around in the privacy of his own garden, where nobody else has to witness his lack of skill. But is it actually fair to let him play in a match? If anything, I’d say the kindest thing would be to keep him as far away from a football pitch as humanly possible.’

‘You’re probably right.’ I let my gaze wander around the kitchen, hoping to solve the conundrum of what we’re supposed to be having for supper. ‘But it’s a moot point now anyway. He won’t be chosen again until next season.’

Mum tuts. ‘Well, I think it’s absolutely ridiculous. All this pretending that anybody can do anything. It’ll only lead to disappointment in later life. Kids today need a few home truths.’

The kitchen door crashes open and a ball comes flying into the room, followed seconds later by an exuberant Benji.

‘He shoots! He scores!’ he yells, skidding to a halt by the table. ‘You should have seen me today, Mum!’

‘Here he is!’ My mother beams at her youngest grandchild. ‘The Player of the Day himself!’

I stare at her. What happened to a few home truths?

Benji giggles. ‘It’s not Player of the Day, silly,’ he tells her. ‘It’s Man of the Match.’

Then his face falls. ‘Only I didn’t get it. I never get it.’ He turns to me. ‘Jasper McKenzie was Man of the Match again. For like, the gazillionth time. It’s not fair.’

I shrug, thinking about what Mum was just saying. ‘Well, it probably is fair,’ I tell Benji. ‘If he played really well then he deserves to get the title.’

‘That football coach wouldn’t know talent if it kicked him in the face,’ protests my mother. ‘Honestly. I thought that Jasper McKenzie child was nothing but a glorified thug. And what’s more important? Being able to kick a ball in a straight line or being a nice person?’

‘In this particular context, I’d say that kicking a ball is probably what they’re looking for,’ I venture, but Mum has already pulled Benji towards her and is murmuring platitudes and reassurances about how, if it were up to her, he’d be Man of the Match every single time he set foot on the pitch.

*

Once Benji has been placated and sent off to finish his homework and I have managed to find some tins of tomatoes lurking at the back of the cupboard, Mum stands up and reaches for her bag.

‘Thanks for helping me out today,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it, Mum.’

She walks across the kitchen and gives me a hug. ‘I’m worried about you, Hannah,’ she tells me. ‘Is everything all right?’

And I want nothing more than to sink my head onto her shoulder and tell her that no, I am not all right. I feel like I’m splashing about in the middle of the ocean, searching desperately for a life raft while just behind me is a luxury cruise liner where everyone I know is relaxing and laughing and drinking exotic cocktails with those little paper umbrellas that I really, really love.

But I can’t tell my mother that I am miserable and all at sea because I want a cocktail umbrella. It’s self-indulgent and stupid and utter, utter middle-class angst. I cannot tell the woman who brought me up all on her own, sacrificing her own wants and needs to ensure that I had good Clarks school shoes, that I feel adrift.

Instead, I give her a squeeze and plaster a big smile on my face. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

She gives me a piercing look and I know that she isn’t fooled.

‘It’s okay to ask for some help, now and again,’ she says. ‘I know how hard it can be when your kids start to get older and you’re trying to juggle several hundred things all at once. It makes your brain hurt!’

‘I don’t mind the juggling.’ It’s true, I really don’t. I’m an expert juggler. My skills are so brilliant that I could run away and join the circus, if I so desired. ‘I just wish that at least one of the balls had my name on it.’

Mum laughs. ‘Well, that’s not so difficult,’ she tells me. ‘If you really want to juggle your own ball then you’re going to have to write your name on it yourself!’ She takes her coat off the back of the chair. ‘And my advice? Use an indelible pen then the buggers can’t rub it off when you’re not looking.’

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