About the Author

A.L. BIRD lives in London, where she divides her time between writing, working as a lawyer, and running around after her young family. She loves writing dark, twisty thrillers. Bestselling The Good Mother was her first major psychological thriller for HQ Digital, and Don’t Say a Word was her chilling standalone next book. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck, University of London, and is also an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ course. Amy is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association. For updates on her writing follow her on Twitter, @ALBirdWriter.

PRAISE FOR A.L. BIRD

‘A fast-paced, gripping thriller.’ – B A Paris, bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors

‘Intense and brilliantly uncomfortable reading.’ – Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Between You and Me

‘A pacy, action-packed, brilliantly plotted psychological thriller with one hell of a showdown. I absolutely loved it!’ – Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie

‘An absolutely jaw dropper and a must read for all.’ – Karen Whittard, NetGalley reviewer

‘Readers hear claim that, “This book will leaving you guessing until the end”. I am glad to say that, for once, the claim is true.’ – M Scott, NetGalley reviewer

‘Kept me up all night.’ – Kathleen Johnson, NetGalley reviewer

‘The psychological tension ramps up to a plot twist that took me completely by surprise.’ – Avonna Kershey, NetGalley reviewer

‘Wow! A well deserved 5 stars, one of the best pyschological fiction books of this year so far!’ – Julia Beales, NetGalley reviewer

‘Once you get towards the end you better hope you’re not needed for anything because you will find yourself glued until the last word.’ – Tara Sheehan, NetGalley reviewer

‘Impossible to put down.’ – Linda Strong, NetGalley reviewer

Also by A.L. Bird

The Good Mother

Don’t Say a Word

The Classroom
A.L. BIRD

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Amy Bird 2018

Amy Bird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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 e-book 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.

E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9781474086127

Version: 2018-09-11

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for A.L. Bird

Also by A.L. Bird

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Prologue

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

Part Two

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

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Acknowledgements

Reading Group Questions

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To my parents, in recognition

To my two little miracles, in joy

PART ONE

Prologue

She puts the letter to one side. Today isn’t about that. Not in this moment. Today is about Harriet. Her, and Harriet, making a fresh start, together. Away from all this nonsense. If the letter shows anything, it’s that they need to make that fresh start even further away. There’ll be people looking for them. And Harriet is so pretty – people will notice them. England is too small. She needs to go abroad. They need to get tickets to France or, ideally, somewhere outside Europe that doesn’t need a visa. Somewhere not hugely swamped with international newspapers. She gets out her phone, begins Googling destinations. That’s stupid, though. She should just take Harriet to the airport, see what flights they can get. And go.

Resolved, she gets to her feet. Thank God for Harriet being well looked after this morning, while the fresh crisis was breaking. She can imagine her now, playing happily on the grass. Soon, Harriet will be playing happily in another country, doting eyes on her. They’ll be happy together. Of course they will.

At first glance, she doesn’t notice, when she gets outside.

The absence.

She looks around another time.

It’s then she realises: Harriet isn’t there.

Just the woman who was supposed to be looking after her, sitting all alone.

Chapter 1

KIRSTEN, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

‘I just wasn’t sure about the headteacher, at the new joiners evening, you know?’ Kirsten says to her husband, as she gazes at little Harriet. She bites her lip, as she resists the urge to hug her daughter another time before getting her into the car. Harriet looks so smart and grown-up in her new uniform, but Kirsten doesn’t want to deliver her to the destination: first day of reception.

Ian lays a hand on Kirsten’s shoulder.

‘The headteacher was just fine, darling. You know that. You got on like a house on fire.’ There’s a wryness to his delivery, probably born of being a headmaster himself. He knows the conversations that go on.

‘And what about the other kids? They say that the most important thing is the cohort your child’s in. What if they’re mean?’

Ian shrugs. ‘There’s bound to be one mean kid there. Maybe it will be Harriet.’

Kirsten shoots him a poison dart with her eyes.

‘Joking,’ he tells her. ‘Harriet’s no bully. But they’re five, Kirsten. No one’s going to be selling drugs, or making them down alcohol.’

Kirsten looks at him more carefully this time. It’s an oddly chosen example, considering.

She sees Ian notice her look. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘What I mean is, she’ll be fine, you need to get her in the car, or we’ll both be late, OK? You’ve been taking her to nursery for three years. School’s no different, really. She should be so lucky, going somewhere like that. We can catch up this evening.’

Kirsten nods. But she doesn’t agree. He doesn’t get it. Or maybe he does: he gets what’s on the surface. The anxiety that she’s actually expressed. But there’s the deeper anxiety, the one she never shares. The one she never knows whether dads truly face too, or if it’s just the mums, the worried mums. The need that can suddenly seize you to know exactly where your child is at all times. The sudden rush of panic that they could be with anyone, with any number of terrible things befalling them. And that even if they were meant to be in safe hands – with relatives, at school – it would always ultimately be your fault for making the choice that day, that hour, to outsource their care. To not be looking after them yourself.

The guilt, Kirsten knew, would always linger. And it worked the other way too: if she was indulgent enough to take a day off work, that particular day would be the one when their route to the Fun Activity was favoured by terrorists, or a gas explosion, or a sinkhole.

‘Can I go to school now, Mummy?’ Harriet asks.

Kirsten tries to shut her anxiety down. She’d made such a thing of school being Grown-Up and Very Important that Harriet can’t be blamed for wanting to get there sooner. But it’s still too soon. Only a moment ago, Harriet was a newborn. Kirsten still remembers looking at those amazing owl-like eyes, wide and unblinking, as Harriet sat in the back of the car on the journey home with Ian – their little miracle. He’d been a bit cold, nervy with the weight of responsibility, but she’d been transfixed. If she’d known, really known, how enchanting a newborn could be, it would have got her through the discomfort of all those rounds of IVF – the injections, the hormone reactions, the tests – with much less heartache. Or maybe more, knowing what she was missing.

‘Of course, darling – it’s so exciting. I’m so proud of you!’

Kirsten watches as Harriet clambers into the back of the car. She tries to capture the moment in her mind. It’s just as significant as the ride home with the newborn, those life milestones every mother faces. Kirsten knows she’ll only get to savour them once – there are no more children after Harriet. So she must enjoy them now.

But she also really must get to work. Kirsten sees the time as she turns on the car ignition: 8.25. Shit. Not only were they meant to be at the school five minutes ago, her first appointment is fast approaching, as well. And as emotionally rewarding as it is to gaze dotingly at Harriet, it isn’t financially rewarding. Those financial rewards have kept the roof over her daughter’s head. OK, so Ian may be laudably busy managing the struggling comprehensive school he heads up out of special measures, before the Ofsted inspection – but he doesn’t get a bonus for the hours he works. The more Kirsten works, the more she gets paid, and the less they have to watch the overdraft every month.

Harriet begins complaining that she’s left one of her new special pencils in the house and says that they’ll have to go back and get it. The gloss of the first school day becomes tarnished. The usual negotiations (or bribes) kick in. By the time Kirsten drops Harriet at school, she is thinking very positively about the benefits of being able to deposit your child elsewhere for someone else to deal with.

As soon as she has that thought, she wants to run back after Harriet and apologise. Never wish away something so precious. Never try to abdicate responsibility for one so dear. The school staff seem good on health and safety, but what if they aren’t?

She considers calling Ian, asking him what he thinks. Should she go back in and make sure Harriet is properly settled? But no. She knows what he would say. It’s fine. The school is a good one, excellent parent feedback, and the teachers are fully checked for criminal records. She’s safe, Kirsten tells herself. She’s safe.

Chapter 2

MIRIAM, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

Miriam stands at the front of the still-empty classroom, mentally hugging herself. Finally, she is here – about to embark on teaching at St Anthony’s. All summer, the thought of it had been her best thing – the one that gave her hope and excitement each morning. The one that made her happy to exist as she curled up in her bed at night. She’d think about all those little faces, staring up at her, yearning for knowledge.

She knew how the first morning would go. Pick out one particular face, that natural teacher’s pet – all blonde, dimpled, cute floppy hair. Then look to the one next to them. That’s the one you want. The one you should go for. Maybe their hair is red or brown. Maybe they don’t smile. Maybe they have glasses, or their lack of a smile suggests they’ve learnt the hard way that everything doesn’t go hunky-dory just because you’re a kid. Maybe they wouldn’t be the archetypal cute kid on the bleeding heart ‘Missing Child’-type posters, or the pictures that stare out from papers hauntingly when sad news hits. But it’s that little one, the less than obvious one, that you want. That child will change your life. It’s worth taking the rap for that kid, if something goes wrong. She’d seen her formative teachers choose the less obvious kids, and she knew for herself that it made an otherwise average teacher become truly memorable.

And it was that thinking that got her the job. Not her own personal goal for where all this is going, of course. But the emphasis on child-focused attention. Thinking beyond the normal line of duty. Looking beyond the obvious to achieve results. She replays the interview in her head. So nervous. All her dreams depended on it.

‘Ms Robertson, where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’

She’d wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. She’d bought it specially but hated it already. Why did she go for acrylic peach? She’d read in some magazine one time that you look confident in pink. This was not the right pink and she did not feel confident. What she felt was hot and grimy, and the dress wasn’t helping. She could literally see her palm marks on the fabric.

‘In five years, I’ll be … I don’t know, maybe married, with my own child, maybe two children?’

The headmistress had stared back at her, stifling a yawn. How many other twenty-somethings had she tried to imagine being five years older that day? It was a world away. Miriam had to up her game. She tried again.

‘So. Five years. I’d hope to be well on the way to making an early Deputy Head at a school like this one and be helping out in the co-curricular activities – running a breakfast club, that kind of thing? I see you don’t have one, but I’d be more than willing to start one. But I guess I don’t need to wait five years – I can start it sooner, if parents want it. It’s so important to have these extra conveniences, isn’t it? Happy parents, happy children, that’s what I always think.’

And she’d smiled brightly, hoping it was enough, that she wasn’t just gushing madly. And it was enough. The headmistress’s yawn had gone. She was leaning forward. Rapt. Thank God. Miriam took a sip of water. The next twenty minutes were a formality. The job was hers. The other twenty-somethings could go home; the school had found ‘The One’. Maybe she wasn’t the best choice, objectively speaking – if the school had all the facts at its disposal. She certainly didn’t have the best childcare credentials (her sister had still never forgiven her). And if she’d told them where she really wanted to be in five years – well, they might, in their misguided way, have called the police. But she was the choice they made.

Summer holidays done, here Miriam stands. Finally. Behind her desk, waiting for her assigned class to potter in for registration. Waiting for that one little face that will make or break her heart. Not wearing peach today. Baby blue silk (OK, viscose) shirt with a pussycat bow, and a blue tweed skirt. It looks professional, approachable, maybe a bit sassy. She hopes.

They start to arrive. Dribs and drabs at first. Little poppets in their burgundy uniforms. How lucky their mummies and daddies are; how much she wants one of them for her own. The boys in little ties and caps, the girls in pretty pleated skirts. They are meant to have just turned five, but some of them are tiny. One girl, she’s far too small for the chair. She brings her knees up to her chest, and sits there, curled, thumb in her mouth, Peppa Pig lunch box clutched to her. But then you have the boys – big enough for a rugby team, some of them. Could overpower the little girls in an instant, get them into a scrum tackle. Maybe they are already in kiddy rugby teams; they’re in North London after all. It’s never too early for stretching your children.

‘Good morning, class,’ Miriam says, in her best Miss Honey voice. Try not to let it shake. Try to smile the words. Remember the lesson plan. Remember you’re in control, this time. Kids trust adults who assume authority. And that’s what she wants. Their trust. That’s central to her plans. To get close.

‘Welcome back to school, everyone. My name is Ms Robertson, and I’m delighted to be working with you all. Let’s go through the register. Stand up when your name is called, please – it helps me learn who you are.’

Miriam had their photos already, of course. She’d studied them over the summer. But it looked like some of them were about two years old when they registered; nothing beats seeing them in the flesh. So she calls the roll. And they’re away. Names fly by, some the latest crazes (we have several Olivias), some more traditional (welcome, Peter). They’re nearly at the end when she stands up. The girl. And Miriam knows, instantly, that this is the one. She squeaks her name: Harriet White. Doesn’t even meet Miriam’s gaze at first, just fiddles with her messy plaits. But then she looks up and Miriam sees those beautiful hazel eyes.

And there she is. Miriam’s vocation. Miriam catches a breath. Because it’s a big moment, isn’t it? When your life’s purpose is suddenly right there in front of you. Tantalisingly close already. But so much work required to get there. Little by little, she’ll secure it. She’ll secure her. She must.

Chapter 3

BECKY, JULY 2012

Becky rubs her eyes and puts her maths textbook down. She needs a break from calculus. Besides, they’re done with exams for this term, so why bother really? She throws herself onto her bed and looks into the full-length mirror at the end of it. She pulls her glasses down on the end of her nose, and pouts into the mirror. ‘Pretty Geek.’ That’s how people know her. She could live with either of the labels separately. But together – well, it’s sort of like she’s not good enough to be one or the other. She’s only an acceptable geek because she’s pretty, and only acceptable for her prettiness because her IQ is higher than average. Try to devote herself to being either one of them? Wouldn’t work. She’d be even more of a social outcast.

Her middle sister never seems to have that problem. Quite the opposite. Becky hears, sometimes, about the boyfriends and parties at university, somehow juggled with first-class marks and doting tutors. She wishes she could be more like her.

And yet … Becky doesn’t mind her own image as much as she should. Leaning over to her desk again, she pulls out the leaflet for drama summer school. Her parents were amazed when she signed up for it. She knows, she’s not stupid – she overheard all those conflicting conversations downstairs. They went like this, basically:

Mum: Oh, our little darling is finally getting some social skills.

Dad: But drama makes people stupid. What if she fails her exams?

Both: We only want her to be happy (as long as she gets good grades and doesn’t have S. E. X., of which God might not approve. And as long as she doesn’t catch Acting, distracting her from a good career as a doctor or a teacher or something Solid – which she and her sisters must do).

Then there’s some disagreement – it escalates into a row and Becky tunes out.

OK, Becky was summarising the part she listened to, but that was the gist. And she kind of understood, because yes, she was surprised with herself too. If it weren’t for Caitlin, she wouldn’t have agreed. And Caitlin wouldn’t have pressured her if they hadn’t both caught Andrew Carmichael staring over at them in Maths. (Becky was busy concentrating on finding what n equalled, so Caitlin had to nudge her.) Becky assumed he was looking at Caitlin, because Caitlin is gorgeous, in a way that is the opposite of everything about Becky (blonde to Becky’s mousy brown, long-limbed to Becky’s wiry petiteness, twenty-twenty blue vision, compared to Becky’s black-framed myopia). Becky isn’t totally sure how they managed to become friends. But they seem to be, and it doesn’t do to prod the proof under the microscope, or it might burst.

Besides, apparently the timing worked out well for her parents because Becky’s other sister, the boring one, was coming to stay with The New Baby. The baby had been new for the past, what, year? And it hadn’t learnt to sleep, or was it swallow, or had forgotten while it got its teeth, or something, so Becky’s sister needed Help and everyone had to make way for the invasion. Becky just hoped she didn’t come back to find her room full of nappies.

So anyway, at school, Caitlin had been convinced Andy (divine Andy) was staring at Becky, and vice versa. Unlikely. But later, by the notice boards, it seemed like Caitlin might be right. Becky was looking for the algebra club meeting, when she heard a voice behind her. A male voice.

‘Are you signing up to the drama summer school?’

She’d looked round to see Andy just there, almost kissing distance away. Could smell the minty intrigue of the gum he was chewing. Pulling her gaze away from him momentarily, she followed it to where he was looking. A sign-up sheet for drama summer school, with a few flyers in a little plastic folder pinned next to it.

There were two spaces left on the sign-up sheet. Under Andy’s name.

Becky had smiled shyly. ‘Oh, it’s not really my kind of thing,’ she said, and made to turn away.

‘What she means is,’ came a loud, springy, female voice behind her, ‘she’d love to go, and so would I!’

Caitlin. She grabbed a pen from her ponytail and filled in her own name first, then Becky’s.

‘I went last year,’ Caitlin said. ‘It was amazing.’

That was six weeks ago. Now, the course was only four weeks away. A two-week summer school, with gorgeous Andy. And Caitlin.

‘Get some contact lenses,’ Caitlin had advised her.

But the optician had said there were none suitable for her eye type. Pretty Geeky Freak. Or at least, none that she could comfortably use to look at computers with. So Mum said no. The drama course was expensive enough, and she wouldn’t have Becky ruining her eyes over it.

Still, she could take her glasses off if she ever got close enough to Andy to warrant it. Or he could take them off for her. Caitlin said Becky was still in with a chance – said that’s what she was giggling about with Andy in the cafeteria. Seeing them together had sparked something in Becky’s chest. But Caitlin was a good friend, wasn’t she? So it must be true. You had to trust your friends.

Chapter 4

KIRSTEN, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

‘Jess, you’re a legend!’

Kirsten takes a sip of the green tea that her PA has put on her desk. She secretly wishes it was coffee, but she’s trying to be more Zen. Come on, brain, arise calm, clear, out of befuddled mummy mode, please.

‘How’s Harriet?’ Jess asks Kirsten.

‘Oh, she’s great – thank you,’ Kirsten says. She knows there’s a blush spreading over her cheeks. She can’t help it – even now, when she talks about her, it happens. It’s like you’re in love, permanently, isn’t it? When you have a kid? And now they know that Harriet will, sadly, be their only child, their little empress, so she gets all that love. After the baby that didn’t … work out. Every day, Kirsten tells her: ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to us.’ Ian, he always raises an eyebrow when she says that. But despite everything, it’s true. See the silver lining; that’s the motto.

‘It must be tough leaving her all day,’ Jess continues. ‘I know when I have kids …’

She trails off. Kirsten raises an eyebrow. Maybe her PA has remembered Kirsten is her boss, so this is forbidden territory: do not discuss any plans for fertilisation with the one who pays your wages. First female rule of the workplace. Or maybe she remembers that this is the same passive-aggressive ‘why do you work rather than stay at home?’ bullshit that mums put up with on a regular basis, and decides to shut her mouth for the good of the sisterhood.

This is Kirsten’s bugbear. First day at nursery, the keyworker had said to her in front of a teary Harriet: ‘Oh, you must feel so guilty, leaving her here like this.’ Well, thank you, Ms Judgemental. Thank you so much. Kirsten had gone back to her car and cried, more than Harriet ever did. Until they invent a self-paying mortgage, Harriet is going to have to be dropped off in places that emotionally blackmail Kirsten. Good, safe places that will broaden Harriet’s mind.

They did a study, didn’t they, that said girls who go to nursery, and then to school, while their mothers go to work, actually do a whole lot better than those whose parents stay at home? Yes, it got a whole bunch of ridicule in the press. But maybe Kirsten could bring copies to hand out at the school gates (or get the au pair to do it – looks like they’re going to have to get one: she can’t start offering 7.30 a.m. appointments if she has to do the school run).

‘So, are we fully booked today, Jess?’ Kirsten asks.

‘Right up to the brim,’ Jess reports. ‘And the first patient is waiting outside now!’

‘Good. Give me a couple of minutes, and send him in.’

Kirsten needs that two minutes. Because as much as she loves Harriet – and she does, she loves her, she loves her – it takes more than one sip of green tea to go from desperately cajoling: ‘Harriet sweetie, get back in the car, come on now, you know you want to! You don’t need the second purple pencil. One is enough! No, honestly, no one’s going to judge you. We’re going to be late – please, come on!’ to her best calm bedside-manner-infused: ‘Now, what seems to be the matter today?’

But she’s got to. Because it’s a business, this private practice GP surgery. She can’t just rock up like at a NHS practice each morning, with the attitude that people should be so lucky that they’ve got an appointment, and she’ll do what she can but hey! she’s no brain surgeon. Yes, NHS GPs are the front line of medicine. Some surgeries are brilliant. And many GPs are fantastic. But some are struggling. Over-run with patients and paperwork, having to lay down ridiculous rules to reach even more ridiculous targets (Six minutes late? You’ll need to rebook your appointment!) and then giving advice in a rush – it’s tough. Sometimes she’d felt like she was just a gatekeeper for prescriptions, rather than providing meaningful advice. Which was why she left. Set up on her own. Maybe a bit earlier than some people – she could have waited a good decade – but if you have a dream, why delay?

And now, people are paying for a service with more than their tax. They are investing in their health, investing in Kirsten personally, as a service. So she needs to put her mummy service to one side. Not be the nice, slightly harried, always doting but ever failing mummy. She has to be polished, professional Dr White. She puts on her glasses. Slips on her jacket. Lines up the blood pressure monitor neatly on her desk. The desk she herself built from an IKEA flat pack at 1 a.m. the day before the surgery opened. And, of course, makes sure Harriet’s picture is tilted to where the patients can’t see it.

There are pictures of her and Ian too, in the montage Ian had put together for one of their anniversaries. Kirsten and Ian together back when she was a student – how young she looks, particularly next to Ian, who always crashes through the important birthdays long before she does. Then Kirsten and Ian in their climbing gear. She doesn’t angle that frame away. A young, fresh, physically bold couple. A good advertisement for a healthy outdoor lifestyle, if nothing else. What she doesn’t have is a picture of her niece, the one she can’t see anymore. It makes her too sad.

Then the first patient of the day comes in.

And Kirsten is glad she had that calming hot drink. Because it’s a special gut-wrencher, a tear-jerker: the sweetest couple, with fertility problems. Can she help them? And can she prescribe the wife some mild anti-depressants? Because now it’s really starting to affect her sleep. And her ability to function in the world without crying.

Kirsten risks a look at her lovely Harriet’s picture. Beautiful Harriet. Safe and happy at school, now. What a big girl – hard to believe she’s turned five. Someday, the bubble will burst; the picture will shatter, won’t it? The dream of Harriet is too good to be true. She experiences a sudden urge to run out from the surgery, away from this couple with their traumatic failure to conceive, and to go to school and gather up her own gorgeous child.

She doesn’t, of course. Because although Harriet might be the most important thing in the world, this is Work Kirsten. So she stays put, sits, listens, empathises and prescribes, while a little part of her brain rejoices in Harriet, her girl.

Chapter 5

MIRIAM, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

As they approach mid-morning break, the children are happily drawing pictures of their holidays. Miriam didn’t ask them to draw their families – she felt it would be too upsetting for some of them. Can be a bit unorthodox, the set-up. Sure, everyone’s cool with kids having two daddies these days, but if your first venture into the classroom is to find out you’re completely different, and someone giggles at you, it’s going to mar the school journey, right? Put the children first, not preachy societal values. If she’d learnt nothing else, she’d learnt that.

Besides, it would be upsetting for her too. She knows the family she wants. Her, plus-one. The plus-one being a child. Not just any child, of course. She’d done two short stints at other schools, but there hadn’t been the connection that she feels here. But that experience had, in part, got her this job. Nothing is wasted.

So they do holidays. The EasyJet generation – they’ve all had a summer getaway. Even if it was a staycation, it had to be a cool one. Who knew that five-year-olds went glamping? Or maybe it was just a campsite, and the slightly cash-strapped Brexit worriers have sought to teach their children the socially acceptable face of a muddy tent break.

There are the usual shout outs of ‘We went to Disneyland!’ and ‘Mummy says the only way to fly is business class!’ or ‘The French Riviera is perfect at this time of year!’ (Would the parents be embarrassed or proud if they could hear the precociousness of their children?) Miriam makes sure the quieter ones get a say, too. She walks between the desks, asking about the pictures.

Harriet is covering her drawing, making a little circle round it with her hands and her plaits as she draws. Miriam bends down. She sees the girl up close now. Her hair is not just light brown, it is so many colours: copper, oak, dark blonde, all woven together in those silly messy plaits. But cute little bobbles at the end of each one. Unicorns, they look like. Someone cares about her, then. Someone other than Miriam.

‘May I see your picture, Harriet?’ Miriam asks her gently. Start soft; build the rapport gently. That’s the way to win them over.

She shakes her head vigorously, sending plaits flying out, the unicorns given wings.

‘But surely you want to show me where you went on holiday?’

She shrugs.

‘Well, I’d like to see,’ Miriam tells her. ‘Even if you don’t want to show me.’

Miriam leans slightly closer, and tries to prise one of Harriet’s little hands away from the paper.

Reluctantly, Harriet lets her, and lifts the other hand away too.

Miriam looks at the picture.

At first glance, it’s a playroom. There are lots of toys, and a low-level table. Miriam’s about to ask what her favourite toy is, but then she sees that there’s a little cross on the door, like the ones you see on ambulances.

Miriam’s heart lurches. Oh no! Is this lovely little girl ill? Has she spent the summer at a hospital? Her mind flits back to that summer, years ago. When they didn’t go to hospital when they should have done. After Miriam did what she did. The little girl she misses every day.

‘Where is this?’ Miriam asks her.

‘Mummy’s work,’ she says.

Miriam mentally readjusts.

‘Mummy is a doctor?’ Miriam says, like she didn’t know. Of course, the picture makes sense now. All the parents filled in their jobs on joining forms. And Miriam had read them all carefully. But you have to play the game, don’t you? Just like if you Google someone in the evening, looking for pictures of their kids, imagining being their child’s mummy, the next day you have to make with the questions to eke out answers you already know.

‘Mummy is very busy and I have to play with the toys,’ Harriet says. Poor little thing, thinks Miriam – if only I could give her a big hug, show her some love. Miriam had a teacher who’d done that with her, and she’d never forgotten it.

‘But surely you went away on holiday, too?’ Miriam asks. ‘What about Daddy?’

Harriet shakes her head. ‘Mummy can’t have a break because she works so hard. But Daddy was away, because he does school work all summer even though everyone else spends time with their family, Mummy says. Daddy says Mummy and Daddy would go away together if they could, but not me.’

Alarm bells start ringing. ‘They wanted to go away at the same time, without you? Would you be home alone?’ Miriam wouldn’t have thought at this school, with this child, her first thoughts would be about alerting social services.

Harriet shakes her head and gives her a grin. ‘I’m only five, silly. I can’t stay at home alone, and Mummy wouldn’t let me stay with Granny.’ Thank God. Miriam’s heart rate slows a little. ‘Daddy took me with him for a week, and I watched the big children play.’

Miriam’s heart rate increases again. It sounds like things are not being done right. This is why Miriam needs her own child – to show how things should be done.

‘Was that fun?’ Miriam asks. ‘Did Daddy make time to play with you too?’

But Miriam doesn’t hear the answer because the child on the other side of her announces he needs to do a poo. NOW.

The teaching assistant ushers him out of the room, and Miriam turns back to Harriet but the bell goes, and it’s time for break. The moment’s gone. Harriet, like the rest of the children, jumps up from her seat and rushes out of the room. Before Miriam follows them, she looks again at the picture Harriet has drawn. Fancy spending the summer at your parents’ work and no holiday! It’s not like they lack the cash. Unimpressive. For everything Miriam’s parents didn’t do for her, they at least gave her a holiday. Norway, Holland, France – abroad, but not far flung. Until they flung her out. But then, that was her fault. Or so they said.

Still, this isn’t about her. It really isn’t. It’s about Harriet. And the other children, of course. About making sure they’re all as happy as they can possibly be.

True, the happiest place would be at home with her. But you can’t have too much, too soon.

So for now, if they aren’t happy, then she’ll need to change things. One step at a time.

Chapter 6

KIRSTEN, SEPTEMBER 2018

How is it always 5 p.m.? However much Kirsten asks Jess not to book in 4.30 appointments, it’s somehow always five when Kirsten’s running out of the surgery, slinging her bag in the back of the Lexus and revving like mad to pick up Harriet on time. First nursery, now school. Thank God for after-school clubs, and that she could choose to set up her practice only a ten-minute drive away from Harriet’s school. But really – how the hell were working mums supposed to do it? Could she pay Jess to collect Harriet? Probably, but also probably not. She needs her to help run the business, not her personal life, however much the two coincide.

Besides, Kirsten knows she always melts when she sees Harriet again. It’s a joy to pick her up from school, isn’t it?

And there we go. The switch from busy doctor-mummy to mummy-mummy. Of course she can make time for this. Yes, Ian should do more – it would be good to alternate. He keeps telling her it’s just a phase, while he gets his school over the Ofsted approbation. And yes, she admires his dedication to the failing school, his social conscience, his commitment to the kids from less advantaged homes. His quest for unimpeachable integrity. And she understands the particular source of his middle-class guilt. But you’d think he’d help more at home too, considering. You’d think that day-to-day, Kirsten would have more leverage.

But no. It’s like he can’t bear to spend the time with his daughter, sometimes. Kirsten’s seen him look at Harriet like he hates her. Oh, sure, he thinks he hides it well. But Kirsten sees him. A wife knows her husband. Leaving the room at strange moments, when Kirsten’s telling Harriet how much she loves her. That time he got disproportionately angry when Kirsten let Harriet play around with her make-up – she’s five for God’s sake, she’s not being sexualised, she’s playing at being Mummy. There’ll be a time for rules about that (of course there will, Kirsten isn’t stupid), but that time is not now. And the other day, when Harriet was messing round with his phone, Kirsten honestly thought he might hit Harriet. Well, OK, not quite that bad – because she’d never let him do that – but he stared at that phone with such rage, Kirsten was almost frightened.

Other times, though, he looks at Harriet like she’s the love of his life. Which maybe she is. The love of both their lives. Kirsten remembers when she and Ian were that precious to each other. Or were they? Can you ever truly love your spouse as much as you love your child?

Ah, parking space! Ian says if Kirsten got a smaller car she wouldn’t spend so much of her life worrying about where to put it. Her verdict is that he can play the ruffled headmaster turning up at his school in his Golf – it wouldn’t do to look too posh. It’s different for parents collecting their kids. Kirsten needs to show up at the school gate looking like it was worth being late. Like she earns as much as people think she does. Otherwise, they ask themselves what the point is. And she starts asking herself that too. Which is stupid, futile, dumb and a waste of dreams – because Harriet needs a role model. And Kirsten needs to provide one.

OK; mummy mode. Fine. Ready to jump out of the car. Go!

A woman calls out as Kirsten moves away from her car. ‘Hey, Kirsten!’

Kirsten panics. Is she a patient? Are they going to get into discussions of UTIs out here in the street? But no, she has a child attached to her, so she’s a mum. In fact, two children – one swaddled to her breast, one jumping along at the end of her arm.

‘Hey …’ Kirsten says. She’s sure the alpha mummy has a name but she doesn’t know it. They’ve probably been introduced, but too late now.

‘You bring anything for the nearly new sale tomorrow?’ the woman asks Kirsten.

Ah, she’s a PTA mum. No wonder she knows Kirsten’s name. The guilt shifts slightly.

Kirsten wrinkles her brow. ‘Sorry, maybe next time,’ she says. ‘Work and everything, you know?’ Kirsten feels like she’s at the start of a bad American movie. Of course, the woman knows about work. She probably works too, as well as bringing up the kids.

The woman rolls her eyes. ‘Tell me about it. Geoff hasn’t left the office this week. Don’t worry, I know it’s hard to juggle.’

She effortlessly unswathes the baby from its sling, and in one seamless move, places it in her parked Maserati. Jesus. Other people’s lives.

Kirsten taps the entry code into the school gates, buzzes herself in, and goes to find Harriet. Deep breaths, onwards, into the school.

There she is. Kirsten’s beautiful little darling. Didn’t every mother’s heart just soar when she saw her child? It’s chess today, by the looks of it. She’ll be a little champion in no time.

‘Harriet! Darling, time to go home!’

Harriet turns around but keeps on playing. Kirsten remembers when Harriet used to run up to her with open arms. Is that innocence gone already? Perhaps Ian was right about the make-up. Perhaps Kirsten is letting her grow up too fast.

Kirsten walks up to the game. Harriet’s playing with a staff member. Kirsten sees, now, that all the other children are being packed up to go, their parents having arrived a long time back.

The staff member stands up. Nice clothes, nice hair – not ‘look at me’ fashionista but professional, stylish. A good role model for girls in her care. ‘Hi, I’m Miriam Robertson. You must be …’

Kirsten puts out her hand. ‘Kirsten. Kirsten White. Harriet’s mother.’

The teacher looks at Kirsten’s hand for a moment, then takes it. A soft handshake, almost like she doesn’t want their hands to touch. Kirsten can’t have offended her already, can she?

‘I just started here today,’ says the teacher. ‘Harriet’s in my class.’

‘Oh, that’s great,’ Kirsten says, withdrawing her hand. Here she is, making those famous connections with her child’s school. ‘How did she get on?’

Harriet, tiring of her chess game, gets up and starts trying to swing herself between Kirsten’s legs like some kind of monkey. A novel show of affection, but she’ll take it.

There’s a pause from Ms Robertson.

‘Everything OK?’ Kirsten asks.

The teacher smiles. ‘Of course it is. I’m sure Harriet will be a pleasure to teach.’

Kirsten tries to extract Harriet from between her legs. Sure, Harriet’s having fun, and there’s a pleasing embarrassment in having a child so free with your body, but Kirsten suspects it will lead to a wardrobe malfunction soon – note to self, wear trousers in future.

‘She’s showing real promise in her drawings,’ says the teacher. ‘We haven’t done much maths or English yet, so let’s see. The main thing is that she’s happy.’

Kirsten nods. So true. That’s what should matter to all of them – being happy. But we just find so many ways to put it off, right? If I can just make this bit of extra money … if I can just lose this extra five pounds … if I can just have a child … then I’ll be happy. But we never stick to our promises.

Harriet is looking up at Kirsten. Kirsten knows this is meant to be Harriet’s happy time.

‘What were you drawing, sweetie?’ she asks, stooping down.

‘Holidays,’ she tells her.

Kirsten flicks a look at the teacher. ‘Oh God, don’t tell me – was it her time at Daddy’s work or mine?’ She tries to grin away the guilt.

The teacher looks at her steadily.

‘Yours,’ she says simply. Kirsten can smell the disapproval.

Well, screw that.

‘Ah, yes, holidays at Mummy’s office – you had a lovely time, didn’t you, sweetie? All the toys and the books? Charming the patients?’

Harriet nods, semi-happily, and takes Kirsten’s hand.

‘Me and Mummy do everything together, go everywhere together,’ she recites in a sing-songy chant. The line Kirsten fed her for the patients (doctors struggling with childcare isn’t a confidence booster). Harriet totally owned it.

Good girl. Kirsten mentally promises them both Tuscany, some happy year in the future. Ian wanted to go this year, just the two of them. Suggested leaving Harriet with Kirsten’s parents, but it didn’t feel safe. Hyper-vigilant of her, maybe. But she can hardly believe in Harriet sometimes, or how fortunate they are. Harriet could be wiped away in a heartbeat and Kirsten knows she needs to be there to see her every single day. Sadly, Ian doesn’t quite understand.

Kirsten straightens up and talks to the teacher.

‘Well, I dare say I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Kirsten tells her. ‘Same time, same place.’

‘Harriet does after-school club every day, then?’ the teacher asks.

Is that another judgement? Kirsten is so sick of this – don’t offer a service if you then berate people for using it.

‘Not every day,’ Kirsten says. ‘But I work, her daddy works. It’s a lifesaver to have this club. To be honest, I could do with a breakfast one too – real wrap-around childcare.’

The teacher nods thoughtfully. Oh, like they’ll ever take the suggestion into account – the staff probably find it a wrench enough already getting out of bed at 7 a.m. Or they imagine some idyll of the whole family breakfasting together, chattering calmly about their day ahead. Not Peppa Pig blaring away as one parent desperately advocates another spoonful of Weetabix while the other sets a world record for showering after the alarm failed to go off. Kirsten wishes they’d make teachers have children before they take up teaching, so they know what it’s really all about.

‘I understand,’ the teacher says. Like hell she does.

But then, looking at her, Kirsten thinks she might understand. Genuinely, somehow. She feels her guard slipping slightly. She gives a little ‘pity me’ shrug. She lets the teacher pat her on the shoulder. And her eyes well with tears. But she blinks them away.

‘Come on, you!’ Kirsten says to Harriet, hoisting her up into a hug. ‘Time to get you home to Daddy!’ He probably won’t be back yet, but it’s a good line to get Harriet moving.

‘Have a lovely evening!’ says Miriam, waving after them.

As they leave the room, Harriet turns back to wave again, so Kirsten does too. Miriam is hugging herself and gazing after them. Their eyes lock. Kirsten shivers a little; she doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the intensity of Miriam’s gaze. But still, Kirsten nods to her, and she nods back, lifts a hand a little in a wave. Kirsten’s about to shout ‘Goodbye’, but Harriet pulls her out of the room.

‘Don’t be so rude!’ Kirsten admonishes her.

And Harriet pouts, doesn’t answer, and refuses to budge a further inch. So Kirsten has to drag her from the building and forcibly put her into the car. On the way home, rather than prattling to Kirsten about her day, Harriet stares out of the window. Why did Kirsten have to take it into her head to do some ‘parenting’? Maybe Harriet just wanted some alone time with Mummy, hence the dragging away from the teacher, and Kirsten spoilt it.

Another evening started all wrong.

And it doesn’t get much better. By the time Ian is finally home, dinner is burnt – the period it took to placate Harriet exceeded the optimum cooking length for chops – and half-eaten. Kirsten is trying to salvage the evening. A glass of red wine down, she is curled up on the sofa, head resting against Harriet’s as they read a book.

Ian blusters in, breaking the hard-won calm.

‘Evening, all!’ he says, taking off his coat, and throwing it on a sofa.

Kirsten resists the urge to mutter ‘Finally’. Instead, she nods to the wine on the table.

‘Want some?’ she asks, half-heartedly.

Ian shakes his head. ‘Nah, I’ll leave it to you.’

Kirsten finds implicit criticism that the bottle of wine will soon deplete. But he’s probably right.

Ian plants a kiss on each of their foreheads. Harriet gives him a big hug, which he accepts but only fleetingly returns.

‘I’ll go and rescue the supper, shall I?’ Ian says.

‘We’ve eaten,’ Kirsten tells him.

‘Anything left for me?’ he asks.

She shakes her head. ‘Didn’t think you’d be back in time. There’ll be something else, though. Check the fridge.’

She turns back to the book. She tries to re-create the mood, but it’s gone. Harriet is distracted. Soon, Ian mooches back in with some pitta bread and hummus.

‘How was Harriet’s first day?’ he asks. ‘How was it, sweetie?’

‘We had to draw our holidays,’ she says.

Kirsten shares a look with Ian, seeing his understanding.

The conversation moves on.

‘And how was your day, sweetheart?’ Ian asks Kirsten, rubbing her shoulders. ‘Any tricky patients?’

‘It’s not the patients that are tricky, it’s trying to run a business while trying to raise a child basically single-handedly. That’s tricky!’

‘Hush, Kirsten, not in front of—’

Shit, he’s right, of course. She should have bitten her tongue – every time she snaps like this, she gets one step closer to being her parents, everything turning into an argument. ‘Sorry. Sorry, both of you. Bit stressed.’ Kirsten kisses both of them on the forehead, then sits back on the sofa.

‘But, Ian, do you know, all my competitors offer early morning and late evening appointments?’ she continues. ‘All of them, without exception. I’m never going to make it, working in school hours only.’

‘So go back to the public sector,’ he says, joshing her. It’s a running joke, that she’s gone private, while he remains wedded to the state sector. She rolls her eyes. He grins. ‘Or, more realistically, take on a partner,’ Ian tells her.

He says it like it’s so easy.

‘I can’t afford to take on a partner until there’s a business case, and there won’t be a business case until I make more money!’

‘So we’ll get an au pair, like you said,’ Ian counters.

‘It’s not about an au pair, Ian. It’s about you … being here.’

Sometimes, late at night, they sit on the sofa and listen to each other’s concerns. Address them all rationally, over an equally split bottle of wine. This is not one of those occasions.

Harriet gets up and leaves the room.

‘We’re not really bickering, darling, come back!’ Kirsten calls after her.

‘Sweetie, it’s OK—’ Ian joins in.

Kirsten stands, ready to follow Harriet.

‘It’s not, though, is it?’ Kirsten says. ‘It’s not OK.’

Ian climbs off the sofa and kneels in front of Kirsten.

‘It is OK. You’re just stressed. I’m sorry. I’ll try to get home earlier. OK? Maybe I don’t need to shadow all the teachers running up to the inspection, just the problem ones.’

‘You sure you won’t miss the time with the students?’

The comment hangs in the air. Their shared past, ever present.

‘Kirsten, come on. Let’s try to salvage this. I’ll go and find Harriet. You put your feet up, do work emails, whatever. You deserve it, OK?’

She nods, but she feels her jaw pumping.

Ian stands and kisses her on the top of her head.

Together, they go up the stairs to Harriet’s bedroom. She’s sitting on her bed, talking to her teddy bear. Kirsten gestures not to disturb Harriet so they hover outside the room. Ridiculous, to eavesdrop, but it’s the only way inside Harriet’s head sometimes.

‘You do not do that, no no no!’ shouts Harriet, in a little kiddy shout. ‘Bad bear!’

And then she hits the bear across the face.

Christ. Who has she learnt that from?

Kirsten makes to go into the room, but Ian holds out a hand to stop her.

‘Let me,’ he whispers. ‘You did this afternoon. Go downstairs and put your feet up.’

Kirsten shrugs, lets him go in. But after the bear exchange, she’s not about to leave Ian alone with Harriet. She wants to be sure of what goes on. So she moves out of the doorway, does some loud stepping on the spot to imitate going downstairs, then stays where she can hear.

‘I’m sorry about the shouting, sweetheart,’ she hears Ian say.

She can’t see Harriet’s reaction, but Ian continues.

‘Sometimes grown-ups just get a bit angry with themselves, and they take it out on each other.’ It’s a platitude, but Kirsten’s not sure she could do better.

‘As long as they don’t take it out on their children,’ says Harriet, very seriously. ‘Children are there to make people happy.’

Kirsten blinks back tears. She makes it sound so simple.

‘That’s right, sweetie,’ Kirsten hears Ian say. ‘Did someone teach you that?’

‘My new teacher, she’s great,’ Harriet says.

There’s rustling, maybe a hug. ‘I’m so glad you like her, sweetheart.’

‘And the playground is brilliant. Look, I got two more scabs.’

Harriet showed them to Kirsten earlier. Kirsten had kissed each one of them. She can’t see how Ian reacts, but hears ‘I love you, Daddy’.

‘I love you too, sweetheart.’ So. He’s being good, caring Daddy now. Makes a change. But credit where it’s due. Kirsten is about to sneak away downstairs, when Harriet speaks again.

‘I love Mummy too but please will you tell her she doesn’t need to shout? We can still hear if she uses her gentle voice.’

Kirsten closes her eyes and leans against the wall. Her child shouldn’t have to say this.

‘I can ask her, sweetie, but I don’t know if she’ll listen,’ she hears Ian say. Great, so much for spousal support.

‘You’ll have to make her listen.’

Then Ian again: ‘You’re right, sweetheart. I’ll have to make her listen. One way or another.’

Kirsten feels a little chill spread over her at the words, then shakes it off. He’s just trying to reassure their daughter. She could walk into the room, say she is persuaded, that she will use her gentle voice from now on. Ask Ian to explain what he means. But no. Gentle voice here means retreat. Don’t spoil this rare father-daughter bonding session. Retreat. Pad softly downstairs and leave them to it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

Chapter 7

MIRIAM, SEPTEMBER 2018

Miriam’s stomach rumbles. She should eat. She looks from her lesson plans to her watch: 7.30 p.m. Kiddy bedtime. Imagine them now, all the parents, tucking in their kids. If only it could be her. Brushing those strands of beautiful hair away from the little ones’ faces to make room for a kiss. Maybe another bedtime story, another lullaby. Then turn off the light, leave the room to be lit by the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

OK, they can’t all do that – look at stars. They can’t all have had the same bedroom ceiling as Miriam did. Back when things were sweet, innocent, untrammelled. How she used to stare at those stars, be soothed by them, when things were bad. They were her little bits of magic, adorning the ceiling. She’ll never see that room again.

Miriam puts down her pen and gets up from her desk (i.e. the one table her flat possesses – mean old landlord). She can’t plan anymore. First, the lesson is the most over-planned one ever. (She had the full first week planned the day after she got the job.) Second, how can she enthuse children when her empty stomach is making her maudlin? The big picture is too distracting – after all, she became a teacher so that she could one day hope to have a child of her own. The right one. The one that she could win over, slowly but surely, so that the parents sort of … fade away. Individual planning of lessons seems too trivial compared with that, even though she knows that gently, gently, little by little, is the way to win that trust.

Plus, the fridge is calling to her. She walks over to the kitchenette and opens the door. The glow illuminates the room and she realises she’s been working unlit. Terrible for the eyes and the mood. Happy thoughts, please – dream job, dream children, dream future. That’s what it’s all about.

She fishes out some noodles from the fridge, adds a bit of extra soy sauce. She contemplates the desk/table, wondering if it’s worth the effort to clear stuff away just now so she can eat. Probably not – sofa’s just as good for dining alone. She picks up the school-issued A4 picture sheet of the children she teaches, and takes that and the noodles to the sofa. Gingerly, she puts her feet up on the edge of the bucket that’s meant to be catching the drips. (Seriously – when is her so-called landlord coming over? She needs to text him again later.)

How unalike so many of the photos are to the children they’re trying to capture. Harriet, for example (of course). She looks so washed-out, so wall-eyed, and her hair dulled. In the picture, that is. In the flesh, she is so much more … nuanced. A living, breathing child, not just a mark on a bit of paper. Look at all the others. So beautiful to their parents – and not unbeautiful to Miriam, either. Or each other, as time moves on. Miriam wonders who Harriet’s little friends will be. The ones she’ll stay friends with in future, right through high school. The ones who’ll mess her life up if she lets them.

She’ll be asleep by now, probably – they all will. What will Mr and Mrs – sorry, Mr and Dr – White be doing? Hold on, maybe she doesn’t want to know! But no, maybe more likely sitting downstairs with a big glass of red wine each? Reminding each other all the ways Harriet is wonderful? Such a cosy notion of parenthood. Is it like that, being in a marriage like theirs, with the little one asleep upstairs? Or is it just tapping away at smartphones, preparing for another working day? Where Miriam’s work involves teaching Harriet, their work involves palming her off on teachers. Not that it would do for her to be home-schooled. Certainly not.

Miriam places the photo sheet carefully on the floor and exhales. Come on. Enjoy this. It’s what you’ve been working for. It’s a success! First day in a new job, no disasters, all the kids are compliant, the other staff are fine. You have your special child to make a project of. All good.

She looks up at the ceiling. No stars to gaze at here. Perhaps she could catch a shooting star out the window? Make a wish on it? Because unfortunately for Miriam, a good day isn’t enough. The anxiety never goes away. What if the kids are unhappy? What if they aren’t treated right? What if they end up … well, like her?

She needs to take her mind off this. So she does her other usual favourite/least favourite thing. She summons up Facebook on her phone and looks into other worlds. Or rather a specific world. A woman with her young daughter. A girl she’s no longer allowed to look after. Apparently Miriam’s judgement is ‘off’. But look at that girl. Such a pretty little thing, eating an ice cream, hair all done up with ribbons. Miriam would so love to be the one posting those pictures. She remembers holding the little baby, how small and precious it was, how she wanted it to be with her for her own, always. It wasn’t meant to end that way. So she’ll just have to Facebook stalk. For now.

Chapter 8

KIRSTEN, SEPTEMBER 2018

It was bound to happen.

Kirsten just wishes it hadn’t been so public. That it hadn’t been in front of Harriet.

Ian wasn’t without fault. He knows the pressure Kirsten’s under. Knows that this plus a little bit too much red wine on a school night – yes, she’s a doctor, she should know better – isn’t going to make the school run any smoother. Just don’t take the piss. Not unless you want a fight.

But yes, she knows the rest is down to her. She messed up, big time. Again. She sits down at her desk and puts her head in her hands. Someone cancelled – thank God – so she has ten minutes between appointments. She pops another ibuprofen and chases it down with some sparkling water. The hangover’s been replaced by a stress headache.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine,’ was Ian’s suggestion this morning, while Kirsten was struggling with the idea of wrenching herself out of bed.

She had to retaliate, right?

‘Maybe you should have been there to stop me, rather than doing whatever the hell you were doing.’

‘Putting our daughter to bed,’ he told her.

‘What – you do one thing, and suddenly I’m the alcoholic; you’re the caring responsible one?’

And then, of course, Ian tried to play the grown-up. Kirsten could see him counting to ten, his jaw pulsing, nostrils flaring.

‘Look,’ he said, finally. ‘Let’s both try to get home on time tonight. Cook dinner. Spend some time with Harriet. Maybe we could watch a film. Like the old days.’

Sounded nice, didn’t it? Of course it did. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it would mean allowing herself to relax. So instead, she flew off the handle.

‘These aren’t the old days, Ian. We have a child. I’m trying to set up a business. When would I have time to watch a film?’

So he muttered under his breath: ‘You don’t seem to be trying very hard.’

Come on, really? She built up that place from scratch – selected the premises, painted the walls, did all the marketing, chose the sodding cushions, for goodness’ sake! And she’s got to keep on climbing; she can’t just bail. She’s committed too much, borrowed too much from her parents – they need to be repaid in the pride of being able to send cards to their ‘Dr’ daughter.

So they got on to listing what the particular demands on their time were. Kirsten recalls they were shouting by then. That may or may not have been what woke Harriet. But either way, she was at their bedroom door just as Kirsten was yelling: ‘Of course I wish there was someone else to look after Harriet – I do not have time and you don’t have the love!’

And he nodded to the door. And there she was. Harriet. Holding a little pile of bread on one of her toy plates, perhaps meant for one of her parents. But she didn’t offer it to them; she just stood very still for a few moments then bolted, crying.

Exactly what Kirsten had promised herself she wouldn’t be like as a parent. Her mum and dad fought constantly but refused to divorce ‘for the good of the children’. She wasn’t sure how their snarky, bitter quarrels, interspersed with crockery being thrown at each other was good for anyone, particularly the children. The great lesson Kirsten learnt from them was how to retort in a fight, how never to let things drop. But Harriet deserves better. Even Ian deserves better, probably.

So of course, Kirsten flew out of bed, sort of assuming that Ian would follow. But he didn’t. Which meant it was Kirsten, going to explain to Harriet, tears in her voice, that sometimes adults say things they don’t mean when they’re angry, and that they both love her very, very much. Then she read her some books, played with some dolls – the usual. By the time they all met again on the doorstop, Kirsten had needed to resign herself to leaving home unshowered, badly dressed and carrying her make-up bag.

Then, the worst bit: Ian looked her up and down. He looked her up and down. And he said, ‘Are you going in like that?’

Bastard. Kirsten, too, was sorry she wasn’t ten years younger and couldn’t slide on some lip salve, throw on a T-shirt and be voted ‘Doctor with bedside manner of the year’. Sorry that looking professional and suitable for the outside world took time.

What she should have done was ask him to look after Harriet for ten minutes while she went and made herself look a bit better.

What she actually did was hit him over the head with her make-up bag.

Forgot, again, about Harriet. Got caught in the cycle of anger. And forgot, too, that foundation bottles are made of glass. So they create quite an impact. Though he was really over-egging it when he stumbled and leant on the car for support. Kirsten, of all people, knows concussion when she sees it – and that wasn’t it.

But Yvette from next door didn’t necessarily know. Which is presumably why she came rushing towards them, remote-locking her white Audi as she did so.

‘Oh, Ian,’ she cooed, face all covered in concern. ‘I saw everything. Are you OK?’ Her hand on his arm, helping him up. A glance at Kirsten, like she was the devil.

‘We’ve got it covered,’ Kirsten told her. ‘It’s been a busy morning. But in my medical opinion, he’s fine.’

She saw Ian gently trying to manipulate his arm out of Yvette’s grasp. ‘Honestly, Yvette, it’s OK. I’d better be driving off,’ he said. ‘My class won’t wait.’

But Yvette wasn’t having it.

‘Oh, you can’t possibly drive after that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Kirsten will have to drive you.’

‘Kirsten is very busy,’ Kirsten said drily. ‘She has to drive her daughter to school and then go to work.’ Christ, she was thinking. Come on, Yvette, just give us some private family time, OK? Stop interfering. Maybe she was good-natured, but a good-natured busybody is still a busybody.

Kirsten turned to Harriet. ‘Come on, sweetie, let’s get you to school, hey? Sorry about this.’

She tried to hug Harriet to her in order to make the point, but Harriet refused to budge. Hugging her teddy bear seemed to be enough for her. Frankly, Kirsten felt the same – give her a day on the pavement hugging a soft toy over this mess.

Yvette then came out at her fake best. ‘Oh, of course, I quite understand. You are so busy. I don’t know how you do it. Let me drop Ian off then.’

‘But it’s miles out of your way!’ said Ian. ‘You can’t possibly do that. I’ll get a cab if you’re that worried.’

‘I was actually heading over your way to see someone about upholstery – so it’s right on track. Come on, hop in,’ she said, gesturing to the Audi. ‘And I can bring you home again too!’

Yvette has some kind of pretend job Kirsten has never understood. Interior design brokering services or something. It basically means everyone else does the work and Yvette is mentioned in lots of magazines, which she reads out to people over coffee.

‘Yvette, you know that’s unnecessary,’ Kirsten told her, voice low. But Ian was already walking (unsteadily) to the car. ‘Ian, tell her it’s fine,’ she pleaded with him. They’d squabbled, sure, but it was their marriage, right?

Yvette turned to Kirsten, allowing herself a little smile. ‘I know lots of things, Kirsten. Let me be the judge of what’s necessary.’

Her words chill Kirsten, even thinking back over them again now. I know lots of things, Kirsten. What did she mean by that? She’d moved in just after Harriet came along. Bought the house through a private sale, friend of a friend of their previous neighbour. Who, if Kirsten isn’t mistaken, didn’t know anything about what mattered.

‘Ian!’ Kirsten called to him. ‘I’m sorry, OK? We’ll talk this evening.’ She tried to muster up some tenderness that she didn’t feel. Never start the day in the middle of an argument, right? But he wouldn’t even look at her. She could feel her eyes tearing up – life was not meant to be like this, her marriage was not meant to turn into this – so she had to turn her attention back to Harriet.

She tried to persuade her into the Lexus with as little fuss as possible.

‘Let’s see if I’ve got any mini-cheddars, hey?’ Kirsten asked her, in her best sing-song voice.

Harriet looked momentarily interested. Kirsten rifled round in her handbag and found a rustling packet.

‘Ooh, ooh, this sounds promising!’ Kirsten said, hoping it wasn’t sanitary wear. She pulled out her spoils. Oh. Crisps. Not even kiddy ones – those posh Kettle Chip things, an emergency snack. ‘Oh sorry, sweetie, it’s not mini-cheddars. You can’t have these.’

But of course, Harriet reached out her hand. Kirsten gave her the crisps, and stooped down to wipe away her tears. Harriet wriggled her face away.

‘You’ll understand one day,’ Kirsten told her.

But Kirsten hoped she wouldn’t. She hoped Harriet would always be innocent. As innocent as she could be, anyway, considering.

They had the same problem getting into school. After a difficult car journey, Harriet was on strike. Once they arrived, Kirsten had to sit next to her in the back, reading her a story. Then sit on the pavement and coax her out with the bribe of chocolate for supper (hoping she’d have forgotten by then). Thankfully, Kirsten didn’t think any of the parents heard. Although, when she turned back to face the school, she saw Harriet’s new teacher standing there. She didn’t know what the teacher saw, but it couldn’t have been the worst. Kirsten waved to her, made a little grimace, but the teacher went back into the building. Harriet, suddenly willing again, ran after her and was gone before Kirsten even had time to kiss her on the head.

Suddenly Kirsten was alone, the surreal, chaotic whirlwind of the morning finally over. Until she looked at her watch and saw her first patient would be there in fifteen minutes.

And so it has been, non-stop, until this break that is nearly over.

At times Kirsten secretly wishes she could have nothing more to do with Ian and Harriet. That she could just not get the weekly shop in, which she does so that Ian and Harriet are always well supplied with their favourite foods. Not sort out paying the bills, so they continue to have a warm, light home. Not read the books at bedtime with Harriet, then listen to Ian de-stressing from his day. Not have to do the school run. Just walk away.

But of course, she never would. Because she loves Harriet too much to do anything like that to her. And Ian too. Of course she does. It’s just that – how is this her life now? How is it that, however hard she tries, she can’t get everything right? She doesn’t mean ‘anything’ – if she just had to get one thing right a day, that would fine. But to get it all right? Too much to ask.

Time was, she would have called her best friend and fellow former med student turned psychiatrist, Clare. They’d meet for a glass of wine, or if that was too difficult, they’d just chat on the phone while drinking their own. But she couldn’t do that anymore. It wasn’t that they’d drifted or got new best friends. Their friendship had become … compromised.

Chapter 9

BECKY, 1 AUGUST 2012

Day one of the summer school. Everyone is congregated in the hall for a warm-up. It’s not Becky’s school; it’s a posher, bigger one. This is called the Main Hall, as though there are other ones. At the stage end, sitting with their legs swinging off the edge, are the cool girls. Caitlin is there in cut-off denim shorts, of course. She’s not the only one. Maybe there was a message – this is what we’re wearing today. Except Becky wasn’t on the thread.

She waves at Caitlin, expecting Caitlin to beckon her over. But no – she just gives a dismissive wave and carries on talking to Gwen Collins. Of course she does. They can flick their long blonde hair around together and share candy-cane lip gloss. Subtle? No. Effective? Probably.

Instead, Becky ties her cardigan round the waist of her (long) denim dungarees and waits for the session to start. No sign of Andy.

But then, a tap on the shoulder.

‘Hey,’ says a voice behind her.

It’s him. Andy. A little thrill caresses her spine as she turns to face him.

‘Hey,’ she says back.

‘So, you feeling all luvvie, then?’ he asks her.

Is this flirting? she wonders. If so, then maybe she should half-flirt back. You know, just in case he isn’t, but maybe he is.

‘I could—’ she starts.

But whatever her comeback was going to be, it’s cut off by the authoritarian clapping of hands at the front of the room.

‘Right, let’s make a start, shall we?’ It’s a man, casually dressed in a black top and black jeans. He’s in shape. His clothes fit well and he looks like a bona fide actor. Except then he introduces himself as a teacher.

‘I’ll be leading the course,’ he says. ‘First off, I want you to warm up your bodies and voices. Make space – reach out so your arm span is wide enough for you to just avoid touching fingertips with the person next to you.’

Andy and Becky reach out their arms. They manage to just not avoid touching fingertips, and Andy gives Becky a little smile as they both hold their pose. Becky looks down modestly at the floor. When she looks up, Caitlin is magically by her side, with Gwen. Looks like she wants to play the same game with Andy. Becky moves over. After all, the long legs and short shorts are bound to get Andy’s attention eventually.

But Andy leans in close to Becky, certainly not regulation distance away.

‘If they want us to be in pairs, we’re a couple,’ he whispers.

She smiles. Her lips may not be coated in candy gloss, but she hopes she makes up for it in genuine emotion.

‘OK,’ she whispers back.

Andy stays by her side through the warm-up exercises, until the leader announces they should sit down and take a break. Becky sits, hugging her knees to her chest. Andy, Caitlin and Gwen sit next to her. Becky notices some sweat darkening the underarms of Andy’s maroon T-shirt (and also, to her satisfaction, those of Gwen’s bubble-gum pink one).

‘So, you’ll all be wondering what performance we’re working up to this week. Well, we’re going classic musical.’ He waits to allow muted cheers/boos to subside. ‘I want a medley of Rodgers and Hammerstein – I’ve selected scenes from South Pacific, Oklahoma, a couple of others. There’s enough there to give you an intro to song, dance and some serious acting as well. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be doing auditions for those of you who want principal parts. The rest of you are very welcome to the chorus roles – but I’ll still be divvying up some lines of the score for all of you. Sound fair?’

Some nods.

Becky doesn’t nod or shake. She would rather just hide in a maths textbook. What was she doing signing up to this? The idea of singing in front of everyone – Andy, Gwen, Caitlin, and all the thirty or so others is mortifying.

‘Eurgh,’ she says, just as Gwen says loudly, ‘Well, I’ll be the girl who just can’t say no, then.’ Gwen then laughs loudly.

Becky looks at her blankly.

‘It’s a reference to Oklahoma,’ Andy whispers to her. ‘I hope.’

‘Right, got you. Thanks,’ Becky replies, grateful but embarrassed not to have known. What is she doing here?

‘You auditioning then, Bex?’ Caitlin asks.

‘Um, that would be a no,’ Becky replies.

‘Oh go on, you must!’ Caitlin says.

Andy looks at Becky. ‘Go on. You’ve got a sweet voice, I bet you do. And you’re pretty. They’ll give you a part.’

Becky shakes her head. ‘Really, no – I’m the back-of-the-chorus-line girl. No way am I singing in front and centre.’

‘I will if you will,’ Andy says.

Gwen starts making chicken noises. ‘Scaredy-cat,’ she says.

Becky figures this probably isn’t the time to be pointing out mixed metaphors.

Just then, the teacher comes round. ‘Hi again, Caitlin,’ he says. ‘Nice to see you back this year.’

Caitlin preens.

‘You kids all auditioning then?’ he asks.

‘You bet!’ say Caitlin and Gwen.

Andy says, ‘I’m only auditioning if this lady next to me does too,’ nodding in Becky’s direction.

Becky could kick Andy. This is not her scene. She’s only here because of … him.

The leader looks at them both, then round the room.

‘Ah, come on, then – both of you should. We’ve got way more girls than guys here, and I need some male talent. Don’t stand in the way of my dream – what’s your name?’

‘Becky,’ says Becky.

‘Right, Becky, you’re up first tomorrow morning.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. And this young gentleman is going straight after you, so he can’t break his word.’

And away walks the leader.

Becky looks to Caitlin for some sympathy. She must know how hideous this is for her. But Caitlin has got her arm linked through Gwen’s and is whispering something in her ear. So much for best friends for ever.

Chapter 10

MIRIAM, SEPTEMBER 2018

Later that week, Harriet doesn’t arrive in Kirsten’s car.

Or her daddy’s car.

She’s in a white Audi.

No grown-ups get out – just Harriet. Bundled onto the sidewalk.

Miriam moves away from the window.

It’s no way to treat a child. Not how she would treat her own, if the day ever came that she was the one doing drop-off and pick-up.

Miriam’s preparing for the day’s lessons. One of the kids in the class has a new foster sister – from Syria. Maya. Doesn’t talk much, by all accounts. Hardly surprising, if you think what the little thing must have been through, and now separated by so many miles from her parents. Anyway, they’re building up to the little girl hopefully visiting the class, when she’s ready. Miriam wants to give the girl a chance to meet what would be her peers, in a welcoming environment. Maybe help her flourish in her new country. Show the kids that she, Ms Robertson, can provide a place of sanctuary.

She has to make sure first that the kids will provide a proper welcome, make sure they understand the context – in a way that is kiddy-appropriate. Today, they’re looking at journeys – over the sea, in crowded boats. Nothing scary. Nothing real. They’re far too young to lose their own innocence as well. Just enough for them maybe to understand, a little bit, when the little girl arrives.

So now, Miriam is preparing the vessels. Crêpe paper sails, cardboard hulls. Everything has to start somewhere, right? Cut, cut, snip, snip, make them pretty. Bright and cheerful for happy thoughts.

Why was the white car dropping Harriet off? Why wasn’t she with Kirsten?

Snip, snip, keep going. Miriam reminds herself she’s not a social services detective. She just provides safe harbour for refugees.

Her phone buzzes with a message. Can you give us a hand downstairs? Mrs McGee, the deputy head. Fine. Sorry, boats. Maybe the kids will hoist your sails instead.

She heads downstairs.

What’s happening?

There’s a swarm of children gathered around one child. Miriam hears sounds of crying.

‘What’s going on?’ she mouths to Mrs McGee.

But then the circle clears, and she sees who’s at the centre. Harriet. And another little girl. Izzie.

Izzie is clutching her hand and leaning against Mrs McGee in tears. Harriet is trying to move out of the circle, but the other kids aren’t letting her.

‘What’s going on?’ Miriam asks again, this time loudly.

‘She broke Izzie’s finger!’ one of the girls around Izzie shouts out. There’s an accusing point towards the she. It’s Harriet.

Miriam moves to the girls and bends to their level.

‘Harriet, what’s going on?’ she asks.

‘I’ve got this,’ says Mrs McGee. ‘Can you just focus on registering the other children? The TA will be back in a minute. She went to get a bandage.’

‘Harriet, did you hurt this little girl?’ Miriam asks.

‘Seriously, Ms Robertson, I have this – go and see to the other children.’

Miriam doesn’t have much of a choice, so she does what she’s told. As she walks away, she hears Mrs McGee saying to Harriet: ‘You’re a very naughty little girl, and we’ll have to tell your mummy and daddy about this.’

Miriam’s eyes fill with tears. Look at the wider issue! It’s so rarely the kid in the centre of it that’s the problem. Who was around her? Who was egging her on? Was it a dare, a bet?

Come on – you know you want to! One little sip, you’ll be fine. Everyone else is.

Miriam shakes her head. This isn’t about her. It’s about Harriet. The same day she arrives in a different car, she’s apparently violently molesting her peers. Has Mrs McGee not read any of the case studies on how to spot unhappy children? Worse: at-risk children. Or problem parents?

A little clammy hand forces itself into Miriam’s. Miriam looks down into the heavily bespectacled face of one of the kids in her class. Little Winnie the Pooh plaster on the glasses frames. Sweet, vulnerable, but not who she wants to be looking after.

‘What can I do for you, Wendy?’ she asks. Reluctantly, Miriam gives her the appearance of her full attention. She’s still trying to listen out for the Izzie–Harriet scene but it’s hard with all the noise going on.

‘I’m a little teapot!’ Wendy announces.

‘Are you? That’s nice,’ Miriam tells her, craning her head to see over to Mrs McGee and her Victorian ideas of Naughtiness.

‘No!’ says the child so sternly that Miriam has to look at her. ‘Sing I’m a little teapot!’

Then all the others begin clamouring for it too.

So there we are. By popular request, Miriam is soon tipping up and pouring out (here’s my handle, here’s my spout). All the others are joining in too. She feels like Mary Poppins, and she sees Mrs McGee shoot her a look of gratitude.

Miriam catches sight of Harriet fiddling with her fingers and staring at the floor. Everyone’s been so interested in Izzie’s tears – have they been interested in hers?

But the bell goes for morning lessons, so that’s not allowed to be Miriam’s concern. The children in her class are suitably responsive to the boat theme. They are incredulous when she suggests how many people might fit in the boats. One gives a little whimper when she says that yes, mummies and children, or sometimes just children, will be in them. So Miriam backtracks. Makes it just about the boats again – bobbing over the waves, whee! Isn’t it fun!

Some of the boats get eyes drawn on. Some get mascots. It’s all very civilised. Poor invisible Maya. Her boat probably had neither eyes nor mascots. Just the unrelenting beat of the sea.

While they are in mid glue and stick mode, the door opens, and Izzie walks in. Her hand is flamboyantly taped up, and she is holding it aloft.

Boats forgotten, everyone crowds round Izzie.

‘Are you OK? Does it hurt? Can we see?’

Miriam does her teacher bit, tells them to sit down and do their work. It has limited effect, so she goes over and joins in.

‘What exactly happened, Izzie?’ she asks her.

‘I was doing beads with Karen, and Harriet came over and said could she play, but it was a private game, so I said no, and she still wanted to play, so I said no again, and then she tried to grab one of the beads from me really hard and hurt my finger deliberately on purpose. It’s very serious.’

‘Would it not have been nice to let Harriet play with you? I’m sure there must have been enough beads to go round?’ Miriam asks Izzie.

Izzie stares at Miriam as if Miriam has missed the point. Miriam sees her lower lip pucker. Oh dear. She’s about to start reliving her moments of glory with Mrs McGee all over again.

‘Don’t worry,’ Miriam tells her. ‘Those bandages will do a great job, I’m sure. You’ll be playing beads again in no time!’

‘Not with Harriet,’ she says.

‘Let’s see – I’m sure you can be friends again,’ Miriam says.

‘We were never friends in the first place.’

Why did you let those girls talk you into it? They aren’t even your real friends!

A memory of her mother flies in, unwelcome. This is not the moment.

Get into the moment. Boats.

Soon enough, the classroom gets its buzz back. Miriam mutters her excuses to the TA and slips out of the classroom.

She needs to know what has become of the other little girl in her care.

* * *

Miriam finds Harriet siting in the corridor outside the head’s office. Another Victorian approach. Harriet’s just waiting there, staring at her hands. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe she’s meant to be reflecting on what she’s done.

‘Hey, Harriet,’ Miriam says gently. She wants Harriet to see her as a confidante, a friend. They can build things up from there.

Harriet looks up, but doesn’t say anything.

‘You doing OK?’ Miriam asks her.

She shrugs.

Miriam sits down next to her. ‘I know you didn’t mean to hurt Izzie,’ she tells her.

‘Yes, I did,’ Harriet says.

Right. OK.

‘Why’s that, then?’ Miriam asks.

‘Daddy said if someone doesn’t give you what they want, you have to twist their arm until you get it. But it was her fingers that had the beads in, so I twisted them.’

‘Why did you want the beads so badly?’ Miriam asks. She doesn’t want to get into the Daddy issues today. That sounds like a separate conversation.

Harriet shrugs again. ‘They were pretty. I thought there were enough for all of us. And I couldn’t bring my own toys today.’

‘Why’s that?’ Miriam asks.

‘Mummy and Daddy were not able to bring me to school today because sometimes they have to work very hard. Auntie Yvette drove me very safely in her car.’

Miriam wrinkles up her nose, trying to pick between the obviously parent-schooled phrases.

‘Are Aunty Yvette and Mummy and Daddy kind to you?’ Miriam questions.

‘They don’t let me have beads either,’ she tells her.

Miriam nods. ‘Sometimes grown-ups are mean,’ she agrees. Harriet gives her a shadow of a grin. Good. They’re getting somewhere.

Miriam stands up. ‘Give me a moment,’ she tells her. Miriam’s about to knock on the head’s door, but she stops. She bends down to Harriet again.

‘Harriet, do Mummy or Daddy, or Auntie Yvette, ever do anything that makes you unhappy?’ she asks.

Harriet shrugs, avoiding Miriam’s gaze.

‘Harriet?’ Miriam asks again.

Very slowly, she looks up at Miriam.

‘Yes,’ she says.

It’s all Miriam needs.

Chapter 11

KIRSTEN, SEPTEMBER 2018

Sometimes all it takes is for someone to ask you a question.

A question it should be easy to answer.

A question like: ‘How do you think things are going?’

It all comes out.

Or it doesn’t. That’s the test.

Kirsten realises she’s failing it when she hears herself saying to Harriet’s headmistress ‘… and then her father just won’t come home on time – or do anything around the house. And I want to keep the family together, for Harriet, because I didn’t have that, but sometimes it’s just so hard, you know?’

Harriet’s headmistress looks at her sympathetically (at least, Kirsten hopes it is sympathy).

Kirsten clears her throat. ‘What I mean is, we’re all a bit busy, aren’t we?’

The headmistress nods. ‘But we have to prioritise our children, don’t we?’

Yes, yes of course they do. Even though Kirsten will have lost, what, about a grand because of today’s antics? That’s just direct costs. And then more in reputational costs – people let down at the last minute, who will spread toxicity about the practice. No more custom, no chance of getting a partner. Maybe all because Ian was trying to make a concession to her, getting Yvette to drive Harriet in, unsettling Harriet.

But sure, whatever the antics, you always have to put your children first. No one seems to understand that if you put them second for a bit, it’s because you’re trying to earn enough to put their food on the table and shoes on their feet, and keep a roof attached to a gargantuan mortgage over their heads. No one apart from Kirsten.

‘You mustn’t let Harriet pick up on whatever … difficulties there are at home,’ the headmistress says.

‘Ian and I love Harriet very much,’ Kirsten says. ‘We don’t let anything get in the way of that.’

Listening to herself, even she is unconvinced. She hugs her thoughts of Harriet to her, holds them tight, kisses them. She feels tears forming, tries to blink them back. It’s not just about Harriet; it’s the thought of having had to run out of the surgery, again. Putting Harriet first always seems to create a conflict.

Perhaps she can send her back to class, rather than take her home? Maybe she doesn’t need to cancel all the afternoon’s appointments, can still rescue the afternoon? She flicks a glance at the clock.

‘What lessons does she have this afternoon? Ones she’ll be happy in?’ she asks.

The head answers, ‘I’m sure Ms Robertson has got some lovely plans for them.’

Yes, Ms Robertson. She seems nice.

‘Great, well, perhaps I don’t need to take her home, perhaps she can still go to those?’ Kirsten says, trying to sound bright.

The headmistress frowns. ‘I’m not sure, in the circumstances …’

‘It’s a little playground tiff; let’s not over-egg it.’

Kirsten regrets her words immediately. She can see the woman drawing herself up.

‘Listen,’ Kirsten says, before the head can speak. ‘How about Harriet goes to Ms Robertson’s lessons this afternoon, and then we see what measures we can put in place?’

While the head’s busy ushering Harriet to her classes, Kirsten can call Jess, tell her they might still have a chance for the 1 p.m. appointments.

The headmistress sighs her assent. Kirsten follows her outside the room, where Harriet is waiting, and she tries for a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. At first, Harriet doesn’t respond, but then she flings her arms round Kirsten, and buries her head into her legs for a long hug. It breaks Kirsten’s heart to tear her away. Maybe she could just take her to the surgery with her now?

But no. That’s no way to run a business. Or to parent. Is it?

‘I’ll see you later, sweetie,’ Kirsten tells her. The headmistress prises Harriet’s hand away. As they go off together, Kirsten notices Harriet’s socks don’t match. They’re both white, but one has a frill, one doesn’t.

Kirsten waits in the headmistress’s office. She doesn’t call Jess immediately. Instead, she gives in to the tears. What is she doing? How has she misconfigured things so much that her little daughter, at what is meant to be such a beautiful age, is turning to violence? If Kirsten can’t even manage to dress her properly in the morning, is it any wonder? Is Kirsten even present when she’s with her? Does she need to phone Clare, get some sessions, some pills? No. No, don’t phone Clare more than needed. Not these days. Keep the distance, keep her sweet. Kirsten will have to prescribe herself something, maybe. But what? Mothering instinct? Magical hugs?

Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe when Harriet’s older, and Ian and Kirsten are hopefully still together, and have cash for everything Harriet wants, maybe Kirsten will still look back and cherish this stage. Because as people keep telling her, your kids are only this young once.

Kirsten blows out her cheeks, still regrouping.

And then, of course, Jess phones her.

‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to answer,’ Jess says. ‘I was going to leave a message. Everything OK?’

‘Yep, fine,’ Kirsten says, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

‘Right,’ Jess says. Jess is remembering, Kirsten is sure, how she ran out of the office in a flap, past the patients in the waiting room, shouting that she had to go to her daughter’s school for an emergency. ‘Anyway, that’s good, because people are complaining up a storm here.’ Jess lowers her voice. ‘One patient is refusing to leave. Says she was guaranteed an appointment. They go on holiday tomorrow, and if she doesn’t have her coil fitted today she says she’ll sue us for the inconvenience.’

‘Christ’s sake, can’t she just use a condom?’ Kirsten mutters.

‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that – what did you want me to tell her?’ Jess asks.

‘Nothing, nothing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Good, because I’ve just seen a comment up on the website – someone complaining you’re unreliable. I mean, we’re unreliable – the practice.’

But of course she means me, Kirsten thinks. I’m unreliable.

The tears threaten to return.

‘Don’t worry, I’m coming back.’

Kirsten gathers up her things. She’ll leave a little note for the headmistress, say she’ll make an appointment – work emergency, very sorry.

The headmistress walks in just as Kirsten is rummaging round the desk for a Post-it.

‘Mrs McGee, I’m going to have to run – everything’s kicking off at work, and …’

She’s met with a stony stare.

You don’t get it! Kirsten wants to scream. I’m just trying to be good!

But instead, Kirsten half sits, half stands, at the chair by Mrs McGee’s desk.

‘Ms Robertson had some suggestions to make,’ the head says. The tone is chilly, different somehow to when they last spoke. ‘And I think they might help you out. How does a breakfast club sound to you? And some casual extra after-school lessons – to help Harriet with these behavioural issues?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Kirsten says. She wants to shout that Harriet doesn’t have behavioural issues. But the clock won’t stop ticking.

‘Ms Robertson also had one slightly more … controversial … suggestion. A child psychologist? She thinks psychologists can have a really powerful effect – work wonders.’

Christ, the irony … Kirsten knows full well what wonders they can work. It’s why her sister still won’t speak to her.

But no. This is going too far.

‘Tell Ms Robertson I appreciate her concern, but I don’t think we’re at that stage yet. My daughter just wanted to play with another girl’s toy. And she’s only just five. She doesn’t need a shrink.’

‘Research suggests—’

But Kirsten cuts her off. ‘No, Mrs McGee. I’m sorry. I have to get back to work.’

You can see the disappointment lines on Mrs McGee’s face – little pinches round the corners of her mouth, a special line amongst the crow’s feet round her eyes.

Kirsten draws herself up and remembers suddenly the power of being a working mum. She knows how to pull rank.

‘I have emergency patients waiting for me. If there are any additional fees for these clubs, over and above what we already pay you, then of course we can pay. Now I really must go.’

And of course, at the mention of emergency patients, of fees, Kirsten sees Mrs McGee remember Kirsten’s place in society outside these walls. That this matters too.

‘Yes, of course,’ the head says. ‘I’ll see you at parents’ evening in a couple of weeks and we can catch up then.’

Maybe Kirsten actually flinches. She must do something, because the head follows up by saying, ‘There’ll be an email reminder coming out soon.’

But Kirsten doesn’t acknowledge she’s forgotten about parents’ evening. She just goes. And then, finally, she’s on the way to the clinic. Stress levels rocketing. In the olden days, she’d have called Ian, calmed down that way. Now she relieves her stress by channelling it into anger towards him, practising the argument she knows they’ll have later on. Not just about this.

Because this is all his fault. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t be where they now find themselves. They wouldn’t have to rely on Kirsten trying to be in two places at once. Or on Ms Robertson’s breakfast clubs. But thank God they will now have those. Because they can only be a change for the better.

Chapter 12

BECKY, 2 AUGUST 2012

Becky can’t find Andy at breakfast. She can’t find Caitlin either. So she heads to the audition room, thinking maybe Andy will be there too.

But no. It’s just the course leader.

‘Hey, you made it!’ he says.

She shrugs, clutching the brand new Music Theatre Compilation book her mother bought her. It’s medium voice because that seemed to Becky to translate into ‘average’. Sopranos were special. Before she grew up and became a boring mum, her eldest sister had been soprano in the choir at school. Voice of an angel. So pretty. Et cetera.

‘Where’s the male talent – Andy, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I figured he might be here.’

‘OK, well, let’s give him a minute. Are you warmed up yet?’

She shakes her head.

The teacher gives her a look of mock disapproval. ‘You must always warm up. Protect those vocal folds.’

He takes her through some exercises. They have to bend down low, swing their arms around as their heads nearly touch the floor. Becky becomes conscious her bra is on show – not a cleavage enhancer, just one that makes her breasts look flat and squat. She tries to pull her top back into place, unsuccessfully. The teacher seems not to notice. He is just saying, in calm, steady tones: ‘Now, wind yourself back up, vertebrae by vertebrae.’

She does as she is told.

‘Relax your neck. Set it squarely on your shoulders, then rock it gently from side to side.’

She does as he says.

‘Now stretch right up. Come on, hands up, stretch out your fingers!’

Again, Becky does what he says. This time, it’s her belly that’s exposed, her top riding up. Please let there be no flab hanging over my waistline, she thinks, as she stretches extra hard to make her tummy as taut as it will ever be. The teacher seems to be having the same problem – even his big baggy top isn’t long enough for this exercise. It rides up, revealing the dark grey waistband of some Calvins under his black jeans. She catches a glimpse of tummy flesh too, covered in black hairs. They look soft, masculine. She realises she is staring and looks away.

That’s when she sees Andy and Caitlin in the doorway. Andy is looking between them both, while Caitlin whispers, giggling, in his ear.

Becky drops her arms down, and pulls her top back over her midriff, crossing her arms over her waist. She sees the teacher follow her gaze, and he changes his posture too. Except he is relaxed, welcoming.

‘Ah, Andy – you made it!’

‘Yup,’ Andy says, noncommittal. Where’s the enthusiasm of the previous day?

‘We were just warming up,’ Becky says, feeling an explanation is needed.

‘Are you warmed up?’ the teacher asks Andy.

‘Yeah, I’m good – thanks.’

‘I could do with a warm-up,’ Caitlin coos. ‘I just feel really … tight, you know?’

Becky stares at Caitlin. Is she flirting with the teacher?

There’s a beat.

‘Let’s do some arpeggios and jazz hands, then!’ says the teacher, brightly. ‘Loosen everyone up. Ready?’

So off they go. No one comments on the fact that Andy and Becky’s audition seems to have become Andy and Caitlin’s personal training session. Becky stands at the back, watching Caitlin show off her hair, her legs, her voice. Andy sings pretty well, but he’s not a drama queen – just quietly capable. It’s one of the things she likes about him. Liked. She doesn’t understand where she stands this morning.

The teacher gets them to sing back some song lines to him, as a group, then individually. Becky tries, but her voice is reedy and weak. She peters out on the high notes, and the low ones suddenly come out too strong.

But it doesn’t mean Caitlin needs to giggle.

The teacher seems to think so too. He shoots Caitlin a dirty look.

‘Everyone’s just trying their best here – it’s not competitive,’ he says.

Caitlin smirks. ‘Even though some people are better than others.’ She sticks out her chest. Caitlin, Becky notices, is wearing a cleavage-enhancing bra. But the teacher doesn’t look in that direction at all. His gaze remains firmly at eye level.

‘Some people may be naturally gifted, but this summer school is for everyone. I’ll let you know later what parts you’ve got, if any.’

Becky doesn’t know why, but she suspects she might end up with a bigger part than Caitlin. She hopes she doesn’t.

Andy makes to leave, and Becky quickens her pace to follow him.

‘Hey,’ she says.

But before he can reply, the teacher calls her back.

‘Becky, can I have a moment?’

Reluctantly, Becky holds back. She sees Caitlin and Andy exchange a meaningful glance. Becky doesn’t know the meaning, but Andy looks sad.

Becky stands in front of the teacher, arms folded round her music.

‘Becky, are you OK with being on this course?’ the teacher asks her. ‘I don’t want anyone to feel like they’re being tortured.’

Becky shrugs.

‘Come on, I mean it. I’ll give you a part in the show because, well, everyone’s paid up and it’s meant to be fun. But I don’t want it to stress you out.’

Becky debates whether to have the long conversation or the short one. She wants to follow Andy, find out where the connection went overnight. She’ll go for the short one.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ she says. ‘See you later.’

‘OK, if you’re sure. Take care of yourself, OK?’

The teacher gives her the briefest of touches on the shoulder. She’s surprised it makes her spine tingle. Suddenly, she wishes she’d gone for the longer conversation. But it’s too late. Already, she’s headed towards the door, Andy in her sights.

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