School Run (17 page)

She pulled up outside the house and headed straight for the garage to find Charlie’s drill. It wasn’t there, although nearly every other piece of DIY equipment was present. She’d have to go next door to borrow one.

Her neighbour, a kindly man in his late sixties, took ages to find his. ‘Must be here somewhere. Ah, yes, thought so.’

He produced it with a grin. ‘Under the stairs. Never use it myself. Goodness, Charlie’s lucky to have a handy wife – and a pretty one.’

‘Thanks. Sorry I can’t stay but I’ve got to dash.’

Her neighbour had nodded understandingly. ‘I know. You young ones, always rushing around. My daughter’s the same. Hardly see her.’

Harriet took the drill and escaped. She wasn’t going to get into another guilt trip about her father. He had left her mother and had only himself to blame. She was going to concentrate on getting the house ready for Charlie.

Standing on a chair, she tried to remember how her husband did it. First she needed to drill a hole into which to push the Rawl-plug. Then she had to lift the cabinet (just possible if she balanced one side on the basin) and twist in the screw. Simple.

She plugged in the drill and pressed the button. Nothing. She pressed again. Still nothing.

How was she ever going to cope if she couldn’t even do something as simple as turning on the drill? And now the bloody doorbell was ringing.

‘What?’ she yelled out of the window.

Her elderly neighbour was standing below. ‘I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong drill, dear. That one doesn’t work. It’s why it was under the stairs.’ He waved another at her triumphantly. ‘You need this one. It’s a real corker. My daughter gave it to me for Christmas. Shall I come up? The door’s open.’

Thank heavens! ‘Yes, please.’

He brought it up to her. ‘Can I do it for you?’

‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll do it myself.’

Harriet plugged in the drill, held it against the mark she’d made on the wall and pressed the button. There was a loud roaring noise and red plaster dust flew everywhere. She wasn’t hopeless. It had been the drill, not her.

‘You’re not going to lift that cabinet on to the wall on your own, are you, dear? If you don’t mind me saying so, that really is a two-man job.’

Harriet eyed it. ‘Sure you don’t mind?’

Her neighbour smiled. ‘My dear, it’s a pleasure to be needed.’

After that, she had to make him a cup of tea, cut a slice of home-made Victoria sponge and listen to his warblings about the daughter in France who always had him over in the summer. Eventually, she explained about her hair appointment and made it to the salon just in time.

After the drill scene, it was a relief to sit still for a while.

Highlights always took ages but she had booked a manicure as well.

‘Going somewhere special, then?’ asked the girl, as she buffed Harriet’s nails while another girl wrapped her hair in foil.

‘Not really. I just felt my nails needed doing.’ Harriet hesitated. ‘My husband’s coming back tomorrow after a business trip.’

‘Ah, that’s sweet. You want to look nice for him, then.’

‘I suppose so.’

For a ridiculous second, Harriet felt like a bride on her wedding day. No, that was stupid. She and Charlie had had all that. Now they had to face some hard home truths. The hair was just a form of self-protection: she wanted to look good – or at least as good as any other woman Charlie might have come across.

‘That’s lovely,’ she told the girl, when she’d finished blow drying it.

‘Glad you like it. Do you want some spray to keep it in place?’

‘Just a bit. Actually, I must dash or I’m going to be late for the children.’ She pressed a pound into the girl’s hand. ‘Thanks very much.’ She should have given her more but she’d run out of cash. If she was quick, she could nip to the bank before Pippa brought the children back. But first she needed the chemist. While she had been flicking through a magazine at the hairdresser’s, she’d spotted an advert for a tampon-like device that strengthened the pelvic floor. Worth trying, especially if Charlie was coming home.

Harriet blushed as she scanned the shelves. ‘Excuse me, I’m trying to find something called Aqualift,’ she said shyly, to one of the assistants.

‘Over there, on the pregnancy-products aisle,’ said the girl, loudly.

Harriet looked round, worried that someone she knew might be about. Pregnancy products? That hadn’t been there when she was expecting. Still, here it was – and there was a shelf full of Aqualifts, indicating a needy market. Harriet examined the pretty blue box curiously. It looked like one of Kate’s Polly Pocket toys from when she was younger but inside there was a white plastic cone. According to the instructions, you added small metal weights to it to strengthen your inside.

Harriet paid at the counter, then headed to the bank. The queue, as usual, was horrendous but she couldn’t remember her pin number which had changed last week. That ruled out the hole in the wall. Why were there only ever two cashiers? To pass the time, she read most of the leaflets on the stand.
Saving Up for a Baby
.
Saving Up for Your Wedding Day
. There should be
Saving Up For Your Divorce or Uncertain Future
, she thought. Now, that would be really useful.

Finally, it was her turn. Harriet pushed across her credit card. ‘A hundred pounds please. In tens.’

‘I just need to check your balance,’ said the girl.

Harriet sighed. She came here every week and the bank knew perfectly well they were good customers. Charlie earned an extremely respectable salary, although during his absence he had suggested she had a separate housekeeping account to make it ‘easier’. He would, he promised, pay part of his salary into it. Harriet had been surprised but with the upheaval surrounding his departure, it hadn’t seemed significant. Since then, though, she’d noticed that the staff’s attitude to her at the bank had been less friendly; almost as if she was a less important customer now that she had a separate account from her high-earning husband.

‘I’m afraid we can’t give you the money,’ said the girl, pushing a piece of paper towards her. ‘You’re already overdrawn and extra money will take you above the agreed overdraft.’

‘But I can’t be. My husband was paying in some money this week.’

‘I’m sorry. If you would like to see the manager, you can join the queue over there.’

Mortified by how much the people behind her could hear (why didn’t banks have a private room any more for this kind of thing?), Harriet took the piece of paper, screwed it up and walked out. Why hadn’t Charlie paid in the money? A cold shudder went through her as she realised that this was what it would be like if she was on her own: she would be worrying constantly about her outgoings. She hadn’t been used to this – and it wasn’t fair. She would tell Charlie so. Enough was enough.

17

EVIE

‘There have been unconfirmed reports of gunfire at the school in Ohio where a schoolboy is holding his classmates hostage . . .’

Why was the news always so depressing? Evie slid a CD into the slot. Ella Fitzgerald’s rich, throw-it-at-me-and-I’ll-survive voice always gave her strength, even on a day like this when she was stuck behind a stupid L-driver who was meandering all over the road. There should be a law banning them from driving in rush hour.

Thank God Martine had been able to take the kids to school that morning. This was the third time in as many months that the bloody Discovery had refused to start, which meant she’d had to take Robin’s old Saab to the office. She hated not driving an automatic – damn, she’d stalled again. She disliked his choice of radio station and she couldn’t believe the mess this car was in.

God, she was in a bad mood – as Robin had pointed out that morning. But he’d been in a filthy one too. Evie had written features on how redundancy affected marriages but, like all the other gritty issues in life, you never knew what they were really like until you’d experienced them yourself. She didn’t need one of the glib consultants they used on
Just For You
magazine to tell her that Robin’s lack of self-esteem had spread to below the sheets. On top of that, with the way things were going, they might not be able to afford Jack’s fees at the pre-prep in two years. As it was, Robin felt it was unfair: the girls were at state school for financial reasons, and he thought Jack should follow suit.

‘Don’t think about it,’ she told herself firmly. She’d sort it out, as she always did. It wasn’t for nothing that she’d been up all night, working out a fierce campaign to get her career back on track. She’d got some cracking ideas, if she said so herself. All she had to do now was sway Bulmer at the all important meeting on Friday morning.

But first she needed to stop off at Boots to get another pair of tights. At the last lot of lights, she’d noticed a snag in the pair she was wearing. Evie checked the mirror, to ensure that there weren’t any traffic wardens on the loose, then parked on a double yellow and leaped out of the car, straight into a passer-by who loomed up out of nowhere.

‘Ouch!’

Evie looked in dismay at the old woman. She seemed familiar – a former cleaning lady? A neighbour? ‘Look where you’re going,’ grumbled the woman, rubbing her shoulder.

‘I’m really sorry,’ said Evie.

‘Well, you can make up for it by taking one of these.’ She handed Evie a leaflet.

Evie, who always accepted leaflets – journalistic curiosity – scanned it.

CALLING ALL PARENTS!

‘Do you have a personal interest in this?’ she asked.

The woman snorted.

She wasn’t as old as Evie had first thought but the lines on her face were deep. Grubby nails too, Evie noted, with distaste.

‘My son got run over two years ago. Sixteen, he was. Driver didn’t stop.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Evie re-read the leaflet. ‘Actually, I might be able to help you. I edit a magazine and we’re doing a piece on campaigners.’

‘Yer what?’

‘We’re writing a story about people like yourself who are trying to get other people interested in their personal causes,’ said Evie, patiently. ‘Do you think I could take your number and contact you? Then I could tell you about it when we both have more time.’

‘I’m not on the phone. Can’t afford it.’

‘Oh. Well, do you want to tell me where you live?’

The woman glared at her suspiciously. ‘Not really.’

‘I see. Well, maybe I could send my features editor down here later on to talk to you. Would that be all right? It might help you in your cause – stop people driving so fast.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll think about it.’

‘Fine.’ Annoyed, Evie walked into the shop to buy her tights. Sometimes women like that didn’t know what was good for them. Fancy going to all that trouble to print those leaflets, then turning down the kind of publicity for which advertisers paid a fortune.

It wasn’t until she had paid for the tights that she remembered the car! She’d left it on a double yellow but her conversation with the woman had made her forget about it.

‘Keep the change!’ she called to the astounded till girl, and ran out of the shop. She reached the car just as the traffic warden was writing the ticket. ‘I’m sorry,’ she panted. ‘I had to buy something urgently. Some cough medicine. For my son.’

As she spoke, she dropped the Boots bag and the packet of tights fell out on to the pavement. They both looked at it and Evie felt like a criminal.

‘I’ve started writing so I can’t stop even if your son
is
poorly,’ said the traffic warden, her voice laden with sarcasm. ‘You’re causing an obstruction, which can be dangerous.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Evie. As she climbed into the car, she saw the leaflet woman throwing her a reproachful look.

She felt wretched all the way to the office, and the thought of that poor sixteen-year-old haunted her. She was so lucky to have Jack – and Robin. From now on, she’d be more grateful. She’d also give Dad a ring that night: they hadn’t had a good natter since last week. His mind was sharper than hers, at times, and he still drove, part-time, but she was conscious that this year he’d be sixty. No spring chicken any more. Besides, he liked talking to her about her work and Evie always felt bad that she never had enough time for him. But, right now, she needed to focus on work.

She pulled into the car park, stopped and leaned over for her files. She’d go through the ideas with Janine – if she was in. The girl had got herself pregnant again, which was highly inconvenient. When you were aiming for the top (and she was pretty sure Janine was), you could only have two kids, max.

As Evie picked up the files, a piece of paper fluttered off the back seat to join the rest of the rubbish on the floor. She picked it up and stuffed it into the side pocket, next to an A4 file. Something on the front caught her attention. It was the name of a loan company. She opened it and skimmed the piece of paper inside. No address or even a phone number. Just a list of figures and a demand at the bottom to pay . . . How much? Her eyes widened. How could he possibly owe all this? She knew, of course, about the second mortgage but this was impossible! It was so far beyond their reach that it was almost laughable.