School Run (9 page)

‘I’m sure you have. But would you know what to do if the little devils in your class asked awkward questions, which they love to do whenever we have visitors – especially official ones?’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Dear me, Kitty! Embarrassing questions designed to make young teachers like you feel inadequate. Just be on your guard, that’s all. We didn’t get a very good Ofsted report last time and we need to improve. Otherwise we might be in trouble. All right?’

7

NICK

‘Now we’re moving on to our doc spot where our very own Dr Jim offers alternative health advice.’

‘Change channels, Nick, darling,’ said a girl who was walking past him in just a pair of pants. ‘That station’s really boring – my granny listens to it.’

Good for her, thought Nick, looking the other way as he adjusted the lighting in the studio. In some ways, it had been fortuitous that Amber had postponed today’s session until tomorrow. She’d sounded a bit put out when he’d said he couldn’t do tomorrow. Tough. Besides, today’s cancellation had given him longer to walk Mutley and prepare for the shoot.

‘No, love,’ he called. ‘Can you stand where I first put you? Over there. That’s right. Tilt your chin to the right – a bit more. Lovely. Now I want you to close your eyes and open them, thinking of something you’d
really
like to do.’

The other girls, waiting at the side in their dressing gowns, tittered, unlike the model in front of the camera: she looked as though she’d rather be naked than wearing the tarty pink bra and pants set that Nick’s assistant had had to cajole her into. ‘They’re hideous,’ she said. ‘Can’t I wear something else?’

‘Sorry, love. This is the kit,’ Nick had said. ‘But your amazing looks are going to make everyone want to buy them.’

He hoped it was true. As a fashion photographer, it was his job to make everything look so tempting that the readers (who were as diverse as the magazines and advertising catalogues that he worked for) instantly lusted for them.

Advertising paid best, but the clothes were usually awful. He preferred magazine shoots because they were more prestigious and used more interesting merchandise. The only one he didn’t like working for was
Just For You
, which had a ghastly deputy editor who insisted on going to every shoot and picking holes in everything.

Still, when Julie went to university, he’d need to do more advertising if only to pay her fees and accommodation.

University! Nick’s heart always sank at the prospect of his little girl going away but he knew it was the right thing for her – and that Juliana would have wanted it. She’d have been so proud of their daughter. She would also, thought Nick, wryly, have been able to help him steer Julie through her penultimate year at school. The A-level system was so complex nowadays: you could take and retake modules to get a better grade rather than having to perform well in one batch of exams at the end of the sixth form. Julie had already retaken one of her French papers although the results wouldn’t be published until August.

Pity, thought Nick, that he couldn’t retake Life. He’d have done it all so differently. ‘Great.’ He was studying the Polaroid with his assistant. ‘Lovely, love.’

Nick always called his models ‘love’. It saved him having to remember their names and, because he used it with all of them, it stopped them getting crushes on him. When Juliana had died, Nick couldn’t imagine ever again being close to anyone but, as the months went by, he could almost hear Juliana telling him to go ahead. ‘I don’t want you to be lonely,’ she would croon into his ear. But it might just be his own voice, reminding him that he couldn’t remain a monk for ever, whatever Julie thought.

‘Right, love, just tilt your chin back to its original position. Lovely. Over there. Look at the dog – behind me. Fantastic. Open your mouth as though you’re going to talk to him. Great. No, Mutley –
no
!’

Nick broke off to restrain his dog, who had decided to join the model.

‘He’s so sweet,’ she said, kneeling down to stroke him.

‘He’s OK when he’s doing what he’s meant to,’ said Nick. ‘Back, Mutley. Sit, stay. Can you tilt your chin, love, and push your hips in the other direction? Talk if you want. What’s your name again?’

‘Juliana.’

Nick’s hand wobbled.

‘Sorry?’

The model pouted. ‘Sofia.’

He felt his hands sweat on the camera as he took some more shots. God, he must be going mad if he was hearing things like that. Perhaps he ought to see Amber tomorrow after all. ‘Right, love, just keep talking. What’s your favourite animal?’ He carried on, asking the inane questions that would achieve his original purpose of getting her to look as he wanted. Even so, it took a good four hours to wrap it all up, by which time the girls were complaining of hunger and he was pretty knackered himself.

‘Fancy a late lunchtime drink?’ asked one of the girls, as she brushed past him, flashing smooth brown skin under her dressing gown.

Nick poured water into Mutley’s bowl. ‘No, thanks. I’ve got to do the school run.’

‘The school run?’ squealed one of the others. ‘How old are your kids?’

‘I’ve got just the one. She’s seventeen and, actually, she drives
me
.’

‘So cute,’ said a tall blonde girl, who was bending down to stroke Mutley. ‘Does she drive your wife too? I used to practise with my mum.’

Nick looked away. ‘My wife is . . . She isn’t exactly here any more.’

A flash of pity crossed the blonde’s face. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nick, quietly. He waited until they had all left, then got out his mobile. Four missed calls but none from Julie. He always checked in case she needed him. Then he punched in the number of the centre. ‘Can I leave a message for Amber? It’s Nick. No, just Nick. She rearranged my session from today to tomorrow but I said I couldn’t make it. If it’s not too late I’d like to come after all. Is that all right?’

BETTY

‘Towards Kingston temporary traffic lights are causing more problems. Dangerous Dan has just rung in about an accident outside Harrow. Betty from Balham has also called to warn drivers of the new speed bumps along the high street.’

Funny to hear my own name on the radio again – fourth time in a month. ‘Betty of Balham’ has a certain ring. ‘Dangerous Dan’ shows people don’t care any more. You can see that from my window – hardly anyone’s bothering with the thirty m.p.h. limit. Cars packed with mums and dads and kids, all trying to get to school or work on time. Don’t care who they hurt to get there.

My flowers on the lamp post look nice. Roses, this week. They smell absolutely heavenly.

Terry used to buy me flowers. ‘Here you are, Mum,’ he’d say, when he came back on Saturday evenings after his little job at Tesco. ‘Got these for you.’

Then he’d give me a hug before he went out. Tall boy, Terry.

Always did look older than he was. Still does. I’m the one who’s aged.

The new house helps, even though everyone thought I was mad. ‘What do you want to do that for?’ asked my sister. ‘Fancy moving to—’

‘Don’t say it,’ I said sharply. ‘I don’t want you saying it.’

There are days when I can talk about what happened and days when I can’t.

Terry and I, we listen to the radio while I cook breakfast. Great one for general knowledge is my Terry, like his father. Always talking about the Tories and climate change and that kind of stuff.

Not all kids get a cooked breakfast. Bet that poor kid in the car this morning doesn’t. How could his mother have left him? Sitting duck, he was. Did you read about the lorry that went into the Mini with a four-year-old in it at a petrol station? Killed the kid outright. I’ve got the newspaper write-up here, propped up against the cereal box. I eat corn flakes every morning, like Terry. I still keep the plastic figures they give away and put them in his room, lined up on the windowsill. Just like when he was little.

I was tempted. It would have been lovely to take that kid home and make him a nice boiled egg with soldiers. Just for ten minutes. But I didn’t, did I? I took him to that nice-looking man and asked if he knew who the child belonged to. After I got home, I saw the mum turning up from my window. (Good view, just like the agent said.) I was glad she was upset. Teach her a lesson.

Then I phoned up the radio and told them everything. Well, almost. About how the traffic was building up again on Balham high street and how it was really quite warm for the time of year. And the girl at the other end, who seems to like me, passed my message on.

They haven’t played it yet. But Dangerous Dan hasn’t had a look-in either.

Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see, won’t we, Terry, love?

MONDAY P.M.

‘. . . and we’re coming up to the four o’clock news. But first an update on the traffic. Betty from Balham reports that it’s surprisingly quiet this afternoon . . .’

‘Who p-p-put the wrong p-p-petrol in the car? Who p-p-put diesel in?’

‘Shut up, Josh. You keep going on about it.’

‘W-w-well she did! That’s w-why we’re in D-Dad’s spare car.

The other h-had to be drained. D-Dad sounded mad on the mobile.’

‘Hurry up, Fartine. We’re going to miss my favourite programme.’

‘Why c-can’t we have a TV in the car like Hugo? Then we c-could watch Mum and Dad. Go on, Fartine. Ask them.’

‘When’s Dad coming home, Mum? He still hasn’t texted. It’s been ages.’

‘And I had a horrid day – it was all your fault. You forgot it was non-uniform day, Mum. I rang but you just had the answerphone on. Where were you?’

‘What do you mean your teacher forgot to give you the spelling test? After all my hard work! I’ve a good mind to complain. And don’t drink that fizzy muck in the back, Bruce. You’ll spill it like you did last week. We’ll need to clean this car before Dad gets back.’

‘For God’s sake, Julie, there’s a speed camera right there. You can still get points as a learner, you know.’

‘Mum would have picked you up, girls, but she needed a bit of a lie-down. She’ll be there when you get back. Don’t worry.

I’m sure it’s this virus doing the rounds. It comes and goes like flu. Let’s hope you don’t get it too.’

‘Where the shit is Dad? Evie said he was picking us up, didn’t she?’

‘Ring him on the mobile.’

‘I have, stupid. Stop crying, he’ll be here soon with Jack.’

‘Everyone else has gone.’

‘I know.’

‘Look. No, over there. That weird woman opposite is looking through her curtains at us again.’

‘Fuck! Hang on, someone’s picked up. Jack? Jack, get Dad can you? No, darling, Nattie will talk to you later. Oh, for God’s sake, talk to him, Nattie. He won’t hand over otherwise.’

‘Jack? Yes, I love you too. Yes, naughty Badron. Can you get Dad now? All right, you can say goodbye to Lennie first.’

‘’Bye, Jack. Dad? Thank God for that. Aren’t you meant to be picking us up from school?’

‘No, Mark, that’s fine. I totally understand. Yes, I’m sure meetings like this are unavoidable. Another time? Let’s just see, shall we?’

TUESDAY

8

HARRIET

‘It’s eight forty-nine a.m. A new survey out today claims families spend more on travel costs than food or entertainment . . .’

‘Squeeze,’ Harriet told herself. ‘Hold for six. Down again
slowly
.’

‘This is
so
boring, Mum,’ said Bruce, leaning forward to twiddle the radio knob. ‘Can’t we have Radio 1?’

‘Leave it alone – you’re distracting me,’ said Harriet sharply. ‘I’ll do it.’ Momentarily taking her eyes off the road, she adjusted the tuning. It was the noise that got to her. The cacophony from the kids arguing and their music. Wasn’t there a law that said noise in an office shouldn’t exceed eighty-five decibels? She wouldn’t mind betting the level at home was more than that.

Since Bruce had joined a band at school, he’d not only got louder but he’d also become an overnight expert on what music was cool and what wasn’t. Still, at least his trumpet gave him something to do in the evening other than annoy his sister. Harriet had even managed to impress him the other week by letting slip that in her younger days (pre-Charlie, of course), she’d been to a Sex Pistols concert. Now she was more into Classic FM. How sad was that? She’d even wanted to hear more on the news about travel costs. As a family, they spent a fortune on petrol. Charlie’s flights, of course, were paid for by the company. Which meant there had been nothing to stop him coming home during the last two months if he’d wanted to.

‘Best not to, I think,’ he had said, during the first week, when Harriet, still stunned by the speed with which the text kisses had changed their lives, had made yet another phone call to his hotel in Dubai. ‘We both need time to think. Don’t we?’