The School Gate Survival Guide (27 page)

I handed Clover a little brown bottle of Rescue Remedy, rolling my eyes as I did so. Rescue Remedy was in the same category as homeopaths, chakras and auras. Before I put it back in the bathroom, I had a quick swig. Tonight was a night for bet hedging. I zipped Clover up into her brand new lime green dress. She stepped into her silver stilettos. Any resemblance to a farmer’s wife had disappeared. She looked every inch the grand lady. The square frame of a few weeks earlier was now a curvy, busty silhouette. I turned her round to face the mirror. I could see belief and relief in her eyes.

I left her trying on different earrings. I threw myself in the shower and dried my hair upside down on full blast until I looked like I’d been swept in off the moors. The taxi was hooting. I ran downstairs, zipping up the red dress, still in my Crocs, sandals in hand. I shouted goodbye to the kids who were playing a rowdy game of table football with the babysitter refereeing. Bronte came to the door and waved. ‘You look lovely. Not like a cleaner. Like a princess.’ I still felt like a cleaner.

We bundled into the taxi where I put my hair up with the black plastic crocodile clip I used for work, did my make-up in a compact mirror and painted the two toenails that would be visible in the gorgeous gold Louboutins Clover had lent me.

When the cab pulled through the gates at Jen1’s, I realised that a twenty-minute turnaround wasn’t the way to go. I’d never been to a ball before. I knew it wouldn’t be jeans and fleeces in the village hall, but I hadn’t expected it to be like a bloody film festival in the South of France. The entire driveway was decked with pink fairy lights, strung from tree to tree. Oil lamps burnt on the ground. At the side of the house a red carpet led to the marquee. Black dominated. Long, short, lacy, frilly, sequinned, with a bit of gold or red thrown in. Clover and I shuffled out. A flash went off in my face. I vaguely recognised one of the dads behind the camera. No doubt I was pulling a face like the village idiot after too much cider. I looked down. I had the bloody gold sandals in my hand and my sludge green Crocs peeping out under my dress. You couldn’t take the SD1 out of the girl.

I wanted to hunch over and rush inside. Preferably to the ladies and not come out again. I knew Clover was nervous. That’s where confidence, paid for at finishing school, stepped in. As soon as she put an ankle out of the car, it was showtime. She was waving, joking, posing in a ta-da way for the camera, kissing other people’s husbands, never doing that awkward nose crash tangle. I followed her, smiling gawkily, trying not to show my teeth in case I had lipstick on them. As soon as we made it into the shadows of the marquee, I headed to the toilet, leaving Clover holding two glasses of Buck’s Fizz.

I should have known that the school ball would have doubled the turnover of hairdressers, beauticians and shoe shops for March. I stood messing about in front of the mirror for ages. Hair clipped up like a cleaner? Or down like Morticia from
The Addams Family
? I quietly opened the cabinet under the sink to see if there was a brush or some perfume I could borrow but bleach and Glade were my only friends. I dragged my fingers through my hair and left it down. I made do with a big squidge of hand cream that I rubbed into my arms, calves and chest. Someone was knocking on the door. I shoved my Crocs under the sink, stuck the sandals on my feet and with a ‘Here goes nothing’, I stepped out. Straight into Serena.

‘Hello, hello again,’ I said, as though she was the person I’d most looked forward to seeing. My belly clenched so tight I wished Ram was there to see it. What the F was she doing there? She’d had her hair curled which made her look so much less sturdy-shoes-and-notebook and far more sex-plaything-draped-on-an-animal-skin. Everything about her was glossy. Bright red lips. Bright red nails. Beautifully plucked eyebrows. The sort of long glittery halter-neck dress that people over five foot nine could carry off in a way I never would. She’d better not have come with Mr Peters.

She smiled. ‘We must stop bumping into each other like this. Nice to see you again – you look gorgeous. I’ll catch up with you later – you must tell me what you thought of the homeopath.’

I nodded vacantly. ‘Mmm. Yes. The homeopath was interesting. See you later,’ I said, as she disappeared into the toilet. Homeopath. Shit. I’d have to make up some old guff.

I found my way back to the marquee and stood against the back wall. The draught grouched across the top of my sandals. The heaters were on but cold gusted down my back. I wished I was at home. Even shitty Colin home. I couldn’t see Clover. But I wasn’t looking for her really. I was looking for Mr Peters, praying to my mother’s favourite saint, St Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases, that he wouldn’t be there. I could hear Mum’s guttural voice in my mind, ‘Amaia, San Judas Tadeo, his help come at last minute. You believe, you pray, he always respond.’

St Jude must have been on a coffee break or maybe I was too hopeless even for him. Mr Peters was there all right, with his back to me, talking to the headmaster. I knew he would look gorgeous in black tie. I reminded myself that he’d done a runner on me without a word, long before he knew that I was taking the kids out of school. He turned round. I deliberately looked towards the stage so I didn’t catch his eye. I had no idea what I’d find there. Pity, hate, anger? Or maybe he just wouldn’t give a shit. Better not to know.

Clover appeared at my side. ‘I’ve seen Lawrence.’

‘And?’

‘I lost my nerve. I dived into the kitchen.’

‘He must know you’re here, though. Why don’t you wait until he’s played the first set and then go and talk to him? He must be feeling nervous about performing in front of people he knows.’

‘You’re probably right. Here, let’s get some more champagne.’ Clover took a couple of glasses off a passing waitress.

‘Might be a good idea to take it easy on the booze, so you’re not stumbling into the plant pots when you do finally speak to him.’

‘Stop being so hideously sensible. I might be devastated tomorrow, so let’s have a bit of a hoot now.’ Instead of passing me the second glass, she glugged it down herself and scooped up two more. I took one from her. Thankfully someone banged a spoon on a glass and called us to our tables. Clover already had that slightly lairy look about her.

Clover and I arrived at the table first. A huge orchid sat in the middle, surrounded by fake rose petals and gold sequins. Little gilt-edged place cards dictated where we sat. Clover started snatching them up. ‘Good, Frederica’s with us. Bad, so’s Venetia “my son’s violin playing brings a tear to my eye” Dylan-Jones. Oooh, lucky you, you’re next to Mr Peters. Who’s Serena Blake? She’s on his other side.’

‘Serena’s the policewoman who helped find Bronte.’ I thought I might cry. ‘I can’t sit next to Mr Peters. Will you swap with me?’ I was hissing in a sort of desperate way.

‘Whatever for? I’m next to Venetia’s husband, Randolph. His idea of scintillating conversation is how to build a telescope from scratch. You stay where you are.’

‘No, no, it’s fine. Let’s swap.’ I snatched up my place card.

‘Maia, that’s beyond the call of duty. I can’t subject you to an evening of “my child is a genius, I’m not sure the school can contain him” when you could be having a tête-à-tête with Mr Peters.’

‘I don’t mind at all. Come on, please. Mr Peters really likes you. He definitely won’t want to sit next to me. Do you think we can stick Frederica next to him?’

‘Maia, you’ve got to grow out of your fear of authority. Mr Peters is just a teacher.’

I started to protest but shut up quickly when we heard, ‘Good evening, Mrs Wright, Ms Etxeleku,’ behind us. Clover laughed and gave Mr Peters a cheeky wave.

Mr Peters rested one hand on the back of the chair next to me. His other hand was on Serena’s waist, guiding her to her place. Watching him touch her made my belly twist in on itself. I hated her in a way that made me look at her through slitty eyes. Mr Peters looked as though he’d been born to wear a dinner suit. No one would ever know he’d been a one-time lout. I had a sudden picture of him at home at the end of the evening, bow tie undone, hanging loosely, shirt open. Something inside me lurched.

‘Mrs Wright, this is PC Blake.’ Mr Peters went round the table introducing Frederica and her husband, Lloyd, Venetia and Randolph, and a man called Howard whose reedy, recently beaten dog appearance probably explained the fact that he didn’t have a wife with him.

‘Ms Etxeleku, you’ve met PC Blake before,’ Mr Peters said.

‘Do call me Serena.’

I wanted to answer, ‘Maia, aka Mr Peters’ fling. Know about that, do you?’ Instead I nodded like a fluffy dog hanging off a rear-view mirror.

‘Could we drop the Stirling Hall formality for this evening and use Christian names? Otherwise it feels like parents’ evening. Please feel free to call me Zac,’ Mr Peters said. Everyone said their first names. I mumbled mine in the direction of Venetia who wiggled her fingers at me and boomed, ‘Evening, Amayra.’

We sat down. I could feel Mr Peters right next to me. He was such a people magnet, bouncing the conversation along, managing to include everyone. I didn’t want to be part of his audience, even though he was smiling away, filling up my water glass and passing me the butter. He could pretend that I was just another mother but I would never be able to pretend that he was just another teacher. I tried to move my chair away so that his jacket didn’t keep brushing my arm. I couldn’t let any part of me touch any part of him because I could go either way. I might slap him. Or I might sob. Nine of us were on a table for eight – they’d obviously lumped all the singletons together – so I managed to scrape about two centimetres closer to Howard on my right. His breath encouraged me to scrape four centimetres back again.

Howard was one of those blokes whose chat-up lines didn’t take into account his malnourished mongrel looks. ‘So, Megan, how come I haven’t seen you before? I’d have remembered a gorgeous woman like you.’ I tried to time my breathing so my in-breath of oxygen didn’t coincide with his out-breath of horseshit.

‘Better not drink too much, Megan, you might let me have my wicked way with you,’ he said, topping up my glass with white wine. ‘I’m not much of a Chablis man myself. I prefer Chardonnay.’

‘Chablis
is
made from Chardonnay.’ Clover had taught me well. I hadn’t meant to correct him, I was just excited to know something that I thought posh people usually knew. But Howard wasn’t so keen on someone common knowing something posh. He tried to enlist the help of Frederica to prove me wrong. She looked at him as though he’d just dived in front of her on the red carpet and said, ‘How the bloody hell should I know? I drink the stuff, not pick it off the vine.’

Thankfully, the starters arrived. Prawns on a bed of mango and coriander. Frederica immediately complained that the prawns were in their shells. ‘I don’t do bones, shells or anything that reminds me it once had a life. Bring back the bloody prawn cocktail.’

I was concentrating on not shooting prawn juice over my dress when Howard leaned towards me. ‘The little bowls with lemon are for washing your fingers.’

I felt a movement beside me. Mr Peters was obviously a closet woman and could listen to two conversations at once. ‘Mr Sutton, or rather, Howard, did you know that Maia’s mother was a chef? I’m sure Maia would be delighted to share some of her Basque recipes and cookery tips with you.’

I didn’t think it was the right moment to point out my mother was a cook, a housekeeper, rather than a Jamie Oliver wannabe.

Howard blustered. ‘I didn’t mean any offence, it was just a joke.’

Mr Peters didn’t smile. ‘I’m always saying this to the children. It’s only a joke if everyone’s laughing.’ He carried on peeling his prawns as though nothing had happened. Howard shrunk down in his seat. I nearly felt sorry for him. I glanced sideways at Mr Peters. He was shaking his head, jaw set.

Serena was talking to Clover in that deep Lauren Bacall voice of hers. No one was asking her if she could handle the starter. Even in a posh frock I must have looked like a right pikey. It must be so obvious to everyone else that I didn’t fit in, that Mr Peters couldn’t quite shake off his habit of sticking up for me.

My appetite had disappeared, but I didn’t want to draw even more attention to myself by not eating. I stuck a prawn in my mouth and immediately regretted it. Along with the lime and coriander was chilli, which didn’t agree with me. A bolt of heat shot through me. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I dabbed at my upper lip with my serviette. Or was it napkin? I could never remember which one marked you out as rough. I knew my cheeks were turning bright red. I took a slug of water, then another. I knew that for the next twenty minutes I’d be leaking from every pore. I excused myself and went outside to stand in the cold to see if I could short-circuit my boiling blood.

I sat on a bench under a big sycamore tree watching the stars, feeling the sweat drying on my face and arms and the scorch of chilli heat slowing to a simmer. The cold air carried shouts and laughter. The quiet murmur of voices in the shadows on the other side of the marquee reached me through the dark. I heard a woman say, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ but didn’t catch the answering baritone.

I hugged my knees to me. Earflapping on someone else’s love story just underlined my own failure. I got to my feet and went round the side to avoid walking past them. As I walked through Jen1’s kitchen, I glanced at the CCTV monitor. It was flicking between views of the garage, front gates and both sides of the marquee. The grainy image shifted slightly. A man with dark tousled hair was cuddling a woman with a blonde chignon. Lawrence. But that wasn’t Clover. I stared. Jen fucking 1.

‘Where have you been?’ Clover said, or rather slurred, as I got back to the table. My heart was still jumping. Shit. Lawrence and Jen1. How was I going to tell Clover? Would I be better off waiting for a sober moment? Or was a body blow better with booze? If she decided to shoot the messenger, she could blast my bloody head off. I didn’t mention my chilli allergy – every child at Stirling Hall was allergic to some damn thing, peanuts, eggs, milk, wheat – I didn’t want to look like I was jumping on the bandwagon. I drivelled something about needing some fresh air.