‘Zannah, stop swearing.’ I turn to face her. ‘I mean it. You need to behave properly. Not only to please me and Dad, but because you want to go out into the world as—’
‘Mum, stop trying to cram years of proper parenting into one little pep talk. You’re not a Mumsnet kind of mum, so don’t pretend you are.’
I don’t know what she means because I’ve never looked at Mumsnet. Actually, maybe that’s what she means.
‘Do you want to come in with me?’ I nod in the direction of the school.
‘Sure – but to do what? No school’s going to answer questions about its pupils from someone who just walked in off the street.’
‘Which is why we can’t ask questions. We have to pretend to know already. What’s tricky is working outwhatwe’re going to pretend to know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, let’s go. I’ve got an idea. Your job is to stand behind me and smile, looking like the respectable daughter of a respectable mum. And no swearing. First we need to grab something from the boot that might belong to a five-year-old boy.’ My car’s boot operates as a kind of storage cupboard-cum-dustbin. There’s plenty in it to choose from.
Five minutes later, armed with a pale blue drawstring sports bag with a pair of socks inside it, Zannah and I are standing at the reception desk of Kimbolton Prep School. I press the buzzer and wait, rehearsing what I’m about to say.
A woman appears. She’s young and elegant, with short hair, a long slender neck and lovely earrings: small round pearls that look real, with solid silver flower shapes behind them. She reminds me of a swan, and looks friendly enough. ‘Can I help you?’ she says.
‘Yes, I hope so,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’m a friend of Jeanette Cater’s. She left this in my car boot …’ – I wave the bag in the air – ‘and I don’t have time to go to her house now and drop it off, so I thought … would it be okay to leave it with you?’
‘Sure. No problem at all.’
I fight the urge to say, ‘So you know Jeanette Cater, then? Her son is here, at this school?’
The receptionist reaches for a pad and pen that are over on the other side of the desk. ‘Let me write down your details, just so I can tell Jeanette what happened.’
Shit.
‘Beth Leeson,’ says Zannah cheerfully, while I’m frantically trying to think of a fake name I can give.Too late now.‘Oh – sorry, that’s my mum. She’s Beth Leeson. I’m Zannah.’
I try to look unflustered. Zan’s probably right: better not to lie. Besides, if the receptionist hands Jeanette Cater a random sports bag later and tells her it was brought in by a person whose name she doesn’t recognise and who claims to be her friend, it’s going to be pretty obvious who’s behind it – especially when Jeanette asks for a physical description of this mysterious woman. My hair is half brown and half blonde at the moment; for months I’ve been too busy with clients and their problems – both physical and emotional – to get it sorted out.
Zan must have worked this out long before I did: I’ve been lied to, and I’m taking steps to find out why, and what’s really going on. I’m not ashamed of any of my actions and, by doing this, I’m letting Jeanette Cater know that I’m not.
It’s funny how quickly my thinking patterns have adjusted to all the unknowns. When I think about ‘Jeanette’, there’s a shadowy person in my mind who might be either Flora or the woman with the foreign accent. When I think about ‘Thomas and Emily’, sometimes they’re the two photogenic teenagers on Lewis’s Instagram and other times they’re the two small children I saw getting out of the silver Range Rover last Saturday.
The receptionist writes down ‘Beth Leeson’. ‘Phone number?’ she asks me.
‘Jeanette has my number.’
‘Oh – ha, yes. Sorry! I’m so used to taking full details from people. Tell you what, though … if you couldjust letmehave your number, just in case?’
Zannah recites our home number, and the receptionist writes it on the pad. When she looks up, I see uncertainty in her eyes. ‘And you’re Jeanette’s …friend?’ she says, as if this is an outlandish concept.
‘Yes.’
Two spots of red have appeared on her otherwise white cheeks. She holds out her hand awkwardly to take the sports bag from me. She’s gone from friendly and confident to nervous in the space of seconds. Why? ‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.
‘Lou Munday,’ she says quickly. ‘Rhymes with the famous song, “Blue Monday”! Haha. My husband says that’s one of the reasons he married me.’ She’s still on edge, but trying to hide it.
I pass her the bag.
We say our goodbyes, and Zannah and I are halfway to the door when she calls after us, ‘Thanks again! I’ll give this to Jeanette later when she comes to collect Thomas.’
I freeze. Zannah and I exchange a look.
Thomas. Not Toby.
