‘But that makes no sense,’ Dom said when Ben told us. ‘Why would she bring you in for entrepreneurial inspiration and then say that?’
‘It makes perfect sense,’ I told him. ‘She’d love to resign from Bankside Park but she’s too scared to do it.’
None of this is relevant to what’s happened today, except that when I check the drawer of my benefit-of-the-doubt cabinet marked ‘Camilla Hosmer’, I find it empty.
‘I do know how serious it is, yes,’ I tell Mr Stevens.
‘Good, good. I’m surprised, because we’ve never had any trouble with Suzannah before, not in all the years she’s been here, but Miss Hosmer has described her behaviour this morning as disrespectful, disobedient and dishonest.’
As he speaks, Hosmer brings a chair over – the rigid, plastic one that’s clearly the least comfortable one in the room, and places it behind me, then gives it a little push so that the edge of the seat digs into the backs of my knees. Pointedly, I step away from it. ‘Disrespectful and disobedient, yes, but not dishonest,’ I say. ‘Zannah shouldn’t have brought her phone in to school, so there’s the disobedient bit. She spoke disrespectfully to Miss Hosmer, so a tick for that box too. And she did it because she doesn’t respect her. Neither do I.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ says Hosmer.
‘You heard.’ I turn to face her. ‘You made a racist assumption about Murad and it turned out to be wrong. Just because he’s got brown skin, that doesn’t give you the right to tell him he shouldn’t be eating bacon. If you saw a white kid eating chocolate during Lent, would you assume he came from a family of devout Christians and tell him he was letting his parents down, and Jesus?’
‘Miss Hosmer is adamant that she said no such thing to Murad, Mrs Leeson,’ says Stevens. ‘That’s where the dishonesty comes in.’
‘True, if you mean Miss Hosmer’s dishonesty,’ I say. ‘Before she grabbed Zannah’s phone out of her hand, Zannah had had the presence of mind to email me the film she’d recorded of the incident. Would you like me to play it for you now?’ I brandish my phone.
Camilla Hosmer’s mouth has dropped open. Stevens looks at her.
‘Miss Hosmer? Shall I play the video for Mr Stevens?’
Hosmer bursts into tears and runs out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
‘She deleted it from Zannah’s phone without permission, then lied about it to you,’ I tell Stevens.
He nods slowly, playing for time while he decides what to say. Whatever it is, it’s not going to start with the words, ‘I’m so sorry,’ which means I’m not interested in hearing it.
‘Mr Stevens, one of my regular clients is the editor of a local newspaper that has a circulation of 8,000. She’s become a good friend over the years. She’s fond of Zannah, too. If I ask her to, she’ll run a story about Bankside Park’s racist head of History who lies and tries to punish pupils who call her out on her racism. The little film Zannah made would go up on the newspaper’s website and get loads of hits. It could easily go viral. Do you think OFSTED will be impressed? I don’t.’
‘Mrs Leeson, there’s no need to make unpleasant threats. Why don’t we all calm down a bit, and then, once the dust has settled, I’ll talk to Miss Hosmer and see if we can—’
‘No, that sounds like bullshit,’ I say. ‘If you don’t want me to contact my friend, you need to tell Miss Hosmer to apologise to Murad and Zannah. Right now. Go and find her in whatever toilet cubicle she’s crying in and let’s get on with it. I’m not leaving until I’ve heard those apologies.’
‘Nothing is going to happen right now,’ says Stevens, in the most patronising tone of voice I’ve ever heard. ‘Why don’t you and Zannah go home, and I’ll contact you once I’ve had a chance to—’
‘Give Zannah back her phone and we’ll go, if that’s the way you want to play it. But then Iwillbe contacting my friend, and some of the national papers too, I think – the ones that have education supplements. Pieces will run, and the video will be shared far and wide.’
‘All right,’ Stevens snaps as he springs out of his chair. ‘All right. Wait here.’
He leaves his office at speed. I turn to Zannah. Tears are streaming down her face. ‘Mum,’ she whispers. ‘What happened? Did we just … win?’
17
An hour later, we’re at Mario’s, the nearest half-decent café to Bankside Park. It’s far enough away to guarantee that no one from school is likely to walk in, and the coffee and cakes are from heaven, even if the owner isn’t. Silvia thinks she’s a ‘character’ and sings loud arias from operas whenever she feels like it, sometimes making it hard for customers to continue their conversations.
Zannah and I are eating her magnificent iced orange and cinnamon rolls, to celebrate our victory. ‘You’re a ledge, Mum,’ Zan says. ‘I can’t believe I got my phone backandan apology.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘Hosmer wasn’t really sorry, you know.’
‘Who cares?’
‘Ugh. She’s such a … there’s no word bad enough. I can’t even insult her any more. It’d be an insult to insults.’
‘Dad would have done the same as I did, you know.’
