Good and bad...
I text back:
Can’t wait to hear all about it! xxx
I’m sure I could say more, but I decide I’ve done enough to tick it off my list.
There are four Mercedes SUVs, a Porsche Panamera, three BMWs and a generous helping of Range Rovers corralling the prep school.
They’re trying to park but there is no parking to be had. Like cornered beasts, they’re agitated; their red lights are glowing and their horns are beeping frantically. Inside the air-conditioned, leather-seated cockpits, the glossy-haired owners glitter with gold as they gesticulate at each other over a spot of grass verge.
I tend not to get anxious and spot a parking space quite easily. Admittedly, it’s not a legal space and belongs to the owners of a rather handsome house, but I don’t mind being someone else’s headache. If it ends in an argument, I will win, and if there is a parking fine, what’s a few pounds when you are about to commit over twenty thousand per year to support a six-year-old’s hand-painting, ukulele and social-climbing lessons?
Before I can reverse into the space, a large red Jaguar SUV appears from nowhere and sneaks in behind me. I grip the steering wheel. Rage trickles down my spine.
I stare at the woman and she pulls a face back at me. I can’t read the expression but it looks tigerish – black slashes of mascara, a gold necklace and bright white teeth. These entitled women see fault as something belonging to the rest of the world, not themselves. She doesn’t back down, and parks impressively in a single speedy motion. She leaps out of the driver’s seat (skinny jeans, short leather jacket, spiked heels, large handbag clinking at her elbow), skips to the rear doors and extracts her pristine daughter.
They stride off together, noses held high, her daughter in a cream wool beret and matching woollen coat. The beret is a magnificent touch and I’m sad I didn’t think of it. I look down and see that my knuckles are white against the steering wheel.
I watch them cross the road, one hand raised commandingly to stop the traffic, then reverse up to the side of the Jaguar and wind down my window. I find my nail scissors in my handbag, and drive past her SUV, slowly digging the steel tip into the paintwork. It makes a delicious screeching sound and leaves a deep white line in the shining paint.
I pull away, quite pleased with myself, but a few momentslater I feel like I’ve let myself down and experience an overriding sense of regret. I reverse, open my car door, lean out of my seat and push the blade deep into her front tyre. I pull it out, watch the tyre quickly deflate, and leave satisfied.
I join the other frantic mothers in a circus ring of circling SUVs. As time is tight, I mount a high kerb and drive onto the grass between two trees. The space isn’t large enough for a car, but one of the trees is a sapling, no more than five feet high, and I simply drive over it. I’m sure it’ll spring back up when I drive off.
Chapter21Adams
Nelly will not move from the car. Both praise and threat fail, so I take out my purse and show her a ten-pound note. She unsnaps her seatbelt immediately and gets out. All the other mothers are walking hand in hand with their darling daughters. Nelly prefers single file with a four feet distance between us.
We are overtaken by a tall blonde in a Chanel suit with a ponytailed, blue-eyed girl in either hand, looking like an advert for an Aryan eugenics programme.
‘Excuse me!’ she says dramatically, barging against my shoulder as she tries to avoid the muddy verge.
‘We’re all heading in the same direction.’ I smile as broadly as possible and barge back. She stumbles and her right foot lands in a puddle. It is a good thing to be polite but you can’t be a pushover. How would you sleep at night?
We arrive at the gate and are greeted by a round-faced woman with an enormous smile, dressed in what I imagine M&S might describe as ‘modern elegance’. It’s neither of those things, being of no discernible colour or shape. I smile beneficently at her, and hope it helps.
I begin to wonder if this is going to be so difficult. I’ve chosen a velvet-trimmed Fendi blazer which is a bit showier than someof the mothers, but who wouldn’t go the extra mile for their little one?
‘Welcome to Adams. And may I ask your name?’ says the woman, leaning down towards Nelly.
‘Her name’s Nelly.’
‘What a lovely name, and how are you today, Nelly?’ she says, bending down and offering her hand. I could have warned her, if she’d asked. Nelly doesn’t touch people.
My daughter cradles her terrifying doll, since she point-blank refuses to leave home without it, and stares at the hand fiercely, until it is removed with slight embarrassment. I nudge her with my knee-length boots. She kicks me back.
I imagine a clip around the ear would be frowned upon in these surroundings, so I smile and say, ‘She’s so excited about Adams. Such a bundle of nerves. Didn’t sleep a wink.’
‘Did,’ says Nelly.
‘It’s going to be just fine,’ says the woman. ‘We’ve got games and painting. Do you like painting?’
‘No,’ says Nelly.
‘She does,’ I say, and with a firm hand on her back guide her quickly through the gate.
We’re greeted a second time by two girls looking resplendent in perfect uniforms on the pillared portico, standing beside a glossy black door that’s shining so much it appears white in the sunshine.
