‘Sorry for the noise. I’ve been trying to get Bertie’s shirt dry in time for school.’
‘Shouldn’t you have seen to that yesterday? My uniform was always pressed and folded ready for me the night before.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can you call the repair man again? I don’t understand why he hasn’t come to fix the tumble dryer yet. Oh, and don’t forget it’s parent’s evening tonight.’
‘Yeah, it’s in the diary. I’ll try to make it.’
Try? What did that mean? It wasn’t like Rob had a boss dictating his schedule. ‘Come on Bertie, we’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on.’
The journey to school was irritating and uncomfortable. We crawled along in heavy traffic, rain water soaking through my trousers thanks to a hole in the roof of my Mini convertible thatRob still hadn’t got around to fixing. Turning into the long drive of Bertie’s exclusive school should have come as a relief, but as I pulled up beside a collection of showroom-sparkling four by fours, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Thanks to the hairdryer incident, and subsequent drenching on our way to the car, my usually straightened hair now frizzed up in a mass of dark, unruly curls. I’d had no time to put makeup on, and knew as soon as I stepped out of the car, everyone would see the large wet-patch covering the rear of my white jeans.
I grabbed Bertie’s bags from the back seat and shepherded him into the building. Yummy mummies swanned around the corridors, shiny, groomed, their faces plumped and filled to perfection. I nodded to the less scary women, but avoided all conversation, keen to get in and out of the building as soon as possible.
With a quick kiss on the cheek, I shoved Bertie into his high-ceilinged, light-filled classroom and rushed back to the car.
‘Olivia?’
Damn it. I’d almost made it to the door when a voice made me turn. It was Cressida Jamison, supreme ruler of the school mums. Most mothers longed to be initiated into Cressida’s inner circle. Personally, I couldn’t see the appeal. No amount of hair dye, makeup, or plastic surgery could hide the cold eyes and horseiness of her face. And however chocolatey she made her voice, it didn’t blunt the barbs that poured from her tongue.
‘Morning, Cressida. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ drawled Horse Face. ‘I just thought you’d like to know, it seems you’ve had a little accident.’ Around her, her minions sniggered.
‘Yes, I’m aware. That’s having children for you. No bladder control. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get home, change my trousers, and put a nappy on.’ I smiled my sweetest smile and walked as calmly as I could to my car.
The drive home took the best part of an hour. If only Bertie went to the local school, I’d have far more time in my day, and even the possibility of making friends.
The day passed in a blur of chores. The only light relief came at lunchtime, when I sat down to watch the politics show I treated myself to daily. I banked several points to discuss with my sister the next time I saw her.
Before I knew it, I was back at school, waiting outside Bertie’s classroom for the verdict on his achievement. It came as no surprise that there was no sign of my husband. Bertie sat beside me, fidgeting.
‘Are you nervous?’ I asked him, narrowing my eyes.
‘No…’
‘Bertie? Is there anything I should know before we go in…’
‘I…’
‘Mrs Simmons?’
I stood up and took Bertie’s hand, my pulse rate increasing as we walked into the classroom. We sat on small chairs opposite a battle-axe of a woman, otherwise known as Mrs Bright, Bertie’s teacher. She sat on a luxurious swivel chair, which gave her an over-inflated sense of power as she gazed down on us mere mortals.
‘So, Mrs Simmons, I’m afraid Alberto has been getting into rather a lot of trouble lately.’
‘Trouble?’ I looked at Bertie, whose cheeks had turned pink.
Mrs Bright frowned, coughed, then placed a selection of drawings down on the table between us. ‘Alberto has been encouraging vulgar behaviour in the other boys.’
I disguised a giggle as a cough. In front of me were a series of penises in varying colours, shapes and sizes.
‘We were drawing rockets,’ said Bertie, his cheeks now purple.
‘Alberto Simmons, I was not born yesterday.’
‘Bertie, it’s important to tell the truth.’ I squeezed his hand beneath the table.
‘I didn’t start it.’
