Mick frowns. ‘I’m busy tomorrow. How about lunch on Friday?’
‘Sounds good.’ I nod. ‘Damien, can you…’
‘Of course, you go. I’ll work out timings with Mr Cosgrove.’
‘Thank you. Apologies again, Mick. I’ll see you on Friday.’
‘Looking forward to it.’ He leans in to kiss my cheek, which is slightly inappropriate, and we bump heads. Luckily, Damien starts talking about suitable appointment times just as the lift door opens and I’m able to get away.
As I hasten back to the car in my crippling heels, I can’t stop my mind going into overdrive, wondering what’s happened with Eva. They said she’s not hurt or ill, so what on earth can it be about? Why couldn’t they have told me on the phone? I turn the corner and shiver as a gust of autumn wind hits me. Buttoning up my jacket, I try to remember where I parked my Honda CR-V. I’ve got so much going on in my head that I can’t even remember which side of the road I parked on. Eventually, I spy it hiding behind a minibus. But as I draw closer, my skin goes hot and my jaw drops open. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
Someone has sprayed graffiti along the side of my car, its silver paintwork scarred with the damning words:
Bad Mother
Five
‘Bad mother?’ I murmur, my breath stolen from my body. I take a step closer to check the car’s number plate and confirm that this actually is my Honda, that I haven’t got it confused with someone else’s. Unfortunately, it really is. My car has been graffitied. Is this a deliberate, personal attack on me, or simply some random act of vandalism?
I glance around to see if I can spot some youth in a hoodie running away, spray can in hand. But of course there’s no one. Whoever it was is long gone. With shaking fingers, I unzip my bag and scrabble around for a tissue. I locate one and start rubbing at the edge of the awful words, trying to erase them, but they won’t come off. They’ve fused to the paintwork. I spit on the tissue to see if that might help, but the words are indelible. Permanent. Who could have done such a thing?Bad mother.Am I really a bad mother? I’m not the best. I know that. I work too hard. I’m always busy. But I love my children. I feed them, clothe them, provide for them, hug them, kiss them. I would do anything for my girls.
I blow out a steady stream of air in an attempt to stop the threatening onslaught of tears. But I don’t have time for tears or for any kind of self-pity. I have to get to school to collect Eva. She’s a good girl. She never gets into trouble. So what could it be about? And how am I supposed to get to school now? There’s no way on earth I’m driving anywhere with the words ‘Bad Mother’ emblazoned across the side of my car. I’m certainly not turning up at school advertising my inadequacies as a parent. At least no one is here to witness my humiliation. Luckily this is a quiet side street, not a main road. Although, maybe if I’d parked somewhere busier, this would never have happened. It’s that stupid van’s fault for blocking me out of my parking space at work. I feed the meter, grab my phone, leave my defaced car and walk a little way up the street to call a cab.
The woman says they’ll be here in five minutes. My feet are killing me, but I can’t bring myself to go anywhere near my car, let alone sit in it. I lean on a wall, slip off one of my shoes and begin rubbing at my stockinged toes. Who invented high heels, anyway? They might look good, but I’m not enjoying the pain. I’m sure pinched toes must contribute to stress.
The taxi finally shows up. I get in, mumble a pleasantry to the driver and settle back while he drives me to my daughters’ school, fifteen minutes away. The journey feels slower than it is. I should probably call Robert while I have some time, but it’ll be better if we speak later, once I’m home. There’s too much to discuss in one phone call.
The cab drops me off outside school and I make my way across the car park to reception. It feels strange being here in the middle of the day, without the manic traffic jams and cliques of parents. Instead, it’s still and silent. No movement or sound save for the leaves rustling and the sound of distant cars from the main road. I press the buzzer to the main entrance and the door is released, letting me into the building. Hayley looks up from behind the glass screen which separates school from the parents. I idly wonder why they need to have the glass there. Is it to prevent germs? Noise? Violence? All three? Hayley looks pointedly at her watch. I know it’s over half an hour since she called, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
‘Hello, Mrs Ballantine,’ she says without a smile. ‘Miss Chalmers has been expecting you. I’ll let you in.’
‘Thanks.’ I wait for the buzzer and push open the inner door which leads to the headmistress’s office. Now that I’m here, I’m beginning to feel a little apprehensive. Could my usually well-behaved daughter be in trouble? Or has she told them what happened to her sister this morning?
Miss Chalmers has popped her head out of her office and when she spots me, she takes a deep breath. This looks ominous.
‘Mrs Ballantine.’ She holds out a hand and we shake. I follow her into her office and we both take a seat. I’d guess that Miss Chalmers is a decade or so older than me, in her forties. She has a no-nonsense attitude that makes me feel like a small child myself.
‘What’s this about?’ I ask, folding my hands into my lap.
‘Unfortunately, we’ve had a bit of an incident today.’
‘Is Eva okay?’
‘Eva is fine.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Unfortunately, Lauren Taylor is not.’
‘Lauren? What’s happened with Lauren?’
Lauren Taylor is Eva’s best friend. I hope they haven’t had a disagreement. The past two years have been a tricky time with Eva’s friendship groups. Lots of teasing and ostracising, tears and drama. But Eva and Lauren always manage to make up in the end. Lauren’s mum, Rebecca, is a friend of mine. I say ‘friend’, but our relationship is probably too complicated for that label. Ever since Eva got the part of Mary in the Year 1 nativity play, things have been somewhat competitive. Not frommypoint of view. I will always congratulate Rebecca, rather than embark on a game of one-upmanship where, for example, she would say Lauren came first in a maths test and I would counter with the fact that Eva won an award for a short story. Life’s too short for all that crap.
Rebecca used to have a high-flying job in the city but gave it all up to be a stay-at-home mum, and is extremely ‘alpha’, throwing all her mental energy into being the most dedicated parent on the planet. She’s traded her power suits for boho chic and she’s ditched her car for a bicycle. As chair of the PTA, she’s fully immersed herself in school life, and her two kids, Lauren and Ethan, are the recipients of constant holistic, organic micro-management, cherished to within an inch of their young lives.
‘Unfortunately, Eva hit Lauren,’ Miss Chalmers says calmly.
‘I’m sorry, what?!’
‘It happened earlier today when they were getting changed for PE.’
‘Shehither?’ I ask, my muscles tensing.
