From SUZY:

Every page in this book is a connection between us – author and reader.

I am so grateful you have chosen to make that connection.

I love talking to readers, so feel free to get in touch:

Email: suzykquinn@devoted-ebooks.com

Facebook.com/suzykquinn (You can friend request me. I like friends.)

Twitter: @suzykquinn

Website: www.suzykquinn.com

Don’t Tell Teacher

Suzy K Quinn

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Suzy K Quinn 2019

Suzy K Quinn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008323165

Version: 2019-02-21

For my little girls, Lexi and Laya – sorry this isn’t a bedtime

story. You can read it when you’re older :) xx

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Ruth

Lizzie

Lizzie

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Ruth

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Ruth

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Ruth

Lizzie

Olly

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Lizzie

Kate

Lizzie

Olly

Kate

Olly

Acknowledgements

Extract of Not My Daughter

About the Publisher

Prologue

We’re running. Along wide, tree-lined pavements, over the zebra crossing and into the park.

‘Quick, Tom.’

Tom struggles to keep up, tired little legs bobbing up and down on trimmed grass. He gasps for breath.

My ribs throb, lighting up in pain.

A Victorian bandstand and a rainbow of flowerbeds flash past. Dimly, I notice wicker picnic hampers, Prosecco, Pimm’s in plastic glasses.

No one notices us. The frightened mother with straight, brown hair, wearing her husband’s choice of clothes. The little boy in tears.

That’s the thing about the city. Nobody notices.

There’s a giant privet hedge by the railings, big enough to hide in.

Tom cries harder. I cuddle him in my arms. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ I whisper, heart racing. ‘Don’t make a sound.’

Tom nods rapidly.

We both clutch each other, terrified. I shiver, even though it’s a warm summer’s day.

Tom gives a choked sob. ‘Will he find us, Mum?’

‘Shush,’ I say, crouching in my flat leather sandals, summer dress flowing over my knees. ‘Please, Tom. We have to be quiet.’

‘I’m scared.’ Tom clasps my bare arm.

‘I know, sweetheart,’ I whisper, holding his head against my shoulder. ‘We’re going away. Far away from him.’

‘What if he gets me at school?’

‘We’ll find a new school. One he doesn’t know about. Okay?’

Tom’s chest is against mine, his breathing fast.

He understands that we can’t be found.

Olly is capable of anything.

Lizzie

Monday. School starts. It won’t be like the last place, Tom knows that. It will be hard, being the new kid.

‘Come on, Tommo,’ I call up the stairs. ‘Let’s go go go. We don’t want to be late on our first day.’

I pack Tom’s school bag, then give my hair a few quick brushes, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror.

A pale, worried face stares back at me. Pointy little features, a heart-shaped chin, brown hair, long and ruler-straight.

The invisible woman.

Olly’s broken ex-wife.

I want to change that. I want to be someone different here.

No one needs to know how things were before.

Tom clatters down the polished, wooden staircase in his new Steelfield school uniform. I throw my arms around him.

‘A hug to make you grow big and strong,’ I say. ‘You get taller with every cuddle. Did you know that?’

‘I know, Mum. You tell me every morning.’

I hand him his blue wool coat. I’ve always liked this colour against Tom’s bright blond hair and pale skin. The coat is from last winter, but he still hasn’t grown out of it. Tom is small for his age; at nearly nine he looks more like seven.

We head out and onto the muddy track, stopping at a blackberry bush to pick berries.

Tom counts as he eats and sings.

‘One, two, three, four, five – to stay alive.’

‘It’s going to be exciting,’ I coax as Tom and I pass the school playing field. ‘Look at all that grass. You didn’t have that in London. And they’ve got a little woodland bit.’ I point to the trees edging the field. ‘And full-sized goalposts.’

‘What if Dad finds us?’ Tom watches the stony ground.

‘He won’t. Don’t worry. We’re safe here.’

‘I like our new house,’ says Tom. ‘It’s a family house. Like in Peter Pan.’

We walk on in silence and birds skitter across the path.

Tom says, ‘Hello, birds. Do you live here? Oh – did you hurt your leg, little birdy? I hope you feel better soon.’

They really are beautiful school grounds – huge and tree-lined, with bright green grass. Up ahead there is a silver, glimmering spider’s web tangled through the fence wire: an old bike chain bent around to repair a hole.

I wonder, briefly, why there is a hole in the fence. I’m sure there’s some logical explanation. This is an excellent school … But I’ve never seen a fence this tall around a school. It’s like a zoo enclosure.

I feel uneasy, thinking of children caged like animals.

A cage is safe. Think of it that way.

The school building sits at the front of the field, a large Victorian structure with a tarmac playground. There are no lively murals, like at Tom’s last school. Just spikey grey railings and towering, arched gates.

A shiny sign says:

STEELFIELD SCHOOL: AN OUTSTANDING EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT

HEADMASTER: ALAN COCKRUN, BA HONS SEMPER FORTIS – ALWAYS STRONG

The downstairs windows have bars on them, which feel a little sinister and an odd paradox to the holes in the fence. And one window – a small one by the main door – has blacked-out glass, a sleeping eye twinkling in the sun.

The playground is a spotless black lake. No scooter marks or trodden-in chewing gum. I’ve never seen a school so clean.

We approach the main road, joining a swarm of kids battling for pavement position.

Most of the kids are orderly and well-behaved. No chatting or playing. However, three boys stand out with their neon, scruffy shoes, angry faces and thick, shaggy black hair.

Brothers, I decide.

They are pushing and shoving each other, fighting over a football. The tallest of the boys notices Tom and me coming up the lane. ‘Who are you?’ He bounces his football hard on the concrete, glaring.

I put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Tommo. Nearly there.’

The shortest of the three boys shouts, ‘Oo, oo. London town-ies’.

I call after them, ‘Hey. Hey! Excuse me—’

But they’re running now, laughing and careering through the school gates.

How do they know we’re from London?

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Tom.

My hand tenses on his shoulder. ‘I should say something.’

‘They don’t know me yet,’ Tom whispers. ‘That’s all. When they get to know me, it’ll be okay.’

My wise little eight-year-old. Tom has always been that way. Very in tune with people. But I am worried about bullying. Vulnerable children are easy targets. Social services told me that.

It will be hard for him …

As the three black-haired brothers head into the school yard, a remarkable change takes place. They stop jostling and pushing each other and walk sensibly, arms by their sides, mouths closed in angry lines.

Tom and I walk alongside the railings, approaching the open gates.

It’s funny – I’d expected this new academy school to be shiny and modern. Not to have grey brick walls, a bell tower, slate turrets and bars.

I sweep away thoughts of prisons and haunted houses and tell Tom, ‘Well, this is exciting. Look – there’s hopscotch.’

Tom doesn’t reply, his eyes wide at the shadowy brickwork.

‘This is my school?’ he asks, bewildered. ‘It looks like an old castle.’

‘Well, castles are fun. Maybe you can play knights or something. I know it’s different from the last place.’

‘Castles have ghosts,’ Tom whispers.

‘Oh, no they don’t. Anyway, big nearly-nine-year-old ghost-busters aren’t afraid of ghosts.’

We move towards the school gates, which are huge with spikes along the top, and I put on an even brighter voice. ‘You’re going to do great today, Tom. I love you so much. Stay cool, okay? High five?’

Tom gives me a weak high five.

‘Will you be okay, Mum?’ he asks.

My eyes well up. ‘Of course. I’ll be fine. It’s not your job to worry about me. It’s mine to worry about you.’

Tom turns towards the soulless tarmac and asks, ‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’

‘Parents aren’t allowed into the playground here,’ I say. ‘Someone from the office phoned to tell me. Something to do with safety.’

Two of the black-haired boys are fighting in a secluded corner near a netball post, a pile of tussling limbs.

‘Those Neilson boys,’ I hear a voice mutter beside me – a mother dropping off her daughter. ‘Can’t go five minutes without killing each other.’

The headmaster appears in the entranceway then – an immaculately presented man wearing a pinstripe suit and royal-blue tie. His hair is brown, neatly cut and combed, and he is clean-shaven with a boyish face that has a slightly rubbery, clown-like quality.

Hands in pockets, he surveys the playground. He is smiling, lips oddly red and jester-shaped, but his blue eyes remain cold and hard.

The chattering parents spot him and fall silent.

The headmaster approaches the corner where the boys are fighting and stops to watch, still smiling his cold smile.

After a moment, the boys sense the headmaster and quickly untangle themselves, standing straight, expressions fearful.

It’s a little creepy how all this is done in near silence, but I suppose at least the headmaster can keep order. Tom’s last school was chaos. Too many pupils and no control.

I kneel down to Tom and whisper, ‘Have a good day at school. I love you so much. Don’t think about Dad.’ I stroke Tom’s chin-length blond hair, left loose around his ears today. More conventional, I thought. Less like his father. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m scared, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone all day. What if Dad—’

I cut Tom off with a shake of my head and give him a thumbs-up. ‘It’s fine. We’re safe now, okay? He has no idea where we are.’ Then I hug him, burying my face in his fine hair.

‘I love you, Mum,’ says Tom.

‘I love you too.’ I step back, smiling encouragingly. ‘Go on then. You’ll be a big kid – going into class all by yourself. They’ll call you Tom Kinnock in the register. Social services gave them your old name. But remember you’re Riley now. Tom Riley.’

Tom wanders into the playground, a tiny figure drowned by a huge Transformers bag. He really is small for nearly nine. And thin too, with bony arms and legs.

Someone kicks a ball towards him, and Tom reacts with his feet – probably without thinking.

A minute later, he’s kicking a football with a group of lads, including two of the black-haired boys who were fighting before. The ball is kicked viciously by those boys, booted at children’s faces.

I’m anxious. Those kids look like trouble.

As I’m watching, the headmaster crosses the playground. Mr Cockrun. Yes. That’s his name. He’d never get away with that at a secondary school. His smile fades as he approaches the gate.

‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You must be Mrs Kinnock.’

The way he says our old surname … I don’t feel especially welcomed.

‘Riley now,’ I say. ‘Miss Riley. Our social worker—’

‘Best not to hang around once they’ve gone inside,’ says Mr Cockrun, giving me a full politician’s smile and flashing straight, white teeth. ‘It can be unsettling, especially for the younger ones. And it’s also a safeguarding issue.’ He pulls a large bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘They’re always fine when the parents are gone.’

Mr Cockrun tugs at the stiff gate. It makes a horrible screech as metal drags along a tarmac trench, orange with rust. Then he takes the bulky chain that hangs from it and wraps it around three times before securing it with a gorilla padlock. He tests the arrangement, pulling at the chain.

‘Safe as houses,’ he tells me through the gates.

‘Why the padlock?’ I ask, seeing Tom small and trapped on the other side of the railings.

Mr Cockrun’s cheerful expression falters. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Why have you padlocked the gate?’ I don’t mean to raise my voice. Other parents are looking. But it feels sinister.

‘For safeguarding. Fail to safeguard the children and we fail everything.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Mrs Kinnock, this is an outstanding school. We know what we’re doing.’

I pull my coat around myself, holding back a shiver. It’s a very ordinary wool coat, bought while I was with Olly.

I was a shadow then, of course. Hiding behind my husband.

I’m hoping that will change here.

‘It feels like I’m leaving Tom in prison,’ I say, trying for a little laugh.

Mr Cockrun meets my eye, his hard, black pupils unwavering. ‘There is a very long waiting list for this school, Mrs Kinnock. Thanks to social services, your son jumped right to the top. I’d have thought you’d be the last parent to criticise.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘We usually pick and choose who we let in.’ The politician’s smile returns. ‘Let’s make sure we’re on the same page, Mrs Kinnock. Not start off on the wrong foot.’

He strolls back to the school building, and I’m left watching and wondering.

When I get back to our new Victorian house with its large, wraparound garden and elegant porch pillars, I sit on the front wall, put my head in my hands and cry.

I try not to make a sound, but sobs escape through my fingers.

Things will get better.

Of course I’m going to feel emotional on his first day.

Lizzie

I’ve been invited to a party, but I’m on the outside, not knowing what to do with myself. I’m not a skier or snowboarder, so I’m … nowhere. Standing on the balcony, looking at the mountains, I feel very alone.

Morzine is one of the world’s best ski resorts. I’ve heard it described as ‘electric’ after dark. Tomorrow, the slopes will be tingling with pink, white and yellow snowsuits. But tonight, they’re white and calm.

It sounded so adventurous, being a chalet girl out here. But the truth is, I’m running away. Things with Mum are unbearable again. I thought they’d be better after university, but if anything they’re worse. Her need to tear me down is stronger than ever.

It’s not about blame.

All I know is that I needed to get away, for my own sanity.

Behind me, Olympic hopefuls talk and laugh in their day clothes, drinking sparkling water or, if they’re real rebels, small bottles of beer.

Most of them aren’t interested in a twenty-something chalet girl with straight, brown hair and floral-patterned Doc Marten boots.

But … someone has come to stand beside me. He’s a tall, blond man wearing ripped jeans and a loose, light pink T-shirt. His light tan and white panda eyes tell me he’s a skier or snowboarder – probably a serious one, if the other guests at this party are anything to go by.

‘It’s Lizzie,’ the man asks. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘You’re still wearing your name badge.’

I glance down and see my health and safety training sticker: Lizzie Riley.

‘You don’t remember me?’ the man challenges, raising a thick, blond eyebrow.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’

‘Olly.’ He holds out a large hand for me to shake. ‘I’m staying in the chalet next to you. With the Olympic rabble over there.’ He points to a rowdy group of young men holding beers. ‘You’re a chalet girl, right?’ He grins. ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

‘Actually, it can be exhausting,’ I say.

Olly laughs. ‘Are you thinking about jumping off the mountain then?’

My smile disappears. ‘No. Why would you ask that?’

‘Just joking.’

We stare out at the peaks for a minute.

A live band strikes up behind us, playing a Beatles cover – ‘Love Me Do’.

Olly’s shoulders move to the music.

Mine do too.

‘You like the Beatles?’ Olly asks.

‘Yes.’ I look at him shyly, hoping this is the right answer.

‘Me too! I have a massive collection of Sixties vinyl.’

‘You collect vinyl?’ I ask.

‘No, well … not really. Most of my records are my mum’s. She listens to CDs now. It feels like time-travelling when I play vinyl, you know? Like I’m part of the swinging Sixties.’

‘Olly!’ A tall, red-cheeked man swaggers over, holding out a beer bottle. ‘Olly Kinnock. This is supposed to be a lads’ night out and here you are chatting up girls again.’

Olly smiles at me, staring with blue, blue eyes. ‘Not girls. A girl. A very interesting girl.’

I feel myself blushing.

‘Fair enough,’ announces the red-cheeked man, thrusting the beer into Olly’s hand. ‘We’ll see you in the morning then.’ He returns to his group of friends, who break into guffaws of laughter.

‘Sorry about them,’ says Olly, putting his elbow on the balcony and, in the process, leaning nearer to me. ‘They can be morons.’

‘You can go back to them if you like.’

‘Actually, I’ve always preferred female company,’ says Olly. ‘Girls smell better. But you must have a boyfriend, surely? A pretty girl like you. So tell me to get lost if you want.’

I blush again and stammer, ‘Um … no, I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Have a drink with me then.’

Surely he’s just teasing me? Handsome snowboarders don’t chat up chalet girls. And he really is handsome, with his lean, toned arms and perfect white teeth.

His eyes are serious, holding my gaze.

Maybe he isn’t joking.

‘Okay,’ I hear myself say. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s a date.’ Olly takes my hand like he’s won a prize.

I laugh, sucking in my breath as his strong fingers close around mine.

‘So what are you drinking?’ Olly asks.

‘Um … white wine?’

‘Chardonnay?’

‘Sure. Yes please.’

He winks at me. ‘I love Chardonnay. Best wine ever. Just don’t tell the lads. It’s a bit girly. I’ve been noticing you for weeks, Lizzie Riley. I think we should spend lots and lots of time together. And then get married.’

I can barely believe this is happening. A nobody chalet girl like me, being chatted up by this confident, tanned athlete. I guess I should enjoy it while it lasts. When he works out what a nothing I am, he’ll run a mile.

I laugh. ‘Are you always so forward with your wedding plans?’

‘Only with my future wife.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

‘Yes, but I’ve been watching you and your purple puffer jacket for ages, wondering how you don’t freeze to death in those DM boots.’

‘Where have you noticed me?’

‘Drinking black coffee in the café, buying a ginger cookie and giving crumbs to the birds on your way out. Always carrying a pile of books under your arm. Are you a student?’

‘I’m training to be a nurse.’

‘A nurse? Well, Lizzie Nightingale, you’ll have to put your career aside when you have my five children.’

‘Five children?’

‘At least five. And I hope they all look just like you.’

Our eyes meet, and in that second I feel totally, utterly alive.

I’ve never been noticed like this.

It’s electrifying.

And I feel myself hoping, like I’ve never hoped before, that this man feels the same sparks in his chest as I do.

Kate

8 a.m.

I’m eating Kellogg’s All-Bran at my desk, silently chanting my morning mantra: Be grateful, Kate. Be grateful. This is the job you wanted.

Apparently, social workers suffer more nervous breakdowns than any other profession.

I already have stress-related eczema, insomnia and an unhealthy relationship with the office vending machine – specifically the coils holding the KitKats and Mars bars.

Last night I got home at 9 p.m., and this morning I was called in at 7.30 a.m. I have a huge caseload and I’m firefighting. There isn’t time to help anyone. Just prevent disaster.

Be grateful, Kate.

My computer screen displays my caseload: thirty children.

This morning, I’ve had to add one more. A transfer case from Hammersmith and Fulham: Tom Kinnock.

I click update and watch my screen change: thirty-one children.

Then I put my head in my hands, already exhausted by what I won’t manage to do today.

Be grateful, Kate. You have a proper grown-up job. You’re one of the lucky ones.

My husband Col is a qualified occupational therapist, but he’s working at the Odeon cinema. It could be worse. At least he gets free popcorn.

‘Well, you’re bright and shiny, aren’t you?’ Tessa Warwick, my manager, strides into the office, clicking on her Nespresso machine – a personal cappuccino maker she won’t let anyone else use.

I jolt upright and start tapping keys.

‘And what’s that, a new hairdo?’ Tessa is a big, shouty lady with high blood pressure and red cheeks. Her brown hair is wiry and cut into a slightly wonky bob. She wears a lot of polyester.

‘I’ve just tied it back, that’s all,’ I say, pulling my curly black hair tighter in its hairband. ‘I’m not really a new hairdo sort of person.’

I’ve had the same hair since I was eight years old – long and curly, sometimes up, sometimes down. No layers. Just long.

‘I might have known. Yes, you’re very, very sensible, aren’t you?’

This is a dig at me, but I don’t mind because Tessa is absolutely right. I wear plain, functional trouser suits and no makeup. My glasses are from the twenty-pound range at Specsavers. I’ve never signed up for monthly contact lenses – I’d rather put money in my savings account.

‘I’m glad you’re in early anyway,’ Tessa continues. ‘There is a lot to do this week.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Leanne Neilson is in hospital again. Gary and I were up until nine on Friday trying to get her boys into bed. I just need time to get going.’

Gary is a family support worker and absolutely should have finished at 5 p.m. So should I, actually. But two out-of-hours team members were off sick and we were swamped.

Tessa inserts a cappuccino tablet into her Nespresso machine. ‘So you were babysitting the three Neilson scallywags?’ She gives a snort of laughter. ‘They’re like child versions of the Gallagher brothers, those boys. All that black hair, fighting all the time. You never know – maybe they’ll be famous musicians. But you shouldn’t have been putting them to bed. You should be in the pub of an evening, like a normal twenty-something.’

It’s a bone of contention between us – the fact I rarely drink alcohol. Also, that I married at twenty years old and go to church twice a week.

‘Jesus drank, didn’t he?’ Tessa continues. ‘I thought it would be okay for you lot.’

‘Us lot?’

‘You young churchy types. You’ll be drinking soon,’ Tessa predicts. ‘Just you wait. You’re new to this, but everyone ends up on the lunchtime wine eventually. Now listen – have you done the home visit for that transfer case yet? From Hammersmith and Fulham, Tom Kinnock? The one with the angry dad.’

‘No. I sent a letter on Friday. She’ll get it today.’

‘Get on to that one as soon as you can, Kate. The transfer was weeks late. There’ll already be some catching up to do. Have they got him a school place?’

‘Yes. At Steelfield School.’

‘I bet the headmaster is furious,’ laughs Tessa. ‘“More social services children thrust upon us … we already have the Neilson boys to deal with.’”

‘I’m not sure a high-achieving school is the right environment for Tom Kinnock,’ I say. ‘Very strict and results obsessed. After what this boy has been through, maybe he needs somewhere more nurturing.’

‘Don’t worry about the school,’ says Tessa. ‘Steelfield is a godsend. They keep the kids in line. No chair throwing or teacher nervous breakdowns. Just worry about getting that case shut down ASAP. The father is a risk factor, but all the dirty work is done.’

‘I’m pretty overwhelmed here, Tessa.’

‘Welcome to social work.’ Tessa gives her Nespresso machine a brief thump with a closed fist.

Lizzie

A brown envelope, addressed formally to Elizabeth Kinnock. The mottled paper has a muddy shoeprint from where I stepped on it.

I study the postmark. It’s from the county council, i.e. social services. I know these sorts of letters from when we lived with Olly. We’d like to meet to discuss your son …

I should have known social services would want to meet us. Check we’re settling into our new life. But we don’t need any of that official stuff now. Olly is gone.

My fingers want to scrunch the brown paper into a tight ball, then push the letter deep down into the paper recycling, under the organic ready-meal sleeves and junk mail. Stuff away bad memories of an old life, now gone.

But instead I shelve the letter by the bread bin, resolving to open it after a cup of tea. There are other letters to read first.

I sit on the Chesterfield sofa-arm and slide my fingers under paper folds, tearing and pulling free replies to my many job applications. They’re all rejections – I’d guessed as much, given the timing of the letters. If you get the job, they mail you straight away.

I look around the growing chaos that is our new house. There are toys everywhere, children’s books, a blanket and pillow for when Tom dozes on the sofa. Really, it’s hard enough keeping on top of all this, let alone finding a job too.

The house was beautiful when we moved in over the summer – varnished floorboards, cosy living room with a real fireplace, huge, light kitchen and roaming garden full of fruit trees.

But all too quickly it got messy, like my life.

I have that feeling again.

The ‘I can’t manage alone’ feeling.

I squash it down.

I am strong. Capable. Tom and I can have a life without Olly. More importantly, we must have a life without him.

There’s no way back.

A memory unzips itself – me, crying and shaking, cowering in a bathtub as Olly’s knuckles pound on the door. Sharp and brutal.

Tears come. It will be different here.

I head up to the bathroom with its tasteful butler sink and free-standing Victorian bathtub on little wrought-iron legs. From the porcelain toothbrush holder I take hairdressing scissors – the ones I use to trim Tom’s fine, blond hair.

I pick up a long strand of my mousy old life and cut. Then I take another, and another. Turning to the side, I strip strands from my crown, shearing randomly.

Before I know it, half my hair lies in the bathroom sink.

Now I have something approaching a pixie cut – short hair, clipped close to my head. I do a little shaping around the ears and find myself surprised and pleased with the result.

Maybe I should be a hairdresser instead of a nurse, I think.

I fought so hard to finish my nurse’s training, but never did. Olly was jealous from the start. He hated me having any sort of identity.

Turning my head again in the mirror, I see myself smile. I really do like what I see. My hair is much more interesting than before, that mousy woman with non-descript brown hair.

I’m somebody who stands out.

Gets things done.

No more living in the shadows.

It won’t be how things were with Olly, when I was meek little Lizzie, shrinking at his temper.

Things will be different.

As I start tidying the house, my phone rings its generic tone. I should change that too. Get a ring tone that represents who I am. It’s time to find myself. Be someone. Not invisible, part of someone else.

My mother’s name glows on the phone screen.

Ruth Riley.

Such a formal way to store a mother’s number. I’m sure most people use ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ or something.

I grab the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’

There’s a pause, and a rickety intake of breath. ‘Did you get Tom to school on time?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because it’s important, Elizabeth. On his first day. To make a good impression.’

‘I don’t care what other people think,’ I say. ‘I care about Tom.’

‘Well, you should care, Elizabeth. You’ve moved to a nice area. The families around there will have their eyes on you. It’s not like that pokey little apartment you had in London.’

‘It was a penthouse apartment and no smaller than the house we had growing up,’ I point out. ‘We lived in a two-bed terrace with Dad. Remember?’

‘Oh, what nonsense, Elizabeth. We had a conservatory.’

Actually, it was a corrugated plastic lean-to. But my mother has never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

‘I was planning to visit you again this weekend,’ says Mum. ‘To help out.’

I want to laugh. Mum does the opposite of help out. She demands that a meal is cooked, then criticises my organisational skills.

‘You don’t have to,’ I say.

‘I want to.’

‘Why this sudden interest in us, Mum? You never visited when we lived with Olly.’

‘Don’t be silly, Elizabeth,’ Mum snaps. ‘You’re a single parent now. You need my help.’ A pause. ‘I read in the Sunday Times that Steelfield School is one of the top fifty state schools.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. Make sure you dress smartly for pick-ups and drop-offs. I paid a personal visit to the headmaster this morning. To impress upon him what a good family we are.’

I laugh. ‘You didn’t think to ask me first?’

My mother ignores this comment. ‘The headmaster was charming. Very presentable too. He tells me Tom is lucky to have a place there. Make sure you put a good face on.’

‘Social services got us that place. I’d feel luckier not to have a social worker.’

‘Elizabeth.’ Mum’s voice is tight. She hates it when I mention social workers. ‘Don’t be ungrateful.’

‘You really shouldn’t have visited the school, Mum,’ I say. ‘Teachers are busy enough.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Mum. ‘You need to make a good impression and for that you need my help. You never could do that on your own.’

‘I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. But can you ask in future? Before you do things like visiting Tom’s school? It feels a bit … I don’t know, intrusive.’

I feel Mum’s annoyance in the silence that follows. And I become that needy little girl again, doing anything to win back her favour.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Forget I said that. It’s wonderful you visited Tom’s headmaster. Look, come and visit whenever you like.’

When I hang up, I think about Olly.

You miss him sometimes. Admit it.

The voice comes out of nowhere and I try to squash it down.

Of course there were good times. But if I want to remember the good times, I have to remember the bad ones.

Do you remember him screaming at you? Calling you every name under the sun? And worse, so much worse … Saying things too shameful to think about.

How I could fall in love with someone who wanted to tear me apart?

Lizzie

‘So why the blindfold?’ I ask, as Olly leads me over crunching snow.

‘Because you like surprises.’

Did I say that?

This has all been such a whirlwind. I’m insecure, certain our romance will be over when Olly finds out he’s too good for me.

‘This way,’ says Olly, and I hear a chalet door creak. ‘Welcome home.’

‘Home?’

‘My chalet.’ Olly unties my blindfold. ‘Where you’ll be sleeping for the rest of the ski season.’

I laugh. ‘You’ll be lucky.’

As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a cosy sofa area and Chardonnay, a bowl of Pringles and glittering tealights laid on a chunky, wooden dining table.

‘I’m calling this evening “Lizzie’s favourites”,’ says Olly, plugging his phone into a speaker. ‘Your favourite food. Favourite music. Favourite everything. I’ve got sea bass.’ He goes to the fridge and slaps a wax-paper packet of fish on the kitchen counter. ‘New potatoes in the oven. Lots of tomato ketchup in the fridge, because we’re both philistines.’ He winks. ‘Sour-cream Pringles to start. And Joni Mitchell on the stereo. Oh – and black forest gateaux for dessert. The one you like from the café.’

I smile, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘You did all this for me?’

‘Just for you. Right this way, madam.’ He hesitates when he sees my face. ‘Hey. Lizzie? Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Really, I’m fine.’

‘Lizzie.’ Olly pulls me close. ‘What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?’

I shake my head against his chest, tears pressing into his shirt. ‘No. Not at all. The opposite.’

‘The opposite?’

‘All this for me. I don’t deserve it.’

Olly laughs then, his big, cheery, confident laugh. ‘You deserve this and much, much more.’ He kisses my head and hugs me for a long time. ‘Okay?’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

‘Let the evening commence!’ He leads me to the table, snatching up a purple napkin. ‘Your favourite colour.’ He grins, opening the napkin with a flourish.

Purple isn’t really my favourite colour. It’s just the colour of the coat I wear. But I don’t tell Olly that.

We eat Pringles, sea bass and new potatoes, drink Chardonnay and listen to Joni Mitchell. Then Olly lights a fire.

‘I borrowed a Monopoly board,’ says Olly, leading me to the sofa area. ‘Your favourite game, right? And mine too, actually. Come on. You can thrash me.’

‘Love to,’ I say.

‘Of course, we could play strip poker instead,’ says Olly, flashing his lovely white teeth.

I’m hit by an uneasy feeling that this evening might be too traditional for Olly. The wine, the fire, the board game. What if he thinks I’m boring?

‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘How about strip Monopoly?’

‘Strip Monopoly?’ says Olly. ‘You’re on!’

We make up a few rules, deciding to lose an item of clothing every time we land on the other person’s property. Then we start playing.

It doesn’t take long before I’m down to my underwear.

‘Are you cheating?’ I accuse, taking off my bra.

Olly watches me, mesmerised. Then he says, ‘You’re beautiful, do you know that? Hurry up and roll again.’

‘It’s your turn,’ I protest.

Olly struggles out of his clothes, revealing a beautiful toned body and crazy orange tan lines at his wrists and collarbone. Then he stands to remove his underwear.

‘Turn taken,’ he announces, standing naked. ‘Now roll again.’

‘That’s definitely cheating,’ I laugh, shy now. ‘You can’t take all your clothes off at once.’

‘How dare you!’ Olly protests. ‘I am a serious rules-body. Well, if you think the game has been compromised, we’ll just have to abandon it.’

He lifts me into his arms.

‘But you were winning,’ I laugh, as Olly carries me outside to the hot tub.

‘I declare it a draw.’

Olly lowers me carefully into the bubbling water. Then he climbs into the tub himself and slides me onto his lap, arranging my legs so I’m kneeling around his hips.

‘I need to learn more of your favourites,’ he says, kissing me fiercely, hand moving up and down between my thighs.

Snow falls on the warm water and our bare shoulders.

I moan, but suddenly Olly pulls back.

‘Wait.’ He’s breathless. ‘I don’t want to move too fast.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You’re sure? Listen, really I can wait. I don’t want this to be some quick thing. You’re more than that to me.’

I must look upset, because Olly says: ‘Hey. It’s okay. Really. I’ll get you a towel and you can have my bed, okay? I’ll take the sofa.’

‘No,’ I insist, gripping his arms. ‘I want this. Honestly, I want this. It’s just … I’ve never felt this way either. I’ve never been … special.’

‘You are special,’ says Olly. ‘The most special girl I’ve ever met.’

He kisses me again and I’m lost.

We make love in the hot tub and then again on Olly’s bed. He’s gentle at times, firm at others. He’s considerate, but sometimes teeters on the brink of losing control.

In the morning, Olly makes me waffles covered in syrup and a sugary hot chocolate. Then we have sex again before I sneak back to my chalet to prepare breakfast for my host family.

While I’m whisking up scrambled eggs, my phone bleeps. It’s a message from Olly: I miss you already.

I feel soft warmth in my chest, but also anxiety.

This is amazing. The most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. But how can something like this last? Half the things Olly thinks we both ‘love’, I only like a little bit. Like sea bass, tomato ketchup and syrup-covered waffles with sweet hot chocolate. I’ve exaggerated so he’ll think we have things in common, scared that boring little me isn’t good enough.

Oh, what does it matter?

I’m probably just a sexual conquest and Olly will forget all about me in a few days.

This can’t last.

It’s too good to be true.

Lizzie

My chest aches as I run up the stony path. I’ve forgotten Tom’s painkillers. They’re not vital. His migraines are stress-related and he hasn’t had one since we left Olly. But I’d like the school to have tablets to hand just in case.

You’ll never cope alone.

Olly’s voice plays in my head sometimes, no matter how hard I try to drown it out.

Maybe some things you can’t outrun.

Even when you’re running.

I reach the school gates, tan-leather handbag bobbing against my side.

Then I remember the padlock.

There is an intercom by the wrought-iron gates, so I press it.

A woman’s voice crackles: ‘Hello? Do you have an appointment?’

‘Hi. It’s Tom Riley’s mother. I brought his medicine.’ I peer through the railings. ‘Hello?’ I call again. No one answers.

The main door is firmly shut, a solid lump of wood. A few early autumn leaves scatter the empty playground, crispy green-orange, some dancing up against the brickwork. I notice again the bars on the windows and bite my lip. Why have bars like that? This is a school, not a prison. And that blacked-out window. What are they trying to hide?

After a moment, the headmaster himself strides across the playground. He looks earnest. Almost helpful. But I sense another energy too. Something like annoyance.

‘Hello, Mrs Kinnock,’ says Mr Cockrun, as he reaches the gate. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Um … it’s Riley. And I have Tom’s medicine.’

‘Medicine?’ His eyes bore into me. ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned before?’

‘It’s not essential but—’

‘All medicine must go through me.’ Anger passes across his face for a fraction of a second – it’s so quick that I almost don’t spot it. The next moment, his earnest expression is back in place. ‘Well, come inside and we’ll make a record.’

He unlocks the gates and ushers me through, taking a good few minutes to re-secure the padlock.

I follow him across the playground.

When we reach the heavy entrance door, Mr Cockrun says, ‘Wait in reception, but please don’t let the children see you, Mrs Kinnock. I don’t want them knowing a parent is here during the school day. It’s unsettling for them.’

I nod stiffly.

‘Next time, make sure you bring everything at school drop-off,’ Mr Cockrun continues. ‘All right? It’s a safeguarding issue, Ms Riley. Having people come and go.’ He gives me a winning smile.

‘Parents dropping things off is a safeguarding issue?’ I say.

‘Yes. And the children really do become unsettled too. It’s not fair on them. They learn much better when they understand that school is where we care for them and home is where they see their parents. I’m sure you can understand.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re an exceptional school, Ms Riley. We know what we’re doing. Let’s have this medicine, then. What’s Tom taking?’

I don’t know why the question feels intrusive, but it does.

‘Painkillers,’ I say, passing over the white packet. ‘He doesn’t take them all the time. Just if he gets a bad headache.’

‘I’ll pop these in my office,’ says Mr Cockrun, heading through a side door. In the room beyond, I see him unlock a cabinet made of orangey teak and stickered with a pharmaceutical green cross. The cabinet is mounted low down on the wall – at stomach level.

Mr Cockrun puts Tom’s medicine inside, then locks the cabinet and pockets the key.

The room has a single window, I notice. The two-way glass I saw from the outside.

So the headmaster’s office is the room they don’t want people seeing into.

As I’m thinking about that, I hear the sound of children chanting coming from a room off reception:

‘We are the best.

We rise above the rest.

By strength and guile,

We go the extra mile.’

The double doors leading from reception haven’t quite closed, and through the crack I see rows of children seated for assembly: eyes dull, school uniforms immaculate and identical, hair neatly brushed. It looks choreographed – as if someone has positioned them for a photograph.

Like the plain tarmac playground, there’s something very soulless about it.

I spot Tom then, blond hair shining.

Normally I would smile at the sight of him, but he’s tiny beside one of those black-haired boys. The ones who were fighting.

Tom’s body leans away from the boy, his pose awkward.

I feel my heart judder.

Someone spots me looking – a teacher, I think – and pushes the double doors closed.

Then the headmaster returns with a book in his hand. ‘Jot some details down here,’ he says, offering me the lined pages. ‘Don’t worry – we don’t need a medical history or anything. Just the name of Tom’s medication, the quantity you’re leaving here, the dose Tom needs and today’s date.’

I write, pen-marks jerky.

‘You keep the medicine cabinet in your office?’ I ask.

‘Pardon?’ Mr Cockrun takes back the notebook.

‘Don’t you have a nurse’s office?’

Mr Cockrun smiles again, a wide version that still doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘As I said, Mrs Kinnock, there’s method to our madness. Don’t worry.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘We have it all under control. Let me show you to the gate.’

We walk slowly across the playground, me watching my plain lace-up DMs tap tap over tarmac.

On my way home, I see a dead bird. There’s a lot of blood. I suppose a fox must have got it.

It’s right by the hole in the school fence – the one I saw before, repaired with a bike chain. The hole is very small. Not big enough for an adult to climb through.

There’s probably some logical explanation.

Given my past, it would be strange if I didn’t get twitchy about odd things. But there’s no need to be paranoid.

Lizzie

‘Look, keep still. It’s broken.’

I put my hand on Olly’s knee, which bulges at an eye-watering angle under his padded O’Neill trousers.

He’s lying on thick snow, one ski boot bent back under his snowboard, the other boot snapped open, his socked foot falling out.

Under the bright morning sunshine, Olly’s blue eyes water, tanned skin squeezing and contorting. He has English colouring – sandy hair dusting his ski goggles and an unnatural orange hue to his suntan.

‘I’m pretty lucky to have a nurse here,’ says Olly, after another wince of pain. ‘Have I told you I love you yet today? I do. I love you, Lizzie Nightingale. Remember that, if I die out here on this slope.’

He doesn’t realise how serious this is.

‘I’m not a nurse yet. Don’t try to move.’

Olly, of course, makes a stupid attempt to get up, pushing strong, gloved hands onto the snow. But then his eyes widen, his skin pales and he falls back down. This is just like him. Give him a boundary and his first impulse is to overcome it.

‘Please don’t move,’ I beg. ‘God – this is awful. I can’t bear seeing you hurt.’

Olly reaches up to trail fingers down my cheek. ‘Is it bad that even in all this pain, I still want to do things to you?’

‘You know, there are times for jokes. And this isn’t one of them.’

‘I’m not joking.’ He gives me the soft, blue eyes that make my stomach turn over. ‘We could have sex right here on the snow. The ambulance will take ages.’

‘Olly. You’ve just broken your leg.’

‘I get it. You can’t have sex in public until we’re married.’ He heaves himself onto his elbows and grasps my fingers. ‘So marry me, Lizzie.’

‘I just said this is no time for jokes.’

‘I’m not joking. You’re the one for me, Lizzie Nightingale. I knew it from the moment I saw you stumbling along that icy path in your big purple coat, looking like a little elfin angel thing. I promise I will take care of you for the rest of my life.’ He gives another wince of pain. ‘Even if I never walk again.’

Olly is so impulsive. A risk-taker. I suppose that goes hand in hand with snowboarding. He goes full-pelt into everything. Including love.

In a few short weeks, he’s made me feel so special and adored. Lying in Olly’s chalet bed, wrapped up in his arms, watching snow fall outside, I have never known love like this – utterly consuming, can’t-be-apart love.

He makes me breakfast every morning, constantly tells me how beautiful I am and texts me all day long.

I’m waiting for him to work out who I really am. Just a nobody. And then this holiday romance will come crashing down.

‘Just lie down and rest,’ I say, stroking his forehead. ‘They’ll take you to hospital. I’ll bring you chocolate Pop Tarts.’

Olly loves sugar. He’s a big kid, really. So enthusiastic. And when we’re in bed he’s like that too – just ‘wow!’ at everything. ‘Wow, you look incredible, wow your body is amazing.’

He makes me feel so alive. So adored. So noticed. The exact opposite of how my mother makes me feel.

How did this happen so quickly?

I’m so in love with him.

Olly lies back on the snow, staring up at the sky. ‘I’ll heal. Won’t I? I’ll be able to compete?’

He looks right at me then, blue eyes crystal clear.

‘I don’t know, Olly. Just try to rest. The paramedics will be here soon.’

Olly reaches out a snowy, gloved hand and takes my mitten. ‘You’re an angel, Lizzie Nightingale. You have fabulous dimples, by the way.’

I smile then, without meaning to.

‘You will stay with me, won’t you?’ Olly asks, suddenly serious. ‘Until the stretcher comes?’

‘Of course I will. You fall, I fall. Remember? We’re in this together.’

I sit on the cold snow, my mitten clasped in his glove.

Kate

1.45 p.m.

I take deep breaths, lifting knuckles to the door. The red-brick house is identical to its neighbours – except for the large crack in the front door.

Knock, knock.

No answer.

Tessa’s words ring in my ears: Get on to that Tom Kinnock case as soon as possible. He should never have been passed over to us. Get it shut down and off your desk.

I would peer in the window, but the curtains are closed, even though it’s gone lunchtime.

Knock, knock.

I put an ear to the door and hear voices. Someone is home.

Knock, knock, knock.

‘Hello?’ I call. ‘It’s Kate Noble from Children’s Services.’

I knock again, this time with a closed fist.

There are hurried footsteps and a woman opens the door, blonde hair scraped back in a hairband.

‘Keep it down.’ The woman’s eyes swim in their sockets. ‘Alice is sleeping.’

So this is Leanne Neilson. Mother to the infamous Neilson boys.

She wears Beauty and the Beast pyjamas with furry slippers and looks exhausted, huge bags under her eyes. Her grey pallor is a drug-abuse red flag. Unsurprisingly, the files note that Leanne has a problem with prescription medicine.

Behind Leanne is a tidy-ish living room with red leather sofas and a shiny flat-screen over a chrome fireplace. The voices, I realise, were coming from the television.

‘You must be Miss Neilson,’ I say, reaching out my hand. ‘Lloyd, Joey and Pauly’s mum. Can I call you Leanne?’

Leanne Neilson isn’t the person I wanted to see today. I should be at Tom Kinnock’s house, getting his file shut down and letting his mother get on with her new life.

But social services is all about prioritising highest need.

‘All right,’ says Leanne, tilting her head, eyes still rolling around, not taking my hand.

‘So my name is Kate. I’m your new social worker.’

Leanne blinks languidly, grey cheeks slackening. ‘What happened to … er … Kirsty?’

‘She’s been signed off long-term sick.’

‘What do you want?’ A rapid nose scratch. ‘I’ve been in hospital.’

‘Yes – that’s what I wanted to chat to you about. Can I come in for a minute?’

Leanne looks behind her. ‘I mean, the house is a mess.’

‘It looks okay. Are the sofas new?’

‘Leather is … easier to clean. But give it a few weeks and Lloyd … he’ll wreck them.’ More rapid nose scratching.

‘Can I come in?’

‘When is Kirsty back?’

‘She probably won’t be coming back.’

‘Another one gone then.’ Leanne walks back into the lounge, her hand going to the sofa arm for support.

I close the front door.

‘Where’s baby Alice?’ I ask.

‘I told you. Sleeping.’

‘Can I see?’

‘This is like a … roundabout,’ says Leanne. ‘“Can I see the bedrooms? How are things with your partner? How are you coping?” I never see the same person twice. No one ever gives me any help.’

‘We don’t like changing staff either, Leanne,’ I say, following her up the pink-carpeted staircase. ‘It’s bad for everyone when people leave. But it’s just the way things are at the moment.’

‘Alice is here,’ says Leanne, lowering her slow voice to a whisper, and showing me a clean, relatively tidy baby room with five large boxes of Pampers stacked in the corner.

Baby Alice is asleep in a white-wood cot with a mobile hanging overhead. The room smells fine – unlike the landing, which has a faint odour of urine.

‘I know it smells,’ says Leanne, as if reading my mind. ‘Joey’s still wetting the bed. The doctor says he’ll grow out of it.’

‘How did this happen?’ I ask, pointing to a hole in a chipboard bedroom door.

Leanne blinks a few times, then responds: ‘Lloyd did that. I’ve told the housing people. They still haven’t been round to repair it.’ She adds, ‘It wasn’t my partner, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Has Lloyd started counselling yet?’ I ask. ‘He should be nearing the top of the waiting list by now.’

‘No.’ Leanne’s face crumples. She looks at me then, brown eyes filled with pain.

I know what she’s saying. I can’t cope. And suddenly I want to hug her.

But we’re not allowed to do that with adults.

‘Lloyd talked with the last social worker about coping strategies,’ I say, following the official line. ‘Boxing at his cousin’s gym? Has he been doing that?’

‘I’m his punch bag,’ Leanne says. ‘He’s getting so big now, I can’t stop him. I’ve asked them to take him into care. No one listens. He’s going to kill me one of these days.’

‘Let’s talk about how you can set boundaries. Look into some parenting classes—’

‘I’ve been to them.’

‘No. They were organised for you, but you didn’t attend.’

‘I couldn’t get there. I don’t have a car.’

‘I’ll set up some more classes for you. Maybe I can look into having someone drive you there. What about your medication? Are you taking it regularly?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m taking it.’ Leanne’s eyes dart to the floor. ‘But I lost some. Can you tell the doctor to give me more?’

‘You’d have to ask him yourself. Let’s talk about your partner. Are you still with him?’

‘Why do people always ask about him? What has he got to do with anything? I’m allowed to have a boyfriend. I’m a grown woman.’

‘He’s living here, isn’t he?’

Leanne thinks for a moment, eyes rolling around. ‘It’s my house,’ she says. ‘Why is it anyone else’s business who lives here? Look, can’t you take Lloyd into care, just for a bit?’

‘I can’t pick up a child and place them in care just like that.’

‘Why not?’

Because they have to be deemed at risk of immediate harm. And Lloyd is more of a risk to others than in danger himself.

Lizzie

‘So how was school?’

Tom is quiet, head down, kicking stones. I squeeze his hand in mine.

We’re walking home along the country path, me shielding my eyes against the low sun.

My little boy seems so small beside me today. It’s funny – when he started school in London, he grew up overnight. But now he seems young again. Vulnerable.

He hasn’t grown much this year, even though he’s nearly nine.

‘It was all right,’ says Tom. His school jumper is inside out, so he must have had sports today. He never has quite got the hang of dressing himself. ‘Were you okay at home?’

I laugh. ‘I was fine, Tom. You’re such a lovely boy for caring. High five?’

Tom slaps my fingers, but doesn’t smile.

‘Do you need me to carry your bag?’ I ask. ‘You look tired.’

He doesn’t reply.

‘Tommo?’

‘What?’ Tom turns to me, eyes dull. He looks … disorientated.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods.

‘You don’t look okay. What’s up, Tommo?’

‘Just tired.’

‘How was school?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Tom’s words are soft now – almost slurred.

My heart races, but I keep my questions calm. ‘Nothing? Not even what you had for lunch? Tom … you don’t look too well. Maybe you should have a lie-down on the sofa when we get home.’

‘Yeah.’ His feet trudge over stones.

I remember chatting with another mum in London once.

Usually, I kept my head down at the school gates, the quiet, downtrodden wife. But this mum sought me out. Forced me into a conversation.

She told me her son, Ewan, never remembered what happened at school. She said it was common.

I’d nodded, feigning agreement. But actually, Tom always remembered his school day. Our walk home was filled with chatter about reading books, school dinners and gold stars.

‘Okay, champ.’ I ruffle Tom’s hair, the words catching. ‘A little rest. And then I think a trip to the doctor’s would be a good idea.’

‘Yeah.’ Tom stumbles a little, his black school shoe turning under itself.

‘Tom?’ I take his arm.

He gives a languid blink. ‘Maybe … maybe I’m getting a cold. Everything looks blue today.’

I stiffen.

When things were especially bad between Olly and me, Tom became fixated on colours. How grass wasn’t really green, but green, yellow and brown. And the teacher’s skirt was ‘turquoise like Daddy’s sweatshirt’.

A sign of stress, the doctor said.

We approach our sleeping house, the curtains drawn. They’re made from thick, heavy velvet, and I hung them the very first day we moved.

Heavy curtains are a necessity for anyone running from someone.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ I unlock the front door. ‘I bought some biscuits. You can have a snack and I’ll take your temperature.’

‘I don’t want a snack,’ says Tom, heading straight through our messy living room and throwing his coat and bag over the bannisters. ‘Biscuits are too brown today.’

Too brown.

He hasn’t mentioned colours since we left London …

‘I just want to sleep,’ says Tom.

‘Can’t we just have a little chat?’

Out of the blue, Tom snaps: ‘Leave me alone! I hate the new school, okay? And I hate you.’

I stare at him, utterly stunned. He’s never talked to me like that. Ever.

‘Maybe you should go upstairs and rest,’ I say sharply.

‘That’s what I just said,’ he retorts.

Clump, clump, clump.

Tom stomps up the stairs, head bowed. Then his bedroom door slams.

I follow him upstairs and find him sitting on his bed, playing with his Clarks shoes. He pulls the Velcro back, then sticks it down. Rip, rip. Rip, rip.

‘Tom? Please let’s talk. I know this is hard.’

Tom looks up, and as he does his head begins to loll around.

Then my little boy slides to the floor, his body totally rigid, twisting, biting, drooling.

‘Tom!’ I stare, terrified, as he snaps his teeth at thin air. One hand is still locked to the Velcro on his trainer, his body a stiff crescent, fingers refusing to yield. ‘Tom!’

I see the whites of his eyes as he shouts, ‘School grey.’

‘I’m phoning an ambulance,’ I shout, dashing downstairs two steps at a time.

My fingers are shaking as I dial 999, my words rushed when the operator comes on the line. ‘Help, please,’ I sob. ‘My son is having some sort of fit. Please send an ambulance. Hurry!’

Lizzie

I have nausea – the sort brought on by overwhelming fear and anxiety.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Tom lies on white cotton sheets. They’re the same sheets I used to strip down in hospitals before I got pregnant. They should feel familiar and safe, but today everything is wrong.

My eyes are wide, barely blinking. ‘Why did this happen?’ I ask the doctor. ‘He’s a healthy child. He’s healthy.’

Tom stopped convulsing when the ambulance came. He is now drowsy and confused, barely conscious. A seizure – that’s what they’re calling it. Nobody knows why it happened.

‘Could he have taken anything he shouldn’t?’ the doctor asks. ‘Medication, anything like that? It’s quite unusual for this to happen with no history.’

‘No. We keep paracetamol, cough syrup. He has painkillers for migraines … but Tom wouldn’t take anything without asking. He’s very sensible for his age.’

‘Normal painkillers wouldn’t have caused something like this.’

‘Tom,’ I whisper.

‘Mum,’ Tom says.

‘Sweetheart.’ I stroke his forehead.

Tom murmurs, ‘I want to sleep. Please, Mum.’

‘You haven’t eaten. The sooner you eat, the sooner we can get home to your own bed. With all your Lego.’

‘Red Lego. Want to … sleep.’

‘Tom, the doctor wants to know if you took anything. Medicine – anything like that.’

Tom shakes his head, eyes bobbing closed.

When the doctor leaves, Tom sleeps until teatime.

He wakes to eat three forkfuls of hospital meat pie and one spoonful of strawberry yoghurt.

While I’m clearing Tom’s dinner tray, a nurse says: ‘You’ll be discharged later. Just as soon as the doctor comes back.’

I nod, shelving the empty tray in a metal trolley.

‘Tom will be in his own bed tonight,’ the nurse continues. ‘And back at school tomorrow. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

‘Yes.’

But actually, the thought of school … it frightens me.

Kate

What’s the time? My watch hands point to 7.10 p.m., but the computer says 7 p.m.

The computer is right, of course – I always set my watch ten minutes fast. Col calls this my mega efficiency.

I see Tessa in her office, stuffing Nespresso capsules into her handbag.

‘I need you here first thing tomorrow,’ she commands, striding past me. ‘Did you get the Kinnock file closed down yet?’

‘Tom Kinnock’s mother still hasn’t replied to my letter. She’s had it over a week now. I need to pencil in an unannounced visit. See how Tom’s settling into his new school before I close the case down.’

‘Don’t forget your twenty-nine other children.’

‘Thirty children now, Tessa. And yes, I know.’

‘Don’t cancel anything you shouldn’t.’

There is a secret code in social services. Some appointments absolutely can’t be altered. Some shouldn’t be altered, but have to be.

It all comes down to greatest need.

‘Okay, listen. Why not forget about Tom Kinnock for the time being?’ Tessa suggests. ‘You have a cast-iron defence if anything goes wrong – blame Hammersmith and Fulham. They should have passed it over sooner.’

‘I need to make a start,’ I say. ‘Get some sort of order. The file has passed through ten different social workers – the notes are an absolute mess. Pages and pages of reports, everything out of order. It needs straightening out.’

‘Hammersmith and Fulham sound worse than this place,’ says Tessa. ‘Can you imagine? Somewhere more chaotic than here?’ She snorts with laughter and heads towards the swing doors. ‘Well. Night then.’

I put my head in my hands.

At university, I was always ‘Sensible Kate’ or ‘Aunty Kate’. The one with a good head on her shoulders. I never broke down or got overwhelmed. But right now, I’m stressed to the point of collapse.

‘Are you all right?’

My head jerks up, and I see Tessa lingering in the doorway.

I feel embarrassed and pat my cheeks. ‘Fine. I thought you’d gone.’

‘You’re not all right, are you?’ Tessa backtracks, perching her large behind on my desk. ‘You’re killing yourself. Staying late every night. This can’t be doing your love life any good. What does your boyfriend think about all this?’

‘Husband.’

‘Oh, that’s right. I can never get my head around that. At your age.’

‘Col’s getting used to my working habits. I used to text him if I’d be home late. Now I text if I’ll be home on time.’

Tessa guffaws. ‘Sounds about right. But how long will he be understanding for? A lot of relationships break down here. Partners get fed up of being second best.’

‘Col and I are solid. We support each other.’

‘Listen, with a caseload like yours, you’ve got to put some of them on the back burner.’

‘Tell me, Tessa – how can I put a vulnerable child on the back burner?’

Lizzie

Mum is visiting today. She wants to talk about Tom’s first week at school. Make sure he’s settling in okay.

Two things will happen.

She will be late.

She will criticise me incessantly.

I’ve made vegetable soup with organic parsnips and carrots, and just a little bit of crème fraîche, plus (I won’t tell my mum this) a squirt of tomato ketchup. Pumpkin seed and olive oil bread warms in the oven.

I have been up early, cleaning, scrubbing, dusting. The house looks great, actually. A real step forward. I’ve laid the breakfast bar in the big, beautiful conservatory using freshly laundered napkins and antique wine glasses.

But I know it won’t be enough. Nothing ever is for my mother.

It’s 1 p.m., and Tom waits in a clean shirt, face scrubbed, hair shiny. He tried to get out of brushing his teeth (‘I’ll do it later, Mum’), but I managed to bribe him with a fruit Yoyo and the promise that he doesn’t have to give Grandma a kiss.

Now we’re sat on the sofa, listening for the click click of my mother’s high heels.

A car slows outside. I hear footsteps, then a hard knock at the door.

This is her.

I open the door to a cloud of rose perfume and Mum’s glossy, denture-perfect smile. She looks like a Fifties movie star – red lipstick, bright green pashmina and Jane Mansfield coiffed black hair.

‘Hello, darling.’ Mum kisses me on both cheeks, leaving traces of lipstick, which I surreptitiously rub off. She glides into the house, sharp, green eyes inspecting. ‘How is my little grandson?’

‘He’s much better now,’ I say. ‘They didn’t keep him overnight in the end. They think the seizure could have been a one-off. Just some unexplained childhood thing. Tom, say hello to your grandma.’

‘Hello, Grandma,’ says Tom, back straight, knees together. ‘That’s a very nice red bag.’

‘Have they put him on any medication?’ Mum asks.

I hesitate. ‘Yes. Yes, they have. Blood-thinning meds, just in case. He’s going to be on them for the next few months and then they’ll reassess.’

‘So he’s on prescription medication?’ Mum qualifies. ‘It must be serious, then.’

‘I … yes. He’s still not quite himself.’

‘How are you settling into school?’ Mum asks. ‘Are you keeping up with your school work?’

‘Yes,’ says Tom. ‘It’s harder than London, but it’s all right.’

‘Did I mention, Thomas – I met your new headmaster?’ Mum slides leather gloves from her hands and pats his head. ‘I liked him very much. Behave well for him, won’t you? We don’t want people thinking you’re from a bad family. How are you doing in class? Still at the top?’

‘No,’ says Tom. ‘Not here. But I don’t mind.’

‘You need to work hard, Tom,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t be lazy. You were top of the class before. The headmaster is such a nice man. Very high standards. He’ll be disappointed in you.’

‘Tom has never been lazy,’ I say. ‘He’s just not competitive. He doesn’t care about being the best. That’s just not who he is.’

‘Not like his father then.’ Mum raises an eyebrow. She walks through the living room and into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. ‘So this is where you’re hiding the mess.’

It’s true – there’s a raggle-taggle heap of objects stuffed inside the lower cupboards. Things I didn’t have time to sort through and stuffed out of the way to look tidy.

‘You’re not coping, Elizabeth,’ Mum says. ‘I knew you’d struggle alone.’

‘I’m doing my best. We’ve only just moved. You should have seen the house yesterday.’

‘You shouldn’t have left your husband. And now it’s too late.’

That last remark cuts like a knife.

‘You’re saying I should have stayed with Olly?’ I glance to check Tom isn’t listening, then whisper, ‘You know what he did.’

‘Oh, Elizabeth, children don’t always tell the truth. You hardly ever did.’

‘You should have come to court, Mum,’ I say, teeth gritted. ‘And heard the full story.’

‘This is too much for you, Elizabeth. The house. A young child. Why won’t you come and live with me?’

I hold back a shudder. ‘I’m not sure we’d get along as adults,’ I say. ‘We didn’t get on well when I was a teenager, did we?’

‘You were difficult,’ says Mum. ‘Always criticising. Trying to start arguments. And so solemn.’

‘I looked after you much more than any thirteen-year-old ever should,’ I say, meeting her eye.

Mum turns to open kitchen cupboards.

Deflect.

Ignore.

Put it in a box and let it explode another time.

That’s how things are in our family.

I wonder if Mum has genuinely forgotten her overdose. And the fall-out afterwards. Or just pretends.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, changing the subject. Slotting in, being a shadow.

My mother’s lips pucker. She manages a few tears. ‘How could you say we don’t get along, Elizabeth? I did everything for you. I gave up my whole life. Stayed with your adulterous pig of a father. For you.’

Inwardly I feel tired. It’s just so much easier to placate my mother than tell the truth.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

Mum goes to a recent picture of Tom on the mantelpiece. I took it when Tom’s new Steelfield School uniform arrived. I needed him to try it on, so let him pose with his school bag at the bottom of the stairs.

The uniform was oversized – and still is – but he’ll grow into it.

‘Is that his new school uniform?’ Mum asks. ‘Very smart.’

‘Yes,’ I say, and then pre-empting a criticism I add, ‘It was big on him, but better than too small.’

‘What are the children like at your new school, Tom?’ Mum asks. ‘They come from good families, don’t they?’

‘He’s eight years old, Mum,’ I say. ‘How can he answer a question like that?’

‘The headmaster says the school has an outstanding status,’ Mum continues, ignoring me. ‘Very high-achieving. I imagine the children are well-behaved. Come from the right stock.’

‘Most of the children are good,’ says Tom. ‘Except Pauly and his brothers. They have a gang.’

I turn to him. ‘What do you mean, a gang?’

‘Lloyd is the general,’ Tom explains. ‘Pauly is general number two, Joey and I are the soldiers. We like red – red is our gang colour.’

Colours again.

‘Lloyd’s mental,’ Tom continues. ‘Mental.’

‘Sounds like he needs discipline,’ says Mum. ‘I’m sure the headmaster keeps him in line.’

Tom nods. ‘Lloyd doesn’t dare do anything when Mr Cockrun is around. He’s too scared of…’ Tom stops himself then, as if he’s said too much.

‘Are many of the children scared of Mr Cockrun, Tom?’ I ask gently.

Tom hesitates.

‘Children should be scared of their headmaster,’ says Mum.

‘No they shouldn’t,’ I say.

‘Maybe they’re not scared,’ says Tom quickly.

‘But you started to say Lloyd was,’ I insist. ‘Why is Lloyd scared?’

Tom shrugs. ‘I dunno.’

‘Speak properly, Tom,’ Mum snaps.

‘You should stay away from those Neilson boys, Tom,’ I say. ‘They sound like bad news.’

‘What’s your teacher like, Tom?’ Mum asks.

‘She’s like a robot,’ says Tom. ‘She just says everything the headmaster says.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ Mum retorts. ‘Stop being so silly.’

‘He’s tired,’ I say. ‘Remember he was in hospital last week.’

There is a silence long enough for Mum’s handsome face to crumple. Then she says, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t call me.’

I want to say, ‘Of course I didn’t call you. You’d have made it all about yourself.’ But I don’t. I’ve learned the hard way what happens if I tell her the truth.

‘We’ve been through this, Mum,’ I say. ‘Tom didn’t stay overnight—’

‘But it was a seizure.’

‘Yes. And it was terrifying for both of us. But I’m trying not to dwell on that.’ I say the last words through gritted teeth.

Mum cups Tom’s face in her hands, then pulls him into a dramatic, perfumed chest-hug.

Tom accepts the hug limply, without pleasure.

‘I handled it okay by myself,’ I say. ‘I’m not as useless as you think.’

‘A seizure. Oh my God, Elizabeth. How on earth could something like that have happened? Could there be something genetic? On his father’s side, perhaps?’

My heart races as I wait for the next inevitable question. And then it comes.

‘Has he seen Oliver since you moved?’ Mum’s eyes roam around my living room.

‘No.’

‘I thought—’

‘I told you what Olly did.’

‘Couldn’t you have tried counselling? I always thought your father and I should have given that a go.’

I let out a shocked laugh. ‘It went way beyond counselling. Olly has deep-rooted psychological issues. Good God, I wish you’d been there at the court hearing.’

I turn then, realising Tom might be listening. But he’s frowning at a school book – something he used to do when Olly and I were together. Shut himself away.

‘You don’t even give Olly visitation,’ says Mum. ‘That would give you a few hours to yourself, at least.’

‘Olly will never see Tom without me being there,’ I say, my voice low. ‘Not while I’m still breathing. I failed Tom before. I won’t fail him again. Anyway, Tom doesn’t want to see his father. They can’t make him if he doesn’t want to.’

Mum shakes her head. ‘But you need help. You can’t do this alone.’

‘What time did you book your taxi for, Mother?’ I ask. ‘How long do we have the pleasure of your company?’

Mum gives me sad, disappointed eyes, and I feel my inner strength dwindling. ‘I was hoping we’d have a nice lunch. I’ve come a very long way.’

My mother was the first shadow I found myself standing in.

At least Olly noticed me from time to time.

Lizzie

‘You are absolutely stunning.’ Olly lies back on the sofa, broken leg propped up on a coffee table made of wine corks.

His leg is still in plaster, and I know it’s itchy, uncomfortable and driving him mad, especially at night. Sometimes he scratches inside the plaster with a knitting needle.

The plaster has been on for a few months now.

Typical Olly – he’s made his leg plaster cool, getting an artist friend to felt-tip a multi-coloured effect on the bandage, copied from a Ride snowboard design. He’s even cut pairs of Boma jeans to accommodate the plaster.

Olly is indisputably handsome, with blond hair, tanned skin and white teeth. He could dress in a business suit, sports clothes or as he does – in scruffy surfer clothes with hair messy and long around his ears – and still look like a model. I suppose it’s the years of snowboarding. He’s so fit and healthy.

I’m wearing a floaty, daisy-patterned summer dress, something I picked out from Snow and Rock – one of Olly’s favourite shops. It’s not my usual sort of thing, if I even have a usual sort of thing, but I feel relieved and happy that Olly likes the choice.

Olly never tells me how to dress. Not overtly. But I’ve learned what he likes and what he doesn’t.

We got together so quickly. Sometimes I think about how Olly doesn’t really know who I am, and that if he did he’d leave me. I’m still insecure about it, so I try and be everything I think he wants me to be.

We’re at Olly’s flat in Earl’s Court – three storeys up and with its own roof terrace. It’s a big place, especially for this part of London, and is what you’d call a ‘bachelor pad’.

There is a mini-fridge full of beer in the living area, a snowboard propped up behind the sofa and a chair made of recycled Coca-Cola cans.

Olly’s friends are round often, playing on his old SNES, making jokes about his leg, drinking beer and smoking joints until the small hours.

I prefer the days when his friends aren’t round, but it’s not my flat so it’s not my place to say who comes here.

We’re in that weird in-between stage, Olly and I, where I’m not officially living with him, but most of my things are here. I haven’t committed to making this my address, but Olly keeps asking me to move in and talking about marriage.

We love each other. Desperately, at times. We can’t stand to be apart and when I’m working Olly calls me ten times a day.

Most people think I’m lucky to be in this situation – living in West London, adored by a champion snowboarder.

So why do I feel, sometimes, like I’m losing myself?

Music is playing – Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The proper vinyl version. Olly has a turntable and boxes of records – all given to him by his mother.

‘I never know what to wear to your friends’ parties,’ I admit, rummaging in my makeup bag for my turquoise earrings.

All Olly’s female friends are so pretty. Effortlessly so. Hardly any makeup. A lot of them snowboard too, but only one is pro.

‘Do you know what?’ Olly pulls himself up on the bed, dragging his plastered leg onto the sheepskin rug. ‘I’m not really in the mood for this party. I shouldn’t drink right now. And getting across London with this leg … So if you’re not up for it either, why don’t we do something else?’

‘Like what?’

‘Jump in the camper van, head down to Devon, camp, have a BBQ, hang around on the beach. It’s supposed to be amazing weather this weekend.’

‘Olly, I don’t think camping with your leg is a good idea.’

A flash of annoyance passes over Olly’s handsome face. ‘It’s only a broken leg, Lizzie. I haven’t got cancer.’

‘Yes, but you should keep the plaster dry and clean. And what about your meds?’

‘Bloody hell. What, I can’t even go camping now?’

‘You shouldn’t. Not until your leg heals. I’m only saying this because I care about you.’

‘And how long is the healing going to take? Every time I see the specialist, he adds on another month.’ Olly thumps the duvet. ‘I feel so trapped. I need to get back out on the slopes. I need to. Life is slipping away.’

I sense another argument coming on, so I say, ‘I know’, and sit on the bed, taking his hand. ‘But I’m here. We’ll make you well again. Okay? Just give it time.’

Olly’s blue eyes turn clear. ‘You really are an angel, do you know that? Looking after me. Playing the nurse. Putting up with me and my moods.’

My dad used to call me that. An angel.

I kiss Olly’s cheek and slide my hand into his. ‘I love you, Olly Kinnock. And you’ll heal. Just give yourself time.’

Olly turns to the window then. ‘Will I? I’m not sure. I’m forgetting who I used to be. What if I become this moody person forever?’

‘You won’t.’

‘How do you know? How do you know who I really am?’

I suppose we’ve only known each other a few months. Four seasons, that’s what my father used to say. You have to be with someone for four seasons, good and bad, before you really know them. I think he was making a comment about marrying my mother.

‘I love you,’ I say. ‘That’s enough for me.’

Suddenly Olly says, ‘I love you too, Lizzie Nightingale. Will you marry me?’

Just like that.

I laugh.

‘I’m serious,’ Olly says, pulling me into his arms. ‘I love you. You get me. Even when I’m like this. We’re meant to be together.’

‘Olly, we’ve known each other less than three months. We’re not even properly living together yet.’

‘Oh, so what?’ Olly kisses me, and for a moment everything is okay. Maybe we can get married and live happily ever after.

But then I pull back. Things with Olly have been good. But they’ve been bad too. He’s pushed me before – a great, big, open-palmed shove when he was wobbling around drunk, trying a new pair of skis. He said it was an accident. He didn’t mean for me to fall. But …

‘Olly—’

‘Are you rejecting my proposal, Lizzie Nightingale?’

‘It’s just … what’s the rush?’

‘Why wait?’

‘Maybe we don’t know each other well enough yet,’ I say.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Anxiety hits my stomach.

I know the signs of his mood swings by now. And I become a child again, desperate to keep the peace.

‘Please, Olly, I didn’t mean it like that. I love you. Of course we’ll get married one day.’

This is what I used to do when my parents fought. Do anything to make it okay, forget myself, humiliate myself. Anything to stop the ugliness growing. And then one day my dad met someone else and left. It was all for nothing. So why do I feel compelled to carry on the same behaviour?

‘If you don’t want to be with me, just say so,’ Olly snaps. ‘Because I think you either know or you don’t. And if you’re not sure, then that means no. Call it a day.’

I clasp his hand, scared of losing him to the other, angry person. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just, your leg is still broken.’ I try for a laugh. ‘I don’t want our wedding photos to be spoiled by that big multi-coloured plaster.’

Olly looks at me for a minute, then he laughs too. ‘Is that why you said no? Just because of the wedding photos? What is it with women and photos?’

We laugh together then, and everything feels okay.

I’ve done it.

I’ve averted disaster.

Just like I used to do with Mum.

I catch a glimpse of my bare back in the mirror. ‘Could you do up these buttons?’ I ask.

Olly does.

My breasts feel tender, I realise. Sore. We’ve never been careful, Olly and I. Not really. So often caught in the heat of the moment. Suddenly I have such a strong feeling.

Oh God.

What if I’m pregnant?

Ruth

I was supposed to meet Kaitlyn for tea this afternoon, but I cancelled.

‘I visited Elizabeth this morning,’ I told her, with a gay little laugh. ‘And my daughter needs to make a good impression with the other mothers. She’s in desperate need of home-wares. I’m staying in town to do a bit of shopping. Can we reschedule?’

Sometimes, I despair of Elizabeth.

Tatty old furniture, mismatched curtains and nothing on the mantelpiece. Tom’s started at an outstanding school and she’s a single mother. What will the other parents think?

‘Don’t wear yourself out,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘Your daughter needs to stand on her own two feet.’

Kaitlyn is one of the few friends who understands just how unlucky I’ve been with Elizabeth. Other mothers have children who take them to lunch. Elizabeth doesn’t think about me at all.

I’m at Fenwick department store on the High Street. It was recommended by a well-dressed woman in town, and she was right – there are lots of lovely things here.

I take a net basket from a young assistant and click around the homeware department, imagining how much better I’ll feel when Elizabeth has some lovely ornaments on display.

Most likely, I’ll get no thanks for it. All Elizabeth ever does is criticise.

‘I was in your shadow,’ she says. ‘You made me feel invisible.’

Perhaps now she realises how difficult it is being a parent.

Elizabeth never excelled at school. Didn’t try hard enough. In truth, she never applied herself. Tom was top of his class in London, so maybe my grandson will be the one to make me proud.

As I’m examining a china cat with a lace collar, a smiling grey-haired assistant approaches. She has dreadful makeup. Eyebrows far too heavy.

‘Oh, that’s one of my favourites,’ she says. ‘It looks just like my cat, Sherbet.’

I slide the cat back on the shelf.

‘Shopping for something in particular?’ the assistant asks.

I notice her neck, loose with wrinkles.

‘Things for my daughter,’ I say, with a grand smile. ‘She’s just moved into a new home.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ says the assistant. ‘Is she married or single?’

I pull my smile tight. ‘Married,’ I say. ‘Her husband is a champion snowboarder. And she has a little boy. Tom. My grandson. He’s a bonny little lad – very well-behaved. A model pupil at school.’

‘Not like my grandson then,’ laughs the assistant. ‘He’s a terror, but we love him all the same.’

I smile kindly. ‘Maybe it’s the school that’s the problem. My grandson goes to Steelfield School. They’re really on top of discipline there. The headmaster is very ambitious.’

The assistant shudders. ‘I’ve heard about that place. Kids quiet as mice. Teachers so perfect they’re like robots.’ She glances at me then. ‘Sorry to speak out of turn, it’s just what I’ve heard.’

‘Oh, I think you can tell a lot from the inspectors' reports,’ I counter. ‘The official people who assess the schools know what they’re talking about.’

‘I always think the most important thing is that the kids are happy.’

I wander towards a colourful collection of cookware, but it’s far too bright. I’ll never understand this modern trend for childish, primary colours. What happened to elegant florals?

The assistant is tailing me. ‘How old is your grandson?’ she asks.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a hanging frying pan. I look a good fifteen years younger than this assistant, although I’d guess we’re around the same age.

‘Eleven,’ I say. ‘He’s very bright. The teachers think he’ll pass the grammar school exam.’

‘Oh, that’ll be good,’ says the assistant, not really understanding.

‘My daughter Elizabeth went to grammar school,’ I say. ‘She passed her exams and studied at Cambridge University. She’s a qualified doctor now.’

‘Well done her,’ says the assistant. ‘Does she work part-time? Now she has her little boy?’

‘Oh, she doesn’t work,’ I say. ‘Her husband takes care of everything. She doesn’t have to lift a finger. She even has a cleaner.’

‘Wish I had one of those,’ says the assistant, winking. ‘In my house, I’m the cleaner.’

‘Elizabeth is a wonderful daughter,’ I say. ‘We’re best friends. She’s always inviting me over. Or taking me to lunch.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ says the assistant, with a kind smile.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s perfect.’

Lizzie

We’re early for school today. I’m so determined to be a terrific, organised single parent that I’ve excelled myself.

Tom’s only been here a few weeks. We’re still the new family. Still need to prove ourselves.

Mr Cockrun stands outside the gates when we arrive, scrubbing at some graffiti on the school sign. His rubbery cheeks are red with the effort, hand moving frantically.

I make out some faded spray-paint letters written after Mr Cockrun’s name: CH and then what looks like a faded E and A and another letter so faint as to be nothing but paint speckles.

As Mr Cockrun scrubs the sign clean he notices three approaching schoolgirls. ‘Blazers on properly, please, girls,’ he says. ‘And let’s get the ties nice and straight. If you’re neat and tidy the school is neat and tidy.’

He sounds friendly enough, but the effect on the girls is profound. They hurriedly pluck and pull at their clothing, eyes swishing nervously to the headmaster.

Mr Cockrun nods encouragingly. ‘Let everyone know how proud we are to be Steelfield pupils.’ Then he heads into the school.

I smile at one of the girls. She has red hair, frightened blue eyes and gaps in her teeth. I think she must be ten or eleven.

‘He likes you to look presentable,’ I say.

The girl gives a funny laugh, glancing after the headmaster. ‘We like to look smart,’ she says. ‘It’s important for the school.’

‘Don’t you like to be a bit casual sometimes? You’re still only children.’

The girl looks deeply uncomfortable. ‘No. Mr Cockrun wants everything at school to be perfect.’ She glances at her friends, who nod in agreement.

‘But no school is perfect,’ I say in surprise. ‘Even if it looks perfect. Surely there must be things you’d like to improve.’

The girl gives a tight shake of her head. ‘It’s a wonderful place, and we’re lucky to be here. Semper Fortis. Always strong.’

The girl and her friends scurry off into the playground. I watch them, feeling uneasy.

‘Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to go today.’

I push aside my anxiety. ‘I know, love. But you’ll be fine.’ I kneel down, pulling him into a hug. ‘You’re amazing. The best little human being I ever met. I know it’s tough starting a new place, but give it a chance, okay?’ Then I whisper, ‘I know the headmaster is a bit … funny.’

Tom nods. Then he strokes the railings. ‘Silver and grey and blue and black.’

Colours again.

Two other mums appear. They’re dressed in clean jeans, coats and silk scarfs, figures snapped back in place after children.

One of them says, ‘What school doesn’t have bullying? That’s what I told the headmaster. Just because everyone else is too scared to tell doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’

‘And what did he say?’ the other mother asks.

‘Told me flat out there was nothing going on. That he keeps the Neilson boys in line. “Everything is under control,” he said.’

The second mother leans in closer. ‘Noah told me social services are involved with them.’

I stiffen at the mention of social services.

‘Theo said the older boy was slurring his words in the dinner queue …’

The first mother notices me then. She turns her whole body to block me out, and I see sparrow-like shoulder bones poking through her thin coat.

I feel left out.

I am left out.

For a moment, I question the orange scarf I’ve chosen to wear – the one I’ve been knitting in the evenings, listening to music (it feels good to listen to my music, not Olly’s) while Tom is tucked up in bed upstairs. It is a little bright. Maybe even show-offy. Perhaps I should know better than to try to stand out, but I’m ready for change. Something has to change.

I can’t carry on being the invisible woman.

Tom needs a strong mother.

Behind me, a woman says, ‘Scuse me. Are you … Tom’s mum?’

The words are an elastic band, stretched to the point of limpness.

I turn to see a skinny woman, thin blonde hair almost see-through. She’s attempted a smart outfit – a blouse tucked into tight navy jeans – but it doesn’t suit her grey, tired skin or dreamy, slow-moving eyes.

There’s a large pram by her hip with a baby girl inside. I know the baby is a girl because everything is pink – snowsuit, blanket and bow.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.’

The woman blinks slowly and says, ‘I’m … Pauly’s mum. Leanne.’ She pauses, looking momentarily confused, then regains her concentration. ‘Pauly said about Tom. They’re … friends?’

‘Oh. Right.’ My hand finds Tom’s shoulder. ‘You’re Pauly’s mum. They’re in the same class, but … I didn’t know they were friends.’

‘You’re … separated like me, aren’t you?’ says Leanne, meeting my eye. ‘That’s what Pauly … says.’

‘Yes.’ I wonder what else the kids at school know about us already.

‘My boys’ dad … left,’ says Leanne. She sways a little and adds, ‘Good riddance. Did yours leave too?’

‘Actually, I left Tom’s dad,’ I say. ‘I tried for a long time to make it work. But you can’t change people unless they want to change.’ This comment is for the two mums standing nearby. I feel them watching me and don’t want to be judged for my failed marriage. It’s Olly’s shame, not mine.

‘We need to look after … each other,’ says Leanne with a languid blink. ‘Especially at this place. It’s not right, is it?’ Her eyes are on mine now and her words become more solid. ‘Lloyd is scared and he’s never scared. And Joey’s been having panic attacks. How’s Tom doing?’

I bite my lip. ‘Not so well, actually.’

‘Listen – don’t you become one of them. “As long as we get our good grades let’s pretend it’s all okay.” They hide a lot at this place. Sweep it under the carpet to make the school look good. I mean, Lloyd is full of shit but I know when he’s lying.’

There’s an awkward silence and then Leanne says, ‘Can Tom come round … this Saturday?’

Tom looks up, eyes frightened.

I can feel lots of parents watching me now. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I never quite know what timings are going to be like at weekends.’

‘Oh.’ Leanne’s eyes register confusion, then annoyance, and her head bobs around again.

‘Weekends are busy for us right now. We’ve just moved house.’

‘What about your … ex, can he … you know … help out?’

‘No,’ I say, hearing a hardness to my voice.

‘Adam can pick Tom up, if you like. That’s my partner.’

‘We might be away this weekend. We have to see my mother.’

Tom looks up then. ‘You said it would be just us this weekend.’

I feel myself blushing, caught out. But the last thing I need is Tom involved with a troubled family, and by all accounts the Neilsons are very troubled.

In a bid to ease the irritation in Leanne’s eyes, I hold out my hand and say, ‘I never told you my name. It’s … Lizzie.’

I’ve always preferred Lizzie to Elizabeth. It’s friendlier. And in this historical town outside London, maybe I can make friends.

At Tom’s last school, there was a cliquey vibe. Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe I was just hard to know – the downtrodden wife, hiding in the shadows.

‘Good to meet you,’ says Leanne. ‘Hopefully we can … you know … help each other out.’ She wobbles her head towards the gossipy mothers. ‘Some people here … they couldn’t care less.’

I smile uncertainly. Then I kneel down and say, ‘Are you ready steady for school, Tommo? Take it easy today.’ I kiss him on the head. ‘Okay. Off you go.’

‘Bye, Mum. Take care today, okay?’

‘Okay, love.’

I watch Tom cross the playground. I’m still watching long after he’s disappeared into the classroom.

Eventually, the headmaster comes to padlock the gates.

As I turn to go, I nearly trip over my feet.

Oh God.

A green van cruises past in the distance.

It’s … it’s …

No, too small. Olly’s camper has a pop-top. That was just a trader’s van.

Olly couldn’t have found us. There’s no way he could have found us.

You’re being paranoid. Jumping at shadows …

Lizzie

I’m early for school pick-up today.

It’s been a few days since I saw the van, but it’s put a picture in my head that I can’t shake.

There are no other parents here yet. Standing on the pavement by the black railings, I watch the eerily silent school building, willing the time to pass.

As I wait, the headmaster heads across the playground. He’s wearing another smart suit, jet-black today, and his peculiarly boyish face is stretched in a smile.

‘Mrs Kinnock,’ he says, approaching the gate. ‘Hello again. You’re here early. Is there something I can help you with?’

I try for a smile. ‘I should have said before, Mr Cockrun, but I’m Miss Riley now. You must know that Tom’s father and I are separated.’

‘Yes,’ says Mr Cockrun, all earnest and sincere. ‘I’m always sad when families separate. Let’s hope Tom isn’t too badly affected.’

‘It was for the best in our case,’ I say, surprised by my fierceness. ‘By the way, I need to apologise. My mother said she paid you a visit. I never asked her to. She … doesn’t always read social situations very well.’

Mr Cockrun frowns in thought. Then he has a flash of recollection. ‘Ah yes! I remember now. Tall woman. Nicely spoken. Rides horses.’

My mother doesn’t ride horses, but she’ll say anything to impress people.

‘I enjoyed meeting her,’ says Mr Cockrun. ‘We were in complete agreement when it comes to children’s schooling. Wasn’t she in education herself at some point?’

‘Um … no. She wasn’t. I did tell her not to visit again without me. I know schools are busy.’

Mr Cockrun ignores me. ‘“Act the best and you’ll be the best”– that was her motto. A very astute woman.’

I laugh. ‘My mother certainly knows how to make things look good.’

‘You were very early again this morning.’ Mr Cockrun raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘I saw you from my office. And now early again for pick-up.’

‘I like to be on time.’ I lift my chin. ‘This is a new start for us. A new life. I want everything to be perfect.’

‘Best not to get here too early.’ Mr Cockrun notices a dandelion growing in a crack in the tarmac, frowns, pulls it up and pushes it under a shrub in the flowerbed. ‘The teachers like a bit of peace and quiet, and so do I.’

‘I just—’

‘Now, since you’re here, let’s have a quick word about Tom.’ Mr Cockrun turns serious eyes on me. ‘His form teacher will want a chat shortly.’

‘About what?’

‘About the standards here. The behaviour we expect.’

‘Yes, I—’

‘We were happy to make space for Tom at such short notice. But if he disrupts other children, we have a problem. A big problem. He’s already got a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker.’

Troublemaker. What?

‘My Tom? But he never gets into trouble.’

‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way but parents always think that. They never think it’s their child.’ He gives one of the railings – a rusty-looking one – an experimental tug. When he finds it a little loose, he takes a notepad from his pocket and scribbles something, shaking his head. ‘I’d have a word with him if I were you. Sooner rather than later.’ Then he strolls away.

I stare at the entrance door as it creaks closed.

Around me, other parents begin arriving. The school bell rings, long and loud. Five seconds of calm.

Then, in one great rush, children spill out into the playground.

I look for Tom and see him trudging among the other children, shadowed by an eerily calm-looking teacher, who is walking with a hand on his shoulder.

The teacher has short, salt-and-pepper hair cut in a jagged, youthful style that actually makes her look older, highlighting her wrinkles and large ears. Her hips, which carry a good twenty pounds of excess weight, strain in an unflattering black trouser suit that would be more at home on a London legal professional.

All in all, it’s the look of someone out of place. She doesn’t fit in, but she’s trying.

Her name is Mrs Dudley, I think. Yes, that’s right.

When Tom sees me, he runs and throws his arms around me.

Oh God … what happened? What happened?

I can feel Tom’s chest heave as he sobs into cotton.

‘Sweetheart,’ I whisper. ‘What’s the matter?’

Mrs Dudley gives me an empty smile. ‘Mrs Kinnock? May I talk to you?’

A hundred faces turn in my direction, and I hear someone suck in their breath.

‘I’m Miss Riley,’ I say. ‘And yes. Of course. Shall I … should I follow you inside?’

‘No.’ Mrs Dudley smiles politely, but her expression is firm. ‘We don’t let parents into the classrooms. For safeguarding reasons.’

‘So where should we—’

‘Oh, we can have a quick chat here.’

I pull Tom close to my hip. ‘Talk about my son in front of everybody? Can’t you see he’s upset?’

‘We’ll wait until everyone leaves,’ Mrs Dudley says.

I look down at Tom. ‘How are you, Tommo? What happened?’

Mrs Dudley flashes me pale grey eyes. ‘Give everyone a minute to clear out before we get into it.’

Tom doesn’t answer. Just stares ahead, red-eyed and sniffing.

When the crowds have dispersed, I crouch down. ‘Tom?’ I say.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispers.

‘Are you okay, Tom?’

‘I got in trouble.’ Tom wipes at tears. ‘But I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember? How come?’

‘I just don’t.’

‘Your teacher and I will have a chat.’ I kiss his head and stand up tall. ‘We’ll get all this sorted out, don’t you worry.’ I tilt my head at Mrs Dudley. ‘So what’s going on?’

‘Well, I have to tell you, Miss Riley, we had … an issue today.’

‘What sort of issue?’

‘This goes no further, but you do need to be informed.’

‘What happened?’

‘Two boys were fighting in the playground.’

‘Tom was fighting?’

‘Not me, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘Pauly and Lloyd. Pauly had to go to hospital.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Tom wasn’t involved in the fight,’ Mrs Dudley fills in. ‘But a little girl asked him about it and he attacked her.’

‘Tom attacked someone? A girl? My Tom? No – there’s been some mistake. Tom would never do anything like that.’

‘The girl had to go to the nurse’s office. She was very shaken up. Miss Riley, this behaviour is absolutely unacceptable. It cannot happen again. The school’s reputation means a lot to us. Pupil behaviour is key.’

‘I don’t believe this happened.’ I shake my head.

‘I saw it,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘The attack came out of nowhere – totally unprovoked. And things like this cannot happen here. You have to understand. We won’t tolerate it. Not when it puts the school’s image on the line.’

She gives a meaningful pause. A pause that says: We don’t like taking on social services children. Keep Tom in line or there’ll be trouble.

Then Mrs Dudley’s voice softens and suddenly she sounds just like Mr Cockrun. ‘Look. We need parents on the same page. Singing from the same hymn sheet. The appropriate discipline at home. And then we’ll say no more about it. Pretend it never happened.’

Pretend it never happened …

‘I’ve never known Tom to hurt anyone.’

‘We’ll forgive and forget, Miss Riley. As long as it doesn’t happen again.’

I think of my mother, suddenly. And Olly. The perfect image. Make everything look good and to hell with what’s really going on.

‘Someone has made a mistake.’ Upset rises in my chest. ‘I mean … Tom just doesn’t do things like that. He’s not an angry child. I’ve never even seen him get cross, let alone … He’s very kind to other children. He gets stressed but never angry …’

‘Miss Riley—’

‘I’m sorry.’ I shake my head. ‘This is so hard to believe.’ My eyes wander to Tom, who still has his arms around me. ‘I’ve never known him hit anyone, let alone a younger child.’

‘Let’s say no more about it.’ Mrs Dudley glances at the headmaster’s office.

‘Tom must have been confused,’ I counter. ‘He had a seizure. Did the office tell you?’

Mrs Dudley watches me for a moment, then says, ‘A seizure? Is he epileptic?’

‘We don’t think so. No one knows why it happened. But the hospital thinks it was a one-off. An oddity.’

‘What sort of seizure did he have?’ Mrs Dudley is watching me intently now and pulls a notepad and pen from her suit pocket.

‘Well, I … I don’t know. How many sorts of seizures are there?’

‘Was he fitting? Or just confused? Dazed?’

‘He was … I mean, he had a fit. He was convulsing.’

‘Convulsing.’ Mrs Dudley nods and scribbles on her pad. ‘Anything else?’

‘Um … I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Was he confused beforehand? Disorientated?’

‘Well, now you come to mention it, yes. Yes he was. What difference does it make? Why on earth are you making notes?’

‘The headmaster insists records are kept.’

‘I already phoned the school about it. Tom wasn’t absent but I thought you all knew he’d been in hospital.’

‘“Absent”.’ Mrs Dudley mock shudders and gives a little laugh, flipping her notepad closed. ‘That’s a word we don’t like here. We like to maintain a good attendance record.’

‘Tom was in hospital!’ I realise I’m shouting the words. ‘And why did you want to know those details about his seizure?’

‘It’s … a seizure is unusual,’ says Mrs Dudley. ‘We make a note of anything unusual for Alan. He has his reasons. Good reasons. We just have to trust in him. Have faith.’

I stare at her, heart thumping in my chest, a sickly feeling in my stomach. For her to be so callous about Tom’s seizure … so clinical … This is the woman I’m leaving my son with all day?

‘Tom.’ I look down. ‘What happened?’

Tom replies without looking up. ‘I really don’t remember, Mum. Honest. I don’t think I did it.’

Mrs Dudley frowns at him, then says: ‘Work with us, Miss Riley. Semper Fortis. Always strong.’

‘Come on, Tom.’ My hand tightens on Tom’s shoulder.

As we walk away, Mrs Dudley calls: ‘And please don’t discuss this incident with anyone else, Miss Riley. Remember the school’s reputation.’

Tom and I walk home in silence, his usual chatter absent.

‘Tom,’ I say, as we near the house. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Now Mrs Dudley isn’t listening?’

‘I just don’t remember anything,’ says Tom, with a very adult shrug. Then he starts to cry, forehead crumpling into frown lines. ‘I don’t like being in trouble.’

‘I know, sweetheart. Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’

Tom shakes his head. ‘Honestly, Mum. Nothing. Except … maybe someone else did it and they thought it was me. And Mrs Dudley wasn’t there.’

‘Someone else did it? Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

I heat cans of tomato soup and toast bread for our dinner.

We don’t talk like we usually do. No matter how many ways I try to lure Tom into conversation, he only offers one-word answers.

After I’ve put him to bed, I find myself sitting with my head in my hands again.

Is Tom being bullied? I know sensitive children are vulnerable to that kind of thing. Soft targets.

It will get easier. It must get easier. We’ve been through enough.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.