‘F-f-fine. G-g-go ahead,’ challenged Josh. ‘We’ll t-t-tell her you’re l-lying.’
Martine pulled up at the lights. A mother crossed, pushing a pram, and Martine’s heart did a little jump. ‘Out. Now.’
Both children stared at her. ‘But we’re not there yet,’ said Alice.
‘I do not care.’ Her eyes were still fixed on the mother, who had now reached the other side safely and was bending over her child. ‘You can walk.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Josh.
See? thought Martine. No stutter.
‘Me too,’ said Alice.
A green Saab hooted from behind. Martine scratched her head and drove on. She couldn’t leave them, even if she felt like doing so. After all, they were only children. Wicked children but children nevertheless.
‘Can you help me with my French homework?’ said Alice, quietly, from the back. ‘I’ve just remembered I should have done it for today.’
‘
Non. Tu es un enfant terrible.
’
When she felt like this, it was hopeless trying to speak or think in English.
‘Martine, I said I was sorry. I just want to know if you can help with my homework.’
‘
Trop tard.
’
Josh glowered. ‘I’ll ring ChildLine. I know the number.’
‘We’ll do nipple cripples again,’ hissed Alice.
Martine winced. She knew what that involved: it was a ritual among English children to twist each other’s chests, which had them screaming with pain and hysterical laughter in the back of the car. She had complained about this to Sally, who had said it was part of a ‘natural exploration of their inner selves’. Martine knew the phrase word for word because she had copied it into her diary for use in class if the occasion arose.
‘I do not care,’ said Martine, unhappily. ‘You are so cruel to me.’
‘You’re cruel to us,’ said Alice, indignantly, getting out.
‘I’m ringing ChildLine right now on my mobile,’ announced Josh. ‘You’ll be sorry when Dad finds out.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ added Alice, sniggering.
Martine held back the tears until they had slammed the door. How much more of this could she take? Thank goodness it was Monday – one of her college days. It would take her mind off her misery and, with any luck,
he
would ring before she got to her class.
It made Martine feel better when she thought about the man with whom she had fallen in love. He was married but her own father had been married when he’d met her mother. Besides, their meeting had been down to Fate, she was certain.
Josh had had a friend over to play one day and the father had arrived to pick him up. Martine had opened the door and invited him in. Never before had she been able to talk to a man
and
feel aroused by him.
When he rang the following day, she wasn’t surprised. Not even when he told her that he didn’t normally ‘do this sort of thing’. So English, thought Martine, fondly. And although she insisted she didn’t want to be responsible for breaking up his family, he announced one night that he and his wife were having a trial separation. ‘I need to go away on business,’ he had said, ‘but when I’m back on the twelfth, I’ll come for you.’
The twelfth! Friday! Just five days away! Martine felt warm inside. Her life was going to change. And she couldn’t wait. If only her head didn’t itch so much . . .
In the meantime she had to get some petrol. The black arrow on the dial showed the tank was nearly empty. Martine tried to remember what kind of petrol Simon had told her to get. In France it was green because that was better for the atmosphere, but was it the same in England? Indicating right, she turned left into the big garage on the corner and jumped as the car behind her hooted.
Martine crunched to a halt and examined the petrol pump. Red or green? What about black? Desperately she looked towards the shop, but the cashier’s face was turned towards the customers who were paying.
‘Get a move on, love,’ yelled a youth from a car in the long queue behind.
‘Which pump do I require?’ called Martine.
‘The one on the right, I should think, love.’
Right? Was that
droite
or
gauche
? She’d always had a blockage about that. Green or black?
‘Come on, love!’
Maman! Martine yanked out the nozzle and plunged it in.
5
PIPPA
‘This is Capital Radio and it’s nearly seven a.m. on a lovely bright summer morning. I’m Sarah Smith and . . .’
Sod Capital Radio. Sod lovely summer days. Sod everything for being so bloody normal. I can’t remember the last time I swore. ‘Be positive,’ said Derek, prodding me reluctantly with his short, stubby fingers. That’s him to a T. Never panics unless it happens. Never panics unless he really cares about something. Like fishing or when the computer crashes or when Man U are down. But it’s not him who’s got something wrong. Fine. So I’ll see the doctor and then we’ll know whether to worry. I’ll have to ring up for an appointment, which I won’t get because it’s Monday and everyone will have been ill over the weekend and got in before me. And if I do get an appointment, I’ll have to ask Harriet to do the school run even though it’s my turn. Even if I don’t, I don’t feel up to doing the run – I just want to go back to bed and wake up again without this horrible wave of panic that’s stopping me thinking clearly. God, I’m scared. My mouth’s gone dry and I don’t feel hungry. I just want a cup of sweet tea. And yes, Derek, I
would
like sugar today.
‘This is the news at eight a.m. The American schoolboy who is . . .’
‘Lucy!’ yelled Pippa, standing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Breakfast! You’re going to be late for Harriet. Canyouhearme? OrhaveIgottocomeupthestairstogetyou?’
No,
not
the phone. Who in their right mind could ring during the peak pre-school run panic? ‘Yes?’ snapped Pippa into the receiver.
‘It’s me,’ said Lucy, coolly. ‘Just to say I’m coming down in a minute.’
‘Are you ringing me on your mobile?’ Pippa was incandescent with fury. ‘Do you know how much it’s costing? Come down here this instant.’
Reluctantly Lucy mooched downstairs, walking with exaggerated slowness, her school tie hanging loosely round her neck.
‘Give me your phone. Now.’
Lucy glowered. ‘Why?’
Pippa snatched it from her. ‘Because it’s for emergencies, like when I lose you in Topshop, not for ringing me in the house because you can’t be bothered to answer or come downstairs.’
‘If you don’t give me my mobile back, I won’t be able to call if I’m abducted from school,’ said Lucy smoothly.
‘Too bad. If you behave –
if
, mind – you can have it back at the end of the week. Now, hurry up and eat your breakfast. Harriet’s going to be here in a minute.’
‘I don’t want to go with Harriet,’ said Beth, looking up from the kitchen table where she was taking a last look at her spellings for today’s test. ‘Bruce is always trying to pinch me.’
‘You encourage him because you fancy him,’ said Lucy, triumphantly.
‘Do not!’
‘Do.’
‘Be quiet, both of you!’ Pippa’s head was ringing. She didn’t need this, not on top of
that
– and she’d just remembered she had a deadline for Thursday. Her editor, Jean, had already extended it by a week and she didn’t dare ask for longer. ‘Just eat your breakfast and go to school so I can have some peace.’
‘That’s not very nice, Mum,’ said Beth, reproachfully.
‘I know. But neither are you two,’ snapped Pippa. ‘And look at this mess. I’m just an unpaid servant.’
‘That’s what mums do.’
‘Well, not this one, not any more. From now on, service
isn’t
going to be included!’
‘Thanks.’
‘And don’t be cheeky, young lady. In our day, we didn’t talk like that to our parents.’
‘But this isn’t your day any more, is it, Mum?’
‘Stop right there. Harriet’s outside. Get a move on, both of you. Don’t you want to kiss me goodbye?’
They gave her a token peck and she watched them amble down the path. She waved to Harriet from the door, then closed it behind her. She sat at the kitchen table, still in the tartan pyjamas the girls had given her (via Derek) for Christmas, and tried to think clearly. It was eight o’clock and she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt incapable of dressing herself – even during her pregnancies when lots of other mothers allowed themselves to relax. She had always been a get-up-and-doer.
Eight o’clock. The surgery might be open now. Trembling, she dialled the number. Engaged. She waited another minute. Still engaged. Damn it. She’d do ringback. Seconds later, it called.
‘An appointment this morning?’ The receptionist sounded amused. ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Hallet. We’re very busy after the weekend and the last appointment has just gone. I can squeeze you in tomorrow if it’s urgent.’
‘It is,’ said Pippa, grimly.
She wrote down the time, then went back to the table, cupping her cold hands round her mug of coffee, breathing in the aroma to calm herself. No, it was no good. She couldn’t banish the nauseating fear that was taking over her mind. She reached for the phone and punched in Harriet’s number. She’d get the message when she returned from school. ‘It’s me. I can’t get a doctor’s appointment until tomorrow and I wondered if you wanted to come over for coffee after the run.’
Pippa shivered. Harriet would put this mess into the context it deserved, although with Charlie coming back this week, Pippa should be helping Harriet. Maybe she shouldn’t mention her own problem until she’d seen the doctor. She was always worrying about things that turned out to be nothing. Still, Harriet was her best friend, if you didn’t count Gus: if she couldn’t tell her, she couldn’t tell anyone.
Sometimes Pippa wondered how she would cope without Harriet although, ironically, their worlds were so different that if it hadn’t been for motherhood – one of life’s biggest introductory agencies – they might never have met. On the surface they were so different. Harriet was a home-lover; her children were her life. Pippa, too, adored her children but her work as a translator was important as well. She had turned freelance when Beth was born because she hadn’t wanted to be one of those working mothers who never saw their kids. She had built up a reputation as a reliable and accurate translator for publishers of cookery books and, more recently, school texts. The deadlines were tough, especially when the girls were at home in the holidays, but Pippa loved the escape that her work provided from the mundane routine of home life.
Yet she had a lot in common with Harriet. Neither had grown up in a conventional family: Harriet’s father had left when she was a teenager, but Pippa’s parents had been killed in a train crash and she had been brought up by a kindly uncle and aunt. She had been aware that she was different, the only child in her class not to have parents. Although no one had bullied her, she’d been terrified that girls who made friends with her only did so out of pity. She didn’t want that – she just wanted to be like everyone else, but it was difficult when you were constantly scared that something was going to go wrong again. As a teenager, she had been worried perpetually, about boyfriends, exams and getting into university (which she did, quite effortlessly).
It had been Harriet’s determinedly positive outlook on life that had drawn Pippa to her when they’d met at the school gates nearly . . . what was it now? Heavens, seven years ago? Lucy was starting school and so was Harriet’s Kate. Amazing to think they were now in their first year at big school! But it had been Bruce whom Pippa had first spotted when they were waiting in their parked cars for the gates to open, while she tried to reassure Lucy that school would be just as much fun – more, even – as being at home with Mummy.
‘Look at that boy!’ Lucy had said, wide-eyed with admiration as she pointed to the child clambering out of the back window of the car in front. He was too big to behave like that, observed Pippa, and as she watched, he turned, grinned and ran off down the street clutching something. The slim blonde woman in the driver’s seat hopped out and raced after him, and Pippa remembered being impressed by her speed. Moments later they had returned, the woman talking calmly to the boy with a firm hand on his shoulder. As they passed Pippa’s car, she gave a kids-will-be-kids smile.
‘Naughty boy ran off with his sister’s teddy. Honestly, one of these days, he’s going to outrun me.’ Her eyes travelled to the back of the car where Lucy was still sitting in her crisp, newly labelled school uniform. ‘First day for you, is it? It’s my daughter’s too. Come and say hello. She’s called Kate and she can’t wait to join her big brother. School’s brilliant, you know!’
It had been the beginning of a firm friendship. Harriet, who lived a few streets away in one of the more up-and-coming roads in the area, frequently pressed Pippa into leaving that ‘wretched computer of yours’ and joining her for a salad at lunchtime. The salad invariably turned into a glass of Chablis with mushroom quiche and the kind of womanly chat that Pippa hadn’t had for a long time: the demands of her work had prevented her socialising with other local mums.