‘What are you doing here?’ She stumbles over her billboard, picking it up and holding it in front of herself like a shield.

‘You’ve stolen my script,’ I reply genially. ‘I am a working adult who’s left the office on important business. You’re a schoolgirl roaming the streets.’

‘I’m on study leave.’

‘Then why aren’t you studying? You’re supposed to be getting an education.’

She grimaces. ‘This is an education. It is my future.’ Which is a good point, but it’s parroted, like she heard someone else saying it.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Before I read you the riot act, I’ll give you a chance. Imagine I’m a tetchy pensioner who objects to you snarling up his square. Change my mind.’

My daughter gapes at me, her wooden message slack in her hand. ‘What?’

‘You obviously feel very strongly about this, to take time out. Outline the issues. Wow me with your powers of persuasion. Turn me green.’

‘Erm . . .’ She swallows. ‘They’re . . . ripping up forests . . . and the orangutan has nowhere to go.’

‘Is that a Christmas advert you saw in 2018?’ She hangs her head. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, love. Why don’t you tell me about the Paris Agreement, or what we should do about plastic in the ocean, or where the people of Tuvalu are going to go?’

She fiddles with her sleek sheet of hair, hiding behind it and her sign.

‘Hmm, I’m not feeling waves of ecological enthusiasm here. Why are you really here?’

Eyes down, she mumbles something indistinct.

‘What?’

‘A boy . . . invited me.’

Instantly, I’m wildly intrigued. First, that there is a boy, and second that she actually told me. I was vaguely aware something was going on, because the other day I heard Ethan lazily teasing her, and her hissed response, and mentally put it on my list of parental gardening. I intended to dig deeper, assuming it would be firmly buried; now here she is offering it up, brushing off the dirt so I can breathe in the heady aroma of a budding romance.

‘What boy?’ I try not to grin like a jackass.

She jerks her head and I see him straight away, in the midst of a group. Oh yes, of course. Anyone would go on a march with him, he’s to die for: chiselled and unselfconscious, with adorable curls that fall across his forehead. His placard shows a picture of the earth drowning in rubbish, and says ‘WE NEED TO STOP’. Ain’t that the truth. Something about the way he’s holding it tells me he made it, and he really means it. I adore him, and would happily welcome him into the Hendry fold.

‘And he’s into this stuff, is he?’

She nods, her face on fire. ‘Never mind,’ she mumbles. ‘I’ll go back to school, just don’t tell Dad.’

But I’m looking at the boy, thinking that if I was thirty years younger then I’d be following him around with a placard too. And I remember when I was a teenager, a lad at school who was really bookish, and for the while I fancied him, I read a lot of John Steinbeck, and then stopped fancying him but carried on reading. Also, thanks to my various neuroses, I was a virgin until I was twenty, which is not good for a young girl, not good at all. I was so inexperienced, so callow, so trusting, so goddamned eager to please that what came after was almost inevitable. If only I’d been a bit savvier then I would never have—

‘No,’ I say.

‘Please don’t tell Dad. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but—’

Even as I interrupt her, I’m thinking it’s telling, that she doesn’t want her relaxed, lenient father to know all this. She wants to please him, be a good little girl. How deeply this is wired, too deep to dig up.

‘No,’ I say again. ‘You should stay.’

Hazel breaks off the begging, dumbfounded. ‘What?’

‘Sit.’ I take the sign off her and put it on the ground, pushing her down with it, and kneeling behind her. As I grope in my bag, I continue: ‘You should stay, but if you’re going to do this, do it properly.’ In a side compartment, I find what I’m looking for, and start sectioning the lovely hair on the head that sleeps on a silken pillow from Amazon. ‘Show some commitment, do a bit of research, talk to people. You’re quite right; the world is burning and it’s your future that’s at stake. You should be here, shouting, protesting, making a fuss. You should be getting to know that very nice boy who cares about the planet.’

‘But . . . what about school?’ she says in a small voice, as I wind and tug like Sasha did to me earlier. It’s years since I’ve done this, and it feels good, to groom my daughter, make her ready. Robbie and I have always been very strict about school – my mother made me and Maz go even when we were at death’s door, as she didn’t want us under her feet all day, and I’ve carried on the family tradition. Hazel is in the middle of her GCSEs, and on non-exam days is supposed to be attending various revision sessions designed to cram last-minute facts into that glossy head of hers. Supposed to be. Well, I guess we all have places we’re supposed to be today. Sometimes you just have to bunk off.

‘Fuck school,’ I say, and hear her shocked snort of laughter. ‘Just for today, fuck school.’ I get to my feet, pulling her up with me. I’ve woven her beautiful hair into two plaits so thick and solid they look like weapons. Holding her face in my hands – that face I gazed at all those years ago thinking It will be OK – I say ‘Go and save the world.’

She laughs again, and steps back, her brows knitting as she looks me up and down. ‘You look different,’ she says. ‘You are different. I saw something on Instagram . . .’ She holds up her phone, puzzled.

I shake my head. ‘Never mind me. I’m sorting my own world out.’

We all exist in our spheres, whirling round feverishly, obliviously, brushing up against each other occasionally but mostly keeping to our own orbits. When your kids hit their teenage years, they begin to build their own lives; their own messy, complicated, giddy circles, and you’re so busy with your own that you barely have time to register – as long as they’re still spinning in some form, you leave them to it. But in slowing down my own rotation, I realize I need to get more involved, adjust her path, stop her making the same mistakes I did. Hazel needs to be pushy, proactive, unapologetic, worldly. She needs to break the rules. She needs to do what she wants. I want that for her. I want that for me, too.

Hazel is still frowning, but her focus is pulled by the boy. She fingers a plait self-consciously as she regards him.

‘Go and make a scene,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you later for a planet pop quiz.’

‘OK.’ She picks up her placard, already looking more purposeful. ‘Great hair, by the way.’

The ultimate accolade. ‘Thanks,’ I reply, and head off.

18

Since the square is out of bounds, I decide to make my way back to the river for a stroll, pick up a coffee, soak up this beautiful summer’s day. Ignoring another call from my mother, I wander past the Old Vic, its impressive façade glazed gold in the sun. After Covid, I imagined I would rush there as soon as it reopened, told myself I’d see anything, just for the pleasure of being in a theatre again, feel the rustle of expectation as the lights dimmed, look forward to drinks at the interval. But of course, a combination of late work nights, ferrying the twins, slightly-too-esoteric productions and my own tendency to not-be-arsed, I never booked anything.

Amidst the various to-do lists in my head and on my phone, there’s a more diverting note called ‘One Day’ which features fun things I’d like to do if I had the time and the energy. There are those box-ticking exercises on Facebook – ‘How many of these have you done?’ – and it’s all ‘Get a tattoo’, ‘Throw yourself out of a plane’ and ‘Dive the Mariana Trench’, but I have no desire to do any of those things. Mine is the tamest of bucket lists, and varies according to my mood – ‘GET A MANICURE’ often features since my nails are a bitten-down mess and I think I’d feel like more of a grown-up if they were glossy and well-shaped. Similarly, my life would be vastly improved if I ever managed to ‘GET EARWAX MICROSUCTION’ – I’ve heard the process is satisfying and the results impressive. On a more ambitious note, One Day I’m keen to go on a ‘SLEIGH RIDE’, though I realize this would involve considerable logistics and expense. But a more manageable notion is ‘SEE MATINÉE’. An afternoon play seems like such a glorious indulgence, shutting out one world to lose yourself in another.

So, I’m standing there outside Bristol’s famous theatre, staring at a neon sign that says ‘Come on in’, thinking Why not? I could go in, see whatever’s on. Never mind if it’s some inscrutable Beckett or a ‘bold’ series of shorts – I’ll wallow in the thespian atmosphere, frolic in a theatre-bath, and come out enriched by the auditorium, the glorious echoes of trodden boards. Yes! I will do this, I will—

‘Fucking hell, Clover, it’s like chasing a fucking fox.’

My matinée idyll dies a Shakespearean death as I turn to see my boss looming above me. Vince travels everywhere by Segway, zooming down streets like a demented kids’ camp instructor in a flat cap, shouting at pedestrians and shaking his fist at cyclists. He thinks it’s a quirky characteristic that will endear him to commissioners, but unfortunately, his habit of refusing to take no for an answer in pitches tends to negate any fond emotions engendered by his ‘wheels’.

‘Oh,’ is all I can manage, because I’m mentally still in the dress circle having a sneaky ice cream.

‘Is that the welcome I get? I’ve been halfway round the city looking for you. What happened to the tree-fuckers?’

I scratch my head, trying to gather my wits. ‘They . . . were dispersed.’

‘Right, so you left the office to recce an empty square. Can we get back to work now?’

I have no intention of going back to the office, even if I have to push him off his stupid scooter and do a runner.

‘I’m a bit tied up at the moment, I’m afraid.’

He steps off the Segway. ‘Like I said, I’m digging this Ferris Bueller schtick you’ve got going here, love your new finger-in-a-socket style.’ He gestures to my curls. ‘But I need that nose at the grindstone, not sniffing the summer breeze.’

‘I haven’t had a day off in months.’