She stares at me for a moment, as though weighing up whether to let go of her emotions, and I silently plead for her to remember who I am – her strongest advocate. But it doesn’t work.
‘No.’ Her mouth strains with the effort of not crying. I reach for her hand, but she yanks it away from my outstretched fingers and whips her body over to face the wall. As I stare at her back, her shoulders hunched with tension, a wave of fury towards those two girls washes over me again. I want to tell Lucy how much I hate them. How I dream of ripping every layer of skin off their smug faces. But of course I can’t do that.
‘Munroe said your shirt ripped on a branch,’ I choose. ‘Shall I see if I can fix it?’
‘I threw it away.’
I frown. Not because I care about the shirt, but it feels out of character. ‘Why did you do that? It would be easy to sew up.’
‘Just drop it, okay, Mum?’
My heart kicks up a gear. ‘Is there a reason you didn’t want me to see it? Did it definitely rip on a tree? You know, if one of them has a knife, you need to tell Munroe.’
‘What, for her to not believe me again? To take their side, like always?’
‘She didn’t today, at least not totally,’ I say. ‘I think she’s starting to get it. She told me that she’s going to speak to their social worker, and that’s actually a big deal.’ Lucy rolls onto her back and a look of mild interest appears on her face. It spurs me on. ‘With children in foster care, the social worker takes on a lot of the traditional parents’ responsibilities. Including discipline.’
Lucy’s interest vanishes. ‘Discipline? Like being grounded for a few days?’ She shakes her head in disgust. ‘The only way I’ll be free of them is if they’re expelled, and Munroe’s too under their spell for that.’
I bite my lip. I’ve been a social worker for twenty-five years and a belief in rehabilitation, in second and third and fourth chances, is inbuilt. But vulnerable children have never been my enemy before. ‘I could ask around at work. Find out who their social worker is, explain how bad it is.’
Fear sprouts on Lucy’s face. ‘No, you can’t do that. If Amber found out, she’d tell everyone that I was using my mum to get her in trouble. Then she’d get you fired. Like that boy did with Dad.’
‘What? This is completely different. Why would you say that?’ It’s been over two years since that hand grenade was launched at our family, a male student at the school Matt used to teach at accusing him of assault. Things are back on an even keel now, but it was a difficult time, and I don’t need reminding of it today.
Lucy turns to look at me, her expression darkening. ‘Dad’s life was almost destroyed because some boy decided he didn’t like him, and then caused him shitloads of trouble. That sound familiar?’
Guilt flares inside me. Because she’s got a point. But when Matt faced the accusation, followed by suspension from the job he loved, I was only outraged. I didn’t ask him to show compassion for the boy, even though there were probably challenges in his life too. Is it because Amber and Jess are in the social care system so their disadvantage is more obvious? Or because I expect more empathy from Lucy than her father?
‘I know it must feel like things can’t get any worse at the moment,’ I say, trying to lift my mood as much as hers. ‘But we’ve got a bank holiday weekend ahead of us, all together, and things might not seem so bad by Tuesday.’
‘I’m not 6 anymore, Mum. You can’t make everything better with an ice-cream.’
‘Hey, guys. Is this a private argument, or can anyone join in?’
I twist my head towards the door. ‘Hey, Milla.’ While Lucy looks like me – pale-skinned, blue-eyed, ash-blonde hair – Milla is all Matt. Taller, broader, with hazel eyes and thick auburn hair. And with her stronger colouring comes a fiercer temperament too. Milla turned 18 in March, and one of the first things she did was get a tattoo on her wrist. An infinity symbol to represent the number of barriers she’s going to break down in her lifetime.
‘I heard what went down at school today,’ Milla says. ‘Honestly, Luce, you just say the word, and I will hunt those bitches down.’
Milla and Lucy’s relationship is hard to define. They’re not close – they’re too different for that – and they live quite separate lives. But there’s something unspoken between them. An underlying bond that transcends the day-to-day. And I can hear that emotion in Milla’s voice now.
‘Thanks, but I’ve got this,’ Lucy murmurs with a new steeliness. I wonder what she means by that, but Milla seems to accept it.
‘Good,’ she says approvingly. Then she turns to me. ‘When’s Dad back?’
‘Around eight,’ I say. ‘Will you have left by then?’ Milla’s best friend, Ava, turned 18 three days ago, and she’s going big with the celebrations. Marquee in the garden, most of their year invited to the party, Ava’s older brother Charlie on the decks.
‘Yeah, I’m going out at seven, helping Ava with last-minute stuff.’
‘Okay, well, don’t get too drunk.’
‘It’s my best mate’s eighteenth. Of course I’m going to get drunk.’
‘Don’t you have exams in a few weeks?’ I ask, more meekly than I planned.
‘Yeah, so?’ She releases a dramatic sigh. ‘And anyway, Felix will be there, so I’ll need a drink.’
‘You two still haven’t made up?’ I ask. Milla and Felix started dating in Year 11 and have been a surprisingly solid couple over the last two years. But all that changed a few weeks ago when Milla announced that he was a fucking dick, and their relationship was over. Felix has been the archetypal lovelorn teenager ever since, begging for her to reconsider, but so far Milla isn’t budging. And the rest of us have no idea what caused the rift.
Her eyes blaze with indignation. ‘Not now, not ever.’
I sigh. It’s probably for the best with them going off to different universities in September. ‘Well, I hope you manage to have fun despite him.’ I turn back to Lucy. ‘I was supposed to be going out too, but I’m very happy to stay—.’
‘No,’ she cuts in. ‘I meant it when I said I’ve got this. And that starts with you not changing your plans.’
I hesitate, then nod – both grateful and crushed – and head towards my room.
THE NIGHT SHE DIES
Friday 3rd May
Rachel
I push my finger into the centre of the poppadom and listen to the crack as it fragments. Then I pan out and take in the other noises around the restaurant. The clinking of cutlery against dishes. The buzz of conversation – made louder and more enthusiastic by the pints of Cobra beer most people seem to be drinking.
I’m here with Annie, Lou, Charlotte and Kate. The five of us became friends at the St Andrew’s Primary School gates, close to fourteen years ago. And while the kids becoming more independent has meant we’ve drifted apart, we still make an effort to meet for a curry every couple of months. Usually I love these nights out – especially as we always go to the Indian restaurant at the bottom of the high street, ten minutes from my house – but I can’t relax this evening. They say a mum is only as happy as their least happy child, so perhaps it’s no wonder I’m struggling to enjoy myself.
It doesn’t help that Annie is Felix’s mum, and he’s her golden boy.
