‘It’s such a shame that our two split up, isn’t it?’ she says mournfully. ‘You know, I’m sure Felix would love to get back together with Milla. Do you think he has a chance?’
I hesitate. Not now, not ever. I don’t want to lie to Annie, but I don’t want to offend her either. And I know how sensitive we can all be about our children. ‘Milla’s very much a closed book with me,’ I say carefully. ‘But I think they respect each other well enough to work things out amicably.’
‘Yes, I think so too,’ Annie says, although I detect some disappointment in her voice.
‘How’s Lucy?’ Charlotte pipes up as she reaches across me to dunk her poppadom in the mango chutney. ‘Last time we met up, you said she was being bullied? A couple of mean girls from the estate?’
I take a gulp of my pint. I feel disloyal discussing Lucy’s problems with my friends, but I can’t pretend everything is fine. ‘She’s not great,’ I admit as I place the glass back down. ‘And the two girls are sisters, in Lucy’s year and the one below. But Munroe called me in today about it, and I’m hoping this is the beginning of the end.’
‘What’s Munroe going to do?’ Charlotte asks.
‘Talk to their social worker. Hopefully he or she will read them the riot act.’
‘They’ve got a social worker?’ Annie cuts in. ‘So they’ve been in trouble before?’
I shake my head. ‘No, not trouble. At least, not that I know of. They’ve got a social worker because they’re in foster care.’
‘Not those two girls staying with Molly and Bill Wainwright?’ Charlotte asks, dropping her voice and taking a quick glance over each shoulder to check no one’s eavesdropping. ‘I know the Wainwrights from church – they’re an amazing couple. Well into their sixties, and still fostering kids. One girl’s tall with ginger hair, and the other’s small and dark.’
‘I’m not sure where they live, but yes, that sounds right.’
‘I didn’t realise they were sisters,’ Charlotte muses, wrinkling her brow in confusion. ‘They don’t look anything like each other.’
‘Probably different fathers,’ Annie surmises. ‘It’s not exactly unheard of with, you know …’ She tails off, but I know what she was thinking. With people like them. I shift in my chair. Annie is a good friend in many ways, always generous with favours, but our values are miles apart.
‘So where’s their mother?’ Lou asks.
‘I don’t know the details, but from something Munroe said, I think she might have died,’ I say softly.
‘Gosh,’ Lou stutters. ‘No father around, then your mother dies. Those poor children.’
‘Who are making Lucy’s life a misery,’ I remind everyone.
‘Yes, of course,’ Annie says, squeezing my hand across the table and nodding. ‘And I hate to say it, but children from troubled backgrounds are often the worst offenders. I can see how your gorgeous, gentle Lucy is no match for them.’
I feel a sting of irritation at that, but I don’t know why. In our family we talk, we listen, we walk away from conflict. So why does some primeval part of me wish Lucy would just whack the pair of them?
‘But why have they singled Lucy out?’ Kate asks. ‘She’s hardly the antagonistic type.’
I sigh. ‘Apparently Amber – that’s the younger one, and the ringleader – says that Lucy rejected her sister when she tried to befriend her at the start of the year, but Lucy doesn’t even remember Jess trying to talk to her. And she’s not the type to behave that way.’
‘Lucy is quiet though, shy. Could that be mistaken as standoffishness?’ Lou asks gently.
‘And didn’t Lucy’s best friend move to Wales over the summer?’ Annie adds. ‘I imagine she was quite glum at the start of the school year. Maybe she brushed this girl off without realising it.’
It’s true that Lucy was devastated when Bronwen and her family moved to Cardiff, to be near David’s ageing parents after living in Chinnor for most of Bronwen’s life. The girls sat next to each other in Reception class at St Andrew’s, and that sparked a friendship that aged and strengthened over the following decade – until Bronwen left. But I still can’t see Lucy taking her own issues out on a new girl.
‘Maybe,’ I say with a shrug. Suddenly I’m desperate to change the subject. Either that or throw down my napkin and race back home to my daughter. But I know that would be a mistake. Matt will be home by now, and he’s always been more on her wavelength than me. ‘Anyway, enough about my problems,’ I say, plastering on a smile. ‘How’s A-level revision going?’ And it has the required effect because a collective groan echoes around the table.
As I look at Matt’s car butted up against mine in the driveway, I wonder whether he’ll be awake. And if he is, what kind of mood he’ll be in.
Being accused of assault by a student can be career suicide for a teacher, and that’s the way things were going for Matt initially. He was suspended by his school, and later had his licence to teach revoked. So we were both hugely relieved when he was offered a job at Lionheart Education – a group of private British day schools overseas – by an old university acquaintance. The money was better, and as the role, Director of English Studies, involved minimal contact with students, he didn’t need a teaching licence.
The job also involves visiting their schools around the world, which, secretly, was an additional relief for me. Some breathing space. Matt is a good man, and we have a strong marriage. But people deal with adversity in different ways, and I bore the brunt of his frustration. Matt has always liked a tidy house, but his obsession rocketed during those long months in limbo – waiting for the court case that never even materialised, because, just four weeks before the trial date, the only witness admitted they’d lied. Matt isn’t the type to shout, but he’d sulk for days over the smallest thing, and it was exhausting.
But things are much better now. And we’ve got a three-day weekend ahead of us, including the village fun day on Monday. I’m really looking forward to some quality family time.
‘Hello?’ I call out as I push open the back door. In the silence, I can hear a slight slur in my voice, and it makes me wish I hadn’t agreed to the third pint. Especially as I want to do my usual Saturday morning trail run tomorrow, a ten-kilometre route along the Ridgeway. As I reach for a water glass, I notice that the drainer is clear of pans, and today’s post that I dropped on the side has disappeared. It’s more proof that my husband is back, but there’s no response to my greeting, so I walk into the living area. And there he is. Sparko on the sofa.
I kneel down by his side. ‘Hey,’ I whisper, nudging him gently. ‘Time for bed.’
He groans in his sleep, then shifts onto his side. It’s a long sofa, easy for him to lie out straight without the threat of a cricked neck. And he looks so comfortable. Maybe it’s pointless trying to move him. I pull the throw off the back of the sofa and lay it over him. Then I kiss him lightly on his cheek, and head upstairs.
It’s only 10.45, so Milla won’t be back for a while, but Lucy will be asleep, and I need to see her before I can relax. Maybe even sneak in a clandestine hug without her conscious enough to reject me. I push on her bedroom door and stumble forwards in the darkness, slowly, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
But there’s something wrong. I can sense it.
I run my hand over her duvet, feel its smooth uniformity.
I flick on Lucy’s bedside light. My chest swells.
The room is empty.
THE NIGHT SHE DIES
Friday 3rd May
Rachel
