Making Your Mind Up (16 page)

Feeling like a dirty old man—although if she were a dirty old man she'd surely have the luxury of a trench coat—Lottie lurked furtively among the trees at the back of the playground and waved to Nat and Ruby when they came spilling out of their classrooms. By the time they'd raced over to her, she was already sidling toward the gates.

“Come on, let's go. Look what I've done to my skirt.” Hustling them ahead of her, she used Ruby as a kind of human shield. “Nat? Hurry up, sweetheart, it's raining.”

“We can't go. Miss Batson wants to see you.”

Lottie stopped dead. Were any words designed to strike a greater sense of impending doom into the heart of any mother? She was no wimp, but Nat's teacher was truly terrifying. Miss Batson—
nobody
knew her first name, possibly not even her own mother—was in her late fifties. Her iron-gray hair matched her clothes, which in turn matched her manner. When she requested a meeting with some poor unsuspecting parent, that parent knew it was time to be scared.

“OK. I'll ring and make an appointment.” A face-lift without anesthetic would be preferable, but there would be no escape until the deed was done.

“No.
Now
,” insisted Nat.

“Sweetheart, it's raining. And my skirt's torn. I can't see her today.” Lottie attempted to move him on, but he dug his heels in.

“You have to. She said
now
.”

Lottie's insides churned. “Why? What have you done?”

“Nothing.” His head dropping, Nat kicked at a stone.

“Then why does it have to be now?”

He mumbled, “Just does.”

Pointing across the playground, Ruby said, “She's there. Waiting.”

Oh God, so she was. Feeling sick, Lottie saw Miss Batson framed in the classroom doorway. Even at this distance she was looking grim. And scary. And not a bit as if she were about to launch into a rousing chorus of “My Favorite Things.”

Probably one of her favorite things was chewing up and spitting out hapless parents for breakfast.

Clutching Nat's hand, Lottie made her way across the playground. The last time she'd been summoned by Miss Batson was when one of Nat's classmates had poked him in the leg with a blunt pencil and Nat had retaliated by poking him back with a sharp one. Lottie, subjected to a long lecture on how Violence Would Not Be Tolerated at Oaklea and made to feel like a Very Bad Parent for having raised a child with such antisocial tendencies, had begun to wish she had a sharp pencil at hand herself.

Now, somehow more drenched than ever, she blinked rain out of her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. “Hello, Miss Batson. You wanted to see me?”

“Ms. Carlyle. Good afternoon. Indeed I did.”

“Mrs.,” said Lottie. She hated being addressed as
Mzz
; it sounded like a wasp being squashed.

Ignoring this, Miss Batson ushered Nat and Ruby into the classroom and through the maze of desks. “You two can wait for us in the hallway. Sit outside the secretary's office.
Ms.
Carlyle?” With a sharp inclination of her Brillo head she directed Lottie toward one of the chairs in front of her own desk. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Which had to be a joke, surely. The molded plastic gray chair was designed for infant-size pupils. Lottie's knees were higher than her bottom, her bottom was wider than the chair's seat, and no matter how tightly she clamped her legs together, the crotch-high split in her skirt meant Miss Batson could undoubtedly see her stripy pink panties.

Plus she was dripping rain onto the floor, and the cups of her red bra were glowing through her wet shirt like twin traffic lights.

“Sorry about my skirt.” Attempting to sound cheerful Lottie said, “I ripped it getting out of the car. Typical!”

“Hmm. We're here to discuss Nat.” Miss Batson's tone was designed to make Lottie feel frivolous and stupid. “I have to tell you, Ms. Carlyle, that I'm extremely concerned about him.”

Her mouth dry, Lottie said, “What's he done?”

“He borrowed a ruler from Charlotte West this morning. And refused to give it back.”

“Oh, right. A ruler.” Relief flooded through Lottie like alcohol. “Well, that's not so terrible, is it?” Catching the look in Miss Batson's beady eye, she added hastily, “Well, of course it
is
terrible, but I'll speak to him, explain he mustn't—”

“When I eventually retrieved the ruler, Nat refused to apologize. And when I sent him to the naughty corner, he used a crayon in his pocket to write on the wall.”

“Oh. What did he write?”

“He wrote ‘I hate,'” Miss Batson reported icily, “before I took the crayon from him. Then, when I reprimanded him for defacing school property, he burst into tears.”

“Right. OK. I'll have a word with him about that too.”

“I then spent the lunch break speaking privately to Nat to find out why he was being so disruptive. He's a very unhappy little boy, Ms. Carlyle. He told me everything, the whole story. And I have to say, I find it very troubling. Very troubling indeed.”

Numb and incredulous, Lottie said, “What whole story?”

“Your son is a victim of divorce, Ms. Carlyle. That's a traumatic enough experience for any small child to have to deal with. But now you, a single parent, have embarked upon a relationship with another man. A man, furthermore, whom Nat does not like,” Miss Batson stated firmly.

“But—”

“And this is having a catastrophic effect on Nat,” the older woman continued, her mouth rigid with disapproval. “He feels powerless. He's made his feelings abundantly clear to you, yet evidently you have chosen to ignore his pain.”

“But I—”

“Indeed, you have taken the frankly extraordinary decision to continue with this unsuitable liaison, without regard for your son's mental state. Which, I have to say, shocks me. Any mother who chooses her own happiness at the expense of her children's is displaying a lack of concern that I find quite breathtakingly selfish.”

Stunned into silence, Lottie gazed past Miss Batson and focused on the map of Africa on the wall behind her. Then Africa began to blur and she realized to her horror that her eyes were swimming with tears.

“You have to seriously consider your priorities here, Ms. Carlyle. Who is more important to you? This man or your own son?” Miss Batson paused, driving the message home. “Whom do you love more?”

Lottie had never felt so small in her life. Shame welled up and a single tear slid down one cheek. Miss Batson thought she was a disgrace, an unfit mother, and no doubt a slut to boot, with her high heels and her look-at-me bra and her split-to-the-limit skirt.

“Well?” Miss Batson was tapping her fingers, demanding an answer.

“I love my son more.” It came out as a whisper.

“Good. Delighted to hear that. So do I take it we won't be needing this?”

“What is it?” Lottie looked at the card with a telephone number written on it.

“The contact number for social services.”

“What?”

“Nat told me everything,” Miss Batson repeated coolly. “About the mental cruelty inflicted upon him and his sister by this so-called boyfriend of yours. The things he's said and done over the course of the last few weeks—well, it certainly wasn't pleasant having to hear about them. If you're looking for a potential stepfather for your children, you have to consider their feelings, Ms. Carlyle. They're the ones who matter. Well, we'll put this away. For now.” She folded the card in two and slid it into her desk drawer.

“Now wait a minute.” All the blood rushed to Lottie's cheeks as she realized what Miss Batson was implying. “There hasn't been any mental cruelty! Tyler isn't a monster! He's done everything he can to get along with my children; he never meant to upset them! If they'd just give him another chance they'd realize how—”

“Maybe we'll be needing this number after all.” Miss Batson's bony fingers swooped back down to the desk drawer.

“No we won't!” Now Lottie really wanted to stab her with a sharp pencil. “We
won't
, OK? But I'm just trying to explain to you that this has been blown all out of proportion!”

“And I'm trying to explain to you,” Miss Batson explained evenly, “that I gave up my lunch hour to mop up the tears of a seven-year-old boy and listen to him pouring his heart out to me about how devastated he is by the unwanted arrival of this man in his life.”

“But—”

“That will be all, Ms. Carlyle.” Rising to her feet, Miss Batson checked her watch. “Needless to say, we shall all be keeping a close eye on Nat and Ruby in the weeks and months ahead. The staff here at Oaklea regards the happiness and well-being of our pupils as of prime importance.”

Stung, Lottie said, “So do I.”

“Good. And once this gentleman friend of yours is out of the picture, I'm sure we'll all see a marked improvement in Ruby's and Nat's mental well-beings. Thank you for your time.”

As Miss Batson opened the door to send her through to the hallway where Ruby and Nat were waiting, Lottie found herself saying dazedly, “Thank you.”

Hi Tom,

If I make lots of mistakes it's because I'm typing this with gluey fingers—for the last four hours I've been sticking tiny white marabou feathers onto christening cards and only realized when I'd finished that I've run out of acetone so can't clean it off! Up to my eyes this week with lots of repeat orders coming in, which is great—except there are weeds popping up outside and I haven't had time to deal with them so the yard's a mess. (Though somehow still have time to eat chocolate!)

Is Donny settling back at school OK? Jojo's started learning Russian this term and was over here earlier asking me to help her with her homework, which is way too much for my poor frazzled brain to cope with.

Did you watch that murder mystery on BBC last night? I was so sure the vicar was the baddie. Spent ages trying to remember what else the actress who played his wife has been in. Still can't remember and it's driving me nuts. When I went—

The doorbell rang, making Cressida jump. Since Tom's first stilted message, they had both relaxed and were now corresponding on a daily basis. Every time she logged on to her email account she experienced a little thrill of anticipation, wondering if there would be something from him. Which she encouraged shamelessly by always including a couple questions that would give Tom a reason to reply. And if that was cheating, Cressida didn't care. So far it had worked like a charm.

“Hi!” Opening the front door, she was delighted to find a drowned rat on the doorstep clutching two bottles of wine. Taking them from her, Cressida said, “For me? Thank you so much! Good-bye!”

“Not so fast.” Lottie already had her foot in the door.

Cressida grinned. “Come on in. You look terrible.”

“Thanks. So would you if you'd had a day like mine,” Lottie said, making straight for the kitchen. “Corkscrew, glasses, your undivided attention, and lots and lots of sympathy, that's all I ask.”

“Oh, poor you. I'll be with you in two seconds.” Veering off to the office, Cressida rushed over to the computer and typed at lightning speed:
Got to go now—my friend Lottie's just turned up and she's having a crisis. Red wine being opened as I speak. Love and hugs, Cress xxxx.

Then she pressed Send and raced back to the kitchen where Lottie, too impatient to search the cupboards for proper wineglasses, was pouring inky-red Merlot into mugs.

* * *

“So what else could I do?” Half an hour had passed and the first bottle was well on its way to being emptied. Lottie had related the entire cringe-making lecture from Miss Batson practically verbatim. “We got home and I had a long talk with Ruby and Nat. It turns out that Ben and Harry Jenkins saw me and Tyler together the other day. We were having a bit of a moment outside his cottage. Not
that
kind of moment,” she added defensively as Cressida's eyebrows shot up. “Just a kiss. But bloody Ben and Harry were hiding up a tree and they heard Tyler saying something like he never wanted to see Nat and Ruby again, and it all blew up from there. Anyway, I packed the kids off to Mario's at seven and phoned Tyler to tell him we couldn't see each other again. Well, apart from at work. Obviously. So that's it. All done. This wine isn't bad, is it?” Sloshing the last couple of inches into their glasses, Lottie said, “The more you drink, the better it gets.”

Cressida didn't know about that, but it was definitely making her shoulders go numb. “What did Tyler say when you told him?”

“What could he say? He didn't fall on his knees and beg me to change my mind. Well, he was on the phone so I don't know about the knee bit.” Lottie heaved a sigh. “Anyhow, he didn't beg. He just said it was a shame and he was sorry things had turned out this way, but he agreed that I had to put my kids first.”

“I suppose he's right. I mean, it's all you
can
do.” Cressida was sympathetic. “It just seems so unfair, doesn't it? When you're fifteen and you go out with an eighteen-year-old bad boy, you expect your parents to stop you seeing him. But it never occurs to you that in years to come your own children might do the same thing.”

“It never occurred to me that I'd have children like Ruby and Nat.” Lottie's eyes abruptly filled with tears. “Oh God, I love them so much. They're my whole life. I hate that bloody old witch Miss Batson, but in a way she was right. I just didn't realize what I was doing to them, I swear I didn't. Peanuts.”

“Sorry?”

“Peanuts. And chocolate. They'll make us feel better, cheer us up. Not that you look as if you need cheering up,” Lottie called as Cressida headed into the kitchen to mount a raid on the snack cupboard. “In fact, you're looking quite perky and sparkly.”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“I'm not!”

“Oh yes you
are
.” Lottie wiggled an accusing finger at her. “All perky and sparkly and
zingy
, as if you're hiding some brilliant secret. And I need to know what it is, for the good of my health.”

Cressida, always hopeless at keeping secrets, went pink and felt her eyes flicker in the direction of the office where even now a new email from Tom could be waiting, tantalizingly unread, in her inbox.

“You've got a man,” Lottie crowed, spotting the flicker and almost knocking over her drink with excitement. “A man, hiding in your office! You wanton harlot! Is he naked? Is it wild sex or true love?”

“It's Tom Turner,” Cressida blurted out, “and he isn't hiding in my office. We're just emailing each other.” Pausing, she added, “Every day.”

“Tom Turner! That's fantastic!” Lottie clapped her hands. “So it could
become
love?”

Love. A squiggle of apprehension wormed its way through Cressida's stomach.

Oh God.
Love
.

* * *

Had she? Or hadn't she?

It was eleven o'clock. Lottie had just left and Cressida was in front of the computer, unable to ignore the niggling fear a minute longer. It was the exact feeling she had experienced after her math assessment exam when everyone else had complained about how hard it had been to answer all five parts of the last question, and Cressida had realized to her horror that she'd thought you only had to answer one of them.

Except that had been a case of carelessly misreading something. This time she had the toe-curling suspicion she had miswritten something instead.

Business emails were fine. She ended them with
Yours
or
Best
wishes
or
Many
thanks
.

Following Tom's lead she carefully signed off her replies to him with
All
the
best
.

But when she was replying to the jokey, affectionate emails Jojo sent her on an almost daily basis she invariably wrote
Love and hugs, Cress xxxx.

And now she had the most horrible feeling that in those few moments following Lottie's arrival when she had hurriedly dashed off the end of her message to Tom, she had unthinkingly put…oh God…
Love and hugs, Cress xxxx
.

Not having saved a copy of her email, she couldn't check.

Cheeks aflame, Cressida feverishly logged in and drummed her fingers on the table, waiting to see if Tom had replied.

He hadn't. She took a gulp of wine. She had no way of knowing whether his failure to respond meant he hadn't yet read it or that he had and was too startled by her brazen signal to know what to do next.

He might be snickering to himself. Or filled with alarm. All the best was a long,
long
way from
Love and hugs
and a row of kisses.

Oh hell, what to do to redeem the situation?

Obviously she had to write back.

Dear Tom,

Not sure if I should be writing this (bit drunk) but I'm really sorry if I wrote “Love and hugs” at the end of my last email. Meant to put “All the best” but got confused—what's new?—and thought you were Jojo. Well, what I mean is I thought I was finishing an email to Jojo, not you, because obviously I wouldn't send you hugs and a row of kisses.

Tipping her head back, Cressida emptied her glass and wiped the spilled drops of wine from her chin. Right, carry on, get the job done.

Not that I don't like you, of course. You're a very nice man and I really really look forward to your emails, which is why I hope my last one didn't scare you off. Although if I didn't write “Love and hugs” I suppose it wouldn't. Anyway, just wanted to explain. Sorry again. Please write back soon and let me know you don't think I'm barking mad. Unless you do, in which case I'd rather not know.

All the best.

Cress.

See? No kisses.

(Yet.)

Was that OK? Friendly and casual. Explanatory but lighthearted. Oh yes, it'd be fine. Completely fine. Tom couldn't take offense. He'd probably just tease her about it, and it would become a shared running joke between them, which would be fun.

He'd understand.

Feeling a lot happier, Cressida pressed Send.

There, done.

Time for bed.