School Run (44 page)

‘By George, she’s got it!’ says my husband playfully.

‘Don’t muddle me with another name!’ I protest.

My husband pours us both a small glass of sherry because it is, after all, that time of year even if we are in bed. ‘I think you get the names wrong on purpose because you don’t think any of them are right for Andrew and you think it will drive them away! Hang on. Did you hear the doorbell?’

He’s got some clothes on and is down within minutes. Already, I can hear voices at the front door and ‘Happy Christmases’ and ‘Didn’t you get our message about arriving early?’ and my husband’s calm reassuring tone that it’s fine and that Mum will be down in a minute.

Andrew and Claire. Not Andrew and Angela. Or Andrew and Joanna. Or Andrew and Lois.

Then, to my surprise, I hear footsteps flying up the stairs. They’re not heavy like my husband’s or medium heavy like my son’s. In fact, they sound just like...

‘Helen?’ I gasp. ‘Is that you?’

A shape looms up before me and sits down on the bed next to me, taking my hands. ‘You remember me?’

Of course I remember her! Helen was my son’s first love, back in the days when they were both teenagers. As soon as he brought her home, I knew in the instinctive way that mothers do, she was ‘the one’. She and Andrew dated all through college and I grew to love her like the daughter I’d never had. But then my son broke it off, saying he was too young for commitment even though his dad and I pointed out that we’d got married at his age and were very happy. The last thing I heard of her was that she’d got married, went to live in Cornwall and had three children.

‘Looks like we’ve both had some changes in our lives,’ says Helen giving me a hug.

You can say that again! The diabetes diagnosis had hit me out of the blue and although they say I’m managing very well, it’s affected my sight which accounts for my difficulty in reading in bed and all kinds of other things. At least, that was my excuse when I kept getting my son’s girlfriends’ names wrong.

‘I thought Andrew was bringing someone called Claire,’ I say.  I know Helen will understand. She and I used to be able to talk about anything.

‘He was. I feel a bit bad about that. You see, Andrew and I bumped into each other at the Christmas college reunion and we realised that we still cared for each other. So he broke off with Claire...’

Something isn’t right. ‘But you’re married!’

Helen’s voice wavers slightly. ‘I was until my husband decided he wanted other things instead. But at least I’ve got the children. You’ll love them! They’re called...’

And just then, I can hear three sets of very light footsteps scampering up the stairs. ‘I’m Amber!’ calls out one, bouncing on the bed with me.

‘I’m Poppy,’ laughs another.

‘And I’m Georgie! Why are you in bed?’

Andrew and Helen. Andrew and Helen and Amber and Poppy and Georgie. Funny thing is that the names are just tripping off my tongue, despite my middle-aged memory. And as we all laugh and cry and open presents (early because we all feel like celebrating), I’ve got a feeling that Christmases and names are going to be much easier to remember from now on.

Divorce for Beginners bonus chapters

Enjoy these first two chapters of Sophie King's new novel
Divorce for Beginners
, which is available exclusively as an ebook from autumn 2012.

Chapter One

LIZZIE

Deeze. Nurve. Wheat. Set. Seize.

Count backwards slowly in French, just like the relaxation tape said. Deep breath. Try again.

Lizzie knelt down next to her six year old son Jack and ran her fingers exploratively through his gorgeous chestnut hair. ‘Darling, are you sure you don’t have nits? Certain that you don’t feel a tiny bit itchy? I mean it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has them nowadays.’

Jack didn’t bother looking up from her iPhone that she’d let him play with, in a futile attempt at bribery. ‘Everyone? Even the Bitch in Boden?’

It was incredible what kids picked up nowadays! The B in B nametag was one that Lizzie only used in private, to refer to the aloof, well-dressed chair of the PTA at Jack’s school. ‘I’m not sure I called her that exactly...’

‘Yes you did.’

‘Well if I did, I didn’t mean to.’ Lizzie’s hands (must buy some hand cream!) were still doing a quick stroll through her son’s follicles. If she didn’t get him to co-operate fast, they’d run out of time.

‘Geroff, Mum.’

He moved away so fast that she almost toppled onto the ground (must get used to new editor-style high heels). ‘Just checking, darling.’ She glanced across the studio to where Dan, the photographer was doing something to one of his many cameras and lowered her voice. ‘If you’re sure you don’t have nits, Jack, couldn’t you just pretend – you know, for a minute – that you’ve got them.’ She gave him a little smile. ‘Just for Mummy’s page on the magazine?’

‘But I don’t have nits. And you’ve always said we shouldn’t lie.’

OK, OK. But this was different. Lizzie could feel her chest tightening again (must get new bra and more of those calming tablets from Boots!). If Jack didn’t agree to co-operate, they wouldn’t have enough pictures and then the editor would get sacked – except that, silly her, she WAS the editor or had been since Friday when the last one had got fired. And if she didn’t come up to scratch by getting out the next issue of
Charisma
magazine on its new all-time low budget, she’d get fired too.

‘Everything all right, Lizzie?’

Fine, she wanted to say to this fresh-faced Aussie photographer who knew nothing about spread-sheeting husbands, kids, work, a linen cupboard which looked like a fabric version of the tip-over-the-edge amusement arcade game and sixty-something parents who acted like they’d only just got their Provisionals. Absolutely fine.

‘It’s only that you look a bit stressed.’ Dan gave her an odd look. ‘And you’re wearing that shirt thing of yours inside out. Just thought you might like to know.’

Shit. No. Mustn’t say that in front of the kids. Sugar. Besides, the shirt thing was actually a dress. Couldn’t he see the purple leggings underneath? ‘Sorry.’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘You don’t need to apologise to me.’

Of course she didn’t! She was the editor after all! Just like she was the parent – except that she was still waiting for the day when she felt grown up and the kids realised they didn’t know best. That reminded her. Where were Ellie and Freddie?

‘Went to the toilet, didn’t they?’ Dan was focussing his camera on Jack.

‘But that was ages ago! I’d better check.’

Lurching across the studio floor (maybe the heels were a mistake after all), she headed for the cupboard of a loo in Dan’s Covent Garden studio. The door was locked but there was a lot of giggling inside. ‘Ellie?’ She tried the handle. ‘Freddie?’

The door opened a crack. Inside, she could see her neighbour’s children except that they looked more like mummies dripping blue blood. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Freddie dared me to wrap him up in loo paper and then squirt him with that loo stuff,’ said Ellie before poking her thumb in defiantly.

But it might be poisonous!

‘We didn’t eat it,’ sniffed Freddie. ‘Just squirted it.’

Shit. Shit. Shit. Sugar. Sugar. Sugar.

‘Are you sure your eyes aren’t burning?’

‘No.’

‘Have you got it on your skin?’

Freddie peered down inside his Age 5 boxers.

‘No.’

‘But it’s on your clothes!’ Lizzie could feel her voice rising. ‘Fashion will kill me!’

‘Who’s Fashion?’ asked Ellie.

Who was
Fashion
? She was about to say that it was the department where pretend journalists went to fashion shows and featured expensive clothes in the magazine which the readers couldn’t afford but it didn’t matter because it meant the staff got discounts and then she remembered.
She
, Lizzie, was Fashion after the last lot of cuts. So she was the one who’d have to explain to the PRs that the clothes they’d lent out for the fashion shoot were now streaked in an unfetching and rather smelly shade of blue u-bend cleaner.

Shepherding the children out of the loo, she tiptoed up to look in the cracked mirror on the wall. Did she really look like that? Talk about bags for life – under her eyes, that was. And look at those frown lines! Lizzie mentally tried to ‘iron out’ her face as suggested in the recent beauty section of
Charisma
(also written by herself). That was better. Well, a bit anyway. She still looked a bit of a mess with those blondish roots that needed re-touching and her smudged mascara (ditto).

For some reason, she only had one pearl earring in (she remembered now – the kids had interrupted her while dressing this morning) and her lip gloss was conspicuous by its absence. But she was a working mum, wasn’t she? It simply wasn’t possible to be perfect.

Not, thought Lizzie as she made her way back to the studio, that any of them would ever admit that. Thanks to her mother’s generation who had fought for their girls to go to university, they were now expected to have great jobs, bring up families and have sex three times a week.

‘Sorted?’

‘Not the sex bit,’ answered Lizzie, still wrapped in her thoughts.

‘Come again?’

Shit. Sugar. ‘Sorry.’ She burned with embarrassment, conscious that the tell-tale red flush was creeping up her neck. If Lizzie could change one thing about herself, it would be the awkward way in which she blushed at any opportunity. ‘I was thinking of something else.’

Dan’s eyes twinkled. ‘My sister’s the same, back in Sydney. Got six kids she has but she still manages to live in a world of her own. Says it’s the only way to cope. Anyway,’ he gestured towards Jack who was adjusting the silver umbrella in front of the tripod, ‘I managed to get your kid to pose for some nice shots.’

‘How did you do it?’

Dan shrugged, his floppy fringe falling over one eye. ‘Simple. Just asked him what he wanted and I managed to oblige.’

‘Not his own iPhone?’

‘No way. I just did his maths homework for him.’ Dan grinned. ‘I gather you got 3 out of 10 for him last time. And by the way, Lizzie. Did you know you’ve got blue streaks on your shirt?’

Dees. Nerve. Wheat...It wasn’t working. Not when she was running this late, thanks to delays at Marylebone which meant that by the time they had got to Amersham, she’d got a parking ticket. (Sometimes, Lizzie doubted the wisdom of moving out from Balham towards the end of the Chiltern line. The whole idea had been to be within commuting distance of her London office
and
be near her parents so they could see more of/help out with the kids. But as today proved, it didn’t always turn out like that).

Sophie’s after-school club teacher had already told her she wasn’t running a pyjama party and could she please be on time in future. But where WAS her daughter? Lizzie’s heart began to race.  She was late. It was all her fault. Anything could have happened to Sophie.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, calling out to a rather elegant young woman hanging around on the corner, with a green and silver scarf wound in that clever way round her neck, and silver dangly earrings. ‘I wonder if you’ve seen my...Sophie?’

Her daughter slid into the passenger seat, tossing back her long blonde hair which was the colour that Lizzie’s had been at that age. ‘You’re late, Mum.’

Excuse me? Lizzie took in the foundation which looked as though it had been finely trowelled on and then airbrushed. ‘You’ve got make up on! And you’ve borrowed my earrings.’

‘I’m nearly thirteen, Mum. ‘Sides, I did ask you about the earrings this morning but you probably weren’t listening as usual. And before you ask, I bought the scarf in my lunch hour with my pocket money.’ Leaning forward, Sophie  picked up the birthday card that was on the floor by her feet. ‘I told you to post Gran’s card. Isn’t it her birthday today?’

‘Shit.’

‘Mum!’

‘Sugar.’

‘And don’t drive when you’re on the phone.’

‘I’m not. What do you take me for? I’m pulling in. Please, you three in the back, do be quiet. I can’t hear a thing. Mum! It’s me. Happy birthday. Shh, everyone.’ They sounded like a flock of squabbling sheep – any minute and there’d be droppings on the floor. ‘Hang on Mum!’

Jack’s mobile (they all had to have one at school now for security reasons) rang in the back. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me. Mum. Please be quiet. I’m trying to talk to Gran on the other phone.’

Sophie’s eyes rolled. ‘You’re mad, Mum. You must be to ring the back seat when you’re only in the front.’

‘At least it got his attention. Mum, you still there? Sorry about that. I’m afraid your card is a bit late but I’ve been working.’

‘Thank you darling.’  Her mother’s voice sounded artificially bright which made her feel even worse. What kind of a daughter was she, to have forgotten to ring this morning? ‘It’s been a bit of a funny day, to be honest. Your dad tripped over his front teeth again. I don’t know why they can’t stay in like everyone else’s. And he gave me a mobile phone for my birthday but I can’t get the hang of that pre-ordained text business. Goodness me! What was that terrible noise?’