‘What a bunch of wankers.’
Martha’s voice.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Those cretins at the next table.’
Hazel turned to look. It was the guy who’d felt her up on the day she’d arrived, flicking over a newspaper now, talking to a colleague. Frothing at the mouth, really, about that woman from the Greens…always poking her nose in those detention centres…making trouble…coaching kids to self-harm.
‘And she’s built like a brick shithouse,’ said his colleague. He looked like a guy in an ad for luxury cars: suave, darkly handsome.
Lecherous Paws grinned. ‘She should spend less time in those places and get on a treadmill instead,’ he said. ‘Get rid of that big fat arse.’
Hazel wanted to scream. It was fat chicks shit me all over again, but these men were teachers. They had tertiary qualifications and children in their care. Lucas nudged her: he must have seen the look on her face.
‘Just because people have a degree hanging on their wall,’ he said.
‘Well, thank goodness the kids are different,’ said Hazel. ‘They’re prepared to think about things. And they’ll accept anyone, as long as they’re nice kids, or play sport well. I’ve seen Percy and Jamal on the oval and the kids think they’re great.’
‘You’re idealising,’ said Lucas. ‘And you’ve only been here for eleven days.’
So he’d been counting. Keeping her in his thoughts. But Hazel was still put out.
‘I can tell you some pretty bad stories,’ said Martha. ‘Some of the kids in my classes, the way they talk about Indigenous kids. They love the players when they’re kicking goals and taking speccy marks but not when they stand up for their culture.’
‘It’s not their fault,’ said Hazel. ‘It’s the media. And their parents.’
‘Or their stepmother,’ said Lucas. ‘Or stepfather. Or their mother’s third boyfriend in six months who uses all her money to buy drugs. So many dysfunctional families, I can’t tell you.’
Hazel leaned towards him. ‘That’s such a class stereotype,’ she said. ‘I have a friend from a middle-class family whose father walked out on them when she was six years old. Five kids in the family. And my parents’ friends, so many with broken marriages. Who says the nuclear family is the best way to bring up kids, anyway? What matters is having a parent who loves them, cares for them.’
Because there was always that, wasn’t there? You could never take that away from him.
She could see them looking at her strangely: earthy Martha and thoughtful Lucas. Had she raised her voice? She looked around the staffroom: teachers eating, laughing, whining, making coffee.
‘I have an idea,’ she said. ‘Education sessions for the staff. And then maybe the parents.’
‘Education sessions?’ Martha and Lucas spoke as one, raised their skeptical eyebrows.
‘You know. Information. Challenging racial stereotypes and myths about asylum seekers. Facts on climate change. We could discuss domestic violence, too. Oh, I know that could be tricky, but—’
‘It’s not that the teachers don’t care,’ said Martha. ‘Some of us sure do. It’s just that we’re too fucking exhausted.’
‘We know you mean well, Hazel,’ said Lucas.
They fell into silence and she fidgeted about, opened her lunchbox, closed it again.
‘What about lunchtime talks?’ she said. ‘You know, a captive audience.’
Lucas reminded her that she was leaving tomorrow. Martha nodded to confirm the bleeding obvious. And so when lunch was over, there was nothing to do but stand up, leave, sit in her empty classroom, wait for half an hour until the elevens came sprawling in.
She could see her future dangling before her again. That damned noose was feeling tighter.
At least she had her new haircut to console her. She’d sent Todd a photo and he’d shot back an effusive text. Dora had joined in as well: !!!!!!!!!!!! Hazel had asked if he was happier, waited some time for an answer, then he’d sent her a smiley face.
Getting easier and thanks for listening. You’re the best. How was that party and did the kid like his book?
Hazel had paused, wanting to pretend. But this was Todd, who was doing his best.
I had a fight with the boy’s father
Crap so what about?
It’s not important and I can’t really remember anyhow
So she’d ended up pretending to help her forget. Blue eyes and the touch of his hands and telling her what he’d never told anyone before. Those unexpected tears.
Teaching had been up and down. The good, the bad and the ugly, the light-bulb moments and the predictable blackouts. She’d learned not take things too hard, to be a little kinder to herself. In a matter of twelve days, she had understood what she hadn’t grasped in two long years: to take the longer view. To be patient. Except now she was leaving. And wasn’t this the essence of tragedy: to acquire wisdom only when it was too late? Not that her situation was tragic, but it wasn’t comic either. It was, in truth, a little sad.
On Friday she geared herself up to leave. The students didn’t shower her with cards or gifts, heap words of adulation upon her inspirational head. Although her year twelves did give her a box of Cadbury’s Favourites (unwrapped), and much to her surprise, a card from Bobby: Thanks for teaching me about life and women and stuff. She couldn’t have asked for a better reference. Martha and Lucas were taking her for a drink as well. Which was good of them, she thought; generous; and it would give her some alcoholic closure.
She trundled back to the department, thousands of useless calories in her hands, and found a note waiting on her desk, in large black print. See Ms Hipkins in her office. Had she done something wrong? Should she have followed the curriculum more assiduously? Placed more emphasis on literacy? (She’d never done that PowerPoint.) Had there been too much discussion and not enough writing? Too much laughter? No one in her office knew what was up, so Hazel made her nervous way to where she’d never been before. Tried to calm down by imagining the worst that could happen. She could hardly get the sack, could she? Still, you wouldn’t want a lousy reference.
The principal had been welcoming, and now she was—what—summoning her?
Hazel was met by a smiling assistant, offered a seat. She looked around, avoided checking her phone for distraction. And now, here she was: Ms Hipkins, in a bright pink lacy shirt and a tiny black leather skirt, chorus-girl high heels. And that hair! Like she’d been to an all-night party and was just waking up.
But she was the principal. She had the power.
‘Thanks for coming, Hazel.’ The principal offered her a chair, then leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘I love your hair,’ she said. ‘You must have paid a fortune for a cut like that.’
Hazel laughed. ‘A friend did it. For free. I don’t have a fortune, actually. I’m more or less broke.’
Fuck, Hazel. Pull yourself together.
The principal folded her hands in her lap.
‘We’d like you to stay for the rest of the year,’ she said.
Hazel tried not to fall off her chair.
‘The teacher you’re replacing…’ The principal went on to discreetly explain about the poor man needing a break. ‘You’ll be doing the school a great favour, Hazel.’
‘But…but I’m only the relief teacher.’
‘I’ve had a number of phone calls from parents, saying you’ve made their children want to come to school.’
‘But Ms Hipkins—’
‘Julia, please.’
‘Julia. Making them feel happy doesn’t get them very far. Does it? I mean…’ She petered out. Why was she objecting?
The principal smiled. She looked like a woman comfortable in her skin, although that tight leather skirt could make it difficult.
‘Feeling happy is a good start, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some of your students coming out of your classes. They look ready.’
‘Ready?’
‘Keen.’ The principal waved a hand. ‘I was never the best at English but I’m good at reading faces. And I’d be really pleased to have you on board, you’d really be helping us out. It’s only part-time but you’ll have to come in every day. And having a year twelve class is extra responsibility. Just getting some of them to graduate, step onto that stage, can be a major achievement. Do you understand?’
Hazel nodded.
‘And you’ll have to do all the routine things like bus duty and lunch duty, although it’s a chance to chat with the students while you’re reminding them to put their rubbish in the bin. I’m aiming for a litter-free school by the end of the year, even earlier if possible. Less clutter in the quad, less clutter in their heads.’
Hazel listened. She considered.
‘Are you worried about their results, Hazel?’
‘Well, they need a lot of help.’
The principal nodded. ‘I measure our success not by prizes or exhibitions but by the number of students who achieve their goals. And if that means scraping a pass in English, that’s wonderful.’
‘Or maybe we can help them find a goal?’
‘Exactly.’ Ms Hipkins—Julia—cleared her throat. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Hazel, are you worried about money?’
‘No, not at all. I mean, I’ve been living on Newstart for a while and, well, I can live very simply.’
Because you could, you most definitely could, if other things mattered more than money.
The principal sat up in her chair, stretched her arms, and the middle button of her bright pink shirt went pop, bounced onto the floor.
‘Now it goes without saying,’ said Ms Hipkins. Which meant that it had to be said. ‘You have a curriculum to follow. Proper lessons. Programs. Appraisal.’
‘Of course.’
‘Which doesn’t mean your lessons can’t be fun.’
‘Of course. I mean, of course not.’
The principal smiled, her job done. She was practised. Approachable. Committed. And, Hazel thought, a decent kind of person doing a valuable job.
‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ she said.
‘I just want to thank you. It means a lot. Your faith in me.’
The principal’s face brightened. ‘So. Welcome to Cranfield,’ she said, then looked down at her feet. ‘I’ve lost a button from my shirt. Did you happen to see where it landed?’
Walking back from the office, Hazel had a call from her mother.
‘I’ve compromised,’ she said. ‘I told your father he can have sex whenever he loses a kilo.’
Hazel tried not to laugh at her down-to-earth mother, who by the usual rule of families ought to have embarrassed her.
‘We came to an agreement,’ said her mother. ‘After we had sex.’
This time Hazel did laugh. Because her parents were happy and she was happy and the rest of the term would be a challenge, and the one after that until the end of the year. Growing. Creating a spark.
‘How are you, Hazel?’ said her mother. ‘We haven’t heard from you for a while.’
What could she say? I met a man who broke my heart? Except that he hadn’t, not really. He was a good man, a good father, but he hadn’t been attracted. What did it really matter, in the end? At least she’d had his respect. Because she had tried hard to change some minds and it hadn’t been just to impress him. She was smart and informed and prepared to work hard, because Hazel always tried to do her best.
‘I have a new haircut,’ she said. ‘It’s very very short.’
‘Honestly? Why? I mean…your beautiful hair.’
Further confirmation that mother-love was blind.
‘I was kind of press-ganged into it, Mum. But I like it. And, well, I have a job, too, a real one. For the rest of the year.’
‘Sweetheart, that’s terrific. What is it?’
‘Teaching.’
Silence.
‘It was only relief to start with but they’ve asked me to stay on. It’s a pretty rough but wonderful school.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s kind of funny. I thought I’d left teaching forever but it seems it never left me.’
Her mother invited her to celebrate, said she’d even let Jim have one glass of wine if he chose to stick to the bargain. Because it was important to give people a choice, she said, to let them decide for themselves.
Hazel made a date for a glass of champagne, said goodbye, looked up and across at the oval. She saw boys and girls running and leaping, in training for football or netball, games that gave them the pleasure of using muscles and limbs, their arms flashing, legs pumping. Fifteen-, sixteen-, seventeen-year-old kids: she would have such creatures in her care. It didn’t really daunt her now, even though she’d have to dig deep, listen carefully, patiently, to what they were saying, instead of only thinking of herself. Just like she’d tried to do with Jessie when she’d seen him whole and true. Because that’s what she’d done without knowing it, and it was good to know it now. Even if she never saw him again, would never know what happened to a trusting little boy. He was destined to be one of those people who leapt into your life and then suddenly disappeared but who left something pure in their wake. Which made her feel happy, and a little empty, before the emptiness went away.
She kept walking towards the office—soon to be her office—to talk to the head of department. Len. She would call him Len and compliment his colourful ties. And then she saw something else as well: that sitting with the principal and considering her offer, she hadn’t once thought of Lucas. A guy to have around to admire her, to take her out to dinner and tell her she was ravishing and whatever might follow from that. He simply hadn’t featured in her boy-meets-girl soap opera, with those really annoying ad breaks for feminine hygiene products.
What would Beth make of all this newness? Her return to the bad old days? She would laugh, of course, and put her arms around Hazel’s waist and tell her she had a long journey ahead of her, with no discount for the fare. And Hazel would say something lame in return, about her very modest journey being more important than the destination. She wouldn’t be Jack Kerouac, leaning forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies, but she would try to do a solid day’s work, do a bit of good in the classroom.
She wasn’t sure about that part, anyway: beneath the skies. It needed some more adjectives: the next crazy venture beneath the something something skies. For the rhythm. To evoke that sense of longing.
Maybe she could have been an editor. In another life.
Martha drove her to the bar in her rusty, dented Toyota, but Hazel didn’t mind the rust or the dents because she was alive with a sense of good fortune. Once she would have told Adam about her brand new job. Once upon a time, before his indifference got in the way. But now it was comforting to be with a lively, unpretentious woman who might well become a friend, and who told her straight away that she didn’t want to talk about school on the weekends. Or the break-up from her long-time girlfriend at all. So they talked about how they’d both lived in Perth all their lives, except for the two years Martha-had spent in Sydney, feeling like she’d been locked inside a sauna. She loathed the heat and, like Hazel, disdained the hedonistic worship of the sun. They discovered they were both afraid of sharks.
‘It’s a very common phobia,’ said Hazel.
‘Which doesn’t mean it’s not important.’
Martha could definitely become a friend.
They talked about family as well. Martha’s parents had split up when she was a kid, which was why she took the breakup from her lover even harder. And she was a singleton too. Such an odd word, Hazel thought. And how was it possible she’d never heard of it before? When it named her: Hazel, who could have had a sister, maybe more, but who had the gift of other sisters in her life: Beth, Chloe, Rikki, and now Felicia. Her mother. The woman sitting beside her. A small army of women to help her through the battles, and to help when they needed it themselves.
Martha gave her a sly kind of glance.
‘So, do you have the hots for Lucas?’ she said.
Hazel stared through the window, saw the traffic racing past, rows of ugly bunting and vacant shops for lease, then turned back to look at Martha.
‘He seems like a really nice guy,’ she said. ‘He has good politics and a good sense of humour. And he reads good books. So he’s, well, he’s good, isn’t he?’
‘That’s not what I asked you.’
Hazel laughed. ‘Well, I didn’t have one of those rushes of emotion,’ she said. ‘One of those kiss-me-right-now-before-I-die kind of moments.’
‘That’s what it was like with Abby,’ said Martha, keeping her eyes on the road. ‘Every time I saw her.’ And then she shrugged. ‘So much for not talking about it.’
‘Talk as much as you like. I’ll listen.’
The bar was packed with girls in denim and lace, and some good-looking guys in tight jeans and open-necked shirts. The music was pumping loudly and Martha was yelling in her ear, pulling her to an empty table. Hazel caught the glimpse of a guy’s sensual mouth; dark brown hair falling onto a forehead; the vulnerable nape of a neck. She felt aroused, in a general kind of way. It was good, the feeling. It meant that her body had righted itself again, just as her mind had cleared itself of craziness. And no one in the bar looked over forty. Martha was nudging her into a seat, one of those retro plastic jobs that after half an hour of sitting made your bum really sore. But people weren’t here to be comfortable. They unwound. They flirted. They took someone home and had sex. Would people look at the two of them, two women who’d walked into a bar, sitting close together, knees touching, and see them as a couple? But what did she care about who put what where, as long as the putting was consensual. If you were lucky, pleasurable. And if you were even luckier, when two bodies were entangled or caressing or fucking, you would find the one who was different. The one who would choose to stay.
Then her favourite person in the world walked in: Beth. Because Hazel had asked her to fly from work, celebrate her brand new job. And there was Felicia striding in behind her: two more women walking into a bar, two women who’d bonded over dickhead fathers. She looked radiant, Beth, in a dark pink dress that Hazel hadn’t seen before, with her bouncy hair flying about, and Felicia of course looked stunning, turning many heads. Then hurried introductions and Martha staring too, at Felicia’s very short silver dress, shiny and bejewelled like a disco globe. Beth took Hazel’s hand and started shouting in her ear because they’d pumped up the volume even more and Hazel looked up for a moment and—it was Candace. Candace. Walking into the bar. It was better to pretend she hadn’t seen her. It was better to look at Beth instead, who was shouting about the thrill of Hazel’s job and how she knew Hazel would be terrific and it was about time she…and something else about some client who deserved a kick in the groin.
‘He asked me if I lived alone,’ she said, ‘and when I told him about us, Haze, how we’ve shared a flat for years, best friends from school and all that, he snorted, he actually snorted, and said it was so unhealthy. And then, get this’—Beth faked a yawn—‘he told me I needed a man to sort me out.’
‘So what did you tell him?’ asked Martha.
‘That men like him were the reason women chose to live with women. And do you know what he said next? He said, so, you’re one of those women who hates men, are you? So I told him I was a separatist feminist. That is, I believe in separating men’s genitalia from the rest of their stupid bodies.’
‘Well, good luck with that one, sweetheart.’
They looked up: four women who’d walked into a bar, looking at another woman who’d walked into a bar. Candace. With her eyes like Jessie’s, her hair like Jessie’s. Was she on her own? Was she waiting for someone? Or, help, no, was she hoping to join them? Couldn’t Candace see her fear? Take a not-very-subtle hint? But it seemed the woman wasn’t going anywhere, standing like a sentry, arms folded across her chest. And so Hazel did the introductions…my friends…Beth, Felicia, Martha…wishing she could shelter behind them.
‘This is Candace,’ she said.
For whom she had no more words.
‘Do you have a moment, Hazel?’
‘A moment?’
‘Yes.’ Staring with intense brown eyes.
Hazel stood up, her friends all staring too, and she found herself trembling as she trailed behind, jostled her way into a quieter place.
‘Can I get you a drink, Hazel?’
‘No, thank you. But please, go ahead.’
And it struck her again: how your guts could be churning while you kept up the patter. Please go ahead. Be my guest. After you.
‘I’ll wait,’ said Candace.
Which made Hazel feel even more jittery.
They sat down and Candace placed her hands on the table. She had long, thin, ring-less fingers; decisive-looking hands.
Hazel frowned. ‘Is something wrong with Jessie?’ she said.
‘No, no, he’s roaring on all four cylinders.’ Candace drummed her fingers on the table. ‘It’s Adam who’s wrong, he’s bloody miserable.’ She drummed some more. ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but when I saw you just now, you dear, sweet young thing, I thought hell yes, I’ll make it my business to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘That Adam’s a good man. Too good for his own good most of the time.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Then let me keep it simple. Adam’s been smitten with you. From the moment he saw you on the train.’
Hazel tried to take this in. ‘I see,’ she said, slowly.
‘No you don’t, not really. When I say smitten, I don’t mean to make light of his feelings. He tells me everything, you see, and he was—look, he couldn’t stop thinking about you and he wanted to tell you how he felt but then every time he saw you he’d feel it was wrong and so he’d back off again. Turn tail and run, the stupid man.’
‘But—’
‘Just listen, Hazel. That’s why he told you he wasn’t attracted. Why he pushed you away.’
‘Pushed me…away?’
‘He didn’t mean to be cruel. He’s the kindest man in the world, helped me through some very tough times. My two shits for husbands. Drink, fists, I can’t tell you. And then one of my sons who—But look, that’s not important. I want to find out about you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to know how you feel about him.’
Hazel took this question and held it up to some kind of light. What was she feeling now? To know that he’d been smitten. Had forced himself to push her away. She looked across at her friends, the new and the old. At Beth: the safety of a lifetime’s friendship.
‘I hardly know him, do I?’ she said.
‘So what have you discovered so far?’
What she’d known from the beginning.
‘That he’s thoughtful. Kind. Acts on his principles. That he’s lovely with Jessie. I…I well, I guess I admired him.’
‘You’re speaking in the past tense, Hazel.’
‘Because it’s past.’
‘Are you sure?’
Hazel was lost for words.
‘You see, the beginning and the end of it…’ Candace pulled a face. ‘Adam can’t give you children. He’s had a vasectomy. You know. The snip.’
Snip. Such a breezy word, and yet Candace made it sound so ugly, so final. And something else was falling into place now, beginning to make a sad kind of sense.
‘Are you telling me that Adam…are you saying he gave me up because…’
Candace nodded. ‘You see? Too good for his own good. A bloody saint, that man. Especially since Jessie’s not his child.’
‘Not…his child?’
‘Adam’s a saint and a fool. He would have given Thea anything she wanted, in the beginning, anyway. Anything. And she didn’t want a child. She was adamant. So not long after they were married, she made him have the snip. Twenty-three years old, he was. I ask you.’
As though someone might have an answer.
‘The stupid things people do when they’re young and madly in love. Present company excepted.’
Was she madly in love? In any kind of love at all?
‘So…who is Jessie’s father?’
Candace shrugged. ‘Thea had an affair. But the father took off like a rocket as soon as he found out she was pregnant. Jessie appears to have been an accident, although with my sister, who knows? It could just as easily have been a plan. Changing her mind when she was heading for forty. I wouldn’t have put it past her.’
‘And she never told Adam? Whether she’d planned it or not?’
Just saying his name now was difficult.
‘I don’t know,’ said Candace. ‘But whatever she was thinking, or not thinking, Adam took the child as his own. That’s just who he is, Hazel. Big-hearted. Completely forgiving.’
‘But that must have been so hurtful. Knowing he couldn’t have a child of his own.’
‘Well, he never showed it. He never judged her, never complained.’
He’d held Jessie in his arms and been enchanted. Besotted. Utterly transformed.
‘Adam’s biggest fear was that the real father’—Candace pursed her lips—‘well, the man who put his dick into my thoughtless sister. Adam was afraid he’d come back to claim his son. But it’s all sorted now, the legalities, and Adam will tell Jessie the truth when he thinks the time is right. Give him the chance to meet his biological father, if that’s what the boy ends up wanting.’
Hazel looked into those dark brown eyes, which might have been like Thea’s eyes.
‘You didn’t much care for your sister, did you?’ she said.
Candace shrugged. ‘She wasn’t a bad person. But she was—oh, we all have our faults, don’t we?’ Then she laughed. ‘It didn’t help that she married the man I was in love with, did it?’
Hazel sat up. ‘And are you still? In love with him?’
‘Of course.’ Candace reached out her hand, and Hazel found herself taking it. ‘Not that I’ve ever told him. The closest I came was a joke, telling him he’d married the wrong sister. The dopey things you say when you’ve had too much to drink.’ She squeezed Hazel’s hand. ‘Adam loves me, of course, but not in a romantic way. Nothing sexual. So don’t worry, my dear. I don’t plan on trying to steal him from you.’
‘But he’s not mine to steal.’
‘He’s yours if you want him. He’s in love with you.’
‘Did he…I mean, did he actually use that word?’
‘And a whole lot of other ones as well. Bewitching. Beguiling. Warm-hearted. Funny. Smart. Sincere. Endearing. Disarming. He’s a regular bloody thesaurus, that man. And like a boy in love for the very first time.’
Hazel couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, about a boy in love for the very first time. How could she have been so blind? To have misread him in this way? To have been so wrapped up in her own indignation that she hadn’t listened to his distress. His love. He was in love with her. He was in love with her and had driven her away.
Candace released her hand. ‘So what will you do now?’ she said. ‘With my story. Adam’s story.’
She was a magician, this woman, performing a series of tricks and voila! she’d presented a lavish bouquet from behind her generous back.
‘You’re not saying anything, Hazel.’
‘Because I’m still not sure what to think.’
‘Maybe you should try not thinking at all.’
‘But I have to reflect on what you’ve just told me. It’s—’
‘Are you worried about his age?’
‘Should I be?’
‘Adam’s forty-five.’
Which was more or less what she’d figured. She found herself smiling, like a secret.
‘I thought I could forget him,’ she said. ‘But, well—he torments me.’
She hadn’t known this until she’d said it.
‘Very good,’ said Candace. ‘Excellent. Because it’s been the same for Adam.’ Her eyes looked suddenly stern, like a teacher’s. ‘Now I’d like to say he’ll be a walkover but I do have to warn you, Hazel. That man has as many principles as a porcupine has quills, so you’ll need to be pretty damned persuasive. And he needs to start thinking of himself for a change instead of trying to do the right thing by everyone else. What he thinks is right, anyway.’ She laughed. ‘He thinks too much as well.’
Hazel laughed with her, even as she felt on the verge of tears. For she’d heard the kindness in Candace’s voice. This woman who’d chanced to walk into a bar, who might well be changing the course of another woman’s life.
‘You have a big heart, too,’ she said.
‘Not at all. I just want Adam to be happy, and it’s a long time since he’s been happy. I have a feeling you might be the one.’
‘But you don’t even know me.’
‘Well, Adam’s told me so much about you, hasn’t he? I’ve had the full confession. And it’s Jessie, too. Adam knows you really like him.’ She frowned. ‘Not like the woman who tried to wheedle her way into his heart. Kids can see though the bullshit.’
I love this woman, Hazel thought. She’s filling in the gaps and saying it straight and I want to cover her wrists with platypus stamps.
Instead she asked Candace if she was waiting for someone.
‘Aren’t we all?’ She looked at her watch. ‘This one was meant to be here half an hour ago.’
‘The man with the ginormous beard?’
‘No, the new one’s clean-shaven. But he’s still late.’ She pointed in the direction of Hazel’s friends. ‘Who’s the young man who keeps looking this way? Is he anyone important?’
Hazel didn’t need to look to understand. ‘He might have been,’ she said.
And because this sounded so dismissive and verging on smug and she didn’t want to be smug, ever, because everyone mattered, everyone had worth, she said that Lucas was a really nice guy. Which didn’t sound much better.
‘But he’s not Adam,’ she said.
Candace nodded. ‘I want you to listen to my very cunning plan,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and pick up Jessie and keep him overnight. Give yourself a couple of hours and then go round to Adam’s. But first you need to scurry home and change.’
‘Change?’
‘That dress you’re wearing. You look like a boring school teacher.’