9.21 p.m.
‘No, I like parties,’ I shout, over the uneven whine of electric guitar. ‘I just don’t like this sort of music.’
‘Give it a chance,’ says Col, swigging from his plastic pintglass. ‘They spent hours setting this lot up.’
It’s true. My ex-housemates, Rebecca and Julie, have excelled themselves this weekend, creating a mini festival in the back garden, complete with plywood stage and thousands of fairy lights.
Friends drink and dance around me. They wear various fancy-dress costumes – a giant banana with star sunglasses, Sid Vicious, Amy Winehouse and, of course, Col, dressed as a woman in floral Laura Ashley and badly applied lipstick.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I just know it’s work.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, okay?’ I tell Col.
‘Where are you going?’ Col bobs his head, which is the closest he gets to cutting loose on the dance floor. This is a good time for him, having a few drinks and a dance. I don’t want to complain about how exhausted I am, or admit that work stuff is running around my head.
At the front of the house, I find Rebecca having a sneaky cigarette. She’s dressed as Princess Leia, with fake wool plaits wound around her ears.
‘Don’t tell Julie,’ Rebecca whispers. ‘But her band are giving me a headache.’
‘Me too,’ I admit. In my jeans pocket, my phone vibrates again.
‘They’ve got better, though,’ Rebecca decides. ‘Now they’ve ditched that accordion.’
‘This is work,’ I say, holding up my phone. ‘They’ve called twice. I should call them back.’
Rebecca blows a long stream of smoke. ‘Col’s not going to be happy. You’re so stressed, Kate. They shouldn’t be calling you out-of-hours.’
‘I said they could. There are people off sick. I have two missed calls. It must be something important.’
‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’
‘Nothing is ever fine in this job,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’m failing.’ Tears come, and I’m embarrassed.
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You are a highly competent person. You get up at six a.m. to exercise.’
‘Used to. Don’t any more. I can barely keep up with this workload, let alone have a hobby.’
‘I think you’ve got to cut a few corners, Kate,’ says Rebecca. ‘This is the public sector. It’s what everyone does.’
‘You know me. I can’t cut corners.’
Rebecca laughs. ‘I know. Not ticking every box gives you anxiety.’
I walk a little way down the street and call the office.
The out-of-hours team pick up immediately. ‘Children’s Services.’
‘Hi, Helen.’ I press the phone to my ear. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Kate. Thank God you phoned back. We had a call from Hammersmith and Fulham. Tom Kinnock’s father has found the social services out-of-hours site. The duty officer is all shaken up. He’s making all sorts of threats, worse than before. She doesn’t know what to do and nor do I.’
‘Call the police,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We can’t reveal the mother’s location. And Tom doesn’t want to see his father. If a child doesn’t want to see their parent, no one can force a supervised visit. It all comes down to what Tom wants.’
This is the standard social worker answer, but it’s not my answer. I would encourage Tom to see his father in a safe environment, try and move things forward. That’s the trouble with this job. I’m rule-abiding, but the rules here are often impossible to follow.
‘I don’t think he’s going to like that,’ says Helen.
‘Of course he won’t. But he shouldn’t be stalking the out-of-hours team.’
I end the call with knots in my stomach, knowing I haven’t solved anything, fixed anything, done anything except make Tom Kinnock’s father even more furious.
It sounds like he’s already on edge.
Oh God.
I can’t leave things like this.
My finger taps redial. ‘Helen?’
‘Kate. I was just about to call Hammersmith and Fulham.’
‘I’ll call them. See if I can smooth things out with the father. We can’t just drop them in it. What’s the number?’
After two rings, I hear Terri from Hammersmith and Fulham out-of-hours team.
‘Child Services. Emergency duty team.’
‘Hi Terri. It’s Kate Noble. I hear Tom Kinnock’s father is with you. Can I speak to him?’
‘He just left. Big relief. I threatened to call the police in the end. Karen let him in – God knows why, she’s been told before. Once he was in the building, he just kicked off, shouting and swearing.’
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
‘A bit delicate. But I’ve had worse nights. Are you out and about somewhere?’
‘Oh, I’m not missing much. You sure you’re okay?’
‘Fine. Get back to your evening.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
At the party, I head straight for the garden bar and grab a can of cold shandy from the ice bucket.
I hardly ever drink, but this evening feels like a ‘hardly ever’ sort of time.
‘There you are.’ I feel Col’s warm arm around my shoulder. ‘Everything okay? No, it can’t be. You’re drinking.’
‘It’s just shandy. I had a work call.’
‘Ah. Silly me to think you’d finished for the week.’
‘I’m sorry. You always knew I was a career girl.’
‘Yes. I know.’
Col used to love that about me.
Now, perhaps, he’s not so sure.