AND NOW, AFTER DOUGLAS HAS LEFT, I’M IN SOUTH Kensington showing prospective tenants around a house: a French couple with three small daughters. It’s the kind of house that makes your mouth water, with a white stucco facade, pillars and a big, shiny door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. I tell them about the area, the schools, public transport, where to get the best coffee. They love the high ceilings and classical coving, adore the fireplaces, love the kitchen, and coo over the bathrooms. They need somewhere immediately, which is great for Rupert, but means added stress at my end.
As they confer, in their own language, my mind strays back to Saturday, trying to remember every word we said, every fleeting expression on Nick’s face. Apart from his proposal, the most significant thing that came up was that his work no longer made him happy. He was fed up with the treadmill, with making money for money’s sake. Could that have had something to do with it? Was there something more to his mood, something that happened at work to trigger a change in his thinking, that perhaps opened his eyes? Maybe he had already decided to walk away. I shouldn’t have allowed the conversation to end there. I should have dug deeper.
I wrap up the viewing quickly, anxious to get to the school by three, in time for my appointment with the head.
Mrs Shaw comes to pick me up from the school office, where I’ve been sitting on the chair normally reserved for sick children, my phone in my hand, listening to the secretary and Mrs Shaw’s PA gossiping. The headmistress of Cedar Heights could be a politician or a newsreader with her bright, boxy jackets, obedient hair and unflappable eyebrows. When I arrived, the admin staff had been overly familiar, calling me Grace, their eyes alight with interest, from which I understood that the grapevine had been working overtime. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to ask direct questions, but I fielded several indirect ones before resorting to my emails. I zone out their voices and the sound of a netball match going on in the playground and try to focus.
Cedar Heights is a popular, two-class-entry primary school. The building is red-brick and two storeys high, with an enormous hall that does service as gym and dining room, the trestle tables and benches stacked away after lunch. The head’s office is up one flight of stairs, next to the girls’ loos. A child bursts out as we pass, stopping to gaze up at us before running downstairs.
‘Walk, Amelia,’ Mrs Shaw admonishes her.
Amelia walks, so slowly she could be on her way to the guillotine. She reaches the bottom, jumps the last step and skips off.
Mrs Shaw’s office is sun-filled and too warm. At her invitation I take a seat on the sofa and she sits down on the matching armchair. This is where parents are coaxed, seduced, rebuked and reassured.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s happened?’
After I’ve explained the situation, we discuss how the school is going to support Lottie. She asks me whether I’d like her to refer the family to social services to see what support they can offer, but I decline the invitation, trying not to let my horror show.
I’m relieved when the bell rings to signal the end of the day. Mrs Shaw stands up and we shake hands. She opens her door, says something encouraging, and I go back out to where the classes are lining up; row upon row of little girls in pale-blue gingham dresses and white socks and little boys in shorts and blue shirts. As I cross the playground, towards the gate, children and teachers turn to watch and I don’t think it’s me being hypersensitive, but it feels like the walk of shame. From the street, the other parents are watching me too. Everyone is, even the dogs tied to the railings.
The caretaker lets me out and pulls the gate shut behind me and I stand in the crowd of parents and nannies, my gaze fixed on the big red-and-blue clock. The minute hand moves excruciatingly slowly.
I feel a light pressure on my arm and find Cassie beside me. I catch her eye and she shakes her head with a grimace and pulls me to one side. We walk as far as the corner before we speak.
‘I had a call this afternoon asking whether the rumours are true,’ she says. ‘Apparently one of the children went home sick and told their mum what they heard in the playground. It spread like wildfire. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to nip it in the bud, but I think everyone’s assuming Nick’s left you.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’ve made it worse for Lottie.’
‘It’ll blow over.’
I bite my lip and turn round, and several well-groomed heads swivel the other way.
Lottie sees me and goes still, her expressive face questioning. When the gates open and we surge forward, she is practically jumping, her hand stretched out to shake her teacher’s. She runs up to me with Hannah close behind her and I immediately see that her eyes are red, her cheeks blotched. She looks so forlorn that I almost weep. I hug her, and she clings to me.
‘Has Nick come back?’ she asks, her voice muffled by my quilted jacket.
‘No, sweetie, I’m sorry, but he hasn’t. Come on, let’s go home.’
Hannah is shuffling her feet. She looks up at her mother, then at me. ‘I didn’t mean to upset her,’ she says. ‘I only told Leila.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say with a bright smile. I don’t want her to feel awkward around me. Lottie needs her friends. ‘It doesn’t matter in the slightest.’