Every Friday night, Helena hosted a book club in her living room. Sometimes the books even got discussed. The women, all seventy-somethings, mothers and grandmothers, fond of a G&T, weren’t difficult to distract. Even if they used books as the basis for discussion, there was a lot of off-piste chatter and gossip.
Tonight’s book was about a smother mother, or snow-plough parent, so it said on the back.
‘What the heck’s a snow-plough parent?’ one of the women said, tossing the book on to the coffee table.
‘Go look in the mirror!’ said another with a cackle. ‘But try not to mow us all down as you pass!’
‘Who? Moi?’
Helena smiled to herself as she handed out the drinks. No one was ever a smother mother or a snow-plough parent by their own admission – all claimed never to have heard of such a thing.
‘Chin chin,’ one of the women said. And the air peeled with the sound of clinking crystal glasses.
‘Down the hatch!’
Normally, Helena joined in emphatically. But tonight she was too preoccupied for joviality. Tomorrow was pressing heavily on her.
For tomorrow, if Jemima passed the étoile audition, she would be elevated to a different universe; a star, with indescribable amounts of pressure and stress.
She sat down glumly on the sofa, wedged between two women who were chatting over her head. ‘I blame the schools,’ one was saying. ‘They put far too much pressure on the children.’
‘Yes, but that’s because of the parents … Parents have such high expectations nowadays … My son was telling me that they’ve put rails up at his local football club, to hold back the parents. Seriously. Rails!’
Helena nodded absently. There had been a piece in the press last week about how it was predicted that someone was going to die soon at one of these children’s football matches.
It was all so out of perspective, so out of control. But what to do about it? No one appeared to know where the problem lay, who had lit the fire and who was stoking it. But it was roaring all right. Everyone felt its blaze – even the grandparents.
One of the women pulled the book club paperback from her handbag and set it on her lap, smoothing the front cover pensively. ‘To be perfectly honest, I think the smother-mother label is cruel and unfair.’
‘To the kids?’
‘No, to the poor mother.’
‘But she’s overbearing!’
‘Oh and that’s a sin?’ said one of the women, bringing her glass down heavily on the table. ‘Well, pardon us mothers for loving our kids!’
‘Too right. I laboured a combined sixty-four hours to bring mine into the world – fed them, clothed them, kept them clean for twenty-four years when they were living with me. Only to be told, what? Back off, Mamma. You’re too much?’
‘I agree. No one thinks of it from the mum’s point of view. Sometimes they’re just … you know …’
Helena sipped her G&T thoughtfully, watching the fire flickering in the stone surround.
She could remember her loneliness the year Steffie had left for Manchester as though it sat with her here now, holding her hand.
That year, their home had felt as though it were actively mourning – creaking at night, the wind howling Steffie’s name down the chimney. She had found it hard to sleep, had missed her daughter so.
She had consoled herself by buying lots of Wedgwood china, the housewife’s choice of the eighties. Her favourite pattern had been Jasperware, with its white etchings that she longed to pick off, like snapping icy spikes from a Christmas cake.
But in truth nothing – neither china nor cake – could fill the gap.
She hadn’t ever really let Steffie go. It had been about letting Steffie think she had gone, that she had been released, when really she hadn’t – was being watched constantly, albeit from a distance, sometimes a long one.
All mothers did the same; some stood nearby, others remotely; all were watching.
There was something beautiful about it, a mother’s watchful eyes. It was angelic, shepherd-like; deeply misunderstood.
The mother didn’t look that way constantly because she had no life, had nowhere else to look, but because she had no choice. Her eyes, her thoughts, were automatically set that way. Changing that would be like trying to remove the salt from the sea.
‘I’d love to smother my grandchildren,’ one of the women was saying now, finishing her gin. ‘But they’ve got more allergies than a bees’ hive dipped in peanut butter. I’m scared to even bake a cake.’
‘That’s nothing. My son told me last week that I need to learn about boundaries … I told him to take any fencing issues up with his father.’
Splutters of laughter ensued.
Helena smiled, rose to go to the kitchen for more gin.
As she chopped the lemon, she glanced at her reflection in the kitchen window. She could picture Steffie beside her, rolling dough, hair in bunches, Snoopy apron tied around her neck.
She sighed fondly, her heart coiling in nostalgia.
Children were such marvellous anchors. They made limp marriages feel robust, mealtimes uplifting, wholesome. They made Christmas magical, broke awkward silences, were truth sayers and realists, all whilst believing in fairies and dragons.
And they loved unconditionally.
For the lovelorn, the grieving, the weary, the disappointed, the misguided, the depressed, the unfulfilled, the stressed … their child was a lantern in the dark.
She put the lemon slices, ice bucket, gin and tonic bottles on a tray and returned to the lounge.
Not long now until Jemima would be on that stage, she thought, with a ripple of worry in her tummy.
On Saturday morning, there was a very mixed atmosphere in the Phoenix café, Steffie thought: a fusion of sobriety, nervousness, competition, with little cohesion or warmth. She had expected it to be more intimate than this, and was disappointed.
They had arrived at quarter to nine and were handed a cluster of paperwork at reception about expected behaviour, data protection and equal opportunities, plus an urgent disclaimer about the west wing being off-limits due to construction work, which they dutifully signed. And then they had followed little blue arrows to get here – arrows that said: Étoiles’ coffee morning, this way!
It had all felt nice, welcoming. On arrival in the café, they had set about the trestle tables, glad of refreshments after their journey, pouring tea, helping themselves to biscuits. Only to discover, on sitting down and absorbing the room’s goings-on, that they were the only ones helping themselves to the complimentary coffee-morning wares – that everyone else was queuing for skinny lattes, organic smoothies and granola bars from the over-the-counter service, which was open for visitors and residents.
‘Oh well,’ said Steffie, feeling hot. She took off her coat and recalled that she was wearing a lambswool turtleneck that had seemed cosy at dawn but now felt as though she were bound in hessian.
‘Were we supposed to help ourselves?’ said Jemima, glancing around the room.
‘Yes,’ Steffie said, smiling. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Let them pay if they want to,’ Greg said, swallowing a custard cream in one. Steffie frowned at him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘I’m starving!’
She gazed around the room. The coffee morning had not been well organised, since the étoiles were scattered around the room, sandwiched between visitors in suits and Phoenix pupils in branded weekend wear. It was impossible, without purposefully going over to introduce oneself, to have a conversation with any of the other parents.
Most disappointing. And to think they had rushed here for this.
Still, Jemima was unfazed, as usual. She was drinking orange squash, kicking her legs backwards and forwards underneath the table, nibbling a jammy dodger, humming quietly to herself like any other normal child – albeit one that liked to hum Prokofiev.
Noella was unusually quiet, had been quiet the entire journey. She was sipping her tea, reading a dance magazine that had been lying on the table.
Steffie wondered what the other parents would think, looking over here at them – at a man in a donkey jacket scoffing biscuits, at Jemima in her scruffy sweater, at the widow-like woman in black accompanying them; and at Steffie, glowing in lambswool.
Jemima had insisted on wearing her favourite grey sweater with an ice-skater appliqué that had been washed so many times it was beginning to peel and fade. Steffie would have chosen something smarter for her, but Jemima wanted to wear familiar clothes and in hindsight she was probably right. Not like Steffie in her new itchy sweater and expensive Toffee Soufflé nail polish – items intended to make her feel better about being here amongst the elite, and about Olivia.
She glanced at Greg. They wouldn’t speak of Olivia again, she sensed.
Steffie was doing her best to forget her, but it was hard not to keep picturing her face, even though Jemima had told her over macaroni cheese during the week that she thought Steffie was just as pretty, if not more so, than Daddy’s new girlfriend.
A familiar voice stopped her flow of thoughts and she turned to look at the man seated two tables away. She recognised him and his family – the white-blond boy with the gelled-up hair who had winked at her, the father speaking Japanese. The father was on his phone again now. The mother, arms folded, looked to be at saturation point, presumably with the incessant phone calls.
The boy was called Zach, Steffie recalled. She unfolded the paperwork in her hand and found the audition schedule.
‘That must be Zachary Williams,’ she said.
Jemima looked up. ‘Who?’
Steffie nodded subtly in the Williamses’ direction. ‘Over there.’
Jemima gazed over at the family, slurping her squash through the straw. The boy was sitting with his legs splayed, his arms behind the chair. Everything about him screamed spoilt, but there was something likeable about him, Steffie thought. Perhaps it was the fact that he didn’t appear to take himself too seriously. He was wearing a T-shirt that said: Believe in your selfie.
‘Have the auditions started?’ Jemima said.
‘Yes,’ Steffie said, feeling her stomach dip nervously. ‘Beatrice Jones is in there at the moment.’
‘And then who?’ Jemima said, peering at the audition sheet.
‘Isobel Quinn.’ Steffie glanced at her watch. ‘She’ll be warming up by now.’
‘No, she’s not,’ Jemima said. ‘She’s over there, look … She was the one warming up next to me last time. Remember?’ She pointed at the family furthest from them, nearest the door. ‘Can I go and say hello?’
‘Well …’ said Steffie doubtfully. For despite the fact that Steffie had wanted this to be a friend-making opportunity, she didn’t want Jemima breaking with protocol and barging in on people.
But Jemima was scraping back her chair, pulling a paper bag from her sweater pocket. She was going to offer the girl a gobstopper.
‘Mims …’ Steffie said.
‘Let her go,’ said Greg.
Steffie watched as Jemima made her way between the chairs in her denim shorts and polka-dot leggings. She couldn’t hear what the Quinns were saying to her. The mother, whose demeanour was tired, guarded, was smiling tightly, glancing over at Steffie. The mother kept biting her nails. The father, wearing a smart blazer, was playing with his phone.
‘He’s a doctor,’ Greg said to Steffie. ‘Someone high up, I reckon.’
‘Oh,’ said Steffie, watching the family. The other three children were sitting rather robotically at the table, reading Kindles. Isobel was smiling shyly at Jemima, shaking her head.
And then Jemima was returning. She sat back down, resumed slurping her squash.
‘Didn’t she want a sweet?’ Steffie said.
‘Nah,’ said Jemima.
The Quinns were rising now in a sudden flurry of movement. It was evidently warm-up time for them. Isobel was smoothing her ponytail flat, her silver jacket shimmering under the lights. Her family looked grim with intention, all six of them.
Steffie’s tummy lurched again. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take – the agonising and then there was one factor. She regretted coming here so early.
And then someone spoke right by her ear, causing her to jump.
‘Howdy doodle day!’
It was Zach. He stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning at Jemima.
The father had finished his phone conversation and was approaching them with an apologetic expression.
‘How’s it hanging?’ Zach asked Jemima.
Jemima blushed, smiled. ‘It’s hanging well,’ she said. And then her eyes clouded as though she weren’t sure whether that was the right answer, what it was exactly that she had been asked.
The father drew level with them, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, Zach buddy,’ he said, ‘don’t go troubling these good people.’ He extended his hand in greeting to Greg and Steffie. ‘Ted Williams,’ he said. Then he glanced around the room and leant in closer towards them. ‘Right old hornets’ nest here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Steffie said uncertainly.
‘Course, these things are always uptight as hell,’ he continued.
‘Oh, right?’ said Greg.
‘Full of nutters and psychos who would kill to get a place.’ He narrowed his eyes at them as he spoke, as though suddenly wondering which category they fell into. ‘I always say to Z, do your best, buddy. And if you don’t get in, I’ll sue their ass!’
Steffie smiled, wondered privately whether the man was quite sane himself.
‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ he said. ‘Come on, buddy.’ And then his phone rang and he turned away with a ‘Yuhello’.
Greg was gazing at Steffie, trying not to smile. She laughed quietly down her nose and picked up her tea again.
‘Come on,’ Zach said to Jemima, motioning for her to stand up. ‘Let’s go to the rec room.’
‘The where?’ Jemima asked.
‘Just down the corridor. It’s got loads of cool stuff in it. It’s a chillax place.’
Jemima stood up. ‘Mum? Dad?’ she said, looking at them in turn. ‘Can I?’
Steffie chewed her lip, looked at Greg.
‘OK. But you haven’t got long. I want you back here for ten o’clock sharp,’ Greg said, tapping his watch. ‘Got that?’
‘Yep,’ said Jemima. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Laters,’ said Zach, holding up his hand in farewell.
And the two of them left.
Noella lowered her magazine and looked at Steffie. ‘Is that wise?’ she asked.
‘Seems harmless enough,’ Steffie said with a shrug. ‘It might do her good. She’s not on for another three hours, after all.’
Noella nodded, picked up her magazine again. ‘As you wish,’ she said.
Steffie sipped her tea, gazed at the empty space where Jemima had been sitting.
And it was then that the Kirkpatricks arrived.
Steffie recognised them at once – the mother in her Downton Abbey hat, looking as officious as ever, Daisy trailing behind with her large eyes and her stringy hair and her sparkly beanie.
‘No, you can’t have anything to eat,’ Mrs Kirkpatrick was saying over her shoulder. ‘You don’t have enough time before the audition to digest.’
They stopped at the table nearest Steffie’s, Mrs Kirkpatrick dropping her handbag on the table with a thud. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Daisy,’ she said, in a hiss, ‘will you stop whining? Have you forgotten that we’re here for you today? You?’
Daisy didn’t look in a position to forget anything, looked as though she had never forgotten a thing – as though the chance would be a fine thing. Her brow appeared oppressed with information and instructions and dos and don’ts, to the point that her sparkly beanie was sagging like a too-hot pancake.
‘Now go network,’ said Mrs Kirkpatrick. ‘Scram!’ She flapped her hand at Daisy, who made her way towards Steffie’s table, before realising that there was no child there.
‘Oh,’ said Daisy, halting.
Steffie took pity on her. ‘They’ve gone to the rec room?’ she offered.
Daisy made her way towards the door. Steffie glanced at the mother, hoping she hadn’t incurred her wrath by interfering, but Mrs Kirkpatrick was rooting through her handbag for something.
Then she sat back in her chair, tilted her head back and squeezed something on her tongue. She caught Steffie watching her. ‘Bach’s Rescue Remedy,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Steffie, smiling knowingly.
Mrs Kirkpatrick smiled back. ‘It’s not easy, is it?’ she said.
‘No. It isn’t,’ said Steffie, warming to her.
After all, Steffie thought, everyone here was just trying to do the right thing by their child, wanted what was best for them.
‘Daisy doesn’t appreciate how much I do for her,’ Mrs Kirkpatrick went on. ‘She has no idea.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Steffie.
Mrs Kirkpatrick stared at Steffie then, her eye flitting up and down her as though assessing whether Steffie could possibly know what she meant.
‘My husband is in the Middle East this week,’ she said. ‘And my eldest son, Hector, has just announced that he’s spending the summer coaching soccer in the US. And to complicate matters, my daughter’s doing her grade-eight viola on Monday.’
Steffie tried to look interested, but had switched off at ‘Middle East’.
There was a crashing noise over by the door then, which made everyone turn to look. It was the first étoile back from her audition.
Steffie consulted her schedule: Beatrice Jones.
The mother, who had accidentally knocked a potted plant over with her large holdall, was bent picking up the plant, whilst the girl – a thin-faced child with pretty, ripply hair that was adorned with a mauve flower – looked mortified.
‘Sorry, everyone,’ the mother called out and then took Beatrice’s hand and led her to the counter.
Steffie watched them with fascination. She recognised her as the same mother that had arrived late to the auditorium talk the other week. She had a hypnotic effect then, and now, on Steffie, who found herself unable to look away. She had black hair that was as straight as a door, and sturdy thighs that rubbed together as she walked. She was wearing Lycra leggings and a hoody with TEAM BEA JONES emblazoned on the back. The child was wearing a matching mini-version of the sweater.
‘What would you like, sweetheart, hmm?’ the mother was saying. Her voice was extraordinarily loud.
Beatrice replied inaudibly.
‘How about one of those cupcakes, sweetheart, hmmm? One of the sprinkly ones with the flowers and hearts? Have you seen them? They look gorgeous. Are they freshly baked? They look freshly baked … Go on, treat yourself. You deserve it, hey?’ The mother bent down now to hug the child and plant a kiss on her lips. ‘Mwahh! So proud of you, hon. So proud!’
‘What the heck?’ said Greg, craning his neck to see.
Then another voice spoke behind Steffie and she turned to look.
‘Is this seat taken?’
It was a woman whom Steffie hadn’t seen before, but who was equally eye-grabbing. She was very tanned, wearing sparkly eye shadow that had escaped on to her cheeks. Her legs were slender in leggings and Uggs.
‘I … uh …’ Steffie was about to say no, that their daughter would be returning, but the mother was already pulling the chair away.
‘Ta,’ she said. Then she shouted, ‘Over here, Freddie.’ She waved at a sullen-looking boy with long hair who was dragging his hand along the café counter. ‘What, Savannah?’ She turned to the little girl by her side. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! You need the loo again? What’s wrong with you? … Pete?’ She looked about her. ‘Pete? Can you take her?’
Pete, a jaded-looking man with a portly build and a newspaper tucked rather optimistically underneath his arm, reached for the child. ‘Come on, Savannah,’ he said.
The mother was coming back towards Steffie now, hitching up her leggings, brandishing a leopard-skin purse.
‘Are you here for the étoiles?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ said Steffie. ‘Are—’
The mother scowled. ‘Not being funny, but it’s not very clear what we’re supposed to do, is it? I mean, are we supposed to—’
‘Mum, I wanna Orangina,’ said Freddie, joining them with a flick of his fringe.
‘OK,’ she said, turning away.
‘And that was that,’ said Greg.
Noella finished her tea and stood up noiselessly. Dancers could do that, Steffie noted – could move without sound, like insects.
‘I’m just popping to the shop, Steffie,’ Noella said. ‘Would you like to join me? There’s some lovely merchandise, so I’ve heard.’
‘No, thanks,’ Steffie said. ‘Have a good look for me, though. I’ll wait here for Jemima.’
She watched Noella walking away, back straight, heads turning to look at her as she moved. It wasn’t that she was attractive, exactly, Steffie thought, although she wasn’t unattractive either. It was just that she had that strange quality that many of the people here had: the ability to draw and hold the eye, like a plastic sucker pad on a shower door.
And yet … no one seemed the slightest bit interested in them – in the Lees of Wimborne.
Why was that? she wondered.
She sighed, glanced at her watch. Jemima had four minutes to get back here on time.