a white zigzag as well…what are the rules for motorbikes?”
“Huh?” The traffic warden peers at me.
“Also, what does ‘loading’ actually mean?” I add, blinking innocently. “Suppose I’m moving house and I’ve got six sofas to transport and some really big potted plants—I mean, they’re more like trees—what do I do?”
“Ah,” says the traffic warden. “Well, if you’re moving house, you may need a permit.”
I can see Steph hastening along the street, clicking in her businessy heels. She passes me, but I don’t flicker.
“A permit,” I echo, as though fascinated by every word he’s saying. “I see. A permit. And where would I apply for that?”
She’s reached her car. She’s bleeping it open. She’s safe.
“Or, actually, you know what?” I say, before the traffic warden can reply. “Maybe I’ll just look online.” I beam at him. “Thank you so much.”
I watch as Steph pulls out of the dodgy parking space, drives along a few meters, then draws up alongside me on a newly vacated spot, her engine running.
“Thanks,” she says out of her window, with a wry grin. She’s really thin, Steph, with dark hair and the kind of translucent skin that gives away when you’re exhausted. Which I’m guessing she is, from the shadows beneath her eyes. Also, her foundation needs blending at the jawline, but I don’t like to say so.
“No problem,” I say. “Anytime.”
“Mornings are a nightmare.” She shakes her head. “And it doesn’t help with half the mums turning up with the bloody London Symphony Orchestra. I know Suze Cleath-Stuart is your friend, but a euphonium?”
I can’t help laughing—then immediately feel disloyal to Suze.
“You know what ‘instrument’ I made with Harvey?” Steph continues. “A margarine tub and a wooden spoon to hit it.”
“We filled a jar with beans,” I volunteer. “I didn’t even paint it.” I meet her eyes and we both smile—then, to my dismay, Steph’s eyes fill with tears.
“Steph!” I exclaim in horror. “It’s only art and craft. It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not that. It’s…” She hesitates, and I can see the distress pushing at her face, as though it wants to burst out. “Harvey doesn’t know, OK?” she continues in a low, trembling voice, her eyes flitting around. “But Damian’s left us. Three days ago. Walked out, no warning. Harvey thinks he’s gone on holiday.”
“No.” I stare at her, aghast. I don’t really know Steph’s husband, but I’ve seen him with Harvey a couple of times, so I can picture him. He’s older than Steph—a paunchy guy with close-set eyes and a gray beard.
“Yes. Sorry,” she adds. “Didn’t mean to land that on you. Not what you expect on the school run.”
“It’s not…You didn’t…” I flounder desperately. “Do you want to talk? Go for coffee? Is there anything I can do to help?” But Steph’s shaking her head.
“I’ve got to go. Big meeting. And you already did help, Becky. Thanks again.” She gives me a wan smile, then puts her car into gear.
“Wait,” I say, before I can stop myself. I grab a tissue from my bag, lean into the car, and blend her foundation. “Sorry,” I add. “I just had to.”
“No. Thanks.” She shoots a wry look at her reflection in the mirror. “Makeup’s not top of my agenda right now.” She hesitates, then adds, “Could you keep it to yourself? About Damian, I mean. You know what school gossip’s like….”
“Of course,” I say fervently. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Thanks. See you, Becky.”
She drives away and I watch her, feeling as if I’d quite like to bash her husband’s head, hard. I think I’d do a pretty good job at it, and I even know what I’d use: my new Zara bag. It’s got really sharp corners.
* * *
—
As I arrive at work, I’m longing to share Steph’s awful news with Suze, but I promised I wouldn’t. And, anyway, Suze isn’t here yet. So instead I quickly scroll through my emails, feeling a tad wary as I see the ones from Jess, headlined Christmas—a few more points.
I don’t know why I’m wary. Jess and I have exchanged some friendly emails and she’s already said she appreciated that we weren’t vegan and understood if we wanted to eat a turkey on Christmas Day. (Although on another level she didn’t understand it at all and never would.)
But it also became increasingly clear that she thinks tinsel is evil and glitter is monstrous and fairy lights are the work of the devil. How are we going to decorate the Christmas tree? And what about