I knew Andrea ran her life on a ‘What’s in it for me?’ basis.
She pulled a face. ‘I don’t think Rod would go along with it. Patrick’s very generous to open his house to another child.’
It was all I could do not to blurt out that last week he’d sulked for a large part of Sunday morning because Victor had used up all the milk making some disgusting pea protein shake to build himself up for the rugby season.
I dug deep for my wifely loyalty. ‘He was very friendly with Victor’s mum as well. We all rented a flat together in our twenties.’
Andrea raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s still a big thing to do. We’re just not as liberal as you and Patrick.’
She articulated the word ‘liberal’ as though we were in the habit of naked orgies in a back garden hot tub or spent our evenings canvassing door-to-door for people to sign up to SussexSwingers.com. Andrea was the sort who confused a preference for a lentil salad with a political statement.
I resisted the urge to say, ‘I think by “liberal” you just mean kind.’ I had the sense of being wrong-footed, criticised for taking in a boy who’d lost his mother, as though I’d made a bold and controversial statement about how everyone should live their lives. Yet again it was a conundrum why I even cared what Andrea thought. At forty-eight, it was a disappointment to me that I still wanted people to like me, even the ones I couldn’t stand myself. Ginny had always teased me mercilessly about what she called my ‘smiling at people you’d like to spit on’.
She finished the conversation with her usual charade, the one that had been going on for the last five years since our daughters started at senior school. ‘Let me know when you’re free for coffee. Would be great to catch up.’
I nodded, in full-on TV, film or play mode. ‘Very busy at work at the moment, but as soon as it eases, I’ll let you know.’
I was just grumping off to my car when another mother, Jasmine, wandered up, a trail of little children behind her in a kaleidoscope of hand-knitted sweaters. I never knew which were hers and which were the offspring of her older kids, now in their twenties. But she never looked stressed, despite always having about six children in tow. Not even now, when at least three of the kids were going to be late for school.
As she chatted to me, breaking off every now and again to instruct a child not to poke a snail with a stick, I felt an overwhelming urge to cut the conversation short and take responsibility for her kids not getting a late mark. Eventually, she waved them off, ‘Have a gorgeous day!’ to an answering chorus of grunts and one twinkly little ‘See you later, love you!’
In the pre-rebellious-Phoebe era, I would have joined in with all the others twittering their disapproval over Jasmine’s refusal to conform, homing in on the easy targets of the way she dressed, her country accent, her free-range children. Her refusal to meet everyone’s expectations of a school mum at a high-performing grammar that prided itself on getting the vast majority of kids to university. But now, I wanted to grab her by her tie-dye scarf and say, ‘Well done you for never caring what people think.’
I saw my best friend, Faye, getting out of her Range Rover and had a surge of discomfort about chatting to Jasmine. I knew Faye would make fun of her – ‘She been sharing her pattern for knitting your own knickers?’ – and I didn’t want to join in.
I tried to tie up my talk with Jasmine. ‘Well, back to the grindstone now. Better get to work while I’ve got an empty house.’
‘Before you go, I just wanted to say how kind you are taking in your friend’s boy, Victor, isn’t it?’
‘Thank you. He’s a lovely lad.’
‘Phoebe’s great too. She really helped Kai with his French GCSE. He’s not the best at languages.’
‘She has her moments, thank you.’ I wanted to throw my arms around her and burst into grateful sobs that someone, somewhere in the school universe, didn’t just see me and Phoebe and think rubbish mother/problem child.
Jasmine smiled. She must have picked up on my uncertainty. ‘Remind me to tell you the scrapes my older two got into back in the day.’ She patted me on the arm. ‘I see a dodgy video and I