Phoebe was like the little fish in the rock pools she used to love, darting away whenever you got near.
‘What boy? What school?’
‘I don’t know, someone’s friend. Or cousin.’
This discussion was making the debate over whether it was rude not to invite the whole class to a Build-a-bear party look like a piece of cake. At least then you knew every child by name and had their mum’s phone number on a list.
Phoebe stood with her hands on her hips. ‘You better not have said anything to Faye. What were you talking about with her?’
‘I was just asking about her weekend. And I had to tell her that Georgia had been sick, it was all over her clothes.’
‘You better not have mentioned the drugs!’
‘I didn’t because I didn’t really think it was my place. That’s a conversation Georgia needs to have with her own mum. We just talked generally about whether drugs are becoming a thing at parties now.’
Phoebe stared at me, her eyes hooded and disdainful.
How did other mothers do it? How did they have that relationship where their daughters just chatted about stuff, anything, in a normal backwards and forwards, you speak, I speak, we share our experiences way?
‘So are drugs a normal “thing” at parties now? You’re not doing drugs, are you?’ I gave a little laugh as though I didn’t believe for one moment she would be so stupid.
‘I’m not getting into this conversation because whatever I say, you won’t believe me. And you’ll tell Faye and if she does find out Georgia was smoking weed, she’ll immediately assume that’s because I got her into it and, oooh big surprise, the blame will all fall on me.’
I registered that Phoebe hadn’t actually answered my question but I pressed on, because I probably wouldn’t get another shot at this topic. ‘That’s not what she said at all. In fact, she was more concerned about how easy it is for kids of your age to get hold of drugs and how dangerous they are.’
‘Oh my God. It’s not like everyone was shooting up under the stairs. Georgia was just showing off, trying to be cool. She probably had about two puffs of a joint before pulling a whitey.’
‘What’s a “whitey”?’
Phoebe grumbled under her breath. ‘Nothing. Just something that happens sometimes when you smoke weed.’
I’d have to google it later on. Right now, I needed to find out whether Victor was involved. ‘Did you see Victor smoking?’
Phoebe rolled her eyes. ‘No, nothing anywhere near as exciting as that. I did hear him discussing how he was struggling with the coursework for his psychology A-level though. Perhaps you’d better run that past the censors.’
‘So you don’t think it was his weed then?’ I half-closed an eye, waiting to see if I’d snuck in my main question and got away with it.
She turned towards me with a big sneer on her face and said, ‘Um, let me think about that for, oooh, a nanosecond. No, I don’t think it was Victor’s. Why would it be his? Let me guess. Because he’s black? You’re worse than Nan. You’re such a hypocrite. “It’s not what you look like, it’s who you are.” “We’re not a family who judges people on what we hear about them. We judge on what we see happening.” Unless of course your friend Faye happens to think that Victor is a crackhead and then you go along with that.’
I hissed at her to keep her voice down, then opened the fridge and pretended to be looking for the butter while I summoned up the necessary conviction to cover up the tiny doubt Faye had managed to spark in me. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s nothing to do with the colour of his skin. It’s just that he’s a bit older than you and might be more likely to come across drugs if he starts going to nightclubs and pubs. We both just want to keep you all safe.’
Phoebe had articulated the tiny misgiving shimmering away in the back of my mind, which I was ashamed I’d even allowed to creep through the cracks. I mulled it over, sifting through what Faye and I had said to each other. Nope. Nothing to suggest that Faye had discussed Victor for any other reason than that he was older and had more big-city know-how than our daughters with their sheltered little lives. Which was just as well, because