her detective skills on me. ‘Right, Mum, I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got lots of work to get in for this evening.’
‘To my mind, you work far too hard. Patrick’s a good man for not getting cross about the long hours you do.’
I put my head in my hands and bit back the ‘Patrick’s a lucky man that I work my arse off so he doesn’t have to carry the entire financial responsibility for the household. And I do all the washing and cooking!’
I said goodbye, wrestling with a feeling of being excluded. I couldn’t concentrate on my report. My mum had confirmed what I’d been trying to ignore. Over the last few days, Faye, who was always glued to her phone, had been slow to respond to my text messages asking how Jordan was. I couldn’t help wondering whether her curt replies, with just one kiss rather than the usual stack of over-the-top emojis, were because she was in a hurry or distracted or because she was in fact grumpy because of what Patrick had said to Lee.
When I’d mentioned that I thought they’d fallen out with us to Patrick, he’d dismissed the idea. ‘Faye maybe, but blokes don’t fall out over stuff like that. We say what we have to say then move on.’
I logged into Facebook to see if I could work out what was going on. Nothing on Faye’s page. I tried Rita’s, but her privacy settings meant I couldn’t see anything. Another click.
Like a blow to the stomach, on Andrea’s page was a group shot of about ten mums from school, wine glasses in the air. When I read the caption underneath, I just kept staring. ‘Happy fiftieth birthday, Rita. Well done everyone for not letting the surprise out of the bag – and great job organising, Faye!’
Underneath were comments from various people about what great fun it had been, including one from Faye, ‘Fab food and company! Let’s do it again soon, birthday or no birthday!’
I didn’t even know it was Rita’s birthday. Presumably they’d all had a whip round for a present but no one had asked me. I couldn’t help imagining them slyly slipping tenners to the holder of the kitty, being careful not to do it when I was around. I got up and made a cup of tea. It seemed so childish at forty-eight to mind being left out. But Faye was supposed to be my ally, the person who had my back. I would have always made sure she was invited if I’d been in charge. I had a sudden rush of regret at the way I reacted when Phoebe came crying in about so-and-so not inviting her to a sleepover, brushing it away with a ‘Well, you can’t invite everyone every time.’
I wondered how I could confront Faye, depressed in the knowledge that I might drop in that I knew they’d been out without me and let her get away with a ‘Oh yes, it was a last-minute thing and I knew you were really busy at work.’ And somehow I’d feel I was in the wrong. It was easier to suck it up and say nothing.
I couldn’t shake off the impression that there was a sizeable band of mums trying to distance themselves from me and my daughter, in case Phoebe contaminated their precious offspring with getting into trouble in class. Or maybe they didn’t approve of me taking in Victor and inflicting my inadequate parenting on another poor child. I didn’t want to believe that they had an issue with the fact that the school had engineered a place for him in an already over-subscribed sixth form.
I was just fiddling about trying to compose a text message that wouldn’t sound clingy and needy, shaking my head at the thought I even needed to second-guess how to suggest meeting up for a coffee, when my phone went. I had a little stab of fright that it was Faye, calling to tell me exactly why I hadn’t been invited. Then a much bigger stab of fright when the number of Phoebe’s school popped up.
It was Mrs Grosvenor, Phoebe’s head of year. ‘Mrs Clark? I’m ringing about Phoebe – don’t worry, she’s not hurt – but she’s been shoplifting in town with another student.’
My heart leapt with an equal burst of fear and fury. ‘What? Where was she?’
‘A security guard caught her pocketing some make-up in Teen Dream.’
Unlike me with my one eyeliner and one lipstick, Phoebe had