not start apportioning blame. All the way through school, we’d prided ourselves on not being those mums who complained if their children sat on the sporting sidelines or were overlooked for presenting an assembly. We’d derided the mothers who seemed oblivious to their time slot at parents’ evening, running over their allotted five minutes and delaying everyone else. We’d made a pact to be brave enough to turn up to school without going anywhere near a lipstick or mascara and agreed never to join a gym. But now, when it really counted, it was every mother for herself, shooing the shit away from her own daughter and not caring how much it stuck on mine.
Before I could articulate any of that in a way that wouldn’t make it sound as though I was trying to do exactly the same, Patrick appeared at the door of the pub, frogmarching Phoebe out. My shoulders dropped with relief.
Victor was a few paces behind, leaning down towards Georgia’s tiny frame. He touched her upper arm, gently, in a gesture of reassurance. She looked up at him, woozily, her face all soft, the light of the pub sign reflecting down onto her. I recognised that expression on her face, the one that meant everyone else around you was just white noise. Alongside any cocktail of chemicals she might have taken, there was the biggest drug of all: love. I hoped her mother hadn’t noticed.
Faye went flying out of the car and stormed over the road. I trotted behind her.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing? Get in the car now. You can explain to Dad what you were thinking.’
Georgia was braver than I’d expected in the face of Faye’s wrath. ‘We were just having a bit of fun.’ Then she doubled over giggling as though she was competing for a role as the Laughing Policeman in the music-hall variety performances my mother loved.
Faye was shouting, ‘Fun, that’s what you call this, is it?’ Her arm swept round the broken glass on the forecourt and a gang of girls with more underwear than clothing on display. She grabbed Georgia’s arm and we marched back towards the car before we picked up any more trouble. A slanging match with that lot would be like building barricades with blancmange.
Next to me, Patrick relaxed his grip on Phoebe, who I couldn’t even bring myself to speak to.
I was ashamed that I was enjoying the temporary reprieve from being the most embarrassing mother in the world as Faye peered into Georgia’s face, bellowing, ‘What have you been doing? Have you taken drugs?’
Georgia kept opening her mouth as though she was going to answer, then clamping it shut again and snorting helplessly.
Faye pushed Georgia into the car, who, between giggles, was screeching, ‘Bye, Pheebs! See you at rugby, Victor!’
Victor put his hand up but didn’t say anything. I let Patrick settle Phoebe into the car. Victor followed.
I walked over to Faye as she slid into the driver’s seat.
‘Talk to you tomorrow, yeah?’ I knew my face was searching hers, all needy and pathetic, looking for a glimmer of complicity, that we were working together, not ripping apart.
She leaned towards me and hissed, ‘She’s only been like this since Victor came to live with you.’
I tried to stay calm, but the injustice of her words made me tremble. ‘Victor wasn’t even out tonight. You can’t blame him for this. Blame Phoebe if you must, but it’s nothing to do with Victor.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Everyone knows he’s encouraging the girls to try drugs.’
‘Everyone? Like who?’
‘Everyone,’ she repeated. ‘All the mums are worried about what he’s supplying the kids with at school. Andrea’s worried sick about Helaina since she had that accident.’
I couldn’t get my brain to find the right words. The thought that all that little posse were stoking each other up with their stupid prejudices and converting them into facts trapped me into a rage that felt both white hot and paralysing, a fire just before the door opened and made everything explode.
I worked hard to keep my voice even, reasonable, unable to give up on the hope that one day we’d be laughing about ‘that time there was all that hoo-ha over a few spliffs’. ‘I know they’re your friends, Faye, but I think it’s a racist thing with Andrea and Rod. You heard what they said the night of the accident. They’ve gone, ooh, black kid from a single-parent family whose mother died equals out-of-control youth peddling