of the car, grab Thomas and take him home with me, where I can make sure no one harms or neglects him.
All the other children are coming out in groups, but Thomas is alone. He looks neutral – not happy or sad – and walks at a steady pace, neither quickly nor slowly. He seems unaware of his surroundings, and more focused on whatever’s happening inside his head.
The two young women that Not-Jeanette is chatting to look more like au pairs than mothers. That might be why they’re standing apart from the larger group of adults: the help in one cluster, the parents in another, no mixing.
Thomas eventually comes to a stop next to the glittery gold shoes. He doesn’t do or say anything to attract attention. He stands and waits. Fake Jeanette, if she has noticed his arrival, shows no sign of it. Eventually one of the other two women nudges her and nods to indicate that Thomas is there.
Even now, there’s no communication at all between the two of them. Pretend Jeanette hugs one of the women goodbye, then sets off walking towards the Range Rover, trailing her arm out behind her and waving her hand as if to say, ‘Come on, this way.’ Thomas follows her, but he hasn’t looked at her, not once, and nor has she looked at him. They haven’t spoken at all. It’s as if there’s no relationship between them, only indifference that goes both ways. The sole of Thomas’s damaged shoe continues to flop beneath his foot.
I duck down in my seat and cover my face with my hand, so as not to be seen as they pass me.
Not-Jeanette opens the back door of the car and Thomas climbs in. She closes it. Still, there has been no interaction or eye contact between them.
She’s going to drive away with him …
And now she has. And I did nothing.
Because there’s nothing you could have done.
Telling myself Thomas will be fine, I get out of the car and start to walk towards the school’s main entrance. Halfway there, I hear a voice calling my name.
I turn. At first I can’t see where it might have come from. Then I spot Lou, in the driver’s seat of a red Ford Fiesta. I didn’t see her leave the building; she must have come out while I was watching Thomas. She gestures towards me, and I see that the passenger door is open.
‘Get in,’ she mouths at me as I approach. She seems nervous; in a rush, as if we’ve just robbed a bank together and she’s driving the getaway car.
I obey the order. Another incentive to make sure we part on friendly terms – I’m going to need her to drop me back here later so that I can drive home.
Is it naive of me to trust her? What if she’s …
No. That’s paranoid. She’s a school receptionist. What’s she going to do – pull over and whip out a knife in broad daylight?
If someone wants me out of the way, presumably there are plenty of thugs for hire.
If Dom knew that I was even thinking in this way … ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘The Gallery,’ Lou says. ‘We can talk freely there.’
The Gallery turns out to be a crowded, homely café in Huntingdon, with square tables and a comforting smell of baked potatoes. Lou and I take the last available table. I tell her it’s my treat, whatever she wants to order, and thank her for being willing to talk to me, even though she’s the one who’s initiated the meeting.
‘How did you get my number?’ I ask her once we’ve got our cups of tea in front of us. ‘The mobile, I mean. When you asked for my details, I gave you the landline.’
‘You’ll think I’m a stalker.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘I tried the landline and no one answered, so I Googled you. I found your massage business website.’
With a photograph of me smiling, in my white work tunic, and both my phone numbers, mobile and landline, as well as my work email.
‘Sorry,’ says Lou unnecessarily.
‘Don’t be. You’re no more of a stalker than we all are these days. You could have saved yourself the bother, though, and spoken to me yesterday.’
‘I was too scared. I can’t believe I’m doing it now.’ She shakes her head, as if at her own recklessness. ‘I could lose my job if I’m caught discussing families who are at the school. And I really need my job.