Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy

by Faye Brann

  ‘See you later, love you!’ she said, and shut the door. She made her way down the road, striding purposefully towards Putney High Street in her wedge heels and making a deliberate effort not to look around her. The van on the corner was just a van on the corner. The girl on her phone was just a girl on her phone. No one was watching her. Chris hadn’t suspected anything was wrong. She’d reached a good decision and would stick to it. She felt guilt and relief wash over her and tried to ignore the tiny shudder of paranoia as a man in a suit walked past and caught her eye.

  *

  ‘So, William called Becky up and started offering her “advice” about how to manage the Christmas Fair,’ Kate said, taking a swig of her beer. She put her arm in the air to signal a passing barman and gestured to Vicky. ‘Want another one?’

  Vicky looked at the empty jug of sangria in front of her and nodded. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Careful, Vics, that sangria is stronger than it looks,’ Becky said.

  ‘I need it, having to listen to all this PTA talk,’ she replied. The girls all laughed, even though she was only half-joking. She took the last glug of her drink and all the ice fell onto her face.

  ‘That’s karma for being a snarky cow,’ Laura giggled. She turned to Becky. ‘So, what did you say to William?’

  ‘Well, I tried to be polite—’

  ‘Too polite,’ interrupted Kate. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t just tell him to piss off. I think, after all these years, you know what you’re doing.’

  Becky and Kate had both served on the PTA since their children first walked through the door. It was a full-time job for Becky, who’d been Vice-Chair for almost five years before she took the Chair at the start of that term. Kate, a consummate politician and master events organiser, had been a class rep for both her children twice already. Vicky still couldn’t quite believe they put up with William all that time – or how much work they put in, and yet they never, ever, asked for anything back, not even thanks.

  ‘He is such a prick,’ Vicky said, pouring herself a drink from the newly arrived jug of sangria. ‘He always has been. I wouldn’t mind, it’s not exactly rocket science, is it?’ She looked at her friends and realised she’d just massively insulted them. ‘What I mean is, it’s not like you aren’t absolutely capable of doing the job.’

  ‘We could still do with more help though. What about it, Vics?’ Becky challenged. ‘It’s not rocket science, just like you said.’

  Vicky took a long sip of her sangria. She wasn’t entirely sure she should have ordered another jug. Things were going a bit blurry.

  ‘To be honest, I had been thinking about going back to work,’ she said. She wished she could be really honest about it. It would be such a relief to tell someone about what had happened and ask their advice. But then she’d have to kill them. She sniggered.

  ‘Assuming you aren’t actually laughing at the idea of getting a job, it’s not the worst idea in the world,’ Laura said. She’d escaped the PTA altogether when her daughter moved on to secondary school and she had since returned to work as a receptionist at the local dentist. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t say I’ve hit the big time quite yet – I’m earning about the same as a teenager in Pizza Hut. But at least it keeps Steve from moaning at me about what the hell I do all day. And, you know, the kids see that their mum works too: feminism and all that.’

  Working as an underpaid skivvy clearing up magazines to the heady stench of antiseptic and the sound of children screaming in pain didn’t feel like feminism to Vicky. But it was probably a bit closer to what Gloria Steinem had in mind than the PTA.

  ‘Yeah, but with three kids and no family nearby?’ Kate said. ‘It doesn’t make financial sense, Vicky, not while James is still little. You’ll spend more money on childcare than you earn.’

  ‘It’s not about the money, though,’ Laura said.

  ‘Of course it’s about the money,’ Kate said. ‘Why would you go back to work otherwise? It’s not like any of us are rolling in it. We can’t all be Matisse Kozlovsky.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Vicky chuckled. ‘She’s living proof money can’t buy you happiness. Although I’d quite like her boobs.’

  ‘I’m sure she could tell you where she got them,’ Kate cupped her chest and they all laughed.

  ‘Well I know for me, having a job is about the satisfaction of doing something for myself,’ Laura persisted.

  ‘Are you saying the PTA isn’t that?’ Becky’s shoulders tensed.

  ‘No,’ Laura replied, ‘Not at all. I just prefer doing something that’s just for me – without the kids involved.’

  ‘Easier said than done when you keep on having them,’ Kate grinned in Vicky’s direction.

  Vicky acknowledged the joke with a rueful smile of her own. ‘If I’m honest, I’m with Laura here: it would be nice to go back to work,’ she said, her voice a touch wistful. ‘But you’re right, Kate, it doesn’t make sense, logistically or financially. And I mean, I’d hardly win Employee of the Year right now. I’d be useless. I’m so out of practice and I’d be worried about the kids all the time.’ She tried to imagine herself defusing a bomb without crying and failed miserably.

  ‘Didn’t you used to be an art dealer?’ Laura looked confused.

  Vicky stared into her glass. ‘Appraiser.’

  ‘Well it’s not like the technology has moved on, or it’s too physically demanding to do in your forties. I would have thought it was the ideal job to go back to.’

  Vicky couldn’t argue with that logic. Laura might have a different view of things if she knew the truth. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to go back to my old job,’ she glossed. ‘It was pretty full-on, I’d be at the beck and call of clients all the time and go from wanting time away from the kids to never seeing them.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘I just want to do something, I suppose.’

  ‘Well then, join the PTA!’ Kate and Becky cried triumphantly. Everyone laughed, and Vicky felt herself weaken. Really, what was the harm? William wasn’t there anymore to make her think murderous thoughts. The kids were all out of the house. And she’d just thrown a job offer from JOPS into the recycling.

  ‘Alright. Fine – I’ll do it.’

  ‘Yay, that’s great! Our girl is on the PTA. I say cheers to that.’ Kate raised her glass.

  ‘Cheers!’ Vicky drained her drink again before getting up from the chair in the style of a zero-gravity astronaut. The room was beginning to spin, and her words were slurring.

  ‘Actually, ladies, I think I might have to call it a night. Becky was right, those sangrias are pretty strong.’

  ‘Nooooo!’ they chorused.

  Don’t be a wet blanket!’ Laura shouted.

  ‘We’ll all go. We can share a taxi.’ Kate made a half-hearted attempt at waving down a waiter to get the bill.

  ‘No, it’s okay – you girls stay and finish your drinks. I could do with the fresh air.’

  She left them at the bar and lurched up the high street, wobbling on her wedges and wishing she’d worn flats after all. Halfway home, the sangria hit her with its full force and she threw up in the bushes. She made it back to the house and sat for a few minutes on the sofa, the room spinning. What a day. She’d walked away from her career at JOPS for the second time in her life and had instead signed up to something so easy and safe it made sitting on the sofa look like it needed a risk assessment. But it was a good thing, wasn’t it? The past should stay in the past; she wasn’t that person anymore.

  So why did she feel so full of regret? Could she honestly say she didn’t want to go back and prove herself, to fix what she broke? Not that anything she did could ever get Adam back. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her again and she closed her eyes and tried to wish herself unconscious. Maybe the easy option was all she should be okay with. She had other priorities now, other people to think about. For God’s sake, she was a forty-six-year-old mother of three who couldn’t keep a jug of sangria down, not James bloody Bond.

  Vicky woke to t
he sounds of the bin men crashing and banging outside the window. She sat up slowly from the sofa, head pounding, and gulped the fresh water sitting across from her on the coffee table. Upstairs, she could hear Chris in the shower – he’d obviously been down and found her. She winced, half in pain, half in shame, and hobbled into the kitchen to make a cup of tea for both of them. Her hands were shaking, and she felt distinctly queasy at the sight of a dirty pan soaking in the sink.

  Not sure if she’d be able to keep down a bit of toast, she decided it was probably a good idea to try anyway. She popped a slice of bread into the toaster and looked at the clock. Shit. She’d never get James and Evie dropped off in time. Chris would have to take Evie this morning, and she’d walk James to nursery.

  Ollie appeared at that moment, bleary-eyed, dressed for school and with his rucksack slung over one shoulder.

  ‘Morning, Ollie,’ she croaked, thankful her teenage son wouldn’t notice the state she was in, or care.

  ‘See you later, Mum,’ came the reply. He disappeared again, clutching two breakfast bars and a banana. She shuddered as the front door slammed and on cue heard James calling out for her. She cleared her throat and tried speaking again.

  ‘Coming, sweetheart. Just a minute.’

  She pulled the teabags out of the mugs and grabbed one to take with her. As she started up the stairs her husband appeared at the top, wrapped in a towel, the smell of soap and deodorant and aftershave wafting towards her and making her feel fifty times as unclean as she already did.

  ‘Big night?’ He grinned.

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘How were the girls?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘although I was the first one to leave. God knows what state they were in—’ She groaned. ‘Oh God. I said I’d do the PTA …’

  Chris’s grin got even wider. ‘Well, I think that’s great,’ he said. ‘Especially now that tosser, Will, is out of the way.’ He took a breath as she wafted past him and whistled. ‘Will PTA meetings involve quite as much alcohol each time?’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Just don’t breathe on anyone. Seriously, though, I think it’s great that you’re doing something again now James is at nursery.’

  ‘Well, the PTA is a good place to start, but, to be honest, I’d quite like to go back to work.’

  ‘Would you?’ Chris looked surprised. ‘I mean, you’ve always said you were happy at home.’

  ‘I think we’d both agree that sometimes it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  On cue, James appeared from his room with pen all over his hands and face.

  ‘Mummy, I did a picture,’ he said, holding up a blackened piece of paper with several holes worn through.

  ‘That’s beautiful, sweetie,’ she said, and looked at Chris. ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘Fair point.’ Chris chuckled.

  She guided James to the bathroom to minimise the pen stains. Her head was pounding. ‘I guess I’d better attempt to get ready and get James to nursery. Will you do Evie?’

  ‘Sure,’ Chris said. ‘Can you pick up that parcel from the Post Office for me today though? I think it was something I ordered for Ollie, but it would save me the trip on Saturday morning.’

  ‘I’ll do it after I’ve been to the supermarket.’ What a fun morning she had stretching ahead. Vicky took a sip of her tea and mentally prepared for the day. It was going to be a long one.

  Chapter Three

  She dropped James off at nursery, making excuses to avoid getting caught in conversation with the younger mums hanging out in the reception area. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them; they seemed nice enough, but her years of wanting to discuss toddlers and their various quirks were far behind her, and she always felt the odd one out. Plus, today in particular, their effervescence was making her feel quite ill.

  She walked down to the high street and grabbed a coffee and croissant to go from the hipster-ish place on the corner. A few of the mums from Evie’s class were in there and gave her a wave; she remained hopeful she didn’t look as bad as she felt, but didn’t make any moves to engage. The first rule of the middle-aged hangover, obviously, was that you were guaranteed to run into as many people as possible who you knew while suffering from it.

  A message came in from Becky reminding her about the first PTA meeting. Vicky sighed. From spook to school mum. How had her life drifted so far off course? She stuffed the croissant in her mouth and half-heartedly beat the crumbs from her chest. There was no objective, that was the problem. There was just stuff to get done before the kids got home from school, and dinner to cook, and homework to help with and laundry and it was one relentless journey from a fixed point – childbirth – to nowhere. She gulped at her coffee. Maybe the objective was simple: to raise your kids well and be happy. But it seemed too big, too broad. She still needed to find validation beyond that.

  It was unlikely she’d find it at Sainsbury’s, but she still had to go. Resigned to her lot, she decided to skip the shower for now and get her chores over and done with. She drove straight to the supermarket and managed to find a space mercifully close to the entrance. It was unusually quiet in the car park. She was glad; it meant fewer people to negotiate. Her headache was slowly dissipating, though, and there was the faint glimmer of hope that the remainder of her morning would pass without incident and that the sights and smells of the fish counter wouldn’t make her too nauseous.

  Twice on her way round the aisles she felt queasy, this time with the prickle of presence rather than alcohol. A young woman dressed in innocuous grey athleisurewear walked by. It was the third time she had been in Vicky’s proximity. Was she following her? Vicky did a few double-backs for fish fingers and tinned tomatoes, but then saw the woman was at the checkout bagging her goods and decided she was being paranoid. In any case, if the woman was following her, she was having the most impossibly boring morning.

  At the Post Office collection point there was the usual assortment of people in the line, all looking as if the happiness had been sucked out of them on the way through the door. Vicky joined the queue and waited for her turn. What was it about the Post Office, in particular, that made people who were probably perfectly normal and nice in real life, so utterly miserable? Even the man working at the desk wore the contemptuous scowl of someone heinously wronged. A glance at his co-worker in the back told the same story.

  She reached the front of the queue. Her headache was coming back, and she needed the loo. She gave a weak smile to the man behind the desk.

  ‘Got your ID?’

  ‘Yes, good morning, here you go.’

  He raised his eyebrow at Vicky’s driving licence – it was a nine-year-old photo and definitely time for a new one. ‘Got the delivery card?’

  ‘Here it is – oh, there’s two.’ She could have sworn Chris only gave her one earlier. The Post Office worker turned without another word and disappeared into the parcel room. She waited, watching herself on the TV behind the counter. The security camera pointed down at an angle that made her realise she really needed to get her roots done.

  The man came back and pushed a package and an envelope, wrapped in elastic bands, across the counter.

  ‘Sign here please.’

  Vicky looked at the envelope. It was addressed to her. So she wasn’t just imagining it. The woman in the supermarket must have planted the delivery card in her bag.

  ‘Oh, no, there’s some mistake: this isn’t for me.’ Vicky didn’t want any part in this. She pushed the envelope back towards the man, who looked at it, and at the cards that she had given him, and at her driving licence.

  ‘You are Victoria Turnbull?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then it’s yours. Sign please.’

  He turned away with the receipt and left her standing there, alone and yet not alone, as the camera recorded her movements, watched her pick up the bundle, and walk slowly away. Back in the car she removed the elastic bands. The top parcel was for Ch
ris. The second item, an envelope, had her name and address printed, but no other markings. She tried to keep her breathing steady. Another message could mean only one thing: her boss was ignoring her ignoring him, and if she wanted him to stop, she was going to have to find out what he wanted.

  She checked out of the windows for any sign of movement, then eased her finger under the opening of the envelope and pulled out the paperwork. Her final JOPS report spilt out; the one that had gone so wrong. A bunch of photos were clipped to the top right-hand side and she flicked through them. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw a photo of Anatoli Ivanov: Russian art dealer, her asset, and her ex-lover.

  She looked more closely at the photo, taken, at a guess, around the time they first met. His blond hair was freshly cut, fringe left slightly long; the sides sheared to the shape of his face, accentuating his chiselled cheekbones and grey-blue eyes.

  She felt a kind of detached affection, mixed with mild curiosity, followed quickly by exasperation. First they break into her house, now they send her photos of ex-boyfriends. Anyone with a basic understanding of the human psychology – and anyone with a basic understanding of Vicky – would know it wasn’t the way to win her over. She’d spent a long time coming to terms with everything she’d done; the lies she’d told and the secrets she had kept – was still keeping – from the people she loved. And now, fourteen years later, JOPS decide to open up Pandora’s box and let the ghosts out.

  Seeing Anatoli’s photo again after all this time was strange, though … despite herself, Vicky flicked through the report. The words sounded odd to her now, the formal language depersonalising the situation, boiling things down to operational error. She shook her head, remembering it all like it was yesterday. It was all very personal at the time.