On the train home, she spotted Carol’s Simon getting on further down the carriage. Normally she’d have lowered her eyes to her Kindle, certain in the knowledge that everything they had to say to one another could be covered on the short walk between the station and their road, but she had hatched a plan and was bursting to tell someone, so she called out his name.
“Oh, hello, Sara.” He started to thread his way through the carriage towards her. She could tell from the look of portentousness on his face that he had some news of his own to impart. “I expect you’ve heard…” Sara prepared herself for the death of a pet, or a recurrence of Carol’s sister’s ME.
“What?”
“Cranmer Road got a stinking OFSTED report. One step away from special measures.”
“Shit!” Sara remembered her words to Gavin, as he’d urged a reluctant Arlo over the threshold on the first day of term: “Don’t worry, it’s a really lovely school. You won’t regret it.”
“Carol must be doing her nut.”
“Oh, I think she’s secretly quite pleased,” said Simon, “she’s been looking for an excuse to go private for ages.”
Sara stretched her lips into a smile.
“It was the numeracy that did it, apparently,” Simon added, “that and inadequate special needs provision.”
“Inadequate special needs? That’s a travesty,” spluttered Sara. “They bend over backwards at that school…”
Simon raised a didactic finger. “Ah but special needs includes GAT, you see.”
“GAT,” repeated Sara dumbly.
“Gifted and Talented,” said Simon, patiently.
Of course. The middle classes were in revolt because they thought the Head was squandering resources on the thickies instead of hot-housing their little geniuses.
“Ridiculous,” she said.
“Well, I’m not so sure…” Simon demurred. Then, sensing an ideological rift opening up, asked quickly, “How’s work?”
“Oh, you know, alright.”
Suddenly, Simon was the last person with whom she wanted to share her burgeoning literary ambitions. She could just imagine the smirk on his face as he relayed the news to Carol that she’d given up work to write a novel.
She expected better of Neil though.
“I’m not saying, don’t do it,” he said defensively over dinner, “I’m just querying the timing, is all.”
Sara tried not to wince at the Americanism. They seemed to be creeping into his vocabulary lately. She wasn’t sure if he had picked them up from watching back-to-back episodes of Breaking Bad, or from reading American business manuals, but, either way, they didn’t enhance his credibility as a literary adviser. He seemed to think she should do a course. As if creative writing was something that could be taught, like car maintenance or Spanish. And yet, the most irritating part of this suburban inclination of his to kowtow to “teachers”, was the fact that it piqued her own insecurity. She didn’t want some second-rate novelist picking over her work. She much preferred Lou’s bold exhortations to “just go with it”, to “trust the muse” and “tap into whatever’s down there.”
Now she found herself becoming tearful with frustration. She planted her fork in what remained of her quiche and tried not to let her voice quaver.
“I don’t think you realise what it’s like for me,” she said. “I’d like to see you spend eight hours a day writing consumer questionnaires.”
Neil looked up in dismay and Sara realised, with a mixture of satisfaction and shame, that the tears had clinched it for her, as they always did with Neil.
“No,” he said, apparently overcome with contrition, “you’re better than that. I totally agree. Go for it then. You’ll have six whole hours a day while they’re at school.”
Sara was about to point out that creativity wasn’t necessarily something you could turn on and off like a tap, but thought better of it.
“It certainly won’t hurt to be around more,” she said, “especially with the school on the slide.”
“What do you mean?” said Neil.
“They’ve had the thumbs-down from the inspectors,” said Sara, rolling her eyes, “so expect a mass exodus. Carol’s already looked at St Aidan’s, apparently.”
“We don’t have to copy Carol.”
“It’s not Carol I’m worried about,” said Sara, “it’s her influence on the others.”
“Carol is a bad influence on the other parents,” Neil affected a pedagogic tone.
“I wish you’d take this seriously. Carol wraps Celia round her little finger.”
“And I should care because…?”
“Celia’s Rhys’s mum, and Rhys is Caleb’s best friend.”
“I think you’re making a meal of it. Boys aren’t like girls. It’s easy come, easy go.”
But the damage was done. Sara could only look at Cranmer Road with a jaundiced eye now. As she and Lou sat in the school hall, the following week, waiting for the Harvest Festival to begin, her eyes roved critically around the display boards. BE KIND TO OTHER’S read one poster, its misplaced apostrophe less worrying than the conspicuous indifference of the Year Ones to its message. When the piano struck up the opening song, and the children joined in with their warbling falsettos, Lou dabbed a sentimental tear from her eye, but Sara felt like crying for a different reason. The “orchestra” consisted of three recorders and a tambourine; the harvest gifts, displayed on a tatty piece of blue sugar paper, were mostly dented cans of Heinz soups and dubious-looking biscuits from Lidl. This spoke eloquently to Sara of the disengagement of the middle-class parents. The only item of fresh produce was the pineapple she had donated herself. Most distressing of all was the palpable unease among the staff. Gone, were the wide smiles and big encouraging eyes. Gone was the sense of camaraderie and fun. To a man and woman, they wore the weary, defeated expressions of an army in retreat.
As they stood together afterwards, drinking instant coffee from polystyrene cups, Sara was astonished by Lou’s effusiveness.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” she said.
“Oh?” Sara dragged her gaze from the clusters of muttering, Boden-clad parents dotted around the room and forced herself to focus on Lou’s beaming face.
“I can see the kids just blossoming here,” she said, “there’s such a buzz. It makes me absolutely certain we’ve done the right thing moving back.”
“I’m glad,” said Sara. She felt vindicated, now, in her decision not to worry Lou and Gavin with the news of the bad OFSTED. She couldn’t imagine what kind of regime the kids had been subjected to in Spain – some draconian hangover from Franco’s time, perhaps – but if they thought Cranmer Road was a happy seedbed for their young, then who was Sara to disagree? Unfortunately, a dissenter was already heaving into view.
Celia Harris was a sweet woman without political nous or cynicism. She and Sara had bonded at the nursery gate and Caleb and Rhys had been close friends ever since. Celia was a Cranmer Road stalwart. She had overseen fundraisers and socials and accompanied every school trip that either of her bright, speccy children had ever been on. The news of the OFSTED report would, Sara knew, have hit Celia like a hammer blow. She loved the school, but she loved her children more. Like a football player who would lay down his life for his club until moved to a rival team, Celia’s allegiance, though fierce, was also fickle. And seeing her now, brow knitted, flat, conker-coloured boots squeaking over the parquet, Sara could tell that she was already on the transfer list.
“Sara, hi,” she said, grasping Sara by the elbow and leading her out of Lou’s earshot. All the time they were talking, Sara could see Lou over Celia’s shoulder, sipping her coffee and trying to conceal her curiosity.
“I was thinking,” Lou said, later, her hands at ten and two on the vast steering wheel of the Humber as she drove them all home, “Gavin should go in and do some art with the kids sometime. He’d get a real kick out of it.”
“Yeah,” said Sara, “definitely.”
It had been three weeks since Sara left work and four since she had entrusted her novella to Lou for some critical feedback. Her first day of freedom was spent billowing duvets and scouring mildew off the shower curtain. When Neil had asked her, on his return from work, how the book was going, she reminded him sharply that she was writing a novel, not a board paper. The next day, after rearranging her desk a number of times, experimenting with the height of her chair and opening and closing the window, she sat down purposefully in front of the computer to re-read Safekeeping.
She had finished the closing paragraph with a sigh of satisfaction. It wasn’t half bad, for a first draft. In fact, its competence was, in a way, its main problem. She knew that what she had written was only the skeleton of a larger, more ambitious work that she must flesh out and bring to life, but it was hard to see, from her very partial standpoint, where she should insert new material, and what, if anything, could go. She had heard the phrase “kill your darlings”, but there was barely a line in it that she wasn’t a little in love with, so that would mean dumping the lot. She really did need Lou’s feedback now, and, despite her reluctance to hassle her friend, whom she knew to be struggling with creative decisions of her own, she decided to take the bull by the horns.
She knocked and rang next door to no avail. However, the Humber was parked outside, and when she peered through the letterbox, she caught a distinct whiff of toast, so, finding the door unlocked, she decided to take her chance.
“Hi? Only me…” She pushed open the kitchen door. The room was empty. Four crumby plates stood on the table, one of which had a mashed cigarette stub on its rim. There was a heady perfume hanging in the air and an unfamiliar suede jacket slung over the back of one of the chairs. They had company. She was about to leave with even greater stealth than she had come, when she heard footsteps tripping lightly up the basement stairs.
“White, one sugar; black without…” Lou was muttering, like a mantra, under her breath. “Oh my God, Sara! You frightened the life out of me.”
“Sorry, you did say if there was no answer I should... Listen, you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it.”
“That’s okay, we were just having a coffee break. Why don’t you join us?”
There was a difference in Lou that Sara couldn’t put her finger on. Her appearance was as carelessly stylish as ever – hi-tops, threadbare jeans, a hip-length kimono over a skimpy vest – but it was less her appearance than her demeanour that had changed. She had a slightly self-conscious air, as though acting a part in one of her own films. Watching her, Sara could almost read the stage directions: Lou loads the coffee percolator and stands on tiptoe to reach the cups from the shelf. She is a sexy young woman in the prime of life.
“Actually Sara,” Lou handed her two cups of coffee to carry, “it’s good you popped round because I was going to ask you… I can’t see us finishing much before teatime here…”
“Would you like me to pick up the boys?”
“You read my mind!”
“No problem. You can tell the childminder to drop Zuley round too, if that helps.”
Lou flashed her a grateful smile. It didn’t seem to occur to her to explain what on earth was going on.
They descended into Gavin’s studio. The concertina doors had been pushed back and the white studio walls glowed copper pink in the autumn sunshine. Sitting on the wooden deck outside, smoking cigarettes and talking in low, business-like voices were Gavin and two people whom Sara identified, even before she had heard their accents, as foreign. The man’s glasses were thin and rectangular and his scarf was knotted in an arcane and distinctively European manner. The woman’s hair was cut in a razor-sharp bob, with a short, Plantagenet-style fringe. Her black-clad, raw-boned body was oriented towards Gavin like an Anglepoise lamp. On the floor around their feet was a heap of expensive-looking photographic equipment. Lou approached the threesome with a surprising air of diffidence.
“Dieter, white with sugar, and, Korinna... ooh, sorry, it’s hot and er…” (an afterthought, obviously) “…meet Sara, our gorgeous next-door neighbour.”
Sara felt deflated, hearing herself so described. She would revisit the phrase many times that day, trying to decide why. The “gorgeous” part was fine, if a little condescending, but why next-door neighbour? Why not friend? Best friend, even, given how much time they had spent in each other’s company lately; given that Sara had pretty much burned her bridges with Carol and Celia; given that, as far as she was concerned, “neighbour” didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Hi,” Dieter shook her hand. Korinna flicked her a cursory smile and then switched her attention back to Gavin, who, gratifyingly, made full eye contact with Sara, grinned and said, “Hello, you.”
“Dieter’s a journalist for Das Kunstmagazin,” whispered Lou, when the business talk had resumed and Korinna had finished her coffee and begun setting up a tripod. “He’s doing a spread on Gav to coincide with the Berlin show.” What Berlin show? Sara thought – she always felt as though she was running to keep up.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Lou, now might not be the best time, but I was wondering if you’d had a chance…?”
Lou was collecting her visitors’ cigarette stubs in her hand and hooking the empty coffee cups onto her forefinger.
“Sorry?” she said distractedly.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sara replied. “I’ll talk to you later when you pick the kids up.”
“Yes, do.” Lou smiled and crinkled her eyes affectionately.
“See you later then,” Sara said, to the company in general, but her exit went unnoticed amid the aggressive pop and flare of Korinna’s lightmeter.
That afternoon, with a lot of soul-searching and frequent recourse to the online thesaurus, Sara rewrote her opening paragraph four times. At 2.55, when the time came to leave for school, she made a couple of last-minute changes, and realised that she had inadvertently returned it to almost the exact form of words she had started with.
Teatime was stressful. Amid howls of protest, Sara had eventually chucked the boys off the Xbox and sent them into the garden with a football, so that Zuley could watch CBeebies in peace. They hadn’t been there long before she heard a groan and a burst of satirical applause that told her the ball had been kicked over the fence. To her surprise, despite the fact that it had gone over on Lou and Gavin’s side, the children traipsed back indoors in disconsolate mood and Caleb admitted, when pressed, that Lou had confiscated the ball because it had “damaged a camera or something.”
“Oh dear,” said Sara, wondering whether she should have taken a more active part in supervising the game – though how that would have been possible, when she was cooking spag bol for five, was another question. At any rate, her feelings of negligence were soon compounded, when she discovered Zuleika, winded and tearful in the hall, and learned that she had come a cropper playing “horsey down the stairs with the big boys.”
“Caleb?” she called reproachfully. “Patrick?”
By the time Neil got home, she had barricaded herself and Zuley in the kitchen and was reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the fifth time, whilst easing the monotony with a third glass of Pinot Grigio.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Oh, hi,” said Sara. “What do you mean?”
“You do realise they’re rollerblading on the landing?”
She would wait in vain for Lou to retrieve the children, Sara now realised. The expectation must have been that she would return them after tea, but somehow, what with the highly exclusive nature of the photography session and the ambiguity around the damaged camera, she hadn’t quite liked to.
Now, though, leaving Neil to restore order in the wrecked living room, she called up the stairs to Dash and Arlo that it was time to go, and hurried ahead with Zuley slung on her hip. She stepped between the lavender bushes that formed the boundary between the two front gardens and, seeing that the curtains were open and the living room inhabited, she knocked on the window and wav
ed. It seemed they neither heard nor saw her, however, and she stood there, smiling hopefully out of the darkness, a little perplexed and embarrassed to be witnessing, with Zuley, the strange scene within. Korinna was sitting barefoot at one end of the sofa, knees drawn up to her chin, gazing at Gavin, who was perched at the other end, making a sketch of her. Dieter and Lou were slow dancing on the rug in front of the fire, as if it were gone midnight. Dieter looked the worse for wear and was nuzzling Lou’s neck, but Lou’s face was blank and emotionless. She might have been waiting for a bus.
“Looks like we’d better ring the bell,” Sara said briskly to Zuley.
By this time, Dash and Arlo had arrived and were already battering the front door with their lunch boxes.
“Lou!”
“Mu-um!”
“Hurry up. I need a piss!”
The door opened and they fell inside.
“Hello gorgeous!” said Gavin, and Sara coloured with pleasure, before realising that he was talking to Zuley. His daughter clambered into his arms, without a backward glance.
“Thanks a million,” he said to Sara, “you’ve been a life-saver. Come and have a drink?” He was smiling, but his eyes had a glazed look.
“Oh... no, better not. Neil just got home. Thanks though.”
She hovered by the open door.
“Okay then,” said Gavin.
“Okay then.”
That night, Sara dreamed she was at one of Neil’s board meetings, which was being chaired by Korinna, in a Minotaur headdress. The last item on the agenda was Sara’s novel. She was supposed to read an extract from it, naked, from the top of the filing cabinet, but when she tried to speak the words, no sound came. She woke stressed and exhausted and, later, had only just shaken off the feeling of discombobulation, when she was wrong-footed again, by Lou’s substituting herself for Gavin on the school run.
“Oh!” she said.
“Sorry, you’ve got me today,” smiled Lou. “Gav’s gone to Berlin.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Sara awkwardly, “it’s always a treat to see you.” She bundled the boys out of the door and, when she had shut it behind her, was surprised to be given a spontaneous kiss on the cheek from Lou.
The People at Number 9 Page 6
