12.45 p.m. Ooh, Yahoo! story: ‘Biel Disappoints in Less-Than-Sexy Pantsuit.’ Pah! Are women now judged by the Distance-From-Sexiness of their pantsuits? V. relevant to Hedda updating. Vital to read.
1 p.m. In frenzy of indignation. I mean, honestly, the only role models women have these days are these . . . these RED CARPET GIRLS who just turn up at events wearing clothes that people have loaned to them, then have their photos taken, which appear in Grazia, then go home again to sleep until lunchtime and get some more free clothes. Not that Jessica Biel is a Red Carpet Girl. Is actress. But still.
1.15 p.m. Wish I was a Red Carpet Girl.
2.15 p.m. Maybe will go out and get Grazia magazine so as not to disappoint in less-than-sexy mother-from-Good Luck Charlie outfit. Not, of course, that mother in Good Luck Charlie is less than sexy.
3 p.m. Just back from newsagent’s with new Grazia magazine. Realize whole of my style is outdated and wrong and must wear skinny jeans, ballet pumps and shirt buttoned up to the collar, and blazer for school run plus enormous handbag and sunglasses in manner of celebrity at airport. Gaah! Is time to pick up Billy and Mabel.
5 p.m. Back home. Billy came out of school looking traumatized.
‘I came second bottom in the spelling test.’
‘What spelling test?’ I stared at him aghast as the other boys poured down the steps.
‘It was an epic fail,’ he said sadly. ‘Even Ethekiel Koutznestov got better than me.’
Terrible sense of failure. Whole homework thing is completely incomprehensible with random bits of paper, pictures of multi-armed Indian gods and half-coloured-in recipes for toast in different books.
Mr Pitlochry-Howard, Billy’s anxious, bespectacled form teacher, hurried up to us.
‘The spelling test is nothing to worry about,’ he said anxiously. Mr Wallaker wandered up to eavesdrop. ‘Billy’s a very bright boy, he just needs—’
‘He needs more organization at home,’ said Mr Wallaker.
‘But, you see, Mr Wallaker,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard, blushing slightly, ‘Billy has had a very difficult—’
‘Yes, I know what happened to Billy’s father,’ Mr Wallaker said quietly.
‘So we must make some allowances. It will be fine, Mrs Darcy. You are not to worry,’ said Mr Pitlochry-Howard. Then he pottered off, leaving me glowering at Mr Wallaker.
‘Billy needs discipline and structure,’ he said. ‘That’s what will help him.’
‘He does have discipline. And he gets enough of your sort of discipline on the sports field. And in the chess class.’
‘You call that discipline? Wait till he gets to boarding school.’
‘Boarding school?’ I said, thinking of how Mark had made me promise not to send them away like him. ‘He’s not going to boarding school.’
‘What’s wrong with boarding school? My boys are at boarding school. Pushes them to their limits, teaches them valour, courage—’
‘What about when things go wrong? What about someone to listen to them when they don’t win? What about fun, what about love and cuddles?’
‘Cuddles?’ he said incredulously. ‘Cuddles?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They’re children – they’re not productivity machines. They need to learn how to manage when things don’t go right.’
‘Get on top of the homework. More important than sitting in the hairdresser’s.’
‘I will have you know,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height, ‘that I am a professional woman and am writing an updating of Hedda Gabbler by Anton Chekhov, which is shortly to go into production with a movie company. Come along, Billy,’ I said, sweeping him off towards the school gates muttering, ‘Honestly. Mr Wallaker is so rude and bossy.’
‘But I like Mr Wallaker,’ said Billy, looking horrified.
‘Mrs Darcy?’
I turned, furious.
‘Hedda Gabbler, you said?’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly.
‘By Anton Chekhov?’
‘Yes.’