Each message from her is like a blow to the head from an unknown assailant, leaving me reeling and confused. Henry is oblivious, totally focussed on his sandwich, protected by the egocentricity of small children.
This is never going to end until I confront it. I don’t know what this person wants, but hiding here in my flat deleting messages is not going to solve anything. I stride into my bedroom and rifle through the wardrobe, discarding outfits: too work-y; too unflattering; too mumsy. I pack an overnight bag for Henry, and go online and book a room at the Travelodge on the outskirts of Sharne Bay. There’s no way I’ll get through this evening without drinking and the last train back to London from Norwich is way too early, something like ten o’clock.
There’s still a part of me that wonders if I’m going to back out. But a few hours later, I’m in the car, dressed in the boring but flattering black dress I always wear when in doubt, make-up carefully done, high heels in the passenger footwell next to me. With Henry strapped in the back, I can’t pretend any longer that I am not going to my school reunion. I can’t ignore the messages either, and a tremor runs through me at the thought of what, or who, might be waiting for me at Sharne Bay High School. Layered on top of that fear is a tight knot of tension at the thought of seeing Sam, of being in the same room as him at an occasion that’s not a necessary transaction, not a result of handing over our child. An occasion soaked in wine and nostalgia, emotions running high. I focus hard on the road, as if good driving will quieten the emotions that churn inside me.
At Polly’s, Henry hardly gives me a second glance, struggling out of my embrace to go and find Phoebe, who he knows will happily read him the clutch of Thomas books he has brought in his backpack.
‘Phoebe’s got to go out soon,’ Polly warns him. She turns to me. ‘She’s going to a sleepover. That little cow’s going to be there.’
‘What little – oh. Her.’
‘Yes. Her. Listen, thank you so much for speaking to Phoebe about all that. It really seems to have helped. She went to the cinema with a couple of the others yesterday, they had a really good time. I think it really helped her to speak to someone who’d experienced the same thing.’
I smile weakly, wishing to God I’d never cast myself in this role of bullied schoolgirl.
‘Now,’ Polly goes on, looking at me sternly. ‘Are you absolutely sure about this? Think of this as an intervention – an opportunity to change your mind. I’m not judging you or anything awful like that. I’m just worried about you. You’ve done so well to move on from Sam, you’ve been so strong. I don’t want you to get sucked back into… anything. You know what I mean. You could stay here. I have wine. You could watch Strictly with me and Maya.’
I am only tempted for a few seconds.
‘No, I’m going. Honestly, Polly, I’ll be fine. I’m not going because of Sam; I’ll probably barely speak to him. I see him all the time, I don’t need to go to a reunion to talk to him.’
‘Yes, but you don’t really speak, do you? You do all your communicating about Henry by text. Your only personal contact is passing Henry between you like a baton in a relay race. Which I think is a good thing, by the way. This is different: it’s a social occasion, you’ll be drunk, it’s very emotive, being back at the place where you first met.’
‘We didn’t get together when we were at school. We were twenty-six when we started going out.’
‘Yes, I know that, but you know what I mean. I was there when he left you, remember? I know what he’s like, what you went through. I don’t want you to end up back there.’
‘I know. Thanks Polly. But I’ll be fine, honestly.’
She reluctantly lets me go, extracting a meaningless promise from me that I’ll leave if anything happens or I start to feel upset. The roads are unexpectedly clear and the drive goes by in a dream. It seems as if hardly any time has passed until I am pulling up on the road outside the school. I had thought about parking at the Travelodge and getting a cab to the reunion, but I’ve decided to leave the car here. This way, if I decide to leave after one drink I can get straight in the car and drive back to Polly’s, and if I stay, I’ll get a taxi back here to my car in the morning.
I am unsure about parking in the car park so I find a space on the road. I pull down the visor to check my face one last time in the mirror. I can hardly meet my own eyes. I could still turn back. It’s not too late. I could go back to Polly’s and watch Strictly, or just hole up in my room at the Travelodge. I sit for a few minutes, phone in hand, Polly’s number up on the screen, thumb hovering. Two women I don’t recognise walk past the car, chatting, laughing, clearly keyed up. They turn into the school gate and one of them howls, ‘Oh my God!’, her friend giggling and shushing her. Who are they? And if I don’t even recognise them, what the hell am I doing here?
But then I see Sam, alone, walking easily and confidently into the grounds. My mouth feels dry and my tongue is taking up too much space in my mouth. For a minute I think I’m going to be sick, but it passes and the nausea is replaced by anger. Why should he get to waltz in there without a care, while I sit shivering and vacillating in a car that’s getting colder with every passing moment? This is just as much my past as it is his. I turn off my phone, get out of the car and march firmly towards the entrance.
I am surprised to recognise the teacher manning the door as Mr Jenkins. He doesn’t even look that old, and I suppose, although he seemed ancient at the time, he was probably only late twenties, making him early fifties now.
‘Ah, hello there!’ he says. ‘And you are…?’
‘Louise Williams,’ I say, my mouth dry with anticipation.
‘Ah yes,’ he says, clearly not remembering me in the slightest as he hands over my name badge. ‘Looking forward to seeing all the old faces?’ He smiles. ‘Some of them have hardly changed a bit!’