The boys dressed as boys, the girls did too.
Life-size, walking, talking dolls to play with. Discard when bored.
How special you look as a boy, Annie.
Come closer, let Mummy see.
9
Saskia offers to drive me and Phoebe to school this morning, noticing that as well as my usual load, I have to carry a large portfolio case for art in which I’ll store my work for this term. Phoebe, dressed in sports gear, says no, plans to go for a jog before school with two of the other girls who live close by, reminds them she’s staying at Izzy’s overnight. Mike shouts to her when she’s putting her shoes on in the porch, make sure you eat something for breakfast. The front door opens, and slams. He tuts, smiling shortly afterwards.
‘I saw the note about losing your phone. Usually I’d say wait a few days to see if it turns up but I feel better knowing I can get hold of you if needs be. I’ll replace it this time, but please be more careful.’
I ask him to change the number, helps me feel secure. He says he understands, he’ll have it sorted by tonight. I eat a bowl of cereal while I wait for Saskia to get dressed and, when she’s ready, we head out to her car, a soft-top Mini. I load the portfolio case into the boot, just about fits. An area of London where style trumps practicality. Appearance matters. Air kisses, as knives are simultaneously slid into backs. Twisted.
‘Ready?’ she asks, climbing into the driving seat.
I nod, annoyed by the way she said ‘ready’ in an overly chirpy manner. Scratch the perfectly applied foundation on her skin, weakness lurks. A cardboard cut-out of a mother. She hits the accelerator too hard, the car jerks across the gravel with protest. I want to say, relax, I don’t bite. Well I do, but I won’t. She’s wary of me. Female intuition maybe. She can’t forget who I am, who I’ve come from. Belong to. When she thinks I’m distracted, and I won’t notice, I see her looking.
I notice.
‘This is nice,’ she says as we turn out of the drive.
‘Yes,’ I reply, looking for Morgan.
‘How’s school going?’
‘Busy, a lot to take in.’
‘Mike tells me you’re interested in art.’
‘I like drawing.’
‘I was always terrible at art, terrible at most things to be honest. Not like you, very smart I hear.’
‘I’m not really sure about the smart bit, but thanks. Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘What do you do during the day when Mike’s at work and we’re at school?’
‘Lots of different things, I suppose.’
‘Like what, if you don’t mind me asking?’
I turn to face her, she clears her throat, looks away. An involuntary response to being in the hot seat, with something to hide, secretly she’s glad the school run’s only a couple of minutes.
‘Bits and bobs really. Online shopping for the house.’
Yes, which the housekeeper puts away.
‘Sometimes I get together with the other mums to discuss school stuff and before you know it the day’s gone and the house is full of you guys again.’
‘You forgot yoga. You love it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right, silly of me to forget. I like it very much, do it most days.’
I wait a few seconds, then say, ‘And your teacher, you really like him.’
The creamy complexion of her face changes colour. Reddens. A tightening round her lips. She removes her left hand from the gear stick, flicks her nose a few times. Deceit. I’m not the only one withholding.
‘Yes, he’s excellent,’ she replies.
‘Was he over last night by any chance?’
She looks at me. I read her thought process easily. Surely not, she’s wondering. The house was empty, wasn’t it? She turns away before answering.
‘As a matter of fact, he was. I ordered a new mat and he decided to drop it in. He was passing by, I think.’
The pitch of her voice. Up a fraction. The car comes to a halt, traffic lights add pain. Hers. Pleasure, mine. Then guilt. I don’t know why I’m taunting her, why I’m enjoying it.
I tell Saskia that was nice of him, to deliver the mat. She nods, wary of what else is to come, but I stop there. I don’t tell her that before I closed the door to the basement last night, I heard noises. I don’t tell her I went down the steps to the gym and saw her being fucked on the floor by a man half her age. Slut. I don’t tell her because secrets, when handled carefully, can be useful.
‘This is about as close as I can get,’ she says and pulls the car into the kerb outside the newsagent across the road from school.
‘It’s fine, I’ll just grab my stuff from the boot.’
As I turn to open the car door, I see you on the front cover of a newspaper outside the shop. Saskia hurries me, says she’s holding up traffic. I climb out, shut the door, collect my portfolio case from the boot and, once I close it, Saskia toots her horn and drives off. I take as long as possible to load my things from the pavement into my arms, my eyes on you. Somebody behind me says, could you be any more in the way? I gather everything up and head for the zebra crossing. Tall orange lollipops, a stream of pupils in uniform.
I make my way to the common room, usually a place much like the ‘middle corridor’ I avoid, but a compulsory meeting for our year group’s school play, Lord of the Flies, is scheduled there first thing this morning. I open the door. Phoebe is the first person I see, already changed from her running gear into uniform. A handful of other girls lounge on the beanbags and sofas. Most of them don’t look up as I come in, heads bent over phones. Fingers tap. Scroll. Up. Down. The kidnapping of women and children in Nigeria is not what they read about. They obsess over the small things, the insignificant things. The celebrity break-ups. Make-ups. The babies. Divorce. Who cheated on who. She deserved it anyway, stupid cow. Comments thrown back and forth. Fingers pick up speed. Tap. Double tap. Tap again. Un-tap, because they change their minds. Fickle like that.
I leave my art case by the door and without thinking pick up a newspaper from the table closest to me and take a seat. My heart rate increases when I realize you’re on the front cover of this one too. Now is not the time to enjoy you, enjoy looking at you. I open the paper, doesn’t matter which page, can’t concentrate on the words anyway. A minute or so later Phoebe moves from her position on the window seat, walks towards me, grabs it from my hands. Shield. Armour. Gone. She has you, your face, in her right hand.