She shrugs. “Are we … poor?”
“No. We’re definitely not poor.”
“Then—?”
“Clem! Clemmy Clemmy Bo-Bemmy Banana Fanna Bo-Banna!” Allegra comes bounding up to Clem.
“Legs!” Clem squeals. “Allegra Egra Bo-Begra, Banana Fanna Bo-Banna.”
Contrary to what the name suggests, Legs is almost a full head shorter than Clem. Her hair is mousy and unremarkable, and her cheeks are chubby. But she has enormous hazel eyes and an earnestness that makes her impossible not to adore.
“First day,” Legs says. “I hope we can sit next to each other.”
“If you are sitting next to each other, make sure you listen to the teacher and don’t just talk the whole time,” Jazz says, appearing behind Legs.
I meet Jazz’s eye, and she bumps her shoulder against mine in a friendly-ish way. It’s not the best welcome I could have hoped for, but considering that most of the school moms I passed on the walk here completely blanked me, I’m grateful.
“How are you holding up?” Jazz asks dutifully. One thing to be said for Jazz is that she fulfills her duties. She came to Richard’s funeral but sat at the back. She left frozen meals from Houlihan’s (the overpriced, organic deli—the only place for which I make an exception to the “no frozen meals” policy) on my doorstep but didn’t come inside. She’d invited Clem for a playdate a couple of times but declined when I’d asked if Legs wanted to come to our place.
“Not bad,” I say. “Surviving.”
She appraises me discreetly from head to toe—my ponytail, ballet flats, and khakis—then gives me a strained smile. Unlike me, Jazz looks the part of a school mom with her highlighted hair, skinny jeans, and brown leather satchel, probably Prada or Ferragamo. Clem and Legs start toward the classroom, and we follow side by side. “How is it,” she asks, “working at the…?”
“Residential care facility?”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, that’s right.”
I shrug. “Well, today’s my first day, so…”
She smiles, and with that, conversation is exhausted. A few months ago, we’d have been tripping over our tongues to get a word in, then probably adjourning to the coffee shop afterwards to keep talking. Now, as we stare ahead at the children, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“My name’s not Clem,” I hear Clem whisper to Legs. “It’s Sophie-Anne.”
Legs accepts this readily. “Okay. And I’m Lucy.”
As we walk, Jazz’s eyes dart around, probably scanning the playground to see who else is here. Most moms gather in blond clusters looking inward, apart from one or two outliers, who stand alone by their cars. It’s funny to think that now I’m one of those outliers. Arguably the biggest one.
By the classroom door, I see the butter-blond head of Andrea Heathmont in the center of a knot of women. I’d recognize her back anywhere—her cream silk shirt, her wide bottom and low heels. The last time I saw Andrea, she was on my doorstep, hand-delivering a signed copy of the new Harry Walker cookbook. Now, as her head snaps around, her face is virtually unrecognizable. Her eyes are upturned crescents, her mouth a thin line. Her hands quiver as they are prone to do in the face of too much gossip and excitement. It’s hard to believe that only last summer Richard and Andrea’s husband, James, golfed together in the Hamptons.
“You must be Clementine’s mother. I’m Miss Weber.” A smiling woman in an orange apron steps into my line of sight. “I’m so sorry about your loss,” she says, lowering her voice.
“Thank you.” I tear my eyes away from Andrea and force a smile. “That’s very kind.”
“I’ll be keeping a special eye on Clementine, and if there’s anything you’d like to discuss at any time, please let me know.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“And you’re Allegra’s mother,” she says, moving on to Jazz. “I did some substitute teaching in the first grade last year, so I met both Clem and Legs. Conjoined twins, I called them. I think we’ll have a lot of fun this year.” She smiles over my shoulder to greet the next mother, pauses, then looks back at me. “Oh, Mrs. Bennett?”
“Please, call me Eve.”
“Eve. I believe you’ve recently moved. When you have a chance, could you fill out a change-of-address form for me and hand it in to the office? There are some forms in the green pocket on the door.”
“Yes,” I say. My voice echoes into the teeming hallway. “Yes, of course.”
Jazz and I stand for a few minutes while Clem and Legs run around. Andrea actively avoids my gaze, as do most of the other moms.
“Can Legs come over after school, Mom?” Clem asks, crashing into my legs.
“Not today, Legs,” Jazz says quickly.
“Awww,” the girls say in unison.
I was going to say no, anyway, but the swiftness of Jazz’s decline is a punch to the stomach.
Across the room, Andrea whispers something to Romy Fisher, and they both look over at me. I feel Jazz’s eyes.