Chapter 2
School pick-up is a cruel beast. You know when you can just sense a bad vibe? Every time I come to pick-up I can feel a shift in the school mum clique. They seem wary of me and I don’t know what went wrong, or how to change it. I’ve wondered if it’s because I don’t fit their mould. I don’t wear the uniform of maxi dresses or athleisure, for a start. I turn up in suits. It’s not like anyone has been overtly rude, I just can’t seem to find myself an in. So I stand on the sidelines (literally by the school’s large recycling bins) overhearing snippets of their conversations about loft conversions and weekend plans while catching up on work emails.
I suspect that a lot of these friendships were shaped back when the children were at nursery, too, which doesn’t help. I didn’t send Lila to nursery or pre-school, taking a full year of maternity leave thanks to a hard-won pay-out from my old business. Then my parents and Poppy took her for two days a week and it was just enough time for me to sow the seeds of my new consultancy career here in Bristol. I snatched time to work through her naps and in the evenings to set myself up. It was tough but it meant that I got those precious early years with my daughter all to myself. Only now I’ve realised that Lila might be missing out – just how many birthday parties like Oscar’s has she not made the guest list for? Have I done Lila a disservice? She seems happy in her first year at school and from the way she talks, I’m pretty sure she’s made some little friends already, but now I can’t shift the feeling that I’ve somehow let the side down.
That we’re just not one of the pack.
Perhaps I should throw myself into school life as much as I throw myself into work and motherhood. It’s not like this has to be entrenched, I tell myself. After all Lila’s only had one full term of reception class so far, and spring term only started a couple weeks ago. I can shift this vibe! I’m a strong, successful woman and we are no longer in high school! I tuck a stray hair into my neat chignon and round my shoulders back.
Even though I’m on the reserve’s bench I’ve still figured out that Celeste – the ‘bonkers one with the big hair and the posh accent’ – leads the A team of parents for Lila’s class. She has already taken pole position by the school gates and a couple of other key parent players are joining her. I dither a bit but decide that I can’t stay in my hiding place by the bins forever. A reputation as Weird Bin Mum is the last thing I need.
I take a breath and step forward, right into the circle.
‘Hi, Celeste.’ I beam, fixing her with my most dazzling smile.
‘Hello.’ Celeste’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s got the kind of beachy waves that come from an expensive hairdresser, loose curls lapping the shoulders of her butter-soft oatmeal jumper.
‘How are you?’ I ask, but she’s no longer listening. I do, at least, still have my place within the circle.
‘Here he is!’ Celeste trills, clapping her hands together. The other parents and I turn to see who she’s talking about. A man in suit trousers, a shirt and tie walks towards us, palms up and arms spread wide.
‘Ladies, this is my husband Douglas,’ Celeste explains as the man proceeds to shake hands and tell each mum that it’s a pleasure to meet her. ‘I’m so happy you made it back from Westminster in time!’
Even I know that Celeste’s husband is an MP because she likes to brag about it loudly at every possible occasion. She’s beaming with pride as he works his way round the mums like he’s on a campaign, but I swear her smile turns slightly sour as he reaches me. Still, I am woefully pleased to get a handshake.
‘Douglas Battenberg,’ he says, smiling at me.
‘Like the cake?’ I point out before realising that this might not be the best way to impress the alphas.
Another mum, Frankie, splutters out a laugh before clapping a hand over her mouth.
‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not actually a fan of marzipan,’ he says affably.
With that, Celeste flings a possessive arm around his shoulders. ‘Douglas made a New Year’s resolution to make pick-up more often, didn’t you, darling? Work keeps you away from us far too much.’
‘It’s a pleasure to finally be here,’ he says with a well-practised smile. God, they make a good-looking couple. Light tans and clear skin and the kind of confidence that comes from wealth and a private education. ‘I’m very much looking forward to hearing what young Oscar has been up to today.’
Tally, another alpha mum, nods furiously at Douglas’s comment.
‘The children usually do PE on Wednesday so there’s bound to be some chat about that,’ she says. Tally is dressed in a head-to-toe luxe workout ensemble despite having driven here in a blacked-out Range Rover parked just around the corner and clearly having done no exercise.
‘I was a dab hand at lacrosse in my day.’ Douglas chuckles, but Celeste clears her throat and reminds him that lacrosse isn’t on the syllabus at St Barnaby’s.
‘Much better for the optics if the children are at a state school,’ she explains, so now I find myself battling a strange mix of emotions.
1. I’d quite like to bludgeon this woman.
2. Isn’t it a thrill to be included in the group? I feel positively giddy!
‘They did yoga last week,’ points out Tally. ‘Margot loved it. I think she might be a little yogi like her mama.’
From what I can gather, Tally’s a self-made success story. A mumfluencer with a whopping social media following who can often be found doing a piece-to-camera about her mum style, her recommendations for eye-wateringly expensive scented candles or her best advice for getting stains out of white clothes. Tally’s daughter Margot is one of those rare children who look pristine at all times.
Douglas Battenberg is still dominating the conversation when there’s a sudden and noticeable shift in the dynamic. A ripple of excitement weaving through the huddle. That I’m in. I’m in the huddle! I mean, no one has really spoken to me yet and they’re all sort of carrying on regardless rather than making an effort, but still. Baby steps. Invites to playdates for Lila may be just around the corner.
I watch Tally check her reflection on her phone, tweaking her ponytail until it’s just so. Satisfied, she peers over the top of her sunglasses, her rosebud lips slightly parted.
Celeste lets out a pretty laugh even though no one made a joke.
Frankie, the mum who giggled at my Battenberg quip, pulls at her T-shirt in dismay, causing the baby she’s carrying in a sling to whimper in protest. ‘I would not have worn this grubby sack of shit if I’d have known,’ she hisses. ‘Is it Thursday? Have I got my days mixed up again?’
‘What happens on Thursday?’ I ask.
‘Thirsty Thursday,’ whispers Frankie.
What’s Thirsty Thursday? Do they go for drinks without me? I weigh up whether to ask and risk being rejected to my face, or just stay quiet.
‘No, it’s Wednesday. Joe never does Wednesdays,’ another mum named Mel – an extremely competent-looking woman – says, her eyes trained on whatever is causing the commotion behind me.
‘But this T-shirt is moth-eaten for the love of—’
‘Finally, another chap!’ booms Douglas with a broad smile. I turn to follow his gaze.
A dad I vaguely recognise is walking towards the group. I think his son is Sidney but there have been so many new names and faces to get used to since school started that it’s all still a blur to me. This man isn’t a source of confusion for anyone else, however, as the rest of the mums now seem to be losing their minds over his appearance.
Dad arrives to pick up child! Alert the elders!
Clearly, however, my mockery is wrong and this is a big deal because every single one of the mums is staring, wide-eyed. There’s a sort of mass hysteria to their reaction, a carnal intensity that makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into a Magic Mike Live. I take a clinical look at Possibly Sidney’s Dad, who is very good-looking in a brooding sort of way. Tall and lean with a tangle of curly brown hair which he keeps pushing back off his forehead. Cute dress sense too, stylish without being over the top. It’s clear that this dad is a massive step up from the most of the other dads at pick-up, even perfectly groomed Douglas with his unflappable charm in the face of his own silly surname. This dad looks like a rock star collided with a lumberjack. Cool. Sexy. Good with his hands.
And doesn’t he know it!
I believe it takes three seconds to decide whether you like somebody or not. The fact that Possibly Sidney’s Dad appears to be lapping up this attention means my own judgement call takes even less. It’s an instant no from me.
I turn back to the other mums. One lets out an audible gasp on sight of him.
Celeste bites her lip.
Someone else gets out an actual fan, even though it’s a grey day in February.
The man steps into the group.
‘Afternoon, ladies,’ he says in an Irish drawl.
Ladies.So outdated! I can’t help but scoff. This catches his attention and he gives me a curious look. Ordinarily I’d brush this aside but I realise that now I’m in the huddle I need to be more mindful. Upset the apparent eye candy and I might find myself unceremoniously ejected from the group.
‘Hello, Joe,’ Celeste purrs, arm slipping slightly from around her husband’s shoulders.
‘Douglas Battenberg,’ announces Douglas, doing his meet and greet. ‘Great to see another fellow here. Not that I don’t support women of course. The pay gap is very high up on my agenda.’
Is this man ever not canvassing?
Joe, I now realise, has not taken his eyes off me as he says a rather curt hello to Douglas. Is he put out that I’m not fawning all over him as well?
‘Sophie, isn’t it?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I nod. It comes out a smidge more spiky than I’d anticipated and his eyebrows shoot skyward.
‘I’m Joe, Sidney’s dad,’ he says, and another mum makes a cooing sound at this. ‘Don’t think we’ve met? I usually only do Thursday pick-up.’
That explains Thirsty Thursdays. This bunch of perverts are thirsty for Joe! I assume Joe’s introducing himself in the hope that he can add me to his list of mum fans. Well, not today, pal!
‘Oh, you two haven’t met?’ Celeste butts in, resting one hand on my arm and the other on Joe’s. I swear he flinches briefly before that charming veneer settles back on his face. Meanwhile I’m so stunned by the physical contact from Mum No. 1 that I feel pinned to the spot. ‘Actually, Susie, I was thinking about you just last night.’
There’s an awkward pause before I realise that she’s talking to me.
‘It’s Sophie,’ I correct.
‘Douglas has been away for the past four nights,’ she explains, talking loudly enough so that everyone can hear. ‘Can you imagine? And it made me think of poor Susie.’
‘Sophie,’ I repeat. Also, not poor?
‘Of course! I thought, I know what it’s like to be a single mum. Douglas works such long hours. We have the nanny to help out but gosh, it’s a struggle, isn’t it? Doing everything on your own. I totally get it, Sophie. I see you.’
I stare, mouth open, unsure what to say but Celeste doesn’t seem to mind this. She turns to Joe and adds: ‘You too, of course. The single dad of our little group! I can totally relate to you guys.’
No, you can’t! You literally have no clue! I’m outraged and teeing up the ways in which I can explain to Celeste that having a nanny and a husband around is the farthest of cries from being a single working parent.
But Joe beats me to it with a shrug.
‘Nah,’ he says. And I wait with bated breath, assuming that Joe – didn’t know he was a solo parent too – is about to explain exactly how difficult it can be. What a relief to find someone in the same boat as me! Maybe, just maybe, if I can get past his cockiness, we could find ourselves some common ground after all?
And then Joe stops my thought process dead with a killer one liner.
‘It’s easy.’
Sorry, what?
I turn to glare at Joe and my initial first impressions harden into stone-cold dislike. What a complete tool. It’s not ‘easy’! It’s relentless.
‘Oh Joe,’ and Celeste smiles at him. ‘Of course, you do make it look easy. You’re probably right, and let’s not forget that most of us have two children now. It’s so different when you make the step from one to two.’
I’m casting around for a bludgeoning instrument while Celeste continues.
‘What with running the PTA and all of my charity work I sometimes find that I miss putting Oscar and baby Otto to bed too. The other night I simply could not escape a charity gala on time and poor Oscy was in tears when I got in. Of course I had to have a good talk with the nanny after that, she knows very well that his bedtime is seven p.m. and no later.’
‘Try three kids,’ Frankie chimes in, a toddler hanging off her arm and her baby now decidedly grizzly. ‘It’s a horror show.’
‘Mmm, indeed.’ Celeste wrinkles her nose. ‘Two was enough for us. I was desperate to get my body back. Don’t worry, Frankie, you’ll get there eventually.’
Oh my god! This woman! I want to leap to Frankie’s defence but we’re interrupted by the children coming out of their classroom.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joe grabbing sweets out of his back pocket and remember what Lila said to me earlier this morning about Sidney’s dad. I’d silently deduced that he was a dickhead and now, after our first meeting, I congratulate my razor-sharp observation skills.