Chapter 20 Uniform
The following day, I see Aimée committing another heinous crime.
Her task, which was repeated twice, was to have Nelly in her school uniform with her neat brown bob combed to perfection.
The child who appears in front of me is wearing a blue party dress with bright red patent leather sandals.
Her hair is tied with a ribbon on the side.
I have no idea where the sandals have come from, but I suspect the Wicked Witch of the West.
Nelly is absolutely beaming. She is happiest when dressed as something she’s not.
Between the ages of two and four, she refused to wear anything but a succession of historical and fancy dress costumes – shiny polyester princess dresses, a Victorian orphan brown smock with a white apron, and a full Mary Poppins ensemble.
‘She looks so sophisticated,’ says Aimée, looking admiringly at her work and smiling, not out of pride, but because she knows how much this ensemble will annoy me.
‘For a Moulin Rouge trainee, not a girl going for a prep school activity day.’
‘I don’t believe in uniform for children. This looks better.’
‘Nelly, go and change. School uniform, black shoes,’ I say, raising both eyebrows.
Nelly’s beaming smile becomes a fierce pinched pout, and her eyes blaze at me. She keeps her anger wrapped up tight, and will hold it, sometimes for months at a time. She stomps across the wooden floor as loudly as possible and turns at the threshold.
‘You’re the most horrible mother in the whole world,’ she declares primly, then slams the door.
This makes Aimée’s smile widen.
‘I expect in France, being pretty is a vocation in itself, but it isn’t a career option here.’
‘Maybe that is why everyone in the UK looks so dreary,’ says Aimée, and she leaves. Nathan, who is sitting on the floor with several dinosaurs, looks up and wiggles his Tyrannosaurus Rex towards the door with a loud roar.
‘Quite right,’ I say.
Gaining entry to Adams is harder than being made partner.
Today is euphemistically called an ‘activity day’, ostensibly to make your child feel at home before they return for the dreaded entrance exams, but it’s clearly a carefully disguised social suitability test. Although mimicry along with a good wardrobe disguises many things, you can’t imitate the depth of privilege that some, like Tor and her kind, possess, which is only detectable beyond the visible spectrum.
Nelly reappears in a new outfit and stares at me with a broad, delighted smile.
‘It’s school uniform,’ she says, daring me to argue.
‘Yes, but it’s Hermione Granger’s school uniform,’ I reply and march Nelly to the bedroom, as she explains how Aimée is better than me in every respect. We return downstairs, Nelly in shirt, tie and blazer, and me covered in her barbs.
I worry, of course, that wearing her current school uniform may look too earnest, and that the more privileged families will allow their daughters to wear anything at all.
I text Tor:
What’s Hero wearing to Activity Day? Nelly moaning about wearing uniform.
Adams is one of the top prep schools in London.
The children all have their own named wellies, and they have over a hundred clubs to choose from each week.
The headmistress creates the grand illusion that she knows every child, and makes each parent feel that their little one is truly special. It’s like Claridge’s for little people.
Tor texts back:
Uniform is absolutely perfect.
‘Nelly,’ I call out. ‘Wear what you like.’ I know not to trust Tor’s advice. She’s a friend, but Adams is a competitive process, and every tiny advantage matters. I haven’t even considered my own outfit, so I text Sophie as Ellie (brains of Britain) is going for a scholarship:
What are you wearing to the ball, darling? Chanel or Dior? x
Sophie replies:
It’s a means-tested scholarship so I’m going for the workhouse look gingham dress, apron, shawl and bonnet. xxx
On my to-do list I note that I should ask about Paolo:
How was the date?
Sophie replies:
Good and bad . . .
I text back:
Can’t wait to hear all about it! xxx
I’m sure I could say more, but I decide I’ve done enough to tick it off my list.
There are four Mercedes SUVs, a Porsche Panamera, three BMWs and a generous helping of Range Rovers corralling the prep school.
They’re trying to park but there is no parking to be had.
Like cornered beasts, they’re agitated; their red lights are glowing and their horns are beeping frantically.
Inside the air-conditioned, leather-seated cockpits, the glossy-haired owners glitter with gold as they gesticulate at each other over a spot of grass verge.
I tend not to get anxious and spot a parking space quite easily.
Admittedly, it’s not a legal space and belongs to the owners of a rather handsome house, but I don’t mind being someone else’s headache.
If it ends in an argument, I will win, and if there is a parking fine, what’s a few pounds when you are about to commit over twenty thousand per year to support a six-year-old’s hand-painting, ukulele and social-climbing lessons?
Before I can reverse into the space, a large red Jaguar SUV appears from nowhere and sneaks in behind me. I grip the steering wheel. Rage trickles down my spine.
I stare at the woman and she pulls a face back at me.
I can’t read the expression but it looks tigerish – black slashes of mascara, a gold necklace and bright white teeth.
These entitled women see fault as something belonging to the rest of the world, not themselves.
She doesn’t back down, and parks impressively in a single speedy motion.
She leaps out of the driver’s seat (skinny jeans, short leather jacket, spiked heels, large handbag clinking at her elbow), skips to the rear doors and extracts her pristine daughter.
They stride off together, noses held high, her daughter in a cream wool beret and matching woollen coat. The beret is a magnificent touch and I’m sad I didn’t think of it. I look down and see that my knuckles are white against the steering wheel.
I watch them cross the road, one hand raised commandingly to stop the traffic, then reverse up to the side of the Jaguar and wind down my window.
I find my nail scissors in my handbag, and drive past her SUV, slowly digging the steel tip into the paintwork.
It makes a delicious screeching sound and leaves a deep white line in the shining paint.
I pull away, quite pleased with myself, but a few moments later I feel like I’ve let myself down and experience an overriding sense of regret.
I reverse, open my car door, lean out of my seat and push the blade deep into her front tyre.
I pull it out, watch the tyre quickly deflate, and leave satisfied.
I join the other frantic mothers in a circus ring of circling SUVs.
As time is tight, I mount a high kerb and drive onto the grass between two trees.
The space isn’t large enough for a car, but one of the trees is a sapling, no more than five feet high, and I simply drive over it.
I’m sure it’ll spring back up when I drive off.