Chapter Nineteen
Haze
Killing Clark Dixon had sparked our creative outlets again—for Fox, that spark was about how best to invest. For me, it was about how best to paint.
I was currently working on a raw, uncompromising canvas titled Pressure Cooker.
We’d had another baby, and now we were getting back to work.
It was business as usual for this suburban family.
But now The Chameleon was here.
On our home turf. There had been a long line of those I deemed total shit stains not worthy of life, but right now there was no one I hated more than the one who was making us look over our shoulders.
The one who had tried to end our lives, and was now encroaching on the life we’d built for ourselves here.
It had taken time for me to adjust to living here.
If it was all to end, I wanted it to be on my terms, to be because I’d reached the limit of how much I could take of normal suburban existence.
Choosing to pull the plug and start over elsewhere.
Sometimes I entertained thoughts of being one of those cool traveling families I’d seen on Instagram.
Tie-dyed, bed-haired, upscaling an old camper van and driving around Europe.
Our kids being free-range, homeschooled: #theworldisourplayground.
But Fox was far too rigid to ever roll with the “take each day as it comes” itinerary, neither of us had the patience to teach our kids anything other than manners (even that was a push—why can’t you fucking remember “please”?), and I liked the nice things in life too much to ever want to wash my hair in a weak RV shower.
And all that was before you factored in how you couldn’t exactly paint huge canvases or make financial trades crammed into a van with no Wi-Fi and dodgy phone reception.
We could’ve moved abroad. Somewhere, anywhere.
But who could be bothered with trying to get yourself understood in a foreign language, or being made to feel like an arrogant English waste of space for not trying to?
America was out, as the thought of being in the same country as Fox’s parents was deeply unsettling.
We were here because we’d chosen it, mostly due to a lack of other options. And we were, for the most part, happy.
That was what it came down to. The idea of starting again somewhere else was not an option.
We had put down roots. We’d got the house, the 2.
4 kids (Sausage the dog made up the 0.4), the minivan.
Bibi had started primary school and was enjoying it.
And I had Jenny nearby—there was no way I was giving up having my best friend in close proximity.
When Jenny had asked me once what the other mums at Bibi’s school were like, I’d looked at her blankly.
“You must’ve talked to them?” she said. “Done some coffee mornings?”
“Why would I talk to them? I just drop her off and go. And those coffee mornings aren’t mandatory, are they? I’d rather drink coffee with you.”
I spoke to Jenny every day through several different mediums—WhatsApp, emails, Instagram reels, weblinks to designer items I was considering buying, voice notes.
I’d become reliant on her counsel in every aspect of my life.
Our messages never said hello or goodbye, as we were always in the middle of a conversation that never ended.
Rather than be touched by my fidelity to our friendship, Jenny had sighed and rattled on about how I needed to make an effort and find some allies.
Ever since she’d mentioned it, I had started to notice how, at pickup, the other parents—okay, well, mothers with the occasional lesser-spotted father mixed in—were always standing in different clusters, deep in conversation.
No one ever tried to speak to me, and it wasn’t like I didn’t try.
I mean, did I ever make eye contact with anyone?
No. Did I ever attempt a smile? God, no.
But I was there, wasn’t I? Every day I was there, sunglasses on, staring at my phone, keeping one eye out for Bibi and her pigtails to come bouncing out of the school gate.
This morning, I was one of the last to arrive at drop-off. I hugged Bibi goodbye and headed back to the car with my head down, staring at my phone. A gaggle of mothers, deep in conversation, was still hovering by the gates.
“Hazel!”
I kept staring at my phone.
“Oh, Hazel!”
I looked up to see Frederica walking toward me.
Frederica’s daughter had only started this term, but Frederica had quickly become a prominent figure at the gates.
She was an influencer. I knew this from the way the other mothers would shout over to her about how much they’d loved her latest post. Frederica wore leather trousers and flicked her hair a lot.
I’m not big on tips to make life easier, but “Don’t wear clothes that are dry-clean only around kids” seemed a pretty obvious one.
At least her job helped explain why she was making the effort to look that perfect every day—she was a walking #ad. I managed to force out a “Hi.”
“Congratulations on Bibi getting the part of Gretel.”
The cast list for the end-of-term school play had just been announced in a letter home. We’d asked Bibi about it and how she’d got the main part, and she’d just shrugged and said it was because she was really good.
“Thanks. And congratulations to your child on who they are.”
“I’m going to start a WhatsApp chat for the party planning.”
I looked at her blankly.
“It’s kind of an unspoken thing that whichever children have the main parts, it’s their mothers that organize the after-party.”
This woman had been here five minutes, and she already knew the unspoken things?
“The first meeting needs to happen asap, as we’ve got so much to decide on.”
My phone pinged. I looked down at it as Frederica rattled on about whether commissioning a life-sized gingerbread house would be overkill.
Danny.
Hello sexy, want to see my office and have a catch-up coffee?
Perfect.
“Sorry, I’ve got to go. Just text me.” I rushed toward the sanctity of my car.
“But no one seems to have your number!” Frederica called after me.