‘I thought there was a massive waiting list.’
‘See? I told you it was a good spot. The mysterious Ella. Back again in our lives.’
Sarah doesn’t want to give Liza the satisfaction of reacting in exactly the awe-struck way she is anticipating.
‘Well, she hasn’t changed much, in all these years, has she? We still don’t know where she went.’
‘Nope. You’ll catch flies in a minute,’ Liza laughs. ‘She’s one of us now. No helping it. Ha. You going to ditch me now?’
‘No, course not,’ she replies, distractedly. ‘Shall we talk to her?’
‘You can. Happy to observe. But I don’t want to go back in time. It’s all history now.’
Sarah doesn’t really know what ‘history’ Liza is referring to but she glosses over it, in favour of thinking about Ella Bradby. She had been fascinated by her for the few weeks they’d been in NCT class together, and afterwards too. She thinks about the second she’d first laid eyes on Ella. How every single man and woman in the room – including her own husband – had been looking at those never-ending legs, that self-contained smile of hers. Sarah had felt that curious pull of wanting to both look and be like her, yet feeling simultaneously threatened. The fact that Ella, too, had forgotten Sarah’s name – not once, but twice – only served to make her allure even stronger.
And after that, she’d googled her obsessively and discovered with absolute glee that, back in the day, Ella had spent two dazzling years with West London-based actor, and St Paul’s alumni, Rufus North. Sarah had told Liza she had known with an absolute certainty she’d recognised Ella from somewhere. And there it was! Her relentless poring over the Mail Online’s Sidebar of Shame had paid off. All along, she’d been right on the money.
Afterwards, Sarah had remained intrigued for the eight weeks that Ella had been on the NCT West London Ladies WhatsApp group, before she’d quietly and deftly removed herself.
None of the other members of the NCT had said a word to each other about it. Too proud. Nursing their indignation by swiftly moving on to other matters. Nappy-rash. Tongue-ties, the colour of their newborns’ faeces. (Often accompanied by a photograph. Sorry in advance. TMI, but I’m having a massive freak out! Why is it the colour of mustard?)
But now Ella’s child, Felix, is in the same year at school as Sarah’s son, though of course in a different class. And despite having looked high and low, Sarah’s never once spotted Ella at the school gates.
She remembers eagerly skimming through the Reception enrolment list for The West London Primary Academy School before the start of autumn term. The way her heart had skipped when she had seen the name: Bradby, Felix. And she’d known, right away. She’d texted Liza straight off and had felt a swell of validation that they’d also managed to get Casper into the local primary – even though they are precisely three quarters of a kilometre away from the school. It had still been touch and go for a minute. She had been so thankful that she and Tom hadn’t had to delve into their life savings, just to be able to afford one term’s fees of the private school The Little Falcons. Tom had been relieved when she’d imparted the news and, because Ella Bradby’s child had also been sent to the local primary, Sarah had never again felt that she had to justify her choice to her mother – who constantly asked if Tom’s job was ‘going well’. A lecture would then follow, on how she and Sarah’s father had worked themselves into the ground to send Sarah to her private school. She had clutched at this newly acquired information about Ella and Felix like it was a toasty hot-water bottle.
And now Ella is here too, at the club. Only a few metres away. She feels the lift of her earlier malaise.
It isn’t that Sarah necessarily still wants to be Ella Bradby like she had when she’d first laid eyes on her at NCT. Not in the same way that, aged sixteen, Little Miss Average Sarah Biddlecombe, at her West London private school, had wanted to step into the glittery, platform trainers of Little Miss Popular Cassie Fox.
No. Not in that way. Or at least so she tells herself. She’s had enough experience now to know women like Ella had enough trouble in life, what with the judgement that comes with their ice-cool looks and trendy jobs. The pressure of it all. No, it is something else entirely. She just wants to be near her, and breathe in the cool, calm essence of her. Her energy that says: I don’t really give a damn if you like me or not, which of course, makes Sarah want Ella to like her even more.
Fuck, she thinks, smoothing her T-shirt over her belly. Fuckety, fuck fuck. Is this how utterly sad her life has become that she’s getting off at the prospect of talking to one of the other school mothers?
‘Oh, well, she’s already gone,’ says Liza. ‘Ghosted us. Again. Remind me why we sat here?’ She throws her head towards the soft-play.
‘So we have prime seats so that when the kids are back with us, they can watch even more telly and we can be inside and warm.’ Sarah turns to the blaring TV screen and watches Mr Tiny Tots in his weird, spotted bowtie, grinning and gurning like he’s just necked a load of class A drugs. ‘Hey. Want a coffee?’
‘If you go, can you check on Jack? Outside? In the playground.’
‘I sure will,’ Sarah tells her. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Thanks.’ Liza lifts Thea out of her pram. ‘He’s just there.’ She points at the window, towards the sandpit. ‘This little monster just needs a quick feed.’
‘No probs. Cake?’ Sarah nearly trips over the aggressively large bundle of bags, toys and coats that they’d used to lay claim to the seats.
‘Nope. Thanks. Need to start learning some willpower. Shift this baby weight.’ Liza lifts her T-shirt and unclips her nursing bra. ‘But sorry – you asked me about coffee. Yes please. I shouldn’t of course. Don’t want to over-caffeinate this little one.’ She gives a small smile at the ubiquitous joke they shared right back from NCT. ‘But – well. You know. I’m tired.’
‘Listen, Liza, Gav will come back to you. I promise. He’s just …’
‘An idiot?’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘Do you see him at all? I mean, I know you’re still under the same roof but …’
‘Yeah. He’s always breathing down my neck about something or other. It’s weird. He wanted the separation. Wanted to move into another part of the house. But still, he thinks he can get involved in parts of my life that I don’t want him to.’
‘Well, you know my thoughts on the matter. Thea’s barely two months old. I mean when I think back to when Casper was that age, how hard it was – and now you’ve got two.’
Something about Liza’s expression looks a little bit guilty. Sarah wants to shake her friend. It’s not your fault he wanted a break, she wants to shout. But instead she controls her voice. ‘Black, one sugar, yes?’ She doesn’t wait for Liza to reply. ‘Let me go and get us drinks and I’ll check on Jack too,’ she says.
In truth, she wants to get away from the bright lights and the screaming. It’s all making her head buzz. She’d drunk too much Shiraz last night and she feels sick. Not so sick she can justify fully indulging her hangover and eating her body weight in carbs, but sick enough.
She watches Liza’s green eyes narrow, scanning the neighbouring cricket pitch outside – a large green peaceful space in this area of West London. Her friend looks even more tired today than she did last week, the wing of her brown eyeliner smudged underneath her right eye. The bright halogen lights are unfairly harsh on her skin. Sarah can see some new wrinkles. Or perhaps they’ve always been there and she’s just grown so accustomed to Liza’s face, she hasn’t noticed.
She thinks of her own appearance. Mousy hair. Freckles. She still looks quite young, she supposes. Except for the lines under her eyes. Smile maps, Tom had said to her once. Don’t