to Mr Hildred.’
Cleo blinked. ‘Oh. Okay then.’
Evie’s face relaxed. ‘So are we going for the pier or not?’
‘Do we have to?’
Evie’s attention shifted towards the harbour. ‘Look, that’s all you need, Mum. A motivational T-shirt.’
Cleo pushed sweaty curls back across her head. Great. Rachel Foley was power-walking along the beach in a snazzily patterned pair of Lycra leggings and a This Girl Can top.
‘Cleo! Evie! Hiya!’
Rachel stepped up her hip-wiggling and sped along the sand. She was a big-boned girl with enviable glossy auburn hair and a perennially happy face that Cleo both liked and disliked, depending on the day. Cleo reminded herself not to hold Rachel’s social circle against her; she couldn’t help Chloe being in Year 1 at Hornbeam along with the offspring of baguette-fiend Lorna Brooks and Olivia-bigmouth-Brightman, Juliette’s rabid bloody sidekick.
‘I thought it was you! I didn’t know you jogged. Mother-daughter time, how lovely!’
Was Rachel wearing full make-up? This early? Cleo squinted. Yes, yes she was. Blusher, lippy, the lot. Even Evie had toned it down after dragging herself out of bed. The eyebrows had made the cut, mind. ‘Hello, Rachel. Evie and I were just blowing away the cobwebs, weren’t we?’ And the odd lung.
‘Of course! You open later on Wednesdays, I almost forgot. We’re your Tuesday and Thursday girls, aren’t we?’
‘Indeed you are. Didn’t see you girls in Coast yesterday though, Rachel. That’s not like you Hornbeam mums.’
Rachel was grinning. It was her defence mechanism. Cleo preferred to smash things; she’d learned this in the kitchen last night. Cleo grinned back. This smacked of Lorna’s hissy fit. ‘Oh, you know how it is, Cleo. The school summer fair’s coming up next month and, well, it’s been absolutely hectic getting the stalls agreed and organised before Juliette tells us off!’
‘Well, just let me know how many cupcakes Coast’s providing for the cake stall. What was it last year? Three hundred? For free?’ Hornbeam had made a killing off Cleo’s donated cupcakes, and she’d enjoyed manning the stall, helping torrents of children to decorate their cakes while their svelte, summery mothers huddled around their Pimms.
‘Well, erm, I think they’ve had a little rejig this year, Cleo.’ They? Rachel was distancing herself from the pack.
‘A rejig?’
Rachel chewed her lip. She had pink lipstick on her front tooth. ‘The school is trying to educate the children on healthy eating, you see. We all agreed it’s a good idea to, um, reduce their sugar intake, encourage them to try out healthier alternatives.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, so, they’re, um . . . not having a cupcake stand as such this year . . .’
‘As such?’
‘No . . . well, we are having a cupcake stand, just . . . not your sort of cupcakes.’ Rachel gritted her teeth. Evie stepped back.
‘And what are my sort of cupcakes, Rachel?’
Rachel looked to Evie for help. ‘Umm . . . the sugary ones?’ Evie started drawing shapes in the sand with her new trainer. ‘Lorna suggested they try fruit and veg muffins, or something. She’s always going on about Isaac and Marnie preferring healthier, home-baked veggie muffins over the sickly sort . . .’ Rachel’s voice trailed off. ‘Sorry, Cleo. Those were her words.’
‘Oh were they now? Juliette’s given me the elbow, after all these years, so Lorna can run my cake stall?’
‘I’m really sorry, Cleo. Blummin’ heck, you know how much I love everything you bake. But please, try to understand,’ Rachel’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I have to stay on good terms with the other Year One mums. Chloe’s got another five years to go at Hornbeam.’
‘It’s not a young offender’s institution, Rachel,’ snapped Cleo. She ignored the stitch biting into her side and stood up. ‘Good luck with that bunch of vampires. Evie? Are we running to this goddamn pier or what?’
Isobel’s image was still taking some getting used to. The woman reflected in the windows of Coast had regained some weight at least, but the hair, blonde and unstyled, would never stop catching her off-guard. She was a fake Isobel, an impression of herself, an actor. Even her clothes felt costume-like, long flowing skirts and modest vest tops replacing the strappier versions she used to slouch around in once school broke for summer. She ignored herself and pushed against Coast’s door. It didn’t budge. Closed?
A bubble of conversation took shape around the terrace. Isobel glanced towards the voices. A petite blonde was relaxing at a table, almost hidden behind a wall of olive trees.
‘He’s a brilliant bloke, jitters are natural, Sarah. Doubt is natural.’ Isobel turned for the street. ‘Isobel? Hello! Isobel!’ Cleo’s head popped into view, then a hand, enthusiastically beckoning. ‘I thought I heard someone. Come meet my best friend, we were just talking about women taking chances. You’re an adventure-seeker, come say hi!’
Isobel hesitated. She should’ve walked faster, now she had to pretend before breakfast.
‘We don’t open until eleven on Wednesdays, it’s the only chance Sarah and I get to be friends, isn’t it, Sar? Sarah pretends she’s lesson-planning, and I pretend I’m balancing my books. Isobel, Sarah, Sarah, Isobel. Isobel has wanderlust. Found herself in Fallenbay on a one-girl adventure like Julia Roberts in that Eat, Pray, Something film. You’ve come to find yourself, haven’t you, Isobel?’
Isobel smiled. This was going to be excruciating.
Sarah tucked already sleek hair neatly behind her ear. ‘Hi, Isobel.’ Sarah extended a hand over a table affectionately laid with carafes of juice and folded napkins weighted with cutlery and too much choice for two. Brown knees peeped from under her blue shirt-dress; she looked like someone who went yachting at weekends. Isobel instantly regretted the lack of effort she’d made with her hair this morning.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to gatecrash.’
‘Not at all!’ beamed Cleo. ‘We were just saying, not nearly enough interesting women in this town any more, they’re all obsessed with finding new ways to innovate their skincare regimes and smothering, sorry, mothering, their children.’
‘You were saying that, Cle. I was just thinking I need a new wrinkle cream.’ Sarah shared a smile with Isobel. Cleo missed it.
‘Sarah teaches at the town primary. Knows all the horror-parents.’
‘Can we not talk about Juliette and co, Cle?’
‘Sorry, you’re absolutely right. I’ve already had one of that lot dent my morning. Isobel, you’re still standing? Take a seat. Dig in.’ Isobel obediently slipped into a rattan chair.
‘I’m sure Rachel didn’t mean to upset you,’ tried Sarah.
Cleo swished her butter knife. ‘She shouldn’t have gone power-waddling all over my morning. Today started so well, too. Did I mention I was jogging when Rachel and her daft grin showed up?’
‘Only twice.’ Sarah’s eyes creased at the edges when she smiled. Some women were just blessed with that universally approved beauty. Blonde – check. Good bone structure – check. Others had to work towards it the way Isobel had the night she’d borrowed Sophie’s red cocktail dress to blow Nathan’s socks off. She’d been aiming for beautiful, but she hadn’t made it past pig. Pig by popular consensus. Ugly pig. Pig on heat. Fat pig. Skinny Pig. Horny pig. Several