chance for the 1 p.m. appointments.
The headmistress sighs her assent. Kirsten follows her outside the room, where Harriet is waiting, and she tries for a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. At first, Harriet doesn’t respond, but then she flings her arms round Kirsten, and buries her head into her legs for a long hug. It breaks Kirsten’s heart to tear her away. Maybe she could just take her to the surgery with her now?
But no. That’s no way to run a business. Or to parent. Is it?
‘I’ll see you later, sweetie,’ Kirsten tells her. The headmistress prises Harriet’s hand away. As they go off together, Kirsten notices Harriet’s socks don’t match. They’re both white, but one has a frill, one doesn’t.
Kirsten waits in the headmistress’s office. She doesn’t call Jess immediately. Instead, she gives in to the tears. What is she doing? How has she misconfigured things so much that her little daughter, at what is meant to be such a beautiful age, is turning to violence? If Kirsten can’t even manage to dress her properly in the morning, is it any wonder? Is Kirsten even present when she’s with her? Does she need to phone Clare, get some sessions, some pills? No. No, don’t phone Clare more than needed. Not these days. Keep the distance, keep her sweet. Kirsten will have to prescribe herself something, maybe. But what? Mothering instinct? Magical hugs?
Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe when Harriet’s older, and Ian and Kirsten are hopefully still together, and have cash for everything Harriet wants, maybe Kirsten will still look back and cherish this stage. Because as people keep telling her, your kids are only this young once.
Kirsten blows out her cheeks, still regrouping.
And then, of course, Jess phones her.
‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to answer,’ Jess says. ‘I was going to leave a message. Everything OK?’
‘Yep, fine,’ Kirsten says, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.
‘Right,’ Jess says. Jess is remembering, Kirsten is sure, how she ran out of the office in a flap, past the patients in the waiting room, shouting that she had to go to her daughter’s school for an emergency. ‘Anyway, that’s good, because people are complaining up a storm here.’ Jess lowers her voice. ‘One patient is refusing to leave. Says she was guaranteed an appointment. They go on holiday tomorrow, and if she doesn’t have her coil fitted today she says she’ll sue us for the inconvenience.’
‘Christ’s sake, can’t she just use a condom?’ Kirsten mutters.
‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that – what did you want me to tell her?’ Jess asks.
‘Nothing, nothing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Good, because I’ve just seen a comment up on the website – someone complaining you’re unreliable. I mean, we’re unreliable – the practice.’
But of course she means me, Kirsten thinks. I’m unreliable.
The tears threaten to return.
‘Don’t worry, I’m coming back.’
Kirsten gathers up her things. She’ll leave a little note for the headmistress, say she’ll make an appointment – work emergency, very sorry.
The headmistress walks in just as Kirsten is rummaging round the desk for a Post-it.
‘Mrs McGee, I’m going to have to run – everything’s kicking off at work, and …’
She’s met with a stony stare.
You don’t get it! Kirsten wants to scream. I’m just trying to be good!
But instead, Kirsten half sits, half stands, at the chair by Mrs McGee’s desk.
‘Ms Robertson had some suggestions to make,’ the head says. The tone is chilly, different somehow to when they last spoke. ‘And I think they might help you out. How does a breakfast club sound to you? And some casual extra after-school lessons – to help Harriet with these behavioural issues?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Kirsten says. She wants to shout that Harriet doesn’t have behavioural issues. But the clock won’t stop ticking.
‘Ms Robertson also had one slightly more … controversial … suggestion. A child psychologist? She thinks psychologists can have a really powerful effect – work wonders.’
Christ, the irony … Kirsten knows full well what wonders they can work. It’s why her sister still won’t speak to her.
But no. This is going too far.
‘Tell Ms Robertson I appreciate her concern, but I don’t think we’re at that stage yet. My daughter just wanted to play with another girl’s toy. And she’s only just five. She doesn’t need a shrink.’
‘Research suggests—’
But Kirsten cuts her off. ‘No, Mrs McGee. I’m sorry. I have to get back to work.’
You can see the disappointment lines on Mrs McGee’s face – little pinches round the corners of her mouth, a special line amongst the crow’s feet round her eyes.
Kirsten draws herself up and remembers suddenly the power of being a working mum. She knows how to pull rank.
‘I have emergency patients waiting for me. If there are any additional fees for these clubs, over and above what we already pay you, then of course we can pay. Now I really must go.’
And of course, at the mention of emergency patients, of fees, Kirsten sees Mrs McGee remember Kirsten’s place in society outside these walls. That this matters too.
‘Yes, of course,’ the head says. ‘I’ll see you at parents’ evening in a couple of weeks and we can catch up then.’
Maybe Kirsten actually flinches. She must do something, because the head follows up by saying, ‘There’ll be an email reminder coming out soon.’
But Kirsten doesn’t acknowledge she’s forgotten about parents’ evening. She just goes. And then, finally, she’s on the way to the clinic. Stress levels rocketing. In the olden days, she’d have called Ian, calmed down that way. Now she relieves her stress by channelling it into anger towards him, practising the argument she knows they’ll have later on. Not just about this.
Because this is all his fault. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t be where they now find themselves. They wouldn’t have to rely on Kirsten trying to be in two places at once. Or on Ms Robertson’s breakfast clubs. But thank God they will now have those. Because they can only be a change for the better.
BECKY, 2 AUGUST 2012
Becky can’t find Andy at breakfast. She can’t find Caitlin either. So she heads to the audition room, thinking maybe Andy will be there too.
But no. It’s just the course leader.
‘Hey, you made it!’ he says.
She shrugs, clutching the brand new Music Theatre Compilation book her mother bought her. It’s medium voice because that seemed to Becky to translate into ‘average’. Sopranos were special. Before she grew up and became a boring mum, her eldest sister had been soprano in the choir at school. Voice of an angel. So pretty. Et cetera.
‘Where’s the male talent – Andy, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. I figured he might be here.’
‘OK, well, let’s give him a minute. Are you warmed up yet?’
She shakes her head.
The teacher gives her a look of mock disapproval. ‘You must always warm up. Protect those vocal folds.’
He