Christmas Shopaholic(39)

I shoot a quick grin—then notice that her eyes are glistening. Oh God. It’s the horrible bastard husband, I know it is, only I can’t ask her about it, standing here in the school corridor.

“Now, I’m glad I’ve caught the pair of you,” Miss Lucas says. “We’ve cast our Nativity play, and both Minnie and Harvey are playing kings!”

A king! I can’t help beaming at Minnie in delight.

“The costume is very simple,” Miss Lucas adds cheerfully. “Here’s the pattern….” She hands each of us a big envelope, and my smile freezes. Pattern? As in sewing? “Just use a simple running stitch,” Miss Lucas continues blithely, “with perhaps some pin tucks. If you did want to add some embroidery or ribbon, that would be wonderful, but it’s not at all essential.” She smiles at us brightly.

Pin tucks? Embroidery?

I clearly remember looking around this school, and I don’t recall the head teacher saying, “Of course, if your child comes here, you will be expected to be proficient at pin tucks and embroidery.” But I can’t say anything. Minnie’s gazing up at me expectantly.

“No problem!” I hear myself replying breezily. “I expect I’ll add some sequins, too, and some extra hand-stitched detail.”

“Wonderful!” Miss Lucas claps her hands together.

Steph, meanwhile, has made no response, just shoved the envelope in her tote, her eyes distant. When we’ve said goodbye to the children and are heading out again, she says, “See you, then, Becky,” and quickly ducks into the ladies’ before I can reply. I stare after her a bit anxiously—then follow her in. I want to make sure she’s OK.

Quite a few mums are in the ladies’, as always. No one’s there because they actually need the loo; they’re just gossiping. Steph makes her way to one of the two sinks, stares at herself miserably in the mirror, then starts redoing her eye makeup. I decide I’ll give her a moment to finish, then draw her aside for a supportive word.

She’s struggling to do her makeup, though, because her eyes keep watering and she keeps having to wipe it all off. After a bit, a woman I don’t recognize peers at Steph and says, “Excuse me…are you OK?”

“Me?” Steph jumps like a scalded cat. “Yes, I’m fine. Fine!”

She gives me a desperate look in the mirror, then quickly heads into a cubicle. Without pausing, I hurry into the one next door. I want to text her, but the signal in here is rubbish. If I whisper, everyone might hear…if I knock on the wall, everyone will definitely hear….

In sudden inspiration, I get out a pen from my bag and find an old receipt. It’s for three No7 serums from Boots, which were on special offer. Ooh. Where did I put those again?

Anyway. Not the point. I write on it, Are you really OK? Love, Becky xx, and pass it under the cubicle wall.

A few seconds later it comes back, and Steph has written underneath: No. Not really.

Knew it.

I write, Let’s go and talk. In your car? X, and send it back. Almost at once comes her reply: Yes, please. Thanks. X.



* * *



—

Twenty minutes later, I’ve heard more about Steph’s life, her husband Damian’s life, and their last toxic holiday in Cyprus than I could ever have predicted. To be honest, it’s shaken me up a bit. Marriages should be like Sellotape. They should be all safely stuck down. But they’re not—they peel off in the steam, and sometimes they never stick properly again.

Suze had a wobble with Tarkie in the States, and I feared the worst. Then there was Jess looking all bleak the other day…and now this. Apparently, Damian won’t listen to reason or do counseling. At first he said there wasn’t another woman—but then it turned out that there was. They work in the same company. He’s in the IT department and she organizes events. They had to go to Manchester for a conference, and it all kicked off in the Malmaison Hotel. (I feel I know slightly too many details about this, but I don’t want to interrupt Steph when she’s opening up her heart.)

We’re parked in a side road, and Steph keeps talking, then breaking off to check in a paranoid way if anyone’s watching us. Her main concern seems to be that no one must know. Because then Harvey might get to know. And what she really wants is for Damian to realize he’s being an idiot and come home and for Harvey never to know a thing about it.

“I mean, I suppose Damian’s right,” she says, staring miserably out of the window. “I’m not much fun these days. I don’t crack a lot of jokes. If we go out for dinner, chances are I’ll fall asleep at the table.” She heaves a great sigh. “But it’s hard, you know, doing the school runs and getting to the office on time, and I’ve had this mega project at work….” She rubs her forehead as though trying to massage away her thoughts. “We moved into our house six months ago, and I still haven’t chosen a paint color for the bedroom. Or even unpacked all the boxes. We rowed about that and he said I’d turned into a misery. And he was right.”

I feel a swell of fury at this guy, making someone as hardworking as Steph feel crap. I caught sight of him at school the other day and discreetly sized him up—and I wasn’t impressed. He was dressed in the faded jeans he always seems to wear and was constantly on the phone. He wasn’t even looking at Harvey, who was clutching his hand. Plus he’s got a really annoying laugh. I mean, who does he think he is?