My Husband's Wife(114)

It’s so unfair. I’ve always yearned for a daughter to dress up, take shopping, share confidences with. But Ed didn’t want us to have more children after Tom’s diagnosis.

Concentrate. We’re nearly at the school. Tom, who has been pretty cool up until now considering the trouble he’s in, appears distressed. I can always tell from the way he pulls out hairs from his arm. I selected one of them for the DNA test, some time ago.

I pull into the car park and face him. My son. My boy. My special boy, whom I would defend to my last breath. ‘We’ve been through this before, Tom,’ I say, looking him straight in the eyes and speaking slowly and calmly like the consultant advised. ‘We have to explain to your headmistress exactly why you hit Stephen.’

Tom’s face is set. Rebellious. Unrepentant. ‘I told you. He kicked my gym shoes out of line.’

‘But he didn’t mean to.’

‘I don’t care. He still did it. No one is allowed to touch my things.’

Don’t I know it. It means I have to buy lots of spares for when the originals are inevitably at some point rejected. Spare shoes. Spare jumpers. Spare hairbrushes.

I lean across to switch off the radio. Please God, I pray. Don’t let them give Tom another warning. My finger hovers over the ‘off’ button on the radio, but something makes me pause. It’s been half an hour since the last news announcement. In a minute, it will be time for another.

‘A man has been found stabbed to death in West London,’ says the presenter again, almost chirpily. ‘A woman has been arrested in connection with the murder.’

It’s at this moment that my phone rings.

‘You can’t get that.’ Tom taps his watch. ‘We’re already thirty seconds late.’

Caller Unknown.

I normally get this on the few occasions that Ed (or occasionally Carla) has rung to make arrangements about Tom’s weekends. Ed started withholding his number when calling me some months ago, perhaps because I’d sometimes ignored his calls. If it’s urgent, I tell myself, Ed – or whoever else it is – will ring again. Then I gather my notes, even though I’ve already primed myself, and walk across the playground with my son, who has got hold of my phone and is fiddling with it. At any other time I’d try to get it off him. But I’m too focused on the imminent meeting.

‘Thank you for coming,’ says the head.

Her face is kind, but she’s rather frumpy-looking. One of those women, I observe as I watch Tom positioning his chair so it’s in a straight line with mine, who wear knee-length woolly dresses with flat ankle boots. She claims to be an expert in Asperger syndrome, but at times I have the feeling she doesn’t get Tom because she addresses him with emotion-driven questions. Not a great idea, as I’ve found out to my cost.

‘I’d like to launch straight in, if that’s all right,’ she begins. ‘Tom, perhaps you’d like to tell me again why you hit Stephen even though we don’t tolerate violence in this school.’

Tom stares at her as if she’s stupid. ‘I’ve already explained. He kicked my gym shoes out of line.’

Did I say Tom doesn’t do emotion? Yet his eyes are welling up and his neck is going blotchy. Moving things in Tom’s book is against the law. His law. Tom’s Law, which only he understands.

The head is taking notes. I do the same. Our pens are competing. My son versus this woman who dresses so badly.

‘But that doesn’t excuse hitting someone.’

‘Carla hit Dad the other week. He wanted another drink and she was telling him not to.’

There’s a silence. Our pens stop moving at the same time.

‘Who is Carla?’ asks the head in a dangerously neutral voice.

‘My husband’s wife,’ I hear myself say.

The head raises her eyebrows. They need plucking, I notice. They’re grey and bushy.

‘I mean, my ex-husband’s wife,’ I add. It still feels odd to say it. How can someone else be Ed’s wife? How is it possible that Carla can be wearing his ring? Sharing a bed is one thing. But marriage? To the child who used to live next door?

The head’s voice is deceptively gentle. ‘Do you find it difficult, Tom, now your father is married to someone else?’

I rise to my feet, my hand on my son’s shoulder. ‘I’m not sure you should be asking questions like this. Not without an educational psychologist.’

Her eyes are locking with mine. I can see that behind the frumpy skirt and the boots there is a will of steel. I should have seen that before. Was I not frumpy once?

Suddenly a dog barks. At first I don’t twig. But then I remember Tom fiddling with my phone in the playground. He must have changed the ringtone. Again. This time it sounds like a Baskerville hound.

Ross.

The head’s eyes are disapproving. Tom is tipping his chair in deep anxiety.

‘Sorry,’ I say, fumbling to switch it off. But somehow I press the speakerphone button instead.

‘Lily?’

‘May I ring you back?’ I make an apologetic face at the head and turn it off speakerphone. ‘I’m in a meeting.’

‘Not really.’

My mouth goes dry. Something’s happened. I know it.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’