Haven't They Grown(62)

I look at the clock on the wall above Dom’s head. ‘I can easily do it. It’s only ten past ten and it’s a fifteen-minute drive. What about Pam, though?’

‘She’ll understand – it’s a family emergency.’

He’s right. Back in the treatment room, I explain the situation to Pam, who’s very reasonable about it. ‘Of course you must go,’ she says, buttoning up her flower-print blouse. ‘And try not to worry. Everything seems ever so serious when you’re that age. It’s probably just boyfriend trouble.’

That’s what I’m worried about. Zannah feels things deeply. Her love for Murad isn’t a passing fad. If he’s done something like cheat on her and she’s just found out, I’ll be lucky if I can stop her smashing his head in with the nearest heavy object. Maybe she has already. Dom said she was fine physically, but maybe Murad isn’t. No, a teacher would have rung if there had been an injury, surely …

‘Beth.’ Pam puts her hand on my arm. ‘Zannah is fine. If it was really serious, she’d have told Dominic what had happened, wouldn’t she?’

I hadn’t thought of this and it makes me feel slightly better. ‘Yes. If it was life or death, she’d have told Dom.’

But if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t interrupt you when she knows you’ve got clients all day that you let down last week and are trying to make it up to.

‘Unless she’s pregnant,’ Pam announces cheerily. ‘She’d prefer to tell Mum than Dad that sort of news, I imagine.’

Yes, she would. Oh, God. ‘Thanks for that,’ I try to smile. Zan and Murad have already thought of a name for their first baby: Truelove. Is this the news I’m about to receive – that Truelove Rasheed-Leeson is already on the way? Zannah knows how not to get pregnant; she and I have discussed it many times.

But GCSEs are coming up. And she’d do anything to avoid them. And she hasn’t revised.

No. I shake the idea from my mind. She wouldn’t – neither accidentally nor deliberately. Not my Zan, who’s wise beyond her years.

‘Stop imagining worst-case scenarios and go,’ says Pam. ‘You don’t need to wait for me. It’ll take me a while to put my jewellery back on. Dominic’ll see me out, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you, Pam. I’ll make this up to you – free massages for life, at this rate.’

I grab my car keys and head for Bankside Park.





16


I follow Zannah’s instructions: park in the visitor car park, text Murad’s phone to say I’ve arrived. Immediately, three dots appear on the screen beneath my message. She’s typing. Or he is.

Nearly a minute later, the typing is still going on, or so the jumping dots indicate. Maybe it’s both of them together. What are they doing, writing an essay?

The message that finally lands has no name at the bottom, so I can’t tell who wrote it. It contains directions for how to find the Art room on foot. The school has 2,000 pupils and is spread over four buildings if not more. Each one is a labyrinth of corridors. I’m to meet Zannah at a particular door, which she’s waiting at.

What’s she doing in the Art room, when she gave the subject up two years ago? She’s supposed to be at a History revision day. And why can’t she come and meet me in the car park?

I cross the wide rectangular yard and knock on the prescribed door when I find it, planning to ask all these questions. Zannah’s voice calls out, ‘Mum?’

‘Yeah. Open the door.’

‘I can’t. There’s an intercom, and I don’t know the code.’ Her face appears at the window next to the door, which is open. She opens it wider. ‘Quick, climb in.’

‘What? Are you kidding? I’m nowhere near agile enough to—’

‘Mum, it’s a ground-floor window. It’s easy. You might not be able to do it gracefully, but you can do it.’

‘All visitors are supposed to go through reception. If someone sees me …’

‘They won’t. Why d’you think I chose this room? In Bankside Park terms, this is the middle of nowhere. No one’ll see you, unless you take four years to climb in.’

‘Can’t you climb out?’

‘No! Someone might see us together. Just do it, now.’

I manage to get inside, but not quickly and not without injury. I land inelegantly on the large table that’s pushed up against the wall beneath the window – perhaps by Zannah, to catch me – then roll onto the floor. The room I land in doesn’t look like an Art room. It looks disused, like a semi-derelict space awaiting redecoration. There are no pictures up on the peeling walls.

‘Please tell me this isn’t really the Art room,’ I say.

‘Was. This whole block’s unsafe or something, so it’s going to be done up. Oh, my God, have you ripped those trousers?’

‘And grazed my knee.’ I bend down to inspect it. ‘Do you want to tell me why these indignities were necessary? It had better be good, Zan.’

‘Have you watched it yet?’ she demands.

‘Watched what?’

‘You haven’t!’ She looks aghast. ‘I emailed it to you!’

‘I was with a client, then rushing to meet you. I haven’t had time to check my emails.’