A. L. Bird - The Classroom

What she should have done was ask him to look after Harriet for ten minutes while she went and made herself look a bit better.

What she actually did was hit him over the head with her make-up bag.

Forgot, again, about Harriet. Got caught in the cycle of anger. And forgot, too, that foundation bottles are made of glass. So they create quite an impact. Though he was really over-egging it when he stumbled and leant on the car for support. Kirsten, of all people, knows concussion when she sees it – and that wasn’t it.

But Yvette from next door didn’t necessarily know. Which is presumably why she came rushing towards them, remote-locking her white Audi as she did so.

‘Oh, Ian,’ she cooed, face all covered in concern. ‘I saw everything. Are you OK?’ Her hand on his arm, helping him up. A glance at Kirsten, like she was the devil.

‘We’ve got it covered,’ Kirsten told her. ‘It’s been a busy morning. But in my medical opinion, he’s fine.’

She saw Ian gently trying to manipulate his arm out of Yvette’s grasp. ‘Honestly, Yvette, it’s OK. I’d better be driving off,’ he said. ‘My class won’t wait.’

But Yvette wasn’t having it.

‘Oh, you can’t possibly drive after that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Kirsten will have to drive you.’

‘Kirsten is very busy,’ Kirsten said drily. ‘She has to drive her daughter to school and then go to work.’ Christ, she was thinking. Come on, Yvette, just give us some private family time, OK? Stop interfering. Maybe she was good-natured, but a good-natured busybody is still a busybody.

Kirsten turned to Harriet. ‘Come on, sweetie, let’s get you to school, hey? Sorry about this.’

She tried to hug Harriet to her in order to make the point, but Harriet refused to budge. Hugging her teddy bear seemed to be enough for her. Frankly, Kirsten felt the same – give her a day on the pavement hugging a soft toy over this mess.

Yvette then came out at her fake best. ‘Oh, of course, I quite understand. You are so busy. I don’t know how you do it. Let me drop Ian off then.’

‘But it’s miles out of your way!’ said Ian. ‘You can’t possibly do that. I’ll get a cab if you’re that worried.’

‘I was actually heading over your way to see someone about upholstery – so it’s right on track. Come on, hop in,’ she said, gesturing to the Audi. ‘And I can bring you home again too!’

Yvette has some kind of pretend job Kirsten has never understood. Interior design brokering services or something. It basically means everyone else does the work and Yvette is mentioned in lots of magazines, which she reads out to people over coffee.

‘Yvette, you know that’s unnecessary,’ Kirsten told her, voice low. But Ian was already walking (unsteadily) to the car. ‘Ian, tell her it’s fine,’ she pleaded with him. They’d squabbled, sure, but it was their marriage, right?

Yvette turned to Kirsten, allowing herself a little smile. ‘I know lots of things, Kirsten. Let me be the judge of what’s necessary.’

Her words chill Kirsten, even thinking back over them again now. I know lots of things, Kirsten. What did she mean by that? She’d moved in just after Harriet came along. Bought the house through a private sale, friend of a friend of their previous neighbour. Who, if Kirsten isn’t mistaken, didn’t know anything about what mattered.

‘Ian!’ Kirsten called to him. ‘I’m sorry, OK? We’ll talk this evening.’ She tried to muster up some tenderness that she didn’t feel. Never start the day in the middle of an argument, right? But he wouldn’t even look at her. She could feel her eyes tearing up – life was not meant to be like this, her marriage was not meant to turn into this – so she had to turn her attention back to Harriet.

She tried to persuade her into the Lexus with as little fuss as possible.

‘Let’s see if I’ve got any mini-cheddars, hey?’ Kirsten asked her, in her best sing-song voice.

Harriet looked momentarily interested. Kirsten rifled round in her handbag and found a rustling packet.

‘Ooh, ooh, this sounds promising!’ Kirsten said, hoping it wasn’t sanitary wear. She pulled out her spoils. Oh. Crisps. Not even kiddy ones – those posh Kettle Chip things, an emergency snack. ‘Oh sorry, sweetie, it’s not mini-cheddars. You can’t have these.’

But of course, Harriet reached out her hand. Kirsten gave her the crisps, and stooped down to wipe away her tears. Harriet wriggled her face away.

‘You’ll understand one day,’ Kirsten told her.

But Kirsten hoped she wouldn’t. She hoped Harriet would always be innocent. As innocent as she could be, anyway, considering.

They had the same problem getting into school. After a difficult car journey, Harriet was on strike. Once they arrived, Kirsten had to sit next to her in the back, reading her a story. Then sit on the pavement and coax her out with the bribe of chocolate for supper (hoping she’d have forgotten by then). Thankfully, Kirsten didn’t think any of the parents heard. Although, when she turned back to face the school, she saw Harriet’s new teacher standing there. She didn’t know what the teacher saw, but it couldn’t have been the worst. Kirsten waved to her, made a little grimace, but the teacher went back into the building. Harriet, suddenly willing again, ran after her and was gone before Kirsten even had time to kiss her on the head.

Suddenly Kirsten was alone, the surreal, chaotic whirlwind of the morning finally over. Until she looked at her watch and saw her first patient would be there in fifteen minutes.

And so it has been, non-stop, until this break that is nearly over.

At times Kirsten secretly wishes she could have nothing more to do with Ian and Harriet. That she could just not get the weekly shop in, which she does so that Ian and Harriet are always well supplied with their favourite foods. Not sort out paying the bills, so they continue to have a warm, light home. Not read the books at bedtime with Harriet, then listen to Ian de-stressing from his day. Not have to do the school run. Just walk away.

But of course, she never would. Because she loves Harriet too much to do anything like that to her. And Ian too. Of course she does. It’s just that – how is this her life now? How is it that, however hard she tries, she can’t get everything right? She doesn’t mean ‘anything’ – if she just had to get one thing right a day, that would fine. But to get it all right? Too much to ask.

Time was, she would have called her best friend and fellow former med student turned psychiatrist, Clare. They’d meet for a glass of wine, or if that was too difficult, they’d just chat on the phone while drinking their own. But she couldn’t do that anymore. It wasn’t that they’d drifted or got new best friends. Their friendship had become … compromised.

BECKY, 1 AUGUST 2012

Day one of the summer school. Everyone is congregated in the hall for a warm-up. It’s not Becky’s school; it’s a posher, bigger one. This is called the Main Hall, as though there are other ones. At the stage end, sitting with their legs swinging off the edge, are the cool girls. Caitlin is there in cut-off denim shorts, of course. She’s not the only one. Maybe there was a message – this is what we’re wearing today. Except Becky wasn’t on the thread.

She waves at Caitlin, expecting Caitlin to beckon her over. But no – she just gives a dismissive wave and carries on talking to Gwen Collins. Of course she does. They can flick their long blonde hair around together and share candy-cane lip gloss. Subtle? No. Effective? Probably.

Instead, Becky ties her cardigan round the waist of her (long) denim dungarees and waits for the session to start. No sign of Andy.