Helen Black - Dishonour

‘She’s a good Muslim girl,’ Lailla tells him, ‘so don’t be getting no ideas.’

Ryan laughs. A good Muslim girl. He’s heard that like, what, a million times before.

At least half the kids at school are Muslim, and yeah, they can chat in Urdu or whatever and they don’t make a big thing of Christmas, but they ain’t that different. Sometimes there’s trouble, like that time the Mehmet brothers got the school play stopped, but Ryan stays out of it. You can’t judge a person on whether they’re white, black, brown or fucking green, can you? And girls are girls, whether they cover their heads or not, innit.

‘A good Muslim girl,’ Ryan makes a face at Lailla. ‘Is that what you are in the back of Sonny’s car?’

Lailla gives him a playful slap. ‘Be nice.’

He approaches Aasha, his head cocked to one side. ‘I’m always nice.’

Where else would one tombola ticket cost five pounds? Lilly shook her head. Only at Manor Park, her son’s prep school, would such a thing be considered reasonable.

‘How many do you need?’ asked Penny Van Huysan, one of the mothers running the stall.

Penny, like most of the Manor Park parents, was minted. Her idea of budgeting was to cut down the housekeeper to four days a week.

‘Who’s in charge of the tea tent?’ asked Lilly. ‘Ronnie Biggs?’

Penny rolled her eyes. She and Lilly were long-standing friends. Despite the Yummy Mummy appearance and her addiction to Harvey Nicks, Penny was kind and honest, and often provided respite care to disabled children whose own parents were on the brink of collapse.

‘Have you seen the prizes?’

Lilly scanned the table. Diptyque Candles, a Cartier fountain pen, vouchers for dinner at The Ivy.

‘Very nice,’ Lilly nodded, ‘but nothing I need as much as five quid in my purse.’

‘Every penny goes to disadvantaged children.’

Lilly patted her stomach. ‘Which is exactly what this one will be if I chuck away my hard-earned cash.’

Lilly felt strong arms circling her waist and smelled the familiar mix of lemon and leather that meant Jack was near.

‘Is this one giving you grief?’ Jack asked Penny.

‘Pleading poverty as usual,’ said Penny.

Lilly leaned into Jack’s embrace. ‘We can’t all be married to millionaires.’

‘In my next life I’m coming back as a hedge fund manager,’ said Jack.

Lilly nuzzled his neck. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’

He touched her pregnant belly gently. ‘How’s Frank?’

‘Frank?’ Penny raised an eyebrow.

‘Don’t go there,’ Lilly warned.

Jack had spent weeks trying to engage her in naming discussions. Lilly flatly refused.

‘Then I’ll choose myself,’ he’d said.

‘Not interested,’ Lilly had replied.

‘Frank,’ he’d declared. ‘A good solid name.’

‘The only Frank I ever knew ended up doing a five stretch for attacking his neighbour with an axe.’

‘I thought you weren’t interested,’ he’d retorted.

‘Come on, Jack.’ Penny waved a book of tickets. ‘You must have the luck of the Irish.’

Jack laughed. ‘That’s the lot from the Emerald Isle. Trust me, there’s nothing lucky about Belfast.’

‘You managed to tie Lilly down, didn’t you?’ said Penny. ‘You must be doing something right.’

Jack kissed Lilly’s cheek, winked at Penny and pulled out his wallet. ‘Och, give us a couple then.’

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ said Lilly as she and Jack wandered around the May Fayre.

The school grounds lent themselves to the resolute Englishness of the celebrations, children streaking across the extensive lawns, gobbling ice creams. Blossom blew in the spring breeze like confetti. A white marquee seemed at home next to the immaculate cricket pitch.

Jack shrugged. ‘A copper’s wage may not be six figures but I’m above the breadline.’

‘Unlike this struggling solicitor,’ Lilly laughed.

‘We’ll get by.’

‘We’ll have to,’ said Lilly. ‘I can’t even get the sodding phones to work.’

‘Good,’ said Jack.

‘Good?’

‘Haven’t I been saying all along that you should wait until after the baby’s born to set up shop?’

Lilly rolled her eyes.

Jack had made his feelings abundantly clear. Ad nauseam .

But she wasn’t some chicken on an egg. As much as she wanted this baby, and imagined little fingers curled around her own, she couldn’t be expected to sit around all day incubating.

‘I worked right up to the week before I had Sam,’ she said.

‘You weren’t forty then,’ Jack replied.

Lilly gave him a playful punch on the arm and anticipated one in return when she felt Jack stiffen. She followed his eye line and saw Sam and his dad walking towards them. Things had been tricky in the past between Jack and David. Hell, things had been tricky between Lilly and David. Her ex-husband had a talent for winding everyone up.

‘Hey big man,’ Lilly called to her ten-year-old son.

Sam was wearing a straw hat garlanded with flowers and ribbons.

‘I’m loving that look,’ said Jack.

‘It’s for morris dancing,’ said David.

‘And there was me thinking it was his rugby kit,’ said Jack.

Lilly kicked Jack’s ankle. For Sam’s sake, a truce had been called and they had each agreed to be as civil as possible.

‘It looks great, Sam,’ she said.

‘It looks totally lame,’ Sam scowled. He glanced at another group of boys in similar attire. ‘People will think I’m with those dorks.’

‘Still, you’ve a good chance of being crowned May Queen,’ said Jack.

Sam put up a fist but couldn’t resist a laugh.

‘Can Sam have tea with you, David?’ Lilly asked. ‘I’ve got to see a man about a phone.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’ve got to collect Cara and Fleur from baby massage.’

Lilly felt heat rising up her neck. David’s girlfriend, Cara, and their child always seemed to take priority and it infuriated her. Truce or not, she opened her mouth to remind David that he had two children.

‘I’ll take him back to the cottage with me,’ said Jack. ‘You’re cool with that, aren’t you, Sam?’

Lilly mouthed her thanks.

‘Can we call at the shop for crisps?’ asked Sam.

‘Sure,’ said Jack.

‘And in the baker’s for a cake?’

‘Why not?’

David pointed to Lilly’s bump. ‘I suspect you won’t be following the school of firm parenting, Jack.’

Lilly gave her ex-husband a cold stare. ‘I’ll settle for the school of just being around.’

Aasha knows she should be listening to Mr Markson. Maths is her worst subject. She’ll definitely get As in everything else. Maybe even A *s in geography and art. But maths has always puzzled her. Who really cares how you work out the average score on dice? And why would you ever need to calculate the average speed of a train from London to Inverness? She’d been to Scotland once for a cousin’s wedding and it had taken eight hours in the car to get there. She and her brothers had bickered most of the way, and she’d been sick in a lay-by near Birmingham, but no one had asked her to work out their average speed.

But as her dad is constantly reminding her, she needs to get at least a B.

‘Or no good university will even look at you, and what then?’

What then, indeed.

She tries to drag her attention back to the lesson but in seconds it’s wandered back to where it was before. Ryan Sanders.

Aasha can’t believe she’s giving him head space. He’s such a loser, in the bottom sets for everything. He’ll be lucky to scrape any GCSEs, never mind a good grade in maths. The only thing he’s any good at is art, and then he doesn’t turn up most of the time. Not that she’s noticed him. Or even cares.