Kerry Fisher - The Not So Perfect Mum - The feel-good novel you have to read this year!

‘Ms Etxeleku. How do you like your first Stirling Hall fete?’

Mr Peters still managed to look formal in jeans and a white linen shirt. I felt as though he’d come to tell me off and my mind immediately started running through apologies, excuses and big fat lies. I should have stuck to a non-nutty ‘lovely, thank you’. Instead I said, ‘Would you like a tattoo?’ and then wanted to kill myself. Heads of Upper School probably didn’t go in for a lot of body art.

He surprised me. He laughed. ‘Very rebel without a cause. What do you suggest?’

I pulled out a new sheet, managing to knock my wet sponge into my crotch as I did so. ‘What about a devil?’

‘I leave being naughty to the kids these days, during the week at least. No, I fancy something a bit exotic,’ he said.

Clover leaned over. ‘Mr Peters, that’s favouritism, choosing the new girl on the block. What about all us mums who’ve been slaving away every year since our kids were in nursery? I’ve got a lovely big dragon here I could stick somewhere secret.’

I envied Clover. Being so at ease with it all. But I also wanted her to snout out so I could have Mr Peters to myself, like a child with a protective arm round a bowl of crisps.

‘Thanks for the offer, Mrs Wright, but I don’t want to get too subversive now, do I? Maybe next year.’ He turned back to me. ‘What about that Chinese character?’

‘Okay, where do you want it?’

There was the slightest pause. A tiny curve upwards at the side of his mouth gave me a glimpse of the man he might have been before he dedicated his life to setting a good example.

‘Left or right arm?’ I said. Without looking, I knew that a slow flush would be turning my neck and chest blotchy. I pretended to pick something up off the floor so I could dab at the sweat on my upper lip. Mr Peters sat down and rolled up his sleeve. A forearm made for arm-wrestling. Smooth olivey skin, quite hairy. Big hands but slim fingers and clean fingernails. Everything about him was tended, clipped and cared for. I bet his skin smelt of something lemony. And I bet he didn’t leave whiskers round the sink.

‘Harley seems to be settling down nicely now. In the last couple of weeks since “the incident”, I’ve seen a big change in him,’ Mr Peters said, almost drowned out by the noise and excitement of the Knock Down the Can stall next door.

‘Yes, I think he’s doing much better. Thanks for being so kind to him.’

I wasn’t about to tell Mr Peters that since Harley had given Hugo what for, he’d become a bit of a hero among the boys. His new nickname was ‘Mike’ and the lunchtime footballing gang seemed to have adopted him as a mascot.

‘I wasn’t being kind. I was being fair. Between you and me, I think that little event has given him a certain kudos amongst his classmates,’ he said, leaning in so I could hear him.

Of course. He knew everything. He’d probably worked out that I’d spent ages getting ready that morning, even painting my nails, which was something I rarely did these days. I was glad I had. Didn’t want him thinking that I only did holey tracksuits, Crocs and punch-ups.

‘How are you settling in, Ms Etxeleku?’ he asked, clear greeny-grey eyes trapping me in their gaze.

I mumbled, ‘Fine,’ and became very focused on sponging his tattoo, which, praise the Lord, went on in one piece.

‘Perfect,’ Mr Peters said. ‘I could imagine you in a tattoo parlour inking enormous eagles onto bikers’ backs.’

I think we realised at the same time that might not be as unlikely for me as for most of the mothers at Stirling Hall who were either -ologists of some sort, solicitors, investment bankers or married to one. Mr Peters blushed. ‘No offence, you know what I mean. It was a compliment to your marvellous artistic skills.’

Big red patches like stunted starfish settled on his face. I was fascinated to see a guy with so much going for him, so smart, so in control, blush like that. If I ever got to a place in my life where I could join in a clever conversation and speak with confidence, even on brainy things – politics, literature, the environment – because I had the knowledge to back me up, I swore to God I was never going to waste a minute blushing again.

For the moment, however, I blushed along with him, even though he hadn’t offended me at all. My mother used to call it vergüenza ajena , a sort of second-hand embarrassment at other people’s fuck-ups. I think we were both grateful when the next woman in the queue called Mr Peters’ attention. It was the mother of Kuan-Yin, the little Chinese girl who, along with the few other Asian children – sons and daughters of consultants and lawyers – featured heavily in photos around the school as though Stirling Hall was a multicultural hotbed.

‘Mr Peters. I see you have the tattoo for love,’ she said, pointing at his arm with her small elegant fingers.

‘Love?’

‘Yes, this is the Chinese symbol for love. Does this mean there’s someone special in your life?’ She smiled so widely that both rows of her neat little teeth were on display.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Mrs Shen,’ he said, leaning over to put his 50p in my box. He did smell of lemon. ‘Nice tattoo, thanks,’ he said, vacating his chair for Kuan-Yin.

As soon as he’d gone, Clover tapped me on the shoulder. ‘All the mums are dying to get off with him, he’s so gorgeous. Must be something to do with all that calm authority that makes him so sexy. Every time he gets seen out on the town with a woman, the Stirling Hall jungle drums go into overdrive. Always seems to go for brunettes, so you’re in there.’

‘I can’t resist the beer-bellied, unemployed and in deep debt, myself. I wouldn’t know what to do with someone who had a proper job.’

Clover laughed and went back to her swords and flowers. I started sticking on a rainbow for Kuan-Yin, quietly looking round the room to see where Mr Peters had gone. He was over by the Bash-a-Rat stand, chatting to bloody Jen1. He looked up and caught my eye. Probably checking that I wasn’t making off with the fifty pences.

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