‘Yes?’ she says abruptly.
‘Hi, yes, it’s Catherine. Catherine Bayntun,’ I say. ‘I just remembered something about Luke – the guy I was with on Friday night.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘His job. He’s an architect. There can’t be many architect firms in town. You should be able to find him easily, right?’
Six
Hanging up the phone, I glance at the time in the corner of the screen and realise, with a lurch of dismay, that I’m late for pick-up.
Crap! On Dylan’s first day! What kind of mother am I?
I dive into the car and drive through the town centre to school. But the traffic lights are not in my favour, and despite my haste, I’m one of the last parents to arrive. When I rush up to the classroom door, Dylan is sitting with the teaching assistant, Ms Hamlyn, and one other little boy, looking woebegone, clutching a crayon and scrawling half-heartedly on a large piece of paper. I feel a rush of love and guilt so intense it takes my breath away.
‘Dylan,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, baby.’
He raises his head, his face lighting up when he sees me, and he rushes into my arms.
‘Did you have a good day?’ I ask, kissing his cheek. And he nods and looks up at me. ‘Why is your hair yellow?’ he asks with a puzzled frown.
I ignore his question. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say to Ms Hamlyn.
‘It’s okay, really,’ she bounces up, energetically. Young, long-limbed, with overgrown puppy legs, cropped brown hair and wide, caramel eyes. According to the introductory letter we were sent, she started working at the school this term and she seems to have all the enthusiasm and eagerness to please of the newly employed. ‘Dylan’s been telling us all about dinosaurs, haven’t you, Dylan?’
Dylan nods.
‘He knows a lot about them,’ she adds.
I smile. ‘Dylan knows all there is to know about dinosaurs, don’t you?’ I ruffle his hair proudly.
‘He had a little accident, I’m afraid,’ Ms Hamlyn whispers in my ear as we’re leaving. ‘We have some spare underwear, but it would be a good idea if you could put an extra pair of pants in his bag tomorrow and a plastic bag.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ I say, feeling like an even worse mother than before. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. He never normally—’
‘It’s not a problem,’ she interrupts. ‘It happens all—’ She breaks off because another mother has appeared to pick up her son. It’s Georgia, the woman I spoke to this morning.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she breezes in, pushing a pram, her brown hair flying. ‘You must think I’m always late. I’m really not. It’s just I had a check-up at the clinic for the baby and I had to wait longer than I thought I would.’
‘It’s okay,’ says Ms Hamlyn, cooing over the baby. ‘We’ve been having a great time, haven’t we kids? And they’ve been good as gold.’ She folds their pictures and puts them into their book bags.
‘Oh, hello, it’s you,’ says Georgia, noticing me properly for the first time. She does a double take. ‘Didn’t you have brown hair this morning?’
I nod and pat my hair self-consciously. ‘Yes, I just felt like a bit of a change.’
‘Well, it looks great.’
‘Thank you.’
As we head across the school yard, I fall into step beside Georgia, glancing into the pram at her sleeping baby. It’s wearing blue with a pattern of yellow flowers. I’m guessing that it’s a girl.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ I hazard.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘She’s gorgeous when she’s asleep. But oh my God, she doesn’t sleep at night. She must’ve woken six times at least last night! And my husband’s no good – he just snores though it all.’
Georgia launches into a description of her baby’s sleeping patterns and a long complaint about her husband who is a workaholic and apparently is never at home to help with the baby, while her son, Harry, and Dylan run around us, weaving in and out and shooting imaginary guns. I’m only listening with half an ear. I’m wondering if she’s seen the photofit yet and if she has, why she’s still being so friendly. Clearly, she’s still unaware of my status as murder suspect, because the next thing she says is:
‘Our boys seem to get on really well, don’t they? I was wondering if you and Dylan would like to come round one day? Harry’s got a new trampoline.’
I look at Dylan and Harry who are giggling wildly.
‘Sure,’ I say, trying not to sound too eager. ‘Would you like that, Dylan? Would you like to go to Harry’s to play one day?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, barely listening.
‘That’s settled, then. How about this Saturday? Are you free?’ Georgia suggests.
‘Um, well, he’s with his dad this weekend, but I’m sure we can arrange something—’
‘Great,’ Georgia carries on talking. ‘It seems like a really good school, doesn’t it?’ she says, and then goes on to tell me that she doesn’t know many people in the area yet because they’ve only just moved here and how her husband has got a new job in town.
We part at the school gate, after exchanging phone numbers and then I drive home with Dylan sitting in the back, singing tunelessly to himself some song he’s probably learned at school.
At home, I dump our bags in the hallway and while Dylan scampers off to the living room and turns on the TV, I check my phone. There are a couple of missed calls from my mother. No doubt she’s seen the news. I don’t phone back. I can’t face talking to her just now. She has an uncanny ability to turn a crisis into a full-blown calamity. There’s a message from Gaby too, suggesting we meet one day in the week for a coffee. I answer, saying, yes, I’d love to! And then I check Ophelia Black’s notifications. There are a couple of new likes and another message from George Wilkinson in Wisconsin.
I should probably just ignore it. He’s clearly some kind of nutcase.
