*

Pax hadn’t appreciated how spaced-out on plum gin and lack of sleep she was until gripped by an overwhelming desire to throw the guitar tuition flyers on the reception desk at Auriol Bullock and tell her to fuck off for being so offhand. Lester, old school when it came to competitive hip flasks, clearly dosed his mix with pure ethanol. The dressage measure had ridden roughshod over her straight thinking.

Now safely outside, gulping cool air, she regretted not taking Luca’s advice to eat something, or at least drink coffee. Her mouth tasted of toothpaste, still undercut with a burn of bile from making herself throw up before she’d come out. But he didn’t know about that.

Pax could hear him speaking Italian on his phone in the Noddy car. Her stomach squirmed and churned all the more. Reluctant to share confined space with the multi-lingual Puritan again so soon, she was now battling an urge to run away across the village green. Half a mile of his driving had already made her car sick. She was mortified by his hairy humanity in close proximity.

Take charge, she told herself furiously. You’re not the child here. Your son is.

When she wrenched open the passenger door, he looked up from his phone in surprise mid-call, finger sliding across the mic hole. ‘That was quick.’

‘I’m not sending my son here.’

She threw her bag inside, looking back as a voice shouted from the pathway, ‘Wait!’

A silver-and-pink-haired woman in glasses was running towards her.

‘I’m so, so sorry, Mrs Forsyth,’ she swung through the gate, ‘Mrs Bollock – I mean Bullock – is snowed under with appointments today.’

‘She was incredibly offhand.’

‘Entirely my fault! I mistook you for the – um – the nit lady. Total jobsworth; evil with a comb. But the kids love her!’ she added, flustered, hurrying across the car park, wincing as she turned a high heel.

‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not coming in. Sorry.’

‘You are so going to regret this.’ The pink-tipped woman wasn’t giving up. ‘Sure, it’s a great little school. At least have a look round. I make a cracking cup of coffee – and we give away free pens. I’m Bridge…’ She gazed imploringly across the car roof. Inside, Luca was talking on the phone in Italian again.

Pax eyed the pink-haired woman, who looked endearingly bonkers, like a dark-hearted Alice from Vicar of Dibley, with a huge, fuchsia-painted lower lip.

‘Bring your husband in this time, why doncha?’ She’d leant down to wave at Luca through the window where he was still jabbering in Italian. She resurfaced, pink-faced. ‘Only that’s not your husband, that’s the Horsemaker.’

‘How d’you know Luca?’

‘Long story, so it is!’ Brash and direct, her accent was shot through with Belfast good humour that was comfortingly familiar, a reminder of a friend Pax had known years ago, a teenage bond in extremis. ‘Are you coming back or what?’

‘What did you say your name was again?’ Pax asked her.