‘Ssstop,’ the honeyed voice whispered, a slight slur to it that made Bridge think of those drawling voices from Made in Chelsea. Too posh to talk proper, her mum would say.

A small boy hurtled past on the way to the loo, breaking into a walk as he drew level with them, nodding a polite head, then pelting on.

‘This place,’ Bridge confessed in an urgent whisper, ‘it makes you believe that not all’s wrong in the world, you know? Even though this is like the weirdest interview ever, and the Head’s barking mad – and don’t worry, I know you’re never going to send your kid here – I still want this job. It matters. That gut thing’s going on, you know?’ She tapped her belly. It was busy, butterflies galore, although in fairness most had been airborne since Ash had told her he couldn’t be trusted around her. ‘Crazy, is it not?’

‘I know exactly that gut thing.’ The eyes intensified, curious.

Bridge had heard so much about Pax Forsyth from the Bags and Carly, it had never occurred to her that she might like her. There was something about her which made her an instant confidante, that dangerous edge women recognise in one another, the ballet dance along blades.

‘Intuition and indigestion feel different, don’t they?’ Bridge whispered.

‘I can never work it out.’

‘You’re a horsewoman. Stand up in your stirrups and gallop; you never want it to end, do you? It’s just the same thing standing in your heels, knowing exactly what you want.’

‘I’m not that person.’

‘Sure, you are,’ Bridge insisted, infused with such certainty she rocked back on her own heels. ‘We all are. The only thing that stops any of us is not believing it.’

The freckled face coloured, eyes bright, listening to the babble in the classrooms, the loud, amused voice of the teachers, the shared laughter and chatter. They looked at each other in a brief, unguarded moment, skirted by pegs at hip height, and friendship clicked.

‘I have the gut thing today, too,’ Pax said incredulously.

‘Trust it,’ Bridge urged, although looking at her, she did worry Pax might be feeling a bit dyspeptic. She looked as if she was going hot and cold, her cheeks red-stained now, dizziness in her eyes.

‘I shouldn’t trust myself with anything today.’ She turned to look at the art on the walls, hallucinogenic interpretations of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

When they finally located Reception’s classroom, the children that Bridge had seen lined up in clean smocks half an hour earlier had mutated into sand-crusted, paint-splattered Picassos, devoting their creative talents to brightly coloured grainy masterpieces. Despite big plastic smocks, paint dripped from hands and faces, and their form teacher had a Frida Kahlo-monobrow paint smudge.

‘We’re experimenting with texture,’ the teacher announced cheerfully, stepping back as a small boy charged past trailing red sand. ‘Walk, Ellis Turner! Picasso walked! Matisse walked. Turners walk.’

‘That’s my friend’s boy,’ Bridge told Pax as Ellis apologised and went into an exaggerated tiptoe creep to his easel, making his classmates laugh.