Rose

‘Pierre has started carrying a log around the house,’ I say, getting straight to the point as I take off my YSL jacket and hang it up, so Mimi, who is rather accident-prone, and doesn’t notice stains on her own clothes so won’t worry about soiling mine, won’t spill anything on it.

‘Mmm,’ says Mimi.

‘When I ask him why he’s carrying a log under his arm, like Paris Hilton carrying Tinkerbell, he just says, “For goodness’ sake, Rose, why do you think I’m carrying a log?” Then I start noticing that it’s always the same log, with silvery bark, sort of peeling off. I’d recognize that log anywhere. I’m beginning to see more of the log than I do of my own daughter.’

Instead of joining in and validating me about how irritating Pierre is at the moment, she howls with laughter.

We are splitting a raspberry flapjack over coffee at our crisis meeting at That New Place, the only café within a radius of about ten miles that serves fluffy coffee, still called That New Place even though it opened we think some time in the eighties, when morning coffee meant Nescafé, if you were lucky, and a digestive, rather than a freshly ground Fairtrade cappuccino accompanied by a Honeybuns gluten-free polenta cranberry shortbread slice.

I’d taken Ceci to Acland’s, the secondary school in Godminster, which is co-ed, progressive, well run and beacon-status but, most importantly, if you are the sole breadwinner with a home business to run and an artist husband to support, completely free. Mimi had taken Mirabel, Cas and Spike, whose mother is Sophy Mills, a hippie herbalist. Sophy doesn’t drive, fly, indeed do anything that depletes the fragile earth’s finite resources. Sophy makes her own clothes, forages and lives in a yurt.

Not that we would ever admit this to Sophy, but we came in two cars. We could, we both know, share the school run; but we also both know that school runs can end female friendships faster than running off with your best friend’s husband or poaching a friend’s nanny – so we are not rushing into anything, yet.

Mimi rang after school yesterday to see if we could meet. I was sterilizing a huge batch of Le Parfait jars in the dishwasher for glasses in the pantry for the next batch of my legendary Plum and Rhubarb Compote, so I had to run to catch it.

‘We have a crisis on our hands,’ she said, not asking if it was a good time, or if I was busy, or why I was panting. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes,’ I said, as Ceci was upstairs doing homework, I hoped, in her bedroom, and Pierre was out in the fields, looking for flints. Useless.

‘What is it?’

‘Well,’ Mimi said slowly, ‘I’m afraid I found the girls with some magazines. It’s terribly worrying.’

‘Oh Lord,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me. Oral sex! Oral sex with animals!! What?’

‘No,’ said Mimi. ‘Worse. Meet me in That New Place at 9.15.’