Kate couldn’t help staring; its impracticality was something alien to her. This coat did not look like it would tolerate rain or mud or public transport and would positively baulk at a practical backpack clinging to its back like a crusty, aged limpet. The coat’s owner did not notice Kate, didn’t seem to be aware of much but her own self and her offspring. So distracted was she by this woman and her outer garments, Kate reached for her glass of wine without looking and accidentally knocked it over. A large red pool spread across the white tablecloth and dripped onto the floor.

Mortified, Kate inwardly cursed – so clumsy! – but a quick glance up reassured her no one had really noticed.

‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ asked Becky and Kate nodded. She saw a pile of paper napkins on one of the tables on the edges of the room, a table full of spares: several extra bottles of wine stood sentry-like, should their services be required. Kate went over and grabbed a handful of napkins and then got on her hands and knees and started to mop up the wine on the floor.

‘Excuse me,’ a crisp voice cut over to her. Kate looked up.

‘Yes, you.’ It was the woman in the pink coat.

‘I’m afraid we have a little spillage here, too,’ she said, pointing at a spot on the floor with her foot.

Kate’s gaze rested on the puddle of liquid, her face the same level as the pointing shoe. For a moment, she didn’t understand.

The woman was looking at her expectantly, with a hint of impatience. Kate suddenly realized the woman was waiting for her to act so she could go back to her conversation undisturbed. The woman obviously thought Kate was some sort of staff member. A cleaner-upper. Someone below herself in status.

Becky was frowning, and Kate felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She ignored the woman and slowly got up and sat back at her table. One or two people next to her glanced around, maybe even rolled their eyes, but no one said anything.

The woman realized her faux pas. Then she laughed at her silliness and turned her pink-clad back. No apology. No acknowledgement of her rudeness. No embarrassment.

Just dismissal.

During the headmistress’s speech, Kate’s humiliation blossomed into anger and she cut the woman (who she would later learn was called Julia Cromwell, as her daughter, Violet, would be in Becky’s class) several daggerlike looks. Not one of which Julia Cromwell noticed.

It was only when Becky began to outshine Violet in her lessons that Julia began to take any notice of either of them.

TWENTY-FOUR

2018

‘Two hundred and forty-seven? Seriously?’ said Kate, wide-eyed.

‘Just goes to show how many budding journalists out there need help.’ Greg put a large tower of paper on the table in front of them. ‘You still up for it?’

‘Course. How many are we narrowing it down to?’

‘Depends on how many you want to interview – and, of course, how many great applicants there are. But I would suggest around fifteen max.’