“What happened to Amelia’s art?” she asked abruptly into the silence.

Veronica spun around. “Oh I know, I’m so sorry, I must have misplaced it somewhere.” She smiled. “It was very good too so such a shame not to be featured in the magazine. But luckily it’s turned up now. These things usually do.”

“When are you going to tell me what you’ve put in your report?” said Sarah.

“Oh Sarah,” Veronica sang. (It was almost Sawah, almost.) “I told you, it’s not urgent anymore. All the parents will be receiving an email this week about next year’s arrangements, so everything you need to know will be in there. We can chat after that if you like?”

“So it’s written? The report. You’ve done it?”

“Yes,” smiled Veronica. “And I’m so sorry, but I have to rush now, I have an appointment.”

And she hurried away. Just like that. Without consequence. Without care. Without any idea what she had caused or what might be coming.

Simone

The social worker at the door is a mistake. Something must have got mixed up in the paperwork. It isn’t Polly. This woman doesn’t have a clue. Maybe there’s been another complaint, something separate. But the woman sees the panicked urgency in Simone’s eyes; she understands.

“I already spoke to Polly last week,” Simone rebuffs, angrily for Terry’s benefit. He is hovering behind her with his hand on her waist. “Who’s called you this time? Was it the neighbours again? You know they’re just wasting your time, just trying to cause us trouble.” Only with her eyes can she communicate truthfully with the woman: say nothing, say nothing, talk to Polly.

Polly has arranged it all. She came to the gym the same afternoon that Simone called her, and she took her to the police station where photos were taken of her wrists and her face and the other places where bruises remained. It had taken three days for Simone to summon the courage to make that call, and because of the delay her injuries weren’t as evident as they could have been, but she’d needed time. Even reclaiming Polly’s card from the bottom of her drawer had felt like a dangerous act of espionage. Her heart had been racing as she’d stuffed it into her bra, listening for the sounds of Terry’s footsteps, but somehow she’d managed it. At the police station, Polly had told her that there was a women’s shelter in Camden that would take them, and she urged Simone to go at once, that day; but Terry had Jasmine. Since the incident over the weekend he had been making amends again – another turn of the never-ending wheel of promises that Simone finally saw in full colour – and it would have been impossible to reject that without raising his suspicion. He had made a whole show of facilitating her work. She could put in for a longer shift, he’d told her, he’d stay off the booze, and he would have Jasmine, properly this time. She had to seem pleased about that. She had to be grateful. She couldn’t suddenly return from work early or take Jasmine out without him. Besides, by that time in the afternoon, she wouldn’t have been able to intercept Dominic before he got home from school. And they had things to collect from the flat. Nothing irreplaceable, but enough to furnish what she imagined was going to be a stark if not run-down room at the refuge. She remembered how important those homely items had felt when she first moved onto the estate with Noah.