At break time, Veronica skimmed through some of the children’s books and noted that Amelia was neither at the top nor the bottom of the class. She was not one of the children that the PE teacher had told her was especially athletic, nor one that the singing teacher had said would soon enough be on the radio. Peeking through the classroom window, she saw that she was not the best or worst at cartwheels in the playground, nor the funniest, nor naughtiest, nor the most or least popular. But there was something about her. She was one of only three children in Year 2 to have already moved on to Year 3 reading books, but Veronica didn’t think that was it. And it was only at the end of the day when the parents lined up at the door – she had decided on hellos and handshakes – that Veronica finally put two and two together and realised why Amelia had affected her so strangely.

“Sarah?”

Sarah Beckham, née Johnson, stood, clearly stunned, just outside the classroom door. Aside from the elegantly cut suit, and the hair that was a few shades lighter and far more manicured than when they’d last met, Veronica could have been looking at the exact same girl she’d known twenty-two years earlier. Her jaw was a little sharper than it had been, she was, as age dictated, significantly taller, a few faint lines dotted her complexion, and she had finally got the hang of make-up, but her essence was unchanged. There was no mistaking it.

“Sarah Johnson?”

“Beckham, now,” Sarah replied, finding her voice through the surprise. “Veronica.”

“I can’t believe you’re here.” Despite first-day protocol, Veronica pulled Sarah into a fierce hug, ignoring the slight awkwardness in Sarah’s returning arms, and the curious eyes of the onlooking parents. “We were best friends when we were twelve,” Veronica told them. Then to Sarah, “It’s been what, more than twenty years?”

Sarah nodded. “I can’t believe you’re Amelia’s teacher. You teach now?”

“I do.”

“Wow.” Sarah shook her head as she took this in, her blonde-brown bob flapping endearingly against her chin.

“And you?” probed Veronica. “You have a child.”

“Two actually. My son’s at home.”

“Typical.”

“Typical?”

“Leaving the boy at home. You always were a feminist.”

“He’s eighteen months,” said Sarah quickly. But already one of the other parents in the queue had laughed. Another smiled, impatiently, and at least three more strained their necks forward in an effort to hear the conversation and not be left out of any potential judging of, or bonding with, the new teacher.

Veronica wanted to bond. Talking to Sarah was all at once like rediscovering a forgotten but favourite taste, teasing her tongue with familiar and delectable flavour. And the confident girl Veronica had once been, oblivious to things like life and miscarriages, the child who had once basked in Sarah’s friendship, was bubbling gleefully to the surface. Veronica heard her in the slightly impudent words tripping out of her mouth. She felt her resurgence, just out of grasp. Within her grasp, she placed her hand on Sarah’s, and leaned out of the classroom to the queue of parents. “Apologies, everyone.” Then keeping hold of her friend’s hand, she called Amelia to come to her mother. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “It’s so lovely to find you here.”