AS SOON AS I arrive at school, I am presented with an opportunity to put my new nonconfrontational manner to the test. “We discourage parents from going into classrooms,” a receptionist I’ve never seen before tells me, standing in front of me to block my way.

Since when? I’ve been into both Sophie’s and Ethan’s classrooms many times. No one’s ever complained.

“It’s emotionally disruptive for the children if a parent suddenly pops up during lesson time,” she explains. “Some of them think, ‘Oh look, Mum or Dad’s here—they can take me home,’ and get very upset when Mum or Dad disappears again, leaving them behind.”

“I promise you Ethan won’t be upset.” I smile hopefully at her. “He’ll just be pleased and relieved to have his gym bag.” And, obviously, since he wants it for gym this afternoon, he won’t, on having it handed to him, expect to leave school immediately and miss the PE lesson that he needs it for, you stupid cow. “There’s really no downside to letting me take it to him myself, honestly,” I add in what I hope is a wholly positive tone of voice. “It’ll save you a job too.”

“Nicki!” a high-pitched female voice calls out, one that would be better suited to a cheerleader than a head teacher. Correction: headmistress.

I sag with relief, knowing that everything is about to be all right. Kate Zilber is here: five foot short, petite as a ten-year-old, the most indiscreet person in professional employment that I’ve ever met. Kate refuses to be referred to as “principal” or “head”; “headmistress” is her title, prominently engraved on the sign on her office door, and she insists that people use it. She once described herself to me as a megalomaniac; I soon discovered that she wasn’t exaggerating.

“Is that Ethan’s PE bag?” she says. “It’s OK, Izzie, we can bend the rules on this occasion. Actually, I can bend them whenever it suits me, since I run the place—perk of the job. We don’t want Nicki worrying about whether the bag was safely delivered, do we?”

Izzie shrugs ungraciously and returns to her desk.

Kate pulls me out of the office and into an empty corridor. Once we’re alone, she says, “And the chances of it being safely delivered by Izzie are slim. She’s a lobotomy on legs.”

“Really?” I must stop questioning everything she says. I keep assuming she’s joking, but she never is. I’m not used to people who work in primary schools speaking their minds in the way Kate Zilber does. Still, Freeth Lane is well known to be the best independent school in the Culver Valley, and Kate’s the person responsible for that. She could probably pelt the parents and governors with rotten eggs and get away with it.