The People at Number 9

As they stood together afterwards, drinking instant coffee from polystyrene cups, Sara was astonished by Lou’s effusiveness.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” she said.

“Oh?” Sara dragged her gaze from the clusters of muttering, Boden-clad parents dotted around the room and forced herself to focus on Lou’s beaming face.

“I can see the kids just blossoming here,” she said, “there’s such a buzz. It makes me absolutely certain we’ve done the right thing moving back.”

“I’m glad,” said Sara. She felt vindicated, now, in her decision not to worry Lou and Gavin with the news of the bad OFSTED. She couldn’t imagine what kind of regime the kids had been subjected to in Spain – some draconian hangover from Franco’s time, perhaps – but if they thought Cranmer Road was a happy seedbed for their young, then who was Sara to disagree? Unfortunately, a dissenter was already heaving into view.

Celia Harris was a sweet woman without political nous or cynicism. She and Sara had bonded at the nursery gate and Caleb and Rhys had been close friends ever since. Celia was a Cranmer Road stalwart. She had overseen fundraisers and socials and accompanied every school trip that either of her bright, speccy children had ever been on. The news of the OFSTED report would, Sara knew, have hit Celia like a hammer blow. She loved the school, but she loved her children more. Like a football player who would lay down his life for his club until moved to a rival team, Celia’s allegiance, though fierce, was also fickle. And seeing her now, brow knitted, flat, conker-coloured boots squeaking over the parquet, Sara could tell that she was already on the transfer list.

“Sara, hi,” she said, grasping Sara by the elbow and leading her out of Lou’s earshot. All the time they were talking, Sara could see Lou over Celia’s shoulder, sipping her coffee and trying to conceal her curiosity.

“I was thinking,” Lou said, later, her hands at ten and two on the vast steering wheel of the Humber as she drove them all home, “Gavin should go in and do some art with the kids sometime. He’d get a real kick out of it.”

“Yeah,” said Sara, “definitely.”

It had been three weeks since Sara left work and four since she had entrusted her novella to Lou for some critical feedback. Her first day of freedom was spent billowing duvets and scouring mildew off the shower curtain. When Neil had asked her, on his return from work, how the book was going, she reminded him sharply that she was writing a novel, not a board paper. The next day, after rearranging her desk a number of times, experimenting with the height of her chair and opening and closing the window, she sat down purposefully in front of the computer to re-read Safekeeping.

She had finished the closing paragraph with a sigh of satisfaction. It wasn’t half bad, for a first draft. In fact, its competence was, in a way, its main problem. She knew that what she had written was only the skeleton of a larger, more ambitious work that she must flesh out and bring to life, but it was hard to see, from her very partial standpoint, where she should insert new material, and what, if anything, could go. She had heard the phrase “kill your darlings”, but there was barely a line in it that she wasn’t a little in love with, so that would mean dumping the lot. She really did need Lou’s feedback now, and, despite her reluctance to hassle her friend, whom she knew to be struggling with creative decisions of her own, she decided to take the bull by the horns.

She knocked and rang next door to no avail. However, the Humber was parked outside, and when she peered through the letterbox, she caught a distinct whiff of toast, so, finding the door unlocked, she decided to take her chance.

“Hi? Only me…” She pushed open the kitchen door. The room was empty. Four crumby plates stood on the table, one of which had a mashed cigarette stub on its rim. There was a heady perfume hanging in the air and an unfamiliar suede jacket slung over the back of one of the chairs. They had company. She was about to leave with even greater stealth than she had come, when she heard footsteps tripping lightly up the basement stairs.

“White, one sugar; black without…” Lou was muttering, like a mantra, under her breath. “Oh my God, Sara! You frightened the life out of me.”

“Sorry, you did say if there was no answer I should... Listen, you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it.”

“That’s okay, we were just having a coffee break. Why don’t you join us?”

There was a difference in Lou that Sara couldn’t put her finger on. Her appearance was as carelessly stylish as ever – hi-tops, threadbare jeans, a hip-length kimono over a skimpy vest – but it was less her appearance than her demeanour that had changed. She had a slightly self-conscious air, as though acting a part in one of her own films. Watching her, Sara could almost read the stage directions: Lou loads the coffee percolator and stands on tiptoe to reach the cups from the shelf. She is a sexy young woman in the prime of life.

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