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I walk over to Mrs Robinson, hold out my hand and lie through my teeth. “Lovely to see you again.”

I can do this for Claire. I can be cordial for Claire.

Though is that what she’d want? She’s barely spoken to her mother since that lunch, and I know she’s talking to her therapist about it, but the pair of us have never talked through what would happen if one of us bumped into her.

“You too, Tom,” Mrs Robinson smiles at me, and I’m so surprised I nearly drop her hand. “I’m looking forward to the presentation. Claire had mentioned your proposal, she sounded impressed by the work.”

My stomach drops.

Claire knew?

The way Mrs Robinson phrased that makes it sound like she does.

Mrs Robinson continues speaking as though she hasn’t just detonated a bomb in my chest. “I saw your name on the email they sent out and I’m sure your presentation will be good. I know how passionate you are about your work.”

I try to work out whether that was a dig, but her face is open and she looks sincere.

Before I can say anything, Marina claps her hands and gestures me to the front. I walk back behind the stand, my pulse hammering so loudly I can almost hear it echo against the walls.

Clearing my throat, I smile at the row of expectant faces, and start.

The words come automatically, the speech I’ve practised enough times that I can thankfully remember the places where I need to smile and the places where I need to turn and gesture at the screen. I discuss benefits of sports for children, the current state of sports facilities in the local area, government figures about child health. Then I frame the benefits for Ashcroft. Finally I show the finance figures, stamped with Alicia’s seal of approval.

I end with some anecdotes about the charity where I teach, trying not to look at Mrs Robinson. I catch her in the corner of my eye, was that a smile? I’m not sure. It could have been a polite sneer.

I know this inside out. But I still feel off-kilter, because halfway down the table sits Claire’s mother, watching me, waiting for me to trip up.

When the floor opens for questions, I brace myself for Mrs Robinson to tear me apart.

“You mentioned opportunities for students at Ashcroft within this programme. Could you elaborate?”

I nod at the man who asked the question and explain the plan: involving some of our sixth form students in teaching the sports sessions with younger state school kids during outreach events. It’s a small commitment for them, but a real chance to build leadership skills. I flick to the slides where I’ve included interviews with a few current students, all of them were unanimously keen.

“In conclusion, it benefits our students by giving them space to grow and take initiative.”

A few nods ripple around the table.

“Does the budget includes new equipment? Are we funding that as well?” a woman in a silk blouse asks.

I fight the urge to frown. I knew money would come up, though I did cover it in the presentation.

“We already have most of the necessary equipment at the school,” I say evenly. “Though I’m aware that with extra use, it’ll need replacing more often. Like I meantioned, I actually volunteer with a football outreach programme during weekends, and they connected me with the team that runs community grants for projects like this. I’ve already spoken to them, and they’re happy to provide an equipment grant which should cover almost all of the costs so it will involve minimal expense for the school.”

She nods. I keep my smile fixed, waiting for Mrs Robinson to speak. But she says nothing. A man taps his pen against the mahogany table. A few more hands raise, all simple questions, and then the presentation draws to a close.

Marina thanks me, and I start packing up. As I leave Mrs Robinson looks like she’s about to stand, but then the next agenda item is announced and she settles back into her seat.

I gather my laptop in a daze. Throughout it all Claire’s mum never said a word. Somehow, that feels more unsettling than if she had.

As I walk down the now empty corridors of the school, I’m still filled with adrenaline. But for none of the right reasons. I should be euphoric. Months of work, and the room actually listened. Instead my brain keeps snagging on one sentence, playing it on a loop like a Year 9 who’s just discovered the word basically.

Claire had mentioned your proposal.

So they’ve talked about my proposal. Claire has spoken to her mother—the woman she’s barely talking to—about my proposal. Which means at some point, her mum being on that board would have come up.

Except Claire would have told me. I know she would.

Wouldn’t she?