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I stand back and pull out my phone, my ears tuning into their conversation.
‘I heard she was a…you know…aprostitute,’ one of the mums is saying. ‘Meeting a client there. And it all went wrong. You hear about that kind of thing, don’t you? They’re vulnerable women, aren’t they? Doing that kind of work.’
I glance at the mum who’s spoken. She shakes her head sadly, but her eyes are bright with relish. I take in her heavily made-up face, the golden hair tied up in a neat bun. The heels that can’t be comfortable when you’re chasing after children. I have no doubt that she drove here, even though the school’s tight catchment area means most of us live within walking distance.
‘I don’t think they call themselvesprostitutesany more,’ the mum with dark cascading curls says. ‘I think they call themselvesescorts.’ She nudges the mum next to her. ‘As if that makes a difference. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’
‘It does make you wonder what kind of life she was living to end up that way,’ the third mum says. ‘Thank God she didn’t have any kids.’
I’ve heard enough. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ I spit. ‘It’s shameful and disgusting to gossip about someone who’s dead.’
Although they all stare at me, their lipsticked mouths hanging open, no one says a word. And with the silence hoveringover us, I turn back to my phone, once again pretending to be engrossed in something.
‘What’s your problem?’ the loud one with the mum bun says, after a few moments. ‘We were just talking about it. Ever heard of free speech?’
‘There’s a difference between free speech and vicious gossip,’ I say. ‘How about just having some respect?’
She opens her mouth to respond but quickly changes her mind and turns away, tutting and shaking her head. The conversation resumes, but this time, fully aware of my presence, they turn their attention to discussing the upcoming PTA Halloween disco.
By the time the school gates open, the crowd of parents has expanded and we all move forward in unison, like a wave creeping up to the shore.
I stand apart from everyone else and wait for Poppy’s class to come out. It feels as though everyone is staring at me. Of course they’re not, most of the parents here are too consumed with the conversations they’re having, or their phones, to pay any attention to me, yet guilt wraps around me, a flashing beacon, highlighting that I’m not like anyone else here.Somehow I’m connected to Alice Hughes.
I know something important about the case that the police should know. Yet I can’t go to them. Not until I’ve spoken to Max.
I’m so distracted by these thoughts that I don’t notice Poppy has come out until she’s rushing towards me, her bunches flying in the air. ‘Mummy!’ she calls, throwing herself into my arms. It delights me that even in Year 1 she’s still so happy to see me at the end of the day. I hold her tightly, cherishing that she’s here in my arms. Keeping me grounded. This is my reality. I can’t let anything else be. ‘Have you had a good day, sweetheart?’
She nods. ‘What snack did you bring?’
I reach into my bag and pull out a packet of strawberry Yoyos. ‘Here you go. We’re picking up Ivy today too. She’s coming back with us for a sleepover.’
‘Yay!’ Poppy exclaims, darting back to where the teachers are still dismissing children. She and Ivy are in different classes this year, much to both girls’ dismay. When we found out the classes would be mixed this year, I was concerned about Poppy missing her friend, but she’s blown me away with how easily she’s formed friendships with other children. Ivy, though, has struggled, and still seeks out Poppy whenever the two classes can mix at playtimes.
Ivy appears from behind her teacher, who points to me and lets her go. ‘Am I coming home with you?’ she asks. ‘The teacher told me, but Mummy didn’t say anything.’
‘You certainly are,’ I say, mustering all the enthusiasm I can manage. ‘It was a last-minute plan. Isn’t that great?’ I hand her the spare packet of Yoyos I always carry in my bag, and she snatches it without thanking me. ‘You’re welcome,’ I say.
‘Thank you, Hannah.’
Ivy hands me her book bag and water bottle and grabs Poppy’s hand. The two girls walk ahead of me, their heads bent together as they laugh and chat.
I’m forced to jog to keep up with them, and I’m so focused on not losing sight of them that I almost bump into a passer-by.
‘Sorry,’ I say, not daring to look away from the girls.
‘’S’okay,’ a voice I recognise says.
I glance up, but he’s already walked past and I can’t see his face. But I recognise his clothes: the jeans and black puffa jacket. The ones belonging to the man I spoke to outside the River Walk earlier.
I turn to watch him. He can’t be a parent at the school – surely I would have seen him before. But I don’t have a chance to dwell on this; Poppy and Ivy are already too far ahead of me,so I sprint to catch them up before they reach the main road. Whoever that man is, I push it aside. I don’t have the headspace to worry about anything else right now.
Having Ivy at home with us is a welcome distraction. The girls’ laughter floats around the house, forcing me to live in this moment and banish all other thoughts. And the more I focus on this, the less the key card seems real.
But it sits in my bag – waiting to be dealt with, so it’s only a matter of time before reality comes crashing back.
‘Come on, Ivy – let’s play outside,’ Poppy says, pulling on her coat and rushing out to the garden. Nothing keeps Poppy inside – not even icy winter temperatures. Ivy follows, running to keep up, her coat dragging on the ground behind her as they bound towards the sandpit. It’s always this way with the girls. Poppy leading and Ivy following, unquestioning.
As I stand by the kitchen window, watching them playing in the garden, bundled up in their coats and gloves, I check the local news on my phone. Alice Hughes is everywhere on the local forums and news sites, and her smiling face silently pleads with me. To do what? I don’t know anything.
