This Perfect World

by Suzanne Bugler

  I nod, and keep my face carefully blank.

  ‘Well, it has been sold, and now it’s going to be used as a refuge for asylum seekers!’ She sits back, breathing hard. ‘Isn’t that just awful?’

  ‘It’s just awful,’ Tasha echoes beside her, looking pale and frail and beautiful.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. And I’m thinking Oh shit! Part of me wants to laugh, but then I somehow miss the moment. They’re both looking at me with matching expressions of tragedy and outrage. And they’re waiting for me to say something more than just Oh. ‘Well, is that all?’ I say. ‘I thought you were going to tell me something awful.’

  Penny tuts and blinks her eyes dismissively, and Tasha says, ‘It is awful. We spent a fortune on our house, and now it’ll be worthless with a load of asylum seekers living opposite.’

  ‘Yes,’ Penny says. ‘I mean, how would you feel if it was in your road, Laura? You’d never be able to sell your house. You’d never be able to let your children outside your front door without worrying about asylum seekers crawling around all over the place!’

  I ought to tell them I made it up. I ought to laugh and say Hey, girls, it was a joke. I only said it to wind up the Littlewoods and the Borrels. You should have seen their faces! And then we’d laugh and laugh.

  Only I don’t think they would laugh. Their faces look much like those other faces all puffed up and boggle-eyed around my dining table.

  ‘It might not be that bad,’ I say, somewhat lamely.

  ‘Of course it’ll be that bad!’ Penny snaps.

  And Tasha says in this slow, quiet voice that’s designed to really drive things home, ‘Laura, do you have any idea how much we paid for our house?’

  I can feel my face getting hot. When Tasha speaks like that it makes me want to slap her, friend or no friend. Suddenly I don’t want to tell them it was a joke. I want to let them sweat it out for a whole lot longer. I force myself to smile sympathetically. ‘Why don’t we order some lunch?’ I say, but Tasha closes her eyes in disgust.

  ‘I couldn’t eat a thing,’ she says.

  ‘Me neither,’ bleats Penny.

  And so I have to sit there just nursing a coffee until it’s time to escape and collect Arianne. And I listen to them, and the things that they’re saying, and I find myself wondering What kind of friends do I have?

  The answer that comes back to me is cold and unwelcome. The friends that I have are the friends that I deserve.

  Even James is not amused.

  ‘I ran into Rupert Searle on the train,’ he tells me over supper a couple of nights later. ‘He’s not a happy man.’

  I raise my eyebrows over my wine glass and say nothing.

  ‘He told me it had come to his attention that the property opposite them is to be used to house asylum seekers,’ James says.

  ‘So what did you say?’

  James shrugs one shoulder. ‘I said, “Oh dear, that’s tough.”’ He pauses to spear an artichoke and stick it in his mouth. ‘Apparently he’s thinking of enlisting a lawyer.’

  ‘It was only a joke,’ I say, but James isn’t laughing. He’s studying me with this dark, remote look in his eyes, like he’s trying to suss me out.

  ‘Rupert Searle doesn’t think it’s a joke,’ he says.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell him?’

  James takes a long, slow sip of his wine, and puts down his glass. ‘I think that’s up to you, Laura, don’t you?’ he says. ‘This is your little game, after all.’

  When we first bought this house we made love in every room, except Thomas’s of course, and Arianne wasn’t born then. It took us over a week, including bathrooms. And it was the best sex ever, slamming against sinks, and walls and tiles.

  When it came to the turn of the living room we lay on the sofa afterwards, surrounded by all the boxes we’d still to unpack.

  ‘Do you think this is the sort of thing they do here in Ashton?’ I asked into his chest.

  ‘I should think most definitely not,’ he replied, and I felt so close to him then, as close as I ever could.

  It seems like a very long time ago.

  FIFTEEN

  It’s my job to do the class list at school. You know, that precious A4 sheet with all the children’s names on, and next to them their parents’ names, their addresses and phone numbers. The idea, of course, is that it makes organizing your child’s social life so much easier if you have everyone’s details all ready to hand. For example, if Thomas says he wants to invite Ben home for tea and I don’t happen to know Ben’s mother terribly well, I can just look on the list and there she is, name and phone number. So easy.

  Only there’s a lot more to it than that.

  Not everyone is on that list. Oh, all the children are on it, but not all the parents’ names, not all the addresses, and not all the phone numbers. Some of the children have just blank spaces next to their names, and the way we see it in our little town is that there is only one reason for that, and that reason is that their families are not the right sort. If they were the right sort, they would have complied, so that everybody else could look at the list and see that they were the right sort.

  So what you have, by being on this list, is in fact access to an exclusive club. You can see at a glance which children have the right sort of mummies and live at the right sort of addresses, and therefore are the right sort of children for your own child to invite home for tea. For example, if – and this is such an unlikely if – Thomas was to say he wanted to have Brendon Stone home to play, I could take one quick glance at my list and say Oh, I don’t think Brendon is very suitable. Why not have Milo [oh, the joke of it!] or Toby instead?

  And if Thomas was to ask me why Brendon Stone wasn’t suitable, I could reply in a discreet and evasive tone, Because he’s not on the list.

  And heaven knows what Thomas might make of that. That kids whose parents haven’t given their details live in dilapidated, haunted old houses where the parents eat other, nice children (like Thomas) for supper, perhaps. Or maybe that they live in no houses at all. Maybe that those few unfortunate children who are so discriminated against by this useful little scheme just disappear at the end of the school day, as they will eventually disappear from the lives of children like Thomas altogether one day. It’s a filtering system. It starts so young.

  Today I am updating the list because a new girl has joined Thomas’s class, and her parents are obviously familiar with the rules. I have their names (both parents with the same surname – good), their phone numbers (home and mother’s mobile – very keen, very good) and their address (also very good). No doubt little Lydia will have lots of nice new friends inviting her home very soon.

  I wonder if there are class lists at Nathan’s school. I expect there probably are, but I doubt if his details are on one. His name will be one of those with the glaring blank spaces beside it. I think this, and there is a horrible, tight feeling inside my chest as if my heart is being squeezed. And I wonder now what the stories are behind the few unadorned names on Thomas’s class list. I mean, what is going on in their parents’ lives that touting their precious little darlings to all the other parents in this dog-eat-dog convention isn’t top of their to-do list?

  I’ve never given a thought to those other lives before. Before, I’ve just thought of the importance of being in the right club. Because it has always seemed to me that that is the only safe place to be.

  At my junior school we split into two tribes at lunchtime. Packed-lunchers – like me – just went straight into the hall and sat where they liked, but school dinners had to line up with their trays, shuffling along in a queue to get their runny mince and cabbage or whatever doled out, and then try to find somewhere to sit. No one had school dinners if they could help it, except for some of the boys, the kids from the council estate, and Heddy Partridge.

  We’d sit with our neat little sandwiches in our neat little lunch boxes and watch Heddy piling up her plate, face flushed, and eager and ashamed. More mashed potato for Hed
dy Partridge, more custard on that sponge. Then we’d watch her, trying to squeeze her way through the rows of tables to find somewhere to sit, and wherever she sat she was never far away, never too far to hear us snorting and grunting like pigs as she tucked into her scoff. Sometimes we’d make her cry, but she’d still carry on eating, shoving it in through her wobbly lips, tears and snot mixing in with the gravy.

  I tripped her up once. I stuck my foot out as she tried to get past our table, and over she went. Right over, sprawling across people’s backs, sending shepherd’s pie and chocolate pudding flying through the air and splattering everywhere. There was mashed potato in Ashley’s hair; hot chocolate sauce all down Zoe’s back. Everyone screamed, pushing back their chairs. Zoe screamed the loudest, and then she started crying and shaking and had to be taken to the medical room to have ice put on her back.

  Everyone laughed, of course, when they’d stopped screaming. Everyone except Zoe, and those of us who were friends of Zoe. Those of us who were friends of Zoe were angry and disgusted with Heddy, and remained angry and disgusted for a very long time. How would she like it, we kept asking her, if someone poured boiling hot sauce all down her back?

  We had no need of class lists when I was at school. We’d got it all worked out by ourselves.

  Belinda is standing in the doorway at Carole’s when I drop off Arianne, with a clipboard clamped to her chest. On it, in brightly coloured letters, are the words End-of-term celebrations. Oh joy. At school we already have Fiona Littlewood rallying us all over prom parties, and picnics and balloon send-offs – even though it’s weeks until the children break up. And now we have Belinda doing the same, here.

  ‘I’ll speak to you on your way out, Laura,’ she calls after me as I sneak past, trying to ignore her. ‘That’s what I’m doing. I’m catching everyone on their way out.’

  Sure enough, there’s no escape, not for me, not for anyone. She’s blocking the only exit and there’s a queue of women trying to get through.

  ‘Now what can I put you down for?’ she demands when it’s my turn. ‘We’re doing a zoo trip on the Monday, helpers needed. Hampton Court with a picnic on Tuesday, again helpers needed. Wednesday Ruby Bassett’s mum is doing a cordon-bleu cookery demonstration for the children and the mums – you are coming, aren’t you? Thursday we’re having our sports day in the park – mums and dads needed for that one – and Friday we’re having the end-of-term party with a magician, and I’m getting a committee together to arrange a carousel and maybe donkey rides, though I’ll have to keep a bit of an eye on the ticket prices’ – this last said in an exaggerated whisper, just in case there’s anyone around who wasn’t planning to spend their entire holiday budget on all this fun, fun, fun. ‘And we thought we’d do what they’re doing at the school and have a balloon send-off, right at the end. All the children can write their names on a little piece of paper, tie it onto the balloon string, and at the count of three they all let go.’ She pauses for breath and grins at me. ‘I think it’s so sweet when they do that, don’t you?’

  ‘I think it’s awful,’ I say and the grin drops right off her face. ‘I mean, where do all the balloons go? All that plastic, littering up the countryside, choking the birds. What’s it going to be like if every school and nursery up and down the country starts letting balloons go at the end of every year? It’d be an environmental disaster.’

  Behind me someone coughs – I’d forgotten I wasn’t last in the queue, and of course I’m not the only one who just wants to get out of there.

  I watch the colour rise in Belinda’s face as she puffs herself up. ‘It’s not me you should be telling off,’ she says huffily. ‘That bit wasn’t actually my idea. Though I happen to think it is a very good idea, and we shouldn’t start bringing politics into matters concerning children.’

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. She carries on regardless.

  ‘Actually it was your friend Tasha’s idea.’ Boy, she says it with such smug, self-righteous satisfaction. ‘So maybe you should be speaking to her if you have a problem with it. Though I have to say that Tasha has been extremely helpful with the preparations, and I have her name down here on my list’ – she glances at her clipboard – ‘several times, even though she has enough on her plate at the moment, what with being pregnant and having the asylum seekers to deal with—’

  ‘There are no asylum seekers.’ I say it just to shut her up. She tips her head to one side and looks at me for clarification.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says, ‘but I think that you’ll find that there are.’

  ‘And I think you’ll find that there are not. It was a joke, Belinda. I made it up.’ I speak slowly and she stares at me with her mouth hanging open. I can see the metal of her fillings, cluttering up her teeth like a scrapyard. ‘There never were any asylum seekers, Belinda. But just look at how you all reacted.’

  Suddenly the hallway leading out of Carole’s house seems very quiet. Whoever it is behind me who was coughing and sighing so impatiently is now silent, clearly hanging on my every word. It seems to me as if the whole world has drawn in its breath right then, and vaguely, in some far-distant corner of my mind, I wonder what it will be like when there is no one left around here for me to offend. Belinda’s mouth is still open, and she is blissfully lost for words. That in itself makes it almost worth it. Almost, but not quite.

  I spot my moment to escape and take it. ‘Sorry, Belinda, I’ll be late for yoga. I’ll get back to you about your list, okay?’ And I scoot past her outraged form and out of there, resisting the temptation to turn round. It feels as if there are a thousand eyes boring into my back.

  I go straight home after yoga, and sit on my own, in the quiet. Not for a minute do I underestimate what I’ve done.

  Inside my head there is a self-destruct button, and I have both hands on it, pressing down.

  I’m late collecting Arianne, and rush in and rush out, managing to avoid everyone. I arrive latish for Thomas, too; the hordes are coming out of the school gate as I dodge my way in, keeping my head down. I grab Thomas by the hand and escape. Amazingly, no one stops me. No one says a thing.

  But it’s only a matter of time.

  This is the quiet before the storm. And there will be a storm.

  The moment James comes in, and shrugs off his jacket and throws down his briefcase and makes his presence generally known, the phone rings.

  It’s Tasha.

  ‘Laura,’ she says in this brittle-bright, icy polite voice, ‘I wonder if you might tell me exactly what it is that I have done to offend you so?’

  ‘Nothing, Tasha,’ I gush back, equally bright. ‘Honestly, it was all just a joke and not aimed at you at all. The Littlewoods—’

  ‘How can it not be aimed at me?’ Tasha says and my skin prickles up, all the way into my hair. ‘I mean, I am the only one who has recently bought a house right opposite the supposed asylum seekers, am I not? I am the only one whose husband has just spent an absolute fortune on that house. Tell me, have you any idea how much time Rupert has put into finding the right lawyer to get rid of those supposed asylum seekers? Laura, Rupert is a very busy man!’

  ‘Oh, Tasha, he hasn’t. I mean surely—’

  ‘He wanted to speak to you himself. Rupert wanted to come round to your house and knock on your door and speak to you himself, and I had to stop him, Laura. I had to stop him coming round and speaking to you himself.’

  She pauses now for a response, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be scared at the prospect of Rupert coming round or grateful to her for stopping him. Both probably. Instead I try laughing it off, at which James, who has been loitering and apparently listening in, sighs exaggeratedly and glares at me.

  ‘Really, Tasha, it was all just a joke.’ I laugh again, and it sounds a little manic. ‘And it got a bit out of hand. You know what people are like around here—’

  ‘Rupert doesn’t think it was much of a joke,’ Tasha snaps. ‘And nor do I. And frankly, Laura, this is not the kind of
behaviour I expect from someone who likes to call themselves a friend of mine.’

  She slams down the phone. She does; she tells me off like that and slams down the phone. I am left standing there, stunned, and stinging all over. I look at James, and again I try to laugh.

  He doesn’t laugh back. He just looks at me for a minute with his eyes narrowed, then goes into the kitchen and helps himself to the supper that I have prepared for him, and ignores me.

  The phone rings again, almost straight away. I think it will be Tasha calling back, or Penny or Fiona Littlewood, or God knows who else wanting their say, so I let it go to the answerphone.

  It’s Mrs Partridge.

  ‘Laura? Is that you, Laura?’ she shouts into the hall and I close my eyes. ‘It’s Violet Partridge calling, dear. I wondered if you’d be visiting Heddy again this Saturday. Only I was wanting to take Nathan into Fayle for a new pair of shoes. His feet have grown, see.’ She pauses and I can feel her searching for words. ‘I do believe your visits have made a difference to my Heddy. The nurse said so, just the other day.’ I hear this and I close my eyes. ‘So kind of you to go to the trouble,’ Mrs Partridge says. ‘So kind.’

  There’s a long pause before she finally hangs up the phone, as if she’s thinking what else she ought to say, or waiting for a reply. In that space, I hear the crackle of the phone as she moves it about, and the faint, background murmur of the TV. I hear her breathing, tired, old, lonely. I hold my own breath lest she should hear me back. Lest she should know that I’m there.

  Kind, she says. But I was never kind.

  I stand alone in the playground to collect Thomas on Friday. All the other women are huddled together, in a group, as far away from me as they can be. Out of this group Fiona Littlewood extricates herself, and bravely walks over, clipboard in hand.