Hell Hath No Fury

by Michelle Morgan

  Until now.

  After Tom has gone to bed, I check Margaret out on Facebook. I’m not sad enough to have the principal as my friend, but I’m sure Linda Turner is. I search for Linda’s profile, bring up her friends list and sure enough, there is a listing for Margaret Holmes. I click onto her profile, but find that everything is locked down tighter than a high-security prison. There is one photograph – of a sunflower – and her friends list is non-existent. I should have expected it to be like that, since she’s the principal of a school, but still, I lived in hope.

  I don’t know any other way of finding out how Margaret knows my married ex-lover, so I log out of Facebook and turn on the television. Seconds later my phone rings. An unknown number. Expecting it to be a call about my ‘recent accident’ or some old PPI claim, I sigh and swipe to answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  The line is silent, except for a slight buzzing at the other end.

  ‘Hello?’

  There is a click, and then a recording tells me that the other person has rung off. I look at the clock. It’s 9.23pm. I know that telemarketers don’t ring so late, but it must have been one of those. Or a wrong number. I remember one time my dad got a call from some woman waiting for a guy called Tony to pick her up from the pub. She argued for ages that my dad was Tony, until he switched off his phone.

  I decide to follow my dad’s lead. I hold down the button until it asks if I’d like to switch off, and then I pop it onto the table. After my people-pleasing teenage years, I have now learned to be a woman who can stick up for herself. I have lived on my own with my son since we moved out of my parents’ house five years ago, and I’m doing pretty well, thank you very much. However, the past few days have caused a strange sensation in my gut, and having a stranger hang up on me isn’t what I had in mind for this evening.

  I get up from the chair, and pull the curtains together, so that there are no gaps in the fabric. Then I check the doors for the seventh time, not because I’m paranoid, but because my mother always told me it was better to be safe than sorry.

  6

  Tuesday morning, and I’m back at my reception desk. Tom has already found a reason to visit me (to show me his new school photograph) and I’ve had the usual array of phone calls and emails to contend with. But now it’s five past eleven and all is quiet. Not long now and I’ll be able to hand everything over to Amy, and go home to sort out the washing, before I pick Tom up at 3.30pm.

  ‘Charlotte,’ Margaret says, as she marches out of her office, with her oversized handbag dangling from her arm. ‘If anyone asks where I am, please tell them I’ve gone to a meeting at St Brendon’s. I should be finished by 12.30pm, so ask them to leave any urgent messages with you. Non-urgent queries can be left in their heads until further notice.’

  Margaret stares at me over half-rimmed, silver spectacles. There’s a deep crease between her eyes, and despite being in her mid-forties, she seems far older. I count the numbers on my fingers, and realise (not for the first time), that she’s just sixteen years older than me. Much younger than my parents, and yet she could be an old woman. All these years of taking care of other people’s kids has taken its toll, and I can’t help but wonder how she would look if only she’d lighten up a little.

  I nod and smile and tell her to have a good meeting, but instead of smiling back, she grimaces.

  ‘I don’t go to these meetings to have a good time,’ she says. ‘They’re a vital and necessary part of my job.’

  And with that, she waltzes out of the door; her electric-blue kaftan swinging as she goes. What a bitch. I’ve never known anyone to be offended because someone wished them a happy time, but there you go. Someone must have ruffled her feathers this morning, and I’m just glad that by the time she gets back, I’ll be almost ready to leave.

  Two minutes later, Linda Turner storms down the corridor, as though she’s on some kind of SAS mission.

  ‘Charlotte, do you know where Margaret has gone? I have something I need to discuss with her.’

  As I tell Linda that the principal will be out for the rest of the morning, she lets out a disgruntled sigh. Her already wrinkled forehead knits together even more than usual, and today’s flower slide – a bright-yellow daffodil with pink leaves – shudders under the strain.

  She straightens her brown, woollen skirt and crosses her arms.

  It is then that a thought occurs to me.

  ‘I’ll be more than happy to tell Margaret that you are looking for her,’ I say. ‘I might be gone by the time she gets back, but I’ll be sure to leave a note on her desk.’

  Linda’s lips disappear into a thin, orange line.

  ‘That would be helpful,’ she says, and then disappears back down the hallway.

  ‘No need to thank me,’ I mutter under my breath, and then I give her the middle finger from the safety of under the counter. As soon as she’s gone, I scrawl a note to Margaret, turn the switchboard to silent, and then head to her office.

  Margaret always says that she has a duty to provide the children with comfort and familiarity. In that regard, her room is more like a living room than an office space. At the entrance, there is a flowered sofa, complete with several stuffed toys: a teddy bear, a frog and what looks like a blue-spotted armadillo. The filing cabinets are covered in flowery stickers, and there is a small bookcase filled with colourful children’s books. In the five years I’ve been here, I’ve never once seen a kid go into Margaret’s office to read a book, but maybe they’re just there for show – a way of putting the kids at ease before they get a rollicking for punching someone in the playground, or dancing on the tables instead of doing maths.

  The room smells like old coffee, and also something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something funky that hits the back of my nose in an unexpected way. I look around and see a bunch of forgotten, wilted flowers on a shelf. The water is rife with mould and leaves, which surely is the answer to the smell. How can Margaret not notice it? I don’t know, but I’m surprised that some quick-mouthed kid hasn’t told her that she has flowers rotting away on the shelf.

  At the far end of the room, underneath a large window, is the desk. It is loaded with colourful files, papers and documents of every description, but that doesn’t bother me. I know exactly what I’m looking for: the principal’s appointment diary, and the entry for yesterday.

  I pretend to deliver the note from Linda, and just happen to place it right next to the brown leather diary. It’s one of those old-fashioned diaries that is just a folder with loose pages held inside with a ferocious clasp. Margaret has had it so long that the leather is flaking from the cover, and the once gold-embossed letters are now blank. It must have some kind of sentimental feeling attached to it, though, because she never used the new one she received in the Secret Santa draw a few years ago. I remember when she unwrapped the flower-covered diary, and watched as her mouth tried to smile, but ended up as a strange, squiggly line.

  ‘Oh, how very kind,’ she squeaked, before poking the gift back inside the wrapping paper. Now it is stuck on a shelf beside her desk, out-of-date and never to be looked at again.

  My hands feel sweaty as I turn the cover of the vintage appointment book, and then I flip through the pages until I get to Monday, October 11th. I stare at the different names, notes and numbers scrawled onto the page, until one stands out above all others: ‘Simon Travis. Assembly speaker for careers’ week’. His phone number and email are written underneath his name. Margaret is a stickler for recording those kinds of details under every name in her diary, but there’s nothing else that gives me a clue as to how her and Simon know each other.

  Did I expect to find more?

  No, but there was always a chance.

  I pick up a pen, reach for a yellow Post-it and then write Simon’s number and email onto the paper. At this moment I don’t have any intention of using either of them, but to have them in my possession gives me some kind of power at least. Should I need any.

  ‘Ch
arlotte, do you know where Mrs Holmes is, please?’

  I swing around and see Marie, a blonde-haired girl from Year One, staring up at me. Her voice seems far too loud for such a little person.

  ‘Gosh, you gave me a fright,’ I say, but Marie doesn’t crack a smile.

  ‘I need to give her a note.’ She hands me an envelope with ‘Magrett Homes the head’, scrawled onto the front. I’m sure the principal will be thrilled to see herself described that way.

  ‘Thank you, Marie,’ I say, and I pop the note onto the desk. ‘I’ll just leave it here for her, and then she’ll see it when she gets back.’

  The little girl nods and skips off down the corridor, her black patent shoes squeaking as she goes. I stuff Simon’s details into my pocket, and head back to reception.

  Tom, Zach and I sit at the kitchen table, playing a game of Uno. I’m terrible at it – don’t understand most of it in all honesty, but my son loves it, so I just crack on.

  ‘That market man came back to school today,’ Tom says.

  ‘The market man?’ Visions of a man clutching baskets of carrots or lettuces invade my mind, but then it dawns on me who he means, and my shoulders turn to ice.

  ‘Y’know, that man who talked to us about his job. Today, he was visiting Margaret and some other teachers, in the office. I saw him when I took the register down this afternoon.’

  Zach shoots me a look, and my mind spins in circles. Why was he there again? To see me? To see Tom? Did he recognise his son in assembly and work the whole thing out? Is he going to the principal to ask for her help in winning custody?

  I doubt it, but still, I feel sick thinking about it.

  ‘Do you see that man often?’ Zach asks, and Tom shakes his head.

  ‘Just today and yesterday. I remembered him because he was wearing the same shirt as he was wearing yesterday. I never wear the same clothes twice, do I, Mum?’

  I shake my head, and Zach squeezes my hand under the table.

  ‘I won!’ Tom throws his arms up in the air and squeals. ‘Woohoooo! What do I win?’

  ‘A bath,’ I say, and my son groans.

  ‘That’s not a very fair prize.’

  I laugh and kiss my scruffy little prince on the head. He cuddles into me, okay to show affection when he’s away from his teasing friends.

  ‘Come on,’ Zach says. ‘Let’s get these cards put away. If your mum says that it’s bath time, then it’s bath time.’

  Tom pouts.

  ‘I hate baths,’ he says. ‘When I’m a grown-up I’ll never have a bath.’

  ‘Then remind me never to visit you without a nose peg.’ I laugh. ‘Come on, if you go into the bath without any fuss, you can have a hot chocolate when you get out.’

  ‘With marshmallows and cream?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Tom scoops up the cards and dumps them back into the box. I think about my work clothes, with Simon’s number scrawled onto a piece of paper in the pocket. It’s just a coincidence that we bumped into each other in Waterstones, and that he’s been at the school twice in the past two days. It’s all a coincidence.

  Isn’t it?

  ‘There are no such things as coincidences,’ I say out loud. Zach turns to look at me, while Tom peeps out from behind the Uno box.

  ‘What did you say, Mummy?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘I was just singing a song to myself.’

  The next few days pass in a blur, and consist of mornings looking out for Simon at school, and afternoons wondering if he’s in school. Every time Tom says he’s got something to tell me, I imagine that he’s about to relay some kind of ‘market man’ tale, and even nothing-bothers-me Zach has taken to asking every now and then. It’s horrible to feel so paranoid, but what else can I do? After ten years of freedom, his appearance has sent my nerves spinning, and it makes me want to vomit that he’s been so close to his son – even if he doesn’t know anything about him.

  ‘If you’re that worried, why don’t you just ask Margaret how she knows him?’ Zach stares at me during one of our regular over-the-fence chats. I suspect he’s sick of hearing about the principal at this point, but he’s my friend, so he puts up with it as best he can.

  ‘I can’t come out and just ask her. She’ll think I’m a lunatic! Besides, I checked her diary again, and he hasn’t been into school since Tuesday, and it’s now Friday night, so hopefully that’s the end of it.’

  I hold my crossed fingers up over the fence, and Trevor the lab barks in appreciation. Zach crosses his own fingers in reply, and then gets back to raking the pile of leaves that have gathered in his garden overnight.

  I thank God for good friends, and then head to the kitchen to make Tom’s favourite Friday night dinner – lasagne again.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, ref! Get a pair of glasses! That should’ve been a penalty!!’

  A middle-aged, bald bloke shouts at the skinny referee, who is wearing a thick pair of glasses, and running up and down the football field. One of the mothers swings around and eyeballs the bald dad, shoves her fingers to her lips and hisses ‘Shush!’ at the top of her voice.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ the man snarls, and then turns his attention back to the game.

  ‘Can you please refrain from swearing?’ she barks. ‘There are children all over this field.’

  The man tuts and then swears under his breath, just loud enough for the mother to hear. I expect her to turn round again, but she doesn’t say anything more.

  On the field, twenty-two under elevens swerve around each other, trying to grapple the ball and score the elusive goal. It’s a bright autumn day, but the wind is still managing to suck the breath out of me. I pull the zip of my coat up to my neck, and wish I’d brought my gloves. Just as I’m wondering if I should nip back to the car and find my emergency pair in the glovebox, I see her.

  Monica Travis stands on the other side of the park, and her eyes are trained on me. I rub my own eyes and think I must be seeing things, but no – as I squint, I can see her even clearer. It’s definitely Simon’s wife. My legs feel like string, and the coldness in my stomach no longer has anything to do with the autumn wind. I take my phone out of my pocket, but my hand is shaking so much I almost drop it. I grip it with both hands, open the camera and pretend to take a photo of Tom, while really snapping Monica.

  The complaining woman from before sees what I’m doing and squawks.

  ‘You shouldn’t be taking photographs of the kids. It’s against club rules.’

  I slip the phone into my pocket.

  ‘Get a fucking life,’ I snap, and the bald man applauds me.

  ‘You better not put any photos on social media,’ she shouts as I walk away.

  I know that the last thing I should do is approach Monica Travis, but now that my feet are moving, it’s impossible to get them to stop. I look up and she’s still in the same place; still watching; her face contorted and stern.

  As I round the end of the field, there is a gigantic cheer. I look up and see that Tom has scored a goal and is leaping around with a group of friends. I stop to give him a clap, and as I do, Monica throws her hood over her head, and walks towards the park exit.

  ‘Charlotte! How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages!’ Debbie Martin bounds over, waving her hands as though I’m miles away. Debbie is a parent at school, and the biggest pain in the arse you can imagine. If there’s something to complain about, she will be first in the queue. If her son doesn’t get a part in the school play, or if another child gives him the slightest of dirty looks, you can guarantee that Debbie will be rapping on my glass partition, demanding to have a word with Margaret. Socially, she seems to think we’re the best of friends, and whenever she sees me, it’ll take at least thirty minutes to brush her off.

  But not today.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t talk – I have to catch up with someone.’ I rush past, and Debbie sighs.

  I leave the crowd of parents behind, and ten seconds later, I clock Monica w
ith her back to me, just about to make it through the gate that leads to the car park.

  ‘Hey! Monica! Stop!’

  My ex-lover’s wife halts, lowers her hood and pulls out her earbuds.

  ‘Oh, hello. Charlotte, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  We stare at each other; strangers and yet not quite. Then when I think of something to say, we both end up talking at the same time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You go first.’

  Despite the autumn chill, I can feel sweat tickling my right eyebrow, which threatens to drop into my eye at any moment. I rub at it with my sleeve.

  ‘I was just wondering why you are here. You don’t have any kids on the team, do you?’

  Monica purses her lips and then smiles.

  ‘No, Charlotte, I don’t have a child here. But my husband does though.’

  Her words land like a knife in my stomach, and my throat feels as though it’s full of pins and needles. I open my mouth to reply, but Monica throws her hand out to stop me.

  ‘Don’t bother denying it. I know you gave birth to my husband’s child. Tom, isn’t it? The little redhead over there.’

  She motions towards the pitch, where Tom is leaping around like an excited frog. He hates to be described as a redhead. He’s strawberry blond, that’s what he always tells me. The skin on my cheeks tingles and I wonder why I’m thinking about my son’s hair colour, instead of what Monica has just told me. She knows I have a child! She knows I have her husband’s child! I can’t believe this.

  I turn back to confront her, but the woman has gone. I race to the gate, but I’m too late. Monica is already in her car, and there’s no way I’ll be able to catch up with her.

  ‘Did you see me, Mum? Did you see that goal I scored? Wasn’t it fantastic? Bobby said it was just like the kind of goals David Beckham used to score. Do you think I might be as good as David Beckham one of these days? Do you, Mum?’