Page 60 of When We Are Old

“Oh.” I moved in closer to his desk and stared at the names of the too big kids Matthew had turfed out. “Are you sure?”

“Mrs Child, I assure you I know every individual who attends this school.”

I blew air through my lips like a donkey. “Right, anyway. I have to get to work.”

He leaned closer, across the desk, his fingers clasping in a plump loop. “How are you? Hannah’s teacher has reported she seems less, how shall I put it, frustrated.”

I shot him my tightest smile. “Things are good.”

“And please, don’t forget our social events. It would be good for Hannah to know you were committed to her education.”

“I am committed to her education.” I just don’t need to eat warm cheese and drink shit wine.

“You could join the PTA? We are always looking for mothers to be involved with fundraising.”

“Oh, no thank you.”

His face clouded and I knew how he saw me. I was one of those mothers. The ones who didn’t want to be involved or gave a fuck.

Unexpectedly, words blurted out of my mouth. “It’s not that I’m trying to be rude. It’s actually I, uh, I suffer from anxiety. I find social situations challenging.”

He nodded, his expression contemplative. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need a badge, I’m just trying to be honest, you know, for Hannah’s sake.”

“It must have been hard to call around all those parents at the weekend.”

My cheeks warmed. “Yes.” I nodded stiffly.

“Here.” He reached into his drawer and pulled out a small white rectangular card. Please don’t let him be giving me his number. I’d officially die of mortification.

“This is the number of my wife. She’s a counsellor.” He shrugged. “You never know, maybe getting some help will make this better for both you and Hannah.”

He got up from his desk as I stared at the card, my cheeks as hot as the sun. Of course, he wasn’t giving you his number, Ronnie, you bloody idiot.

“Hannah seems better,” I said, standing by the door, clutching my handbag.

He smiled, and it seemed genuine. “Is that because you're better?”

I snorted. “I doubt that. My mother is selling our family home and I need to find somewhere new to live.”

His face clouded with a passing rain shower of doom. “Be careful, Mrs Childs. You don’t want to undo any progress you are making.”

I gave him a thumbs up and then tripped out of his door.

Excellent. I was thumbs-upping the head now. Life really was on the up.

Back at my desk in the office, I stared at the card. If I were being one hundred percent honest with myself then I would admit that even as an adult I hadn’t sought help.

Edging the card with my index finger until it was straight and aligned with my keyboard, I considered what speaking to someone would actually entail. Would I have to go deep down and nitty gritty into the recesses of my childhood? Would they make me verbalise my fears and doubts? Those thoughts that could steal into my head when I least expected them?

Would they expect me to be able to quantify my marriage to explain how it felt? Absentmindedly, I glanced over the desk at a framed photograph of Paul, Hannah, and me. I waited for a slash of guilt to sting across my chest, waited for the empty chasm of silence to spread through me, numbing me from the tips of my fingers to my heart, but it didn’t come.

Matthew on Saturday. The way he’d stepped in, stepped up, been there. Those big girl panties I wore hadn’t felt halfway as constrictive as they had before.

Hannah smiled back at me from under the pane of glass on my desk. She had not been smiling Sunday morning. Green and toilet hugging, most definitely.

On an impulse, I reached across the desk and slapped the picture face down, then I took the card from Jewson and slid it under the frame.