The doorbell tinkles and we look at each other.
‘Hi-i!’ A voice with a rather exaggerated sustained note rings out in the exhibition space.
Sylvie.
‘Hiiii,’ I imitate quietly.
‘Shut up,’ Elisa says, and then in a louder voice, ‘I’m out back.’
There’s a click clack of high heels on the wooden floor and then Sylvie Roelofs appears in the doorway. Sylvie is quite a good friend of Elisa’s, though I’m not sure why. It’s not that Sylvie is unpleasant, but she’s…fake, that’s the word. And instead of keeping any kind of distance, she does her best to please me, which is even more irritating.
She once came on to Raoul while I was there. Luckily Raoul doesn’t go for women like her so she had little success. Since then she’s behaved more normally, but we’ll never be friends.
‘Oh,’ Sylvie says. ‘You’re here too, are you? How are you?’
‘All right, thanks.’
She looks me up and down critically. ‘You don’t look that great.’
‘Why, thanks.’ I say.
‘Lydia’s had a bit of a difficult day,’ Elisa says. ‘She’s been threatened by one of her students.’
‘Really? How dreadful! What happened?’
‘He pulled a knife,’ I say.
‘Lord! What did you do? I think I would have died of fright, wouldn’t you?’ Sylvie says, directing a look of horror at Elisa.
‘The only thing I could think of doing was to leave the classroom,’ I say.
‘Well, that was probably for the best,’ Sylvie says. ‘You know, something like that happened to me once. I was on the tram and a man sat down next to me, right up against me. I moved towards the window and he shifted too so that I was clamped in. And then he opened his legs wide so that our knees were touching. I couldn’t sit anywhere else because the tram was full, so I pretended not to notice. And then, I swear it, he put his hand on my leg!’ She shudders.
‘Oh gross,’ Elisa says. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Nothing. I should have hit him, but I was completely overwhelmed. I wriggled around in my seat to get rid of his hand. Then he gave me a really letchy look. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful woman,” he said. “You’ve really made my day.” I had no idea how to react!’
Sylvie gives me a glance that suggests that now we have a shared trauma, we might become better friends.
‘Wow,’ I say simply, because I only ever half believe Sylvie’s stories. She’s always experienced everything you mention herself, although the similarity with your own story is usually quite hard to find. Worse still, she always finds it necessary to give a very detailed account, which means that you can’t finish your own story. People like that drive me insane.
‘I have to go.’ I get up from my chair.
‘No, stay a while,’ Elisa says at once. ‘We’ve hardly talked.’
‘It’s important to talk,’ Sylvie comments. ‘It helps you get over things. I once—’
‘Another time.’ I get my bag, give Elisa a wave and I’m gone.
At half past three, I’m standing in the playground at Valerie’s school, waiting for the bell to go and for her to come running out. I usually chat with the other mothers and the odd father, but today I keep to myself.
There it is, the shrill noise of the bell and the first children come streaming out. Valerie is often the last one, I don’t know why. She comes sauntering out at her own cheerful pace when all her classmates are already on the back of their parent’s bike, or strapped into the back seat of their car. I couldn’t find my beaker, I lost my scarf, I had to go to the toilet, I wanted to tell the teacher something.
It’s not something that bothers me today, but if I’m waiting in the rain it’s a different matter. And there’s rarely a parking space near enough to wait in the car.
She comes ambling out at twenty to four today too, drawings in her hand and her beaker stuffed into her coat pocket.
‘Hi Mummy!’ she says, standing on tiptoe to greet me.
I bend down to kiss her warm, red schoolgirl’s cheek. ‘Hi darling, have you had a nice day?’
‘No, what are we going to eat tonight?’ she says in a single breath as we walk to the car.
‘I’m not sure yet. There’s lots of things in the fridge, we’ll look when we get home.’
‘I want chips.’
‘Maybe we’ll have chips then.’ I open the back door so that Valerie can climb in. She fastens the seatbelt herself and says, ‘I’ve made some nice pictures, Mummy. Do you want to see them?’
She passes me a couple of scribbled drawings that I admire at length.
‘They’re for Grandma.’ Valerie checks my expression. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Well, maybe a very tiny bit,’ I admit. I once said that I really didn’t mind and had to spend the next hour making up for my lack of interest.
‘I’ll do another one for you at home. A really pretty one.’
I slide behind the wheel. ‘What did you do at school today, sweetheart?’
‘Played in the standpit,’ Valerie says, without taking her eyes off her artworks.
I can’t help laughing at her corruption of sandpit, but her second remark wipes the smile from my face. ‘And I bit Christian.’
‘What?’ I look at Valerie in the rear-view mirror. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘He wanted to play cops and robbers,’ Valerie says. ‘But I didn’t want to. I always had to be the robber and he kept poking me with his sword, like that’ – she makes a stabbing gesture and pulls the kind of face that over-enthusiastic boys make when playing – ‘and then he wanted to tie me up and then I bit him.’ Valerie folds her arms.
‘You can always go to the teacher,’ I suggest as I turn out of the street.
‘You know what I don’t understand, Mum?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been going to school for ages and I still can’t write.’
‘You’re only in your second year,’ I say. ‘Nobody learns to read and write
