Prowse stiffened in her chair. Julia had been here before, this could get ugly. It was the way that custody battles went. Both parties went in with the best intentions to reach an amicable settlement; both parties ended up locked in a battle for their kids, which ripped whatever was left of their relationship to pieces. But she couldn’t wait around to see this one. She looked at the clock again. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we might have achieved all we are going to achieve today. I would suggest that Ms Lyon and I meet later in the week to discuss the case.’
Jordi West shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You can meet and discuss how stupid her—’, he nodded at his wife ‘proposal is.’
Julia smiled. ‘We’ll discuss many things, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Can we consider this meeting over?’
She had to get out of the room. She had accepted that she was not going to make it in time to pick up the puppy – it was a twenty-five-minute drive to the school, then another half hour to the lady’s house – but now she had a more pressing concern. She needed to call the school and tell them she was running late so they could hold Anna back. She got to her feet, aware that she was rushing the three other people in the room. Marcie gave her an odd look as she left; Jordi didn’t look at either Julia or her client.
Carol Prowse shook her head. ‘Can you believe that?’ she said. ‘He’s so damn arrogant.’
Julia could see that her client was in the mood to debrief, and normally she would have provided the sympathetic support she wanted, but right now that was simply not an option. She nodded agreement. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have to go. It’s my day to pick up my daughter from school.’
God, it sounded lame. This was the problem. She was expected to be a model professional, focused on her career, which meant she was at the beck and call of her clients, as well as being a model parent, which meant she was at the beck and call of her daughter. It was impossible to be both, but that didn’t lessen the expectation any.
In the corridor she took her phone from her bag and pressed the button.
The screen was black. It was out of battery.
She swore quietly. She fished around in her bag for a charger. Not there; of course not. It was in the car. She could run up to her office and call from there, but it was on the other side of the building. No – the quickest way was to get to the car and charge it there.
She hurried down the corridor. She didn’t doubt everything would be fine, but she still didn’t like the feeling of being late to pick up her daughter.
ii.
As she drove away from the office, Julia tapped her finger on the logo at the centre of the screen of her phone, even though she knew it would not shorten whatever process it went through when it switched on. She did the same thing when waiting for a lift; if it was slower to arrive than expected she would press the call button again. And sometimes again.
Won’t come any faster, some wag might say, and she’d reply, with a thin smile, well, you never know.
Come on, she thought. Come on.
This had happened before, resulting in an uncomfortable encounter with Mrs Jameson, the retired teacher who stayed after school with the children whose parents had neglected to turn up on time. It was going to happen again today. There’d be the stern, disappointed look, then the gentle reminder of school policy.
Mrs Crowne, I realize you are busy but could I remind you that the school cannot provide after-hours childcare without prior arrangements being made. If you need such assistance then we can provide it, but you must inform us ahead of time so that we can make the necessary arrangements.
I’m sorry, she’d mumble, feeling like she was back at school herself, hauled in front of the head teacher for smoking or wearing her skirt an inch too short, but my case ran over and I would have called but my phone ran out of juice and thank you Mrs Jameson for being so flexible. I appreciate it, I really do.
And then she’d leave, feeling like a terrible parent but wondering why, since Anna would be perfectly fine, babbling away in the back seat, telling Julia about her day and asking what was for dinner and could they read The Twits again that night, and Julia would be shaking her head and thinking I’m not a bad mother, just a busy one.
And she was about to get busier. When she and Brian separated she would have to pick up almost every day, and God knew how she was going to do that. At least now she had Edna, Brian’s mum, to help: she took Anna on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Brian normally got out of school early enough to get her on Fridays, which left Julia with two days on which she had to cram her meetings into the morning and spend the evenings catching up on emails. From time to time, if she was going to be late, she could give Edna a call; in fact she had tried that morning, but Edna was out so she had left a message, a message that Edna had ignored. And then, damn it, in the dash from one meeting to another she had stupidly let her phone run out of battery. Mental note: always keep the phone charged on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
And maybe other days as well. She doubted she would be able to rely on Edna after the divorce; behind her sweetness, Edna was a traditional matriarch, and Julia had never felt that she liked her son’s wife all that much.
Anyway, it would be what it would be. Whatever happened, Julia could take it. That was the price she would have to pay for the life she wanted.
Finally, her phone beeped as it booted up. She found the school’s number and pressed send. It rang through to the answering service pick up.
‘This is Julia Crowne,’ she said. ‘I’m running a little late, but I should be there—’, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard ‘around three twenty. Anyway, just to let you know, I’m coming.’
Ten minutes later she arrived at the school. As she pulled up outside the school gates, her phone rang. She unplugged it from the car and opened the door.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘This is Julia.’
‘Mrs Crowne,’ a voice said. ‘This is Karen, from Westwood School.’
‘Oh,’ Julia said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m here. I just arrived.’
‘Mrs Crowne,’ Karen said, her voice uncertain, ‘do you have Anna with you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m coming to pick her up. I left a message.’
‘I thought that was what you said,’ Karen murmured. ‘Mrs Crowne, I think there’s been a mix-up.’
A mix-up. Not words you wanted to hear in connection with your five-year-old daughter.
Julia stopped. She stared at the cast iron school gates. Both were adorned with the school crest: an owl clutching a scroll above the letters ‘WS’.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, her voice tightening with the beginnings of worry. ‘What kind of mix-up?’
‘Anna’s not here,’ Karen said, her tone retreating into something official, something protected. ‘We thought she’d left with you.’
iii.
Julia broke the connection. She ran through the gates
