Wedding Night

of school this year?”
    “Is it?” I act dumb. “I’m not sure.”
    “I know things have been”—she clears her throat—“difficult for you. What with your job and … everything.”
    “Yes.”
    We’re both staring at the ceiling, as though to expunge the memory of that time Daniel had just brought in his new set of big-gun lawyers and I burst into tears at pickup time and practically sobbed on her shoulder.
    “Well.” She sighs. “Very well. I’ll tell the head.”
    “Thank you,” I say humbly.
    “Noah’s having his extra lesson at the moment, but if you come in, I’ll give you his bag.”
    I follow her into the empty classroom, which smells of wood and paint and Play-Doh. The assistant teacher, Ellen, is tidying away some plastic counters and she beams up at me. Ellen has a high-salaried husband in banking and is a great fan of five-star hotels. She reads the magazine every month and is always questioning me about the latest spa treatments and whether Dubai is over.
    “Mrs. Phipps is taking Noah on an educational trip to a Greek island,” says Mrs. Hocking, in deadpan tones that clearly mean,
This irresponsible parent is going on a drugs-and-boozemini-break and is dragging her poor son along to get high on the fumes; what can I do?
    “Lovely!” Ellen says. “But what about your new puppy?”
    “My what?” I stare at her blankly.
    “Noah was telling us about your new puppy. The cocker spaniel?”
    “Cocker spaniel?” I laugh. “I don’t know where he’s got that idea from. We don’t have a puppy, nor are we getting a puppy—” I break off. Mrs. Hocking and Ellen are exchanging looks. “What is it?”
    There’s silence—then Mrs. Hocking sighs. “We did wonder. Tell me, has Noah’s grandfather died recently?”
    “No.” I stare at her.
    “And he didn’t have an operation on his hand during the holidays?” chimes in Ellen. “At Great Ormond Street?”
    “No!” I look from face to face. “Is that what he’s been saying?”
    “Please don’t worry,” says Mrs. Hocking hurriedly. “We noticed last term that Noah seemed to have … quite an imagination. He’s been coming out with all sorts of stories, some of which are obviously untrue.”
    I stare at her in dismay. “What other stories?”
    “It’s perfectly normal for children to live in a fantasyland at his age.” She’s deflecting me. “And, of course, he has had an unsettling time at home. He’ll grow out of it, I’m sure.”
    “What other stories?” I persist.
    “Well.” Again Mrs. Hocking exchanges looks with Ellen. “He said he’d had a heart transplant. Obviously we knew that wasn’t the case. He mentioned a surrogate baby sister, which again we thought probably wasn’t true.…”
    A heart transplant? A
surrogate baby sister
? How does Noah even know about things like that?
    “Right,” I say at last. “Well, I’ll have a word with him.”
    “Tread lightly.” Mrs. Hocking smiles. “As I say, it’s a perfectly normal phase. He may be attention-seeking or he may not even realize he’s doing it. Either way, I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.”
    “He even said you once threw all your husband’s clothes onto the street and invited the neighbors to help themselves!” says Ellen with a bright laugh. “He’s got such an imagination!”
    My face flames. Damn. I thought he was asleep when I did that.
    “What an imagination!” I try to sound natural. “Who on
earth
would do a thing like that?”
    My face is still hot as I arrive at the special-educational-needs department. Noah has special after-school lessons every Wednesday, because his handwriting is terrible. (The official reason has “spatial coordination” in the title, and costs sixty pounds per session.)
    There’s a waiting area outside the door, and I sit down on the miniature sofa. Opposite me is a shelf full of pencils with special grips and odd-shaped scissors and beanbags. There’s a rack of books with titles like
How Do I Feel Today?
On the wall, a TV is softly burbling away with some special kids’ program.
    They could do with a department like this at the office, I find myself thinking. I wouldn’t mind escaping for half an hour a week to play with beanbags and point to the flash card reading
Today I’m Sad Because My Boss Is a Git
.
    “… I had an operation at Great Ormond Street.” A voice from the TV attracts my attention. “My hand was sore afterward and I couldn’t write anymore.” I look up to