Chapter One

      ‘Thank you, everyone, for coming along to our Spring into Fitness sports day. Now, to round off our afternoon, it’s the race we’ve all been waiting for . . .’

      No it’s not. It’s the race that makes me consider feigning illness or death.

      ‘. . . It’s the mums’ race!’ exclaims Miss Marshall, my children’s head teacher. She scans the gaggle of parents loitering on the fringes of the football pitch.

      ‘Go on, Mum!’ Grace hisses, giving me a shove.

      I smile vaguely while trying to formulate a speedy excuse. ‘Not today, hon. I, um . . . don’t feel too well actually.’

      ‘What’s wrong with you?’

      ‘I . . . I think I’ve done something to my . . . ligament.’

      Grace scowls, flicking back a spiral of toffee-coloured hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. ‘What’s a ligament?’

      ‘It’s, er . . .’ My mind empties of all logical thought. This happens when I’m under stress, like when a client blanches after I’ve cut in layers – even though she’s asked for layers – and insists that what she really had in mind for her ginger puffball was ‘something, y’know, long and flowing, kinda Cheryl Cole-ish . . .’

      ‘It’s in your leg,’ I tell Grace firmly.

      ‘What happened to it?’ Her dark brown eyes narrow with suspicion.

      ‘I . . . I don’t know, hon, but it’s felt weird all day. I must have pulled it or stretched it or something.’

      She sighs deeply. At seven years old, rangy and tall for her age, Grace is sporting a mud-splattered polo shirt festooned with rosettes from winning the relay, the three-legged race and the egg-and-spoon. I’m wearing ancient jeans and a loose, previously black top which has faded to a chalky grey. Comfy clothing to conceal the horrors beneath.

      ‘Come on, all you brave ladies!’ cries Miss Marshall, clapping her hands together. Here they go: Sally Miggins, casting a rueful grin as she canters lightly towards the starting line. Pippa Fletch, who happens to be wearing – like most of the mums, I now realise – clothes which would certainly pass as everyday attire (T-shirts, trackie bottoms) but are suspiciously easy to run in. No one would show up at Spring into Fitness in serious running gear. That would be far too obvious. The aim is to look like you hadn’t even realised there’d be a mums’ race when you’ve been secretly training for months.

      ‘Come on, Laura,’ Beth cajoles, tugging my arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’

      ‘No it won’t,’ I reply with a dry laugh. Beth, the first friend I made on the mum circuit around here, is athletic and startlingly pretty, even with hair casually pulled back and without a scrap of make-up. I was presentable too, back in the Iron Age, before I acquired a husband, three children and a worrying habit of hoovering up my children’s leftovers. Waste not, want not, I always say.

      ‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,’ Beth teases. ‘It’s only to the end of the field. It’ll all be over in about twenty seconds.’

      ‘Yeah, you promised, Mum,’ Grace declares.

      ‘I can’t, Grace. Even if I was feeling okay, which I’m not with this ligament thing, I’m wearing the wrong shoes for running.’

      Beth glances down at my cork-soled wedges. ‘Good point,’ she sniggers. ‘I’ll let you off . . . this time. But next time you forget your kit I’ll be sending a note home.’

      ‘Yes, Miss,’ I snigger. Beth grins and strides off towards the starting line.

      ‘Take them off,’ Grace growls.

      ‘What? I can’t run in bare feet! I might step on something like broken glass or poo or . . .’

      ‘No you won’t. It’s just grass, Mum. Nice soft grass.’

      ‘Grace, please stop nagging . . .’

      ‘Amy’s mum’s taken her shoes off. Look.’ Grace points towards the cluster of super-fit mums, all laughing and limbering up as if this is something one might do for pleasure. Sure enough, Sophie Clarke has tossed aside her sandals and is performing professional-looking leg stretches on the damp turf.

      ‘Any more mums keen to join in?’ Miss Marshall calls out hopefully. A trim thirty-something, she exudes kindness and capability. She manages to look after 270 children, five days a week. I find it an almighty challenge to raise three. I am in awe of her.

      ‘Anyway, I didn’t promise,’ I add. ‘I said I might . . .’

      ‘You did! You said at breakfast.’

      Hell, she’s right. She and Toby were bickering over the last Rice Krispies, despite the fact that our kitchen cupboard contains around thirty-two alternative cereal varieties. ‘If you stop arguing,’ I’d told her, ‘I’ll do the mums’ race today.’ She’d whooped and kissed me noisily on the cheek. It’s okay, I’d reassured myself on the way to school and nursery. She’ll forget.

      I’d forgotten that children never forget, unless it’s connected to teeth cleaning. I know, too, that I’m a constant disappointment to her, making promises I can’t keep. Pathetic mother with her colossal bra, non-matching knickers and carrying far too many souvenirs of her last pregnancy (stretch marks, wobbly tum), especially considering the fact that Toby is now four years old.

      Across the field, Finn, my eldest, is sitting on a plastic chair between his best friends Calum and James. He, like Grace, is of athletic build: lanky with well-defined arms from drumming, and strong legs from playing football in his dad’s junior team every Sunday. Toby too exhibits signs of sporting prowess. Only this morning he bowled my powder compact across the bathroom and into the loo where it landed with a splash. Shame there’s no medal for that. And he denied responsibility. Told me that Ted, his hygienically-challenged cuddly, had done it.

      Finn glances at me, then at the clump of mums all eagerly poised at the starting line. While Grace is desperate for me to do this, I know he’s praying I won’t. I don’t want to aggravate things between us even further. At eleven years old, he has become sullen and distant these past few months, and seems desperate for puberty to kick off big-time. Yesterday, I heard him bragging to