Chapter 6

      Rachel watches Will disappear in a flurry of seven-year-olds. He looks small and even though she knows he doesn’t give their partings a second thought, she still feels sick to her stomach when she thinks about him growing up. She turns away quickly, trying to avoid conversation with the other mothers, but fails.

      ‘Rachel! Hi!’ It’s Verity, the toothy, overly keen year two PTA representative. Rachel has made it her life’s work to avoid people with the word ‘representative’ in their title. Today she is particularly keen to be on her way as Steve is starting work late so that he can drop Lily and Alfie at pre-school. Rachel is eager to enjoy some quality time with this week’s Grazia and a skinny latte.

      ‘Rachel,’ says Verity again with a sincere smile, the ‘like me, like me!’ vibes oozing from every pore. ‘I just happened to notice that you hadn’t signed up to help at our annual Nearly New Sale.’

      Rachel’s heart sinks. It’s not that she objects to helping at school events, it’s just that socialising with the school committee members is more competitive than the Olympics. Last term, she had nearly come to blows with another mother when she suggested that they buy some cheap costumes for the end of term production from the pound shop. The mother had told Rachel that she was ‘creatively repressed’ and ‘morally corrupt’ for not making Will’s crab outfit herself. Rachel had then spent a miserable weekend constructing a papier-mâché crustacean that Will had refused to wear. Since that day, Rachel had vowed never to let middle-class guilt get the better of her again.

      ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t see the letter home. When is it?’

      ‘It’s on Saturday.’

      ‘Oh, we’re busy, we have a family do,’ says Rachel too quickly.

      ‘Week,’ finishes Verity.

      ‘Ahh, I think we might have something on that day too,’ she says knowing she has been rumbled.

      ‘Really?’ says Verity her tone changing, ‘because it would be a shame if people didn’t make the effort for their child’s school, don’t you think?’

      ‘Erm, sorry, Verity, I really have to go.’

      ‘Fine, Rachel, that’s fine. Just don’t expect to be voted onto the school committee. Ever.’ She delivers this final utterance like a judge who has just issued the death penalty.

      ‘Fingers crossed,’ mutters Rachel and scoots out of the school gates. Her mobile rings. It’s Emma.

      ‘Tartface! What news?’

      ‘We got the book!’

      ‘You are kidding me? A thicky like you?’

      ‘Whatever.’

      ‘Seriously little sis, well done. That’s very good news. When do we celebrate? I could do with a night out.’

      ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about drinks tomorrow? At the Pickled Pig?’

      ‘OK, great. You can buy me a drink and tell me how clever I am.’

      ‘Don’t push it. See you around eight.’

      Emma tosses her phone into her bag and returns to the manuscript before her. She really wants to get started on The Red Orchid, but has promised that she’ll wait until Miranda has read it through first. Saskia, the brilliant but slightly fluffy fiction designer, pokes her head over her pod.

      ‘Hieeeeee!’

      ‘Hello, Saskia.’

      ‘Coming to Joely-Joel’s meeting?’

      ‘What meeting is that? The one where he patronises everyone in sight?’

      ‘Noooooooooooo sill-ee!’ trills Saskia. ‘It’s our monthly review of all the scrummy books coming up in the next three months,’ she adds cheerfully, curling her hair around her fingers in the manner of a six-year-old. In fact, today she is dressed just like a six-year-old apart from the inappropriate T-shirt with the slogan ‘Spank Me Hard’. This is teamed with a red check puffball skirt, blue and green striped legwarmers and silver ballet pumps. Her hair is pulled into two bunches like a Pekinese dog’s. It probably looks very hip, but Emma shudders at the sight of her and the dawning realisation that her opinions are starting to align themselves with those of her mother.

      The prospect of a meeting in the company of Poochy Poo and marketing’s answer to Goebbels makes Emma want to quit her job and do something more fulfilling, like treating sewage. She takes heart at the fact that Philippa will be there and although she never gets a word in because of her fool of a boss, she’s a silent, eyebrow-raising ally of sorts. When Emma reaches the meeting room, Joel is sitting at the head of the long table talking in a loud voice on his mobile.

      ‘Yep, yep, will do, OK, of course I can sort it. Speak soon, boss. Bye!’

      Emma plonks herself next to Philippa.

      ‘On the phone to his mother again?’ she whispers with a wink. Philippa grins.

      Saskia bounces in, her arms full of print-outs which she always refers to as her ‘children’. She takes her seat and Joel begins.

      ‘So the purpose of today is to review the past three months, look forward to the next three, see where we are and where we want to be. OK, people?’

      No one speaks so Joel continues. ‘So, Emma. Talk us through the latest on these.’ He fans out copies of a crime series set in Cornwall written by an eighty-year-old female author. Joel doesn’t wait for her to speak. ‘You see, I think we should either bin these or look to re-jacket. Book Data seems to indicate around a twenty per cent sell-through, which is very poor.’

      ‘I don’t think three months of sales is enough to say one way or the other. I think we should publish at least six before we take any kind of decision,’ says Emma irritated.

      ‘Mmm,’ says Joel not listening. ‘Saskia has kindly mocked up some roughs. A bit less Miss Read and a bit more ‘read me’,’