Mini Shopaholic (Shopaholic #6)

Mini Shopaholic (Shopaholic #6) Page 80

For a few moments I just stand there, wincing. Should I text her?

No. She’s too angry with me. I’ll just wait till she’s cooled down a bit. And maybe had a night’s sleep.

There’s nothing I can do right now. I might as well go in and have a cake.

I head through the school gates, past all the babbling mothers, and follow signs to the exhibition. It’s being held in an airy hall with a parquet floor, and I can already see what Suze means about the cakes. There’s a whole trestle table of candy-coloured macaroons and mini chocolate brownies, and lots of very toned mummies in low-slung jeans, holding cups of coffee and eyeing up the goodies with hostile eyes. Not a single one is eating a cake – so why do they bother to have them?

‘Hi!’ I approach the trestle table, where a well-groomed blonde woman is serving. ‘I’d like a chocolate brownie, please.’

‘Of course!’ She hands me a tiny sliver of brownie in a napkin. ‘Five pounds, please.’

Five quid? For two bites?

‘All for the school!’ She trills with laughter that sounds like icicles and puts my fiver into a felt-covered cash box, trimmed with gingham. ‘Now, are you a new Reception mummy? Because we are expecting the decorated gingerbread houses by Tuesday, and response has been a little disappointing—’

‘I’m not a mummy,’ I hastily correct her. ‘At least, not here. I’m just a visitor. My daughter isn’t at school yet.’

‘Ah. I see.’ The interest in her eyes dies a little. ‘So where will your daughter be going?’

‘I don’t know.’ My voice is muffled by the brownie, which is absolutely scrumptious. ‘She’s only two.’

‘Two months.’ The woman nods knowingly. ‘Well, you’ll have to get your skates on …’

‘No, two.’ I swallow the brownie. ‘Two years old.’

‘Two years old?’ The woman seems riveted. ‘And you haven’t started?’

‘Er … no.’

‘You haven’t got her down anywhere?’ She stares at me with wide, twitchy eyes. ‘Nowhere?’

OK, this woman is freaking me out, with her super-white teeth and stressy manner. I mean, I know schools get full up and everything. But come on, even the waiting list for that new Prada bag was only a year. No school can be more exclusive than a limited-edition Prada bag, surely?

‘Thanks so much for the brownie!’ I quickly walk away. Now I feel all anxious, like I’ve missed the boat and I didn’t even know there was a boat. They should have Vogue for schools. They should have this month’s Must-Have and Latest Trends and timings for all the waiting lists. Then you’d know.

Anyway, I’m not going to get obsessive about this. We’ll get Minnie into a lovely school, I know we will.

I wonder where Madonna sends her kids to school. I mean, not that I’d send Minnie to a school because of the celebrities. Obviously not.

But still. Maybe I’ll look it up online. Just out of interest.

I buy myself a coffee and then head towards the art. Most of the paintings are of flowers, and when I get to Ernie’s picture, right in the corner, I’m a bit startled. It’s … different. It’s very dark and splodgy, and shows a sheep on a dark background that might be a moor …

Ah. Looking more closely, I think the sheep is dead.

Well. There’s nothing wrong with painting a picture of a dead sheep, is there? And the blood trickling from its mouth is quite realistic. I’ll say that to Suze, when we’ve made up. Yes. I’ll say, ‘I loved the blood! It had such … movement!’

‘… absolutely revolting!’

‘Gross!’

I become aware of a cluster of little girls, also looking at the painting. One of them has perfect blonde French plaits and a hand clamped over her mouth.

‘I feel sick,’ she declares. ‘You know who painted this? Ernest.’

‘He’s always drawing sheep,’ says another one derisively. ‘It’s all he can do.’

The others break into bitchy giggles, and I stare at them, livid. They all look like junior versions of Alicia Bitch Long-legs. A bell rings and they hurry off, which is a good thing, otherwise I probably would have said something undignified and immature involving the word ‘cows’.

Suddenly I notice a woman with dark hair in a bun and a queenly air sweeping the room, smiling graciously at people and having short conversations. I watch on tenterhooks as she nears me.

Yes! I thought so. On the lapel of her cardigan is a badge saying ‘Harriet Grayson MA, Headmistress’. This is the one who’s been giving Ernie a hard time.