The rain comes at the windscreen like it’s got a personal grudge against Parents’ Evening. Chris drives through it with his usual caution, hands at ten and two, checking his mirrors every three seconds like he’s transporting nuclear weapons instead of his semi-functional family.
“Christ, love, any slower and we’ll be reversing,” I say, but there’s no bite in it. Just the familiar dance of a Tuesday evening, me needling him while he pretends not to hear.
The wipers squeak their protest across the glass, and I press my fingers to my temples where last night’s Sauvignon Blanc has left its calling card. Not a hangover exactly—I don’t get hangovers anymore, haven’t for years. Just a faint muzzy feeling, like looking at the world through clingfilm.
“We’re not late,” Chris says, indicating left with the kind of precision that makes me want to scream or laugh. Sometimes both. “Plenty of time.”
In the back, Harry’s got his headphones clamped over his ears, eyes closed in that teenage way that says ‘I’m not here, this isn’t happening, you people don’t exist.’ His school jumper’s already twisted, collar askew. Fifteen years old and still can’t dress himself properly, though God knows he can dress down his parents when the mood takes him.
Beside him, Olivia practically vibrates with excitement, her neat ponytail bouncing as she peers between our seats. “Do you think Miss Sharpe will say nice things about my History project? I got nineteen out of twenty. Chloe only got seventeen.”
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled, sweetheart.” I reach back to squeeze her knee, my bright girl, my easy one. Twelve going on forty, that one. Where Harry skulks, Olivia shines. Chalk and cheese, my mother would say.
Her voice slips into my head uninvited: Straighten your coat, Isabel. You look like you’ve slept in it. What will people think?
I smooth down my mac reflexively, though she’s nowhere near. She’ll have her own opinions about Parents’ Evening when she rings tomorrow, no doubt. Opinions about my parenting, my appearance, my drinking—especially my drinking.
Chris pulls into Morecambe High’s car park, where parents jostle for spaces like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. The school looms ahead, all glass and optimism, lit up against the September gloom.
“There,” I point to a space that might fit our Volvo if Chris employs his A-Level geometry.
“Too small.”
“It’s massive. You could park a bus in there.”
“Izzy—”
“Fine, keep circling. We’ll miss the whole thing and I’ll explain to Olivia’s teachers that her Dad needed a space with a fifty-foot clearance zone.”
He takes the space, of course, sliding in while I bite my tongue to keep from commenting on how he straightens the wheel three times before he’s satisfied.
“Right then, troops,” I announce, pulling my coat tighter against the rain. “Once more unto the breach.”
Harry grunts. Olivia bounces. Chris checks he’s locked the car twice.
My perfect family.
Inside, the corridors reek of wet coats and whatever industrial disinfectant they use to mask the smell of teenage hormones. The walls are lined with art projects—self-portraits that look like police sketches, still lifes of fruit that could be internal organs. The overhead lights hum with that particular frequency that makes everyone look slightly ill.
Parents cluster in queues outside classrooms, clutching appointment sheets like medical prescriptions. Teachers stand guard at their desks, armed with grade books and fixed smiles.
The whole thing has the feel of speed-dating for the educationally anxious—five minutes to be told your child’s either headed for Oxbridge or juvenile detention.
“Oh! There’s Chloe!” Olivia spots her friend and waves. “Can I go say hi?”
“Two minutes,” I say, and she’s off like a shot.
Harry slumps against the wall, radiating disdain. “This is pointless.”
“It’s important,” Chris says, studying our appointment sheet like it might reveal the meaning of life. “Mr Craven first, then Miss Sharpe, then—”
“Then the wine aisle at Morrison’s,” I mutter under my breath, but Chris’s already shepherding us towards the Maths corridor.
I think about the bottle of Marlborough in the fridge, waiting patiently for my return. Just a glass or two to wash away the taste of forced enthusiasm and barely veiled criticism. Parents’ Evening without a Sauvignon drip should be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
We find the right classroom, where a neat sign reads: ‘Mr D. Foster.’ There’s a small queue, naturally. Chris checks his watch. Harry finds a fascinating spot on the floor to stare at.
When our turn comes, I get my first proper look at Harry’s new head of year.
Young—thirty at most, with the kind of casual confidence that comes from knowing you’re the adult in a room full of teenagers. Dark hair cut short and neat, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie loosened just enough to seem approachable. He rises as we enter, extending his hand to Chris first.
“Mr Draper, thanks for coming.” His handshake looks firm, professional. Then he turns to me, and something flickers across his face—there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Mrs Draper.”
His hand is warm, dry. The handshake lasts a beat too long, or maybe I’m imagining that too. When he looks at me, there’s an intensity that makes me want to check my coat is buttoned properly.
“Please, sit.” He gestures to the plastic chairs arranged in front of his desk, then turns his smile on Harry. “Alright, Harry?”
Harry manages a shrug that somehow conveys both ‘fine’ and ‘please let me die’ simultaneously.
Mr Craven settles back into his chair with an easy grace. “So, Harry’s clearly capable. His test scores show real ability, particularly in sciences.” He pauses, and I know that pause. It’s the pause before the ‘but.’ “However, I have some concerns about focus and motivation. He seems…distracted lately. Disengaged.”
Chris leans forward. “In what way?”
“Nothing dramatic,” Mr Craven says, his eyes moving between Chris and me, though they seem to linger on my face. “Just a sense that he could be achieving more if he applied himself. The potential’s definitely there.”
Harry slumps further in his chair, managing to look both bored and defensive.
“Teenage boy?” I say, trying for lightness. “Motivation only comes in PlayStation form, I’m afraid.”
Mr Craven smiles politely, but his gaze stays on me a moment too long. Not quite staring, but not quite not staring either. Like he’s trying to work something out, solve an equation where I’m the unknown variable.
I shift in my chair, suddenly aware of the wine on my breath from lunch, though surely he can’t smell it from there. Christ, Isabel, get a grip. He’s probably just one of those intense teacher types who takes everything too seriously.
Or maybe—and this thought makes me want to laugh—maybe I’m flattered. Tragic middle-aged mum mistakes professional concern for interest. How mortifying.
“I’ll keep a close eye on him,” Mr Craven says, finally releasing me from his gaze to address Chris. “Harry’s got real potential. We just need to help him find his focus.”
Chris nods, no doubt already mentally drafting the supportive-but-firm father speech he’ll give Harry in the car. They shake hands again, all masculine understanding, while I gather my bag and try to shepherd Harry towards the door.
“Mrs Draper,” Mr Craven says as we’re leaving, and I turn back. He’s not quite smiling. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Finally? The word snags, but before I can process it, Olivia’s bouncing over from the corridor, full of news about Miss Sharpe and the History display, and the moment dissolves.
“Mr Craven is the best teacher ever,” she says as we navigate towards Humanities. “Everyone says so. He does this thing where—”
“He’s too strict,” Harry says, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
“Seems decent enough,” Chris says. “Good to have a male role model at school. Someone who expects high standards.”
“Yes,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “Very Dead Poets Society. Though hopefully without the tragic ending.”
The rain’s still coming down as we cross back to the car park, cold fingers of wind slipping under collars and up sleeves. I link my arm through Chris’s, drawing close to his familiar warmth, but my thoughts keep circling back to that room, that stare, that word—finally.
I’m being ridiculous. Too much wine at lunch, not enough dinner, and Parents’ Evening always makes me edgy. It’s the performance of it all, the pretence that five-minute meetings can sum up a child’s entire academic existence.
We reach the Volvo, and Chris begins his ritual of checking he has his keys, checking the children are all present, checking the car hasn’t been attacked by vandals in our forty-minute absence.
I turn back towards the school, I don’t know why.
Mr Craven stands in the entrance, backlit by the corridor’s fluorescent glare.
He’s watching us. Watching me.
Not smiling, not frowning. Just watching with that same intensity. The rain blurs the space between us, but his focus doesn’t waver.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. Tell myself it’s the weather, the general paranoia that Parents’ Evening always triggers. Tell myself a lot of things as I climb into the car and Chris starts his careful reverse.
But when I blink, he’s still watching.
