Page 9 of Don't Tell Teacher

Tears come. Itwillbe different here.

I head up to the bathroom with its tasteful butler sink and free-standing Victorian bathtub on little wrought-iron legs. From the porcelain toothbrush holder I take hairdressing scissors – the ones I use to trim Tom’s fine, blond hair.

I pick up a long strand of my mousy old life and cut. Then I take another, and another. Turning to the side, I strip strands from my crown, shearing randomly.

Before I know it, half my hair lies in the bathroom sink.

Now I have something approaching a pixie cut – short hair, clipped close to my head. I do a little shaping around the ears and find myself surprised and pleased with the result.

Maybe I should be a hairdresser instead of a nurse, I think.

I fought so hard to finish my nurse’s training, but never did. Olly was jealous from the start. He hated me having any sort of identity.

Turning my head again in the mirror, I see myself smile. I really do like what I see. My hair is much more interesting than before, that mousy woman with non-descript brown hair.

I’m somebody who stands out.

Gets things done.

No more living in the shadows.

It won’t be how things were with Olly, when I was meek little Lizzie, shrinking at his temper.

Things will be different.

As I start tidying the house, my phone rings its generic tone. I should change that too. Get a ring tone that represents who I am. It’s time to find myself. Be someone. Not invisible, part of someone else.

My mother’s name glows on the phone screen.

Ruth Riley.

Such a formal way to store a mother’s number. I’m sure most people use ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ or something.

I grab the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’

There’s a pause, and a rickety intake of breath. ‘Did you get Tom to school on time?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because it’s important, Elizabeth. On his first day. To make a good impression.’

‘I don’t care what other people think,’ I say. ‘I care about Tom.’

‘Well, you should care, Elizabeth. You’ve moved to a nice area. The families around there will have their eyes on you. It’s not like that pokey little apartment you had in London.’

‘It was a penthouse apartment and no smaller than the house we had growing up,’ I point out. ‘We lived in a two-bed terrace with Dad. Remember?’

‘Oh, what nonsense, Elizabeth. We had a conservatory.’

Actually, it was a corrugated plastic lean-to. But my mother has never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

‘I was planning to visit you again this weekend,’ says Mum. ‘To help out.’

I want to laugh. Mum does the opposite of help out. She demands that a meal is cooked, then criticises my organisational skills.

‘You don’t have to,’ I say.

‘Iwantto.’

---