Page 2 of How Much Wine Will Fix My Broken Heart?
Except they are. Carrie Cantello is the chair of The Downs Primary PTA. She possesses all the confidence and none of the charm and orders us around like her minions. She also doesn’t use emojis so I can never determine the tone of her messages. Is that sarcasm? Or do you hate me? She has bushy dirty-blonde hair, though I wonder if that’s to make her look like Hermione. Her skirting boards are super clean, like shiny clean. I imagine her scrubbing the skirting with a Potter film on, wearing her cape obviously. To cement her power in the school, she nominated her own husband to be governor. It’s very conspiratorial. Ross is harmless but writes a lot of tweets dissecting football matches that are of no interest to anyone but himself.
To Carrie’s left is her number one henchperson, Liz Boucher. Do you know how to pronounce that surname? No one does. It’s French so she always reels it off with an accent like she’s continental but really it means ‘butcher’ so it just suggests her ancestors were good with meat. Liz is the secretary because she has the iPad with the good apps for taking notes and making newsletters. She also loves a laminated sign for the noticeboard where she overuses exclamation marks.Tuesday! 8.30 p.m.! Support the School! Do it!Carrie and Liz like to go on girly days out to spas and call themselves besties on social media. They stand around gossiping at the school gate.
‘Oh, I don’t let my Josh play with him because I think he’s possibly on the spectrum. His mum should really get him assessed.’
‘I always have the time toat leastiron a uniform?’
‘That teacher does not invest enough of her time into my Ava. What a complete amateur.’
And most of us let it slide because it’s not worth our time or energy. We’re glad we’re not like them. We’re grateful they’re in the minority. The rest of us are a motley crew that make this whole enterprise more endurable. Paula likes a wide-leg jean and a floral print blouse and carries her everyday belongings in a Bag for Life, Tina doesn’t get any of the jokes but once got drunk at our Christmas shindig and told us her husband is only allowed one blow job a year (his birthday), and we all know Georgia, who comes with tales of her recent divorce and how she had her first orgasm at thirty-eight years of age using something called a Clitty Clamp. But can we sell these at the next Christmas Fayre, Georgia? Can we?
I am the treasurer. I’m an accountant by trade so it made sense. It means I’m doing my bit and I get to feel important by carrying a cash box around at school events. I’m getting out there and throwing all this positive energy into the world so it can come back to me in kind. Would I prefer to be at home under a blanket, eating pretzels on this cold January evening, binge-watchingCriminal Minds? Yes. We could have done this by Zoom or email but then Carrie’s cleaned her skirting boards. How else would she be able to show off her Harry Potter memorabilia? The owl on her shelf is looking at me, like I’m in his tree and he wants to peck my eyes out.
‘So. Much. To. Talk. About.’
I really hope there isn’t, Carrie. Just go through the agenda as quickly as humanly possible. There are ten of us squeezed around her living room on an assortment of dining room chairs, piano stools and an outdoor camping bench. This evening was not built for comfort.
‘So, apologies for absence?’ asks Liz.
‘Kay Holland can’t be here because her lot have the sicky bug,’ says a voice from the back.
‘Remind me to keep my kids away from hers then,’ Carrie mumbles. ‘Right, first things first: the Christmas Fayre made £3546, is that right, Grace?’ I nod. I won’t mention the fifty-two pence she’s excluded from that figure. ‘Seriously, pat yourselves on the back, please. Stellar work. We aresuchan amazing team.’
Oh, we’re actually patting ourselves on the actual backs, as instructed. Carrie looks like she’s performing the Heimlich manoeuvre on herself.
‘I told you all that the photo booths were the way forward,’ Carrie says. Liz claps, nodding. Except she didn’t. To my left is Helen. It was all Helen’s idea; she sourced the props and painted a Christmas backdrop complete with snowballs. Helen is possibly the only person I’d categorise with the ‘friend’ label here. We both have kids in the same classes and I’ve gravitated towards her sturdiness, how she doesn’t seem to give a flying fish finger what people think. I’m eagerly waiting for the moment it will come to a head between her and Carrie because it will be worth all those nights sitting at a computer filling in invoices and Excel spreadsheets.
‘All your idea, was it?’ Helen suggests.
‘Well, I approved it,’ Carrie says.
‘That’s like saying you wrote Harry Potter because you like magic.’
I smile. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.
‘Being an amazing team is also ensuring people get credit for their contributions,’ Helen adds.
‘Well done, Helen,’ I add. ‘We got some really good feedback for that.’ She turns to let me pat her back. I do so, laughing.
Carrie is less amused. ‘When you’re both quite done. Maybe we’ll set up something similar for the Easter Eggstravaganza.’
She announces that in accentuated tones because she’s come up with that name herself. Liz is clapping again and a few mums smile tiredly over their cups of tea and garibaldi. She hasn’t even provided biscuits with chocolate.
‘I’ve already booked in the petting zoo for that. Despite what happened last year, they realise it was not our fault.’
What happened last year is someone left a gate open and a three-year-old got run over by a sheep and a dad kicked said sheep in the head. There was also an incident where a child tried to feed a carrot up a particularly hairy guinea pig’s bum because they couldn’t work out which end was its face.
‘And Ross has agreed to dress up as the rabbit this year. The actor we hired last year was farcical. He couldn’t even hop.’
Helen twists her lips around, trying to stifle her giggles. Don’t. That shit is contagious. I look over at the owl. That doesn’t help.
‘The actor was pants because the kids chased him around the field, tackled him to the floor and robbed him of his sweets. Feral little fuckers,’ Helen adds. I grin because I was there. Though to see Ross Cantello chased and attacked by children may become a year highlight.
‘Treasure hunt would be much better,’ Helen suggests. ‘The Twenty-Four-Carrot Fun Day. Find all the carrots and the children get an egg. I don’t like mine getting all these random sweets and then they’re off their tits on sugar. The parents hated us after last year.’
‘I like that idea,’ I say. ‘From a money point of view, we’d have to spend less from the outset.’
Carrie glares at me. There’s the murmur of approval from the other mothers in the room. I give Helen a cheeky elbow and she winks at me.
