“I’m Erin.”
“Sydney.”
“Carola. Welcome to L.A.!” Carola, who has dark curly hair and lots of interesting-looking silver jewelry, leans forward as Erica leaves the room. “How long have you been living here?”
“Not long. We’re here temporarily for my husband’s work.”
“And you got a place at Little Leaf?”
“I know!” I say brightly. “We were so lucky!”
Carola stares at me blankly for a moment, then starts shaking her head. “No. You don’t understand. No one just gets a place at Little Leaf. No one.”
The others are nodding their heads emphatically. “No one,” echoes Erin.
“It doesn’t happen,” chimes in Sydney.
I want to point out that if no one gets a place at Little Leaf, what are all their children doing here? But they all look too intense. Clearly this is a serious subject.
“We didn’t just ‘get a place,’ ” I explain. “Minnie had to do a pre-test. And I think my husband made a donation,” I add a little awkwardly.
Carola is staring at me as though I understand nothing.
“We all do the pre-test,” she says. “We all make donations. What else did you do?”
“We wrote five letters,” says Erin with grim satisfaction. “Five.”
“We’ve pledged to build a rooftop garden for the school,” says Sydney. “My husband and I have already engaged the architect.”
“We coached Alexa in karate,” adds Carola. “She’s here on a sports scholarship.”
I stare at them all, openmouthed. Are these people nuts? I mean, I’m sure it’s a good preschool and everything. But, at the end of the day, it’s still just children hitting one another with Play-Doh.
“Well, we just turned up,” I say apologetically. “Sorry.”
The door swings open and a woman with chestnut hair bounces in. She has merry dark eyes and is wearing a stylish blue swingy top over jeans, covering the teeniest little pregnancy bump.
“Hi!” she says, coming straight up to me. “I’m Faith. You’re Rebecca, right? Erica told me we had a newcomer in our midst.”
She has a gorgeous lilting Southern accent, which to my ear sounds as though it’s from Charleston. Or Texas. Or maybe … Wyoming? Is that Southern?
Do I mean Wisconsin?
No. No. That’s the cheese state. Whereas Wyoming is …
OK, the truth is, I have no idea where Wyoming is. I must do Minnie’s United States jigsaw puzzle and actually look at the names.
“Hi, Faith.” I smile back and shake her hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
“Are these girls looking after y’all?”
Y’all. I just love that. Y’all. Maybe I’ll start saying “y’all.”
“They sure are!” I say, putting a little twang in my voice. “They surely are!”
“What we want to know is, how did she get a place?” Carola appeals to Faith. “She walks in here off the street, writes the check, and she’s in. I mean, who does that?”
“Didn’t Queenie put in a good word for her?” says Faith. “Because she was British? I think Erica said something about it.”
“Ohhhh.” Carola exhales like a deflating balloon. “That’s it. OK, now I understand. You were lucky.” She turns to me. “That wouldn’t happen to everybody. You need to thank Queenie. She did you a big favor.”
“Sorry, who’s Queenie?” I say, trying to keep up.
“Our president of the PTA,” explains Sydney. “She has a daughter in the toddler program too. You’ll love her. She’s so sweet.”
“She’s super-fun.” Faith nods. “She’s British too! We call her Queenie because she talks like the Queen of England.”
“She organizes awesome social events,” says Carola.
“And she runs a moms’ yoga class on Wednesday mornings. Knocks us all into shape.”
“It sounds amazing!” I say enthusiastically. “I’ll definitely come!”
My spirits are higher than they’ve been since we arrived in L.A. At last I’ve found some friends! They’re all so welcoming and fun. And this Queenie sounds fab. Maybe she and I will really hit it off. We can compare notes on living in L.A. and share pots of Marmite.
“How long has Queenie lived in L.A.?” I ask.
“Not too long. A couple of years, maybe?”
“She had quite the whirlwind romance,” puts in Faith. “She and her husband met on a Tuesday and were married by that Friday.”
“No way!”
“Oh yes.” Faith laughs. “It’s a great story. You’ll have to ask her about it.” She glances out of the window into the car park. “Oh, here she comes now.” She waves and beckons at someone, and I sit up expectantly.
“Queenie!” exclaims Carola as the door opens. “Come meet Rebecca.”
“Thank you so much for helping us—” I begin, as the door swings farther open. And then my words dry up on my lips and I feel my entire body shrivel. No. No.
A little whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it, and Carola shoots me an odd glance. “Rebecca, meet Queenie. Alicia, I should say.”
It’s Alicia Bitch Long-legs.
Here. In L.A. In Minnie’s school.
I feel pinioned with shock. If I weren’t sitting down, I think my legs would collapse.
“Hello, Rebecca,” she says softly, and I give a little shudder. I haven’t heard that voice for years.