Winging It: The laugh-out-loud, page-turning new novel from Emma Murray

By Emma Murray

'If Emma Murray writes it, I want to read it. Hilarious!' Cathy Kelly

Brand new from the bestselling author of Time Out and The Juggle.

When her husband David announces he’s been offered a job in New York, Saoirse is thrilled. The glamour of the big city, the shopping, the culture, not to mention the free Manhattan apartment and business class air fare – what’s not to like? There’s just the small matter of making it work for their daughter, five-year-old Anna, who isn’t so keen to leave her friends and school behind.

The Big Apple in the middle of summer isn’t quite the holiday Saoirse envisaged, and with David away with work, New York apartment sizes on the miniscule side, and the pace of life faster than the sleepy London suburbs, solo ex-pat parenting pushes Saoirse to her limits.

And as the pressure builds and ‘faking it till she makes it’ isn’t cutting it, there’s only one thing for it – Saoirse and Anna need a new plan, and ‘Winging It’ might be their best option…

Emma Murray returns with this laugh-out-loud funny, compulsively page-turning adventure about parenting, travelling, and finding your tribe – on both sides of the pond.

Praise for Emma Murray:

'With wit, brio and fabulous humour, Emma Murray again delivers a page-turner about travel, parenthood, trying to fit in and finding your own tribe. If Emma Murray writes it, I want to read it. Hilarious.' Cathy Kelly

'A fabulous series full of laughter, witty observations' Jessica Redland

'Emma Murray’s writing is so deft: rib ticklingly funny and also heartbreakingly poignant at times that the reader is swept along with Saoirse and her cast of supporting characters as they navigate their increasingly hectic lives.' Fay Keenan

'Emma tells it how it is with real honesty, and it made me laugh out loud.' Janet Hoggarth

'Witty, fun, beautifully-written. Very highly recommended. Excited to see what comes next from Emma Murray.' Jessica Redland

Readers loved Emma’s first book Time Out:

‘Compelling, Uplifting and so very relatable. The characters are superbly written, and I really hope we get to read more from Saoirse.’

‘I really related to the Saoirse, the main character in this book. I loved her humour, her insecurities, her strengths, her flaws and of course most importantly how she formed a fantastic friendship over a morning bottle of Prosecco.’

‘Emma Murray has written a 5-star 'how-to' book on being part of the village ... 'it takes a village to raise a child' but it also takes that village to raise up a mom!’

‘A fabulous read that had me hooked and also made me feel glad that my children were born prior to the arrival of Facebook and social media. But a refreshing read and one I would definitely recommend.’

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838894962

Emma Murray

Emma Murray is originally from Co. Dublin and moved to London in her early twenties. After a successful career as a ghostwriter, she felt it was high time she fulfilled her childhood dream to write fiction.

Book preview

1

It’s six months since my husband David announced on New Year’s Eve that he had been offered a job in New York and I am still awash with a heady mixture of excitement and nerves. I have been on work trips to New York before and I fell in love with it instantly, but that was when I was single and in my twenties.

Don’t get me wrong – it is, of course, an opportunity of a lifetime and on paper, it seems like a dream. David’s new company is pulling out all the stops to make the transition from London to New York as smooth as possible. They are putting us up in a flat in Manhattan, paying for our five-year-old daughter Anna to go to a fancy school a couple of blocks from Central Park, not to mention flying us over business class, all for the sake of a year’s contract with an option to extend if all goes well. But I can’t think that far ahead.

When I told my mother the plans, she thought it all sounded too good to be true and so has started calling David’s new company ‘The Firm’ and saying things like: ‘They’ll be wanting their pound of flesh,’ and ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch!’

She’s similarly unimpressed that we’re flying out in late July: ‘You’ll be boiled out of it going there in the summer; you’ll drown in the humidity!’ followed by constant reminders that ‘The grass is never greener, Saoirse,’ which doesn’t help settle the nerves.

Still, I know I have to go easy on her. She’s far from happy that we’re taking her only grandchild across the Atlantic, and I know those little digs are her way of letting us know that she is going to miss us terribly.

She’s not the only one struggling with our departure. Bonnie, David’s birth mum, has openly shed tears. Bonnie has just reunited with David after years of separation since his adoption, and she has formed a close bond with him and Anna already. I am hoping she will visit us in New York, but every time I ask her, her eyes take on a faraway look and she changes the subject. I don’t want to pry but I get the impression that financially it could be a struggle. Bonnie works as a ‘rent-a-friend’ – someone who gives support to people who are lonely or in need of a kind word. I have no doubt that anyone privileged enough to be in her company leaves with a lighter heart than when they arrived. But as worthy as her job is, I don’t think it pays very much.

David’s adoptive mum, Rose, is taking a slightly more stoical approach, making it very clear that she is ‘too old’ for long-haul flights, and ‘those types of Americans’ (whatever that means) and that she will be more than happy to use the telephone to stay in touch.

Jen, my best friend from Ireland, is more excited than I am, judging from her texts:

The shopping, Saoirse!

And:

The nightlife!

And:

The BUZZ!

Dee, my other close friend from Ireland, is working a more jealous angle, her texts peppered with vomiting emojis and things like:

‘Big Apple’ my arse.

Today is Friday, the last day of school before it breaks up for the summer, and my final school run in London. I give the head teacher, Mr Russell, a wave as I walk through the school gates, and he waves back with a neutral smile. We have come a long way, Mr Russell and me. I’m sure it’s not easy to work at a school when one of the mums (me) has given you a blowjob after a boozy night out (over a decade ago!). But time is a healer, and now we have reached that ideal stage where we both pretend it never happened. The Organics, on the other hand, the insufferable, judgemental, self-proclaimed ‘supermums’ who have recently started a Facebook group called Mums Against Screentime (they also constantly berate other mums on everything from working full-time to not buying organic food) have not let blowjob-gate go as easily. Even though I have taken myself off the unbearable class WhatsApp group, I am still subject to their whispers, narrowed eyes and behind-the-hand smirks, all enthusiastically encouraged by Organics’ kingpin, Tania Henderson.

At least they are not brave enough to say anything to my face, especially with Bea around. Like pretty much everyone else we know, the Organics are terrified of my best mum friend, Bea, and her pull-no-punches attitude. To my absolute joy, Bea has taken her son, Harry, out of his posh private school and sent him to Woodvale Primary School. Even better is that Harry has ended up in the same class as my daughter, Anna, and the pair have been inseparable ever since.

As I round the corner to the playground, I feel the corners of my mouth twitch. There’s Bea, standing straight-backed, blonde hair tied up in an impeccably high ponytail, arms folded, in her usual spot, right outside the classroom, just in front of the Organics’ territory. Despite the simple, knee-length, pretty, patterned blue summer dress she is wearing, paired with plain white flip-flops, her stance still screams don’t fuck with me. I marvel at her nerve. Before Harry started at the school, I always lounged against the back fence as far from the Organics as possible, not daring to encroach on their space, pretending to tap on my phone as if I was absolutely fine being friendless, but Bea has no such hang-ups. She has refused to join the class WhatsApp group and none of the Organics have dared approach her to rope her in to help out at school events.

I walk towards my friend, picking my way through the litter of adult scooters (the Organics’ preferred mode of transport), ignoring the disapproving sighs and headshaking, led mainly by Tania.

Bea breaks into a smile as soon as she sees me, and she wraps me in a big hug.

‘Last day of school!’ she says, laughing.

My stomach gives another jolt as I draw back from her.

‘How are you feeling?’ she says, giving me a playful punch on the arm.

‘A bit nervous,’ I admit.

I’m sick to my stomach.

‘Well, I think that’s a perfectly normal way to react when you’re moving to a different country for a year!’ she says, in that schoolmistress way of hers. ‘What time are you leaving for the airport?’

‘It’s an afternoon flight – leaving at 2.30 p.m.,’ I tell her.

‘Well, I shall be around to say goodbye properly before you go,’ she says.

‘Don’t!’ I say, the word shooting out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Suddenly, more than anything else, I can’t face the thought of saying goodbye to her, even if she has promised to visit. Ryan, Harry’s dad, a management consultant, will be working in Connecticut on and off for the next six months, which is enormously convenient as Bea plans to bring Harry to see Anna in Manhattan before dropping him over to stay with his dad. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had a bit of ‘a moment’ when I heard Ryan was going to be only a couple of hours’ drive away from our new accommodation. Let’s just say Ryan and I have a bit of a history, one which I’m at great pains to forget. After all, it’s been almost a year since he kissed me in the park and eight months since I bumped into him (hammered) at a concert at the O2, and I’ve managed to successfully avoid him every time he has flown over for a visit with Harry. I’d rather not come face to face to him in New York if I can help it, and the thought of David bumping into him doesn’t bear thinking about. Not that I’m still attracted to Ryan – because I’m not. Even if he looks a little too like Ryan Gosling for my liking…

Besides, Ryan is seeing someone: Adriana, a make-up artist, who is apparently a dead ringer for the Brazilian supermodel, Gisele. The thought of seeing two fabulously good-looking people together makes my stomach heave.

Bea raises an eyebrow.

‘I mean, Harry has football on a Saturday afternoon and you can’t be missing that,’ I babble, desperate to give some explanation for my earlier knee-jerk response.

Bea shoots me another look and I cave.

‘I’m shite at goodbyes,’ I say miserably, fighting to blink away the tears.

Bea looks away, as if to gather herself, and folds her arms across her chest.

When she turns to me again, her eyes glisten.

‘Fine – no goodbyes then,’ she says, nudging her glasses up her slender nose. ‘But you must text me when you’re on the plane and send me some smug photos of the free champagne in business class.’

I laugh, and hastily brush away the tears in my eyes.

Bea’s expression hardens.

‘Incoming,’ she hisses, narrowing her eyes at a point over my right shoulder.

I turn around slowly, and there she is – Tania Henderson in her summer Lycra gym gear of a hot-pink tank top and calf-length, shiny black leggings emblazoned with a brand that is too exclusive for me to recognise.

‘I hear you’re off to New York!’ she says, in a falsely bright voice.

There’s no point in asking how she knows we’re leaving, mostly because she makes it her business to stick her nose into everything. And Anna has told the entire school by now, so it’s not exactly a surprise.

I take a deep breath.

‘Yes, we’re off tomorrow,’ I say, keeping my voice steady.

‘Wow!’ she says. ‘How fabulous!’

I eye her suspiciously, waiting for the sting in the tail.

‘I mean, I’m happy for you but I just don’t think I could uproot my children at this age, to haul them halfway across the world, you know? Just when they’re so settled in school. Seems a bit selfish, doesn’t it?’

There it is.

The cow. As if I haven’t worried myself to death about how Anna is going to adjust to a new school in a different country, thousands of miles away from everyone she knows.

Bea steps in before I have time to compose a barbed response.

‘That’s the problem with being handed the opportunity of a lifetime. There are always jealous people around to try and put you down.’

‘Oh, I’m not jealous,’ Tania says, with a nasty, tinkling laugh. ‘Far from it! I could never leave London. I suppose I’m the type of person who worries about my kids too much.’

Bea shakes her head, catches my eye, and gives me a nod as if to say, it’s your turn. She’s right. I can’t let her fight my battles for me. I’ve put up with Tania’s shit for too long.

‘The problem with you, Tania, and all your friends,’ I say, deliberately keeping my voice measured and silky smooth, ‘is that you’re nothing but parasites, feeding off the insecurities of other mums because it makes you feel better about your own shortcomings. I fervently hope your children don’t end up like you, because we seriously don’t need any more of your poison in the world.’

Tania’s mouth drops open and then closes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her speechless and it feels glorious. Her mouth opens again but before she can say anything, the school bell rings.

She gives Bea and me a filthy look before whipping around and striding angrily towards her Organics bubble. No doubt she will find the comfort she needs from her minions, who will go to great lengths to reassure her that I’m the arsehole, not her.

‘Nice,’ Bea says, giving me a little nudge.

‘Thanks,’ I say, a little shakily. I’ve never been good with confrontation but I am proud that I stood up for myself – and I didn’t even swear!

Then a little hand slips into mine and a feeling of warmth travels all over my body. Anna is here and she is beaming so widely that it’s hard not to smile back.

‘We’re going on a plane tomorrow!’ she says, swinging my arm up and down.

‘We are!’ I say, just as enthusiastically.

After all the efforts we have made to prepare Anna for the big move – showing her pictures of the Empire State Building (which I am determined to get to the top of) and the Statue of Liberty, not to mention images of her new school and the apartment building where we will be living – it’s the plane journey that she is most excited about.

She shouts the same thing to Harry, who is busy tucking into a bumper-sized bag of crisps, and he says, ‘I know – you’ve told me a zillion times,’ through a mouthful of crumbs.

Bea and I start to laugh. It’s so funny to see a five-year-old act like a grumpy teenager. As the four of us walk out of the school gates together, Mr Russell shouts ‘Safe trip’ to me and I give him a smile and a wave in return – I have to say he looks rather relieved to see the back of me. I squeeze Anna’s hand and try to ignore the legion of butterflies in my stomach.

Time for a fresh start.

2

There’s nothing quite like walking into a business-class lounge with a small child to make you feel like a social pariah. I can almost hear the collective intake of breath as we make our way towards the seating area. Look – I get it. People pay thousands of pounds for the luxury of flying in the executive classes and the last thing they want to see is a young child who might disrupt their precious experience. But I try to ignore all the hard stares and rictus smiles as I settle Anna into her seat in the waiting area with her iPad. Fair play to her, she’s being very well-behaved, given that the entire morning has been a maelstrom of last-minute packing chaos. But since closing our front door, I have to say that, at the risk of cursing us, the whole experience has been seamless. The Firm sent a car to pick us up, and check-in was also smooth – no endless queuing and pushing through crowds. Business class – how the other half live.

David wanders off to make the most of the free snacks. It’s hard to believe that just last year he was tearing his hair out over being made redundant. Financially, we were in trouble and the lucrative ghostwriting job I took on to help fell through spectacularly. The advance I got paid for the book on motherhood that I had written last year ran out months ago, and we have been relying on our savings and payments from a few small writing jobs to get us to our big move to New York.

If it hadn’t been for The Firm, swooping in to save us by offering David a great job in New York with a fabulous salary, I dread to think what might have happened. I’ve told my agent, Harriet, to keep an eye out for some writing work for me in the US but she is more keen for me to promote my book when it comes out in January next year, although I get butterflies even thinking about it. How do I promote a book in a strange country where I have no contacts?

Then there’s David. Although we’ve talked about the move inside out and upside down, I still worry about him. He was so happy playing chef, househusband, and spending more time with Anna for all these months of not working, that I do worry that this is going to be a huge adjustment for him. But he has reminded me, time and again, how much he loves New York – that he has been there dozens of times over the years and that technology is his passion. This was a role he really couldn’t turn down and I just hope my mother is wrong, and they don’t work him to death.

My phone starts to buzz in my bag and I don’t even bother checking the screen before I answer.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.

Twenty pairs of eyes in the row of seats opposite me immediately shoot me looks of disapproval, even though I am speaking very quietly. Clearly, I have been tarred and feathered by virtue of the fact that I have a small child with me.

‘You’re at the airport so,’ she says with a sniff.

I don’t bother asking her how she knows we’re here – she’s had mine and David’s phones tracked for years.

‘I am,’ I say.

‘And have you checked in your bags?’

‘I have.’

‘You didn’t bring the kitchen sink with you, did you?’

I tell her no. In all honesty, for a family that’s moving to a different country, we don’t actually have a huge amount of stuff. Three large suitcases, and one of those cases mostly consists of Anna’s stuffed toys. Her doll, Rose-Bonnie (named after David’s adoptive mother and David’s birth mother), has been awarded the privileged position of flying with us in business class.

‘And have the cleaners come yet?’

I tell her they’re due a bit later. We’re having our house cleaned before the new tenants move in. Another bonus of moving away – not only do we get free accommodation for the year but we also get rental income from our place.

‘I hope that fella looks after the place now,’ Mum says for the millionth time.

‘It’ll be grand,’ I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.

I don’t know why she’s so worried. David has vetted our new tenant, Caleb, thoroughly, practically asking for his dental records and inside leg measurements. Caleb is a quiet, dignified-looking man in his sixties, recently divorced and looking for a modest house in our area of London. He’s definitely not the type to throw wild parties and annoy the neighbours. Nevertheless, David, who is known for his domestic fussiness, has left the poor man a clear set of dos and don’ts for every single part of the house, including the ‘right’ way for the dishwasher to be stacked, and how to clean out the black bins in the front. I have told him not to leave the list – not everyone is a neat-freak like him – but I might as well have been talking to myself because I saw him slip it under the door as we were leaving.

‘Now listen – don’t be drinking champagne on the plane. It’ll go right to your head. It’s the cabin pressure that does it.’

‘Mm hmm,’ I mumble.

Champagne is the first thing I’m having when we get to our fancy seats.

‘You don’t want to be making a holy show of yourself,’ she adds. Then her voice softens. ‘How’s my beautiful grandchild?’

‘She’s grand,’ I say. ‘Sitting here beside me glued to her iPad.’

‘Ah, I won’t disturb her then.’

Wise.

‘Give her a big kiss from me, and text me when you arrive.’

‘I will, of course,’ I say, although I wonder what the point of texting her is when she knows exactly where I am at all times.

‘That’s it so,’ she says. ‘You’re off.’

I try to ignore the wobble in her voice. If she cracks, I’m a goner.

‘See you on the other side!’ I say brightly.

‘Bye, love.’

And she’s gone.

I take a few deep breaths and do my best to blink away the tears. This is why I hate goodbyes.

David comes back, arms full with an assortment of snacks for Anna, and she dives on them like she hasn’t eaten in weeks.

‘Everything OK?’ he says, sitting down beside me.

‘Mum just called. I think she was a bit emotional towards the end,’ I say, blowing out some air.

‘It’s hard on her,’ David says, taking my hand. ‘And you.’

‘It’s hard on everyone,’ I say, thinking of Rose and Bonnie.

‘Still, we’re doing the right thing,’ he says, his voice steady.

I nod and try to ignore the little voice inside that says, Are we?

3

I think it’s fair to say that the worst-behaved passenger on the business class flight is not Anna – it’s me. Feeling overly emotional after the call with my mum, I have gone to town on the free champagne to numb the reality of moving an entire time zone away from her. Bea’s text doesn’t help either – she has written me an unusually heartfelt message saying that I am her best friend in the world and she’s going to miss me to the moon and back. However, she does make me smile through the tears by ending the message with:

Now send me that smug photo of the free champagne, you bastard.

So, I live up to my promise with gusto. Not only do I send her the photo of me sipping champagne, little finger up, in a faux-upper-class way, but I also make David and Anna pose with a glass in their hands (orange juice in a posh glass for Anna). After the hilarity is over, and Anna is settled in an airplane seat twice the size of her, I try to settle down and focus on take-off. Usually, I love this part of flying – the noise of the engine, the gentle tilt of the aircraft as it rises gracefully into the sky, but this time I have a knot in my stomach that the champagne just won’t shift. I keep coming back to the thought that this is no two-week holiday to Ireland – this is a whole year living halfway across the world.

Anna, of course, is too immersed in Danny Dare, her favourite YouTuber, to do so much as glance out the window, so I ask the air steward for more champagne. After I polish off the second glass, I decide that this is the perfect time to interrupt David’s movie to quiz him about exactly why we’re going to New York and leaving all our loved ones behind. I have done the same sort of thing after a few drinks over the last few months but have hastily backtracked as soon as I’ve sobered up, going to great lengths to allay his concerns about cold feet. Now I can tell by his tired expression that this sort of chat is wearing a bit thin.

‘To earn some real money so we have a future to come back to,’ he says shortly.

Fair point.

Then his expression softens.

‘Are you sure you’re OK about the move, Saoirse?’

Jesus – bit late now.

‘Of course, of course!’ I tut. ‘It’s just that now that the moment’s here, I’m a bit nervous.’

‘Me too,’ he says, stroking my arm.

I smile back. We can be nervous together.

The air steward – dark olive skin, flashing brown eyes, gelled-back hair – comes over with a basket of fabulous-smelling bread rolls, and more champagne. Now that both David and Anna are firmly plugged into movies, I decide this is the perfect time to make friends. I peer closely at his name badge – Lorenzo – and use that as a starting point. He is indeed Italian and has been living in London for ten years. No, he does not miss Italy that much and has never been to Rome. He answers politely and patiently, which I take as a sign to continue the conversation.

I tell him all about moving to New York and I ignore the impatient head-twisting from the puffy-faced, suited, middle-aged man across the aisle until Lorenzo tells me, not unkindly, to keep my voice down, as I am disturbing other passengers. Despite his soothing tone, I am affronted nonetheless, and decide to stand up and announce to the cabin that I have every right to talk in business class because like them, I have spent thousands of pounds on the tickets, which is bullshit obviously because The Firm paid for it, but they don’t know that.

My announcement clearly alerts David to the fact that his wife is making an ass out of herself, and he quickly jumps up from his seat, gives me a calming hug, and immediately turns my seat into a bed. The fight goes out of me as soon as my head hits the soft pillow. The last thing I hear before I pass out is David whispering, ‘Everything will be OK, Saoirse.’

Anna shakes me awake after what feels only mere minutes asleep. I try to raise my head, but the pain is too much. Why did I drink so much champagne?

‘We’re almost in New York, Mummy!’ Anna says, tugging my sleeve.

I attempt a smile and my lips crack.

Then David’s head appears over Anna’s.

‘Well, how are you feeling?’ he says, with a smug grin.

‘Absolutely fine!’ I say, determined to style it out.

I reach for the button and bring my seat into an upright position.

‘Water?’ he says, waving a little bottle at me.

I grab it and drink it within seconds.

Anna settles back with her iPad.

‘Everything OK with Anna?’ I mouth over her head, feeling horribly guilty that her mother has been too pissed to check in with her for most of the flight.

‘She watched movies all the way here,’ David says. ‘Perfectly behaved,’ he adds with a wink.

The subtext is loud and clear: unlike her mother.

4

The two-hour queue at customs is more than enough punishment for overdoing it on the champagne, not to mention the one-hour wait at baggage claim, and I’m cursing myself for not packing any paracetamol for my thumping head. It’s almost 8.30 p.m. by the time we haul our last suitcase onto the trolley. I follow David grumpily as he thrusts our suitcase-laden trolley through the doors to arrivals, but cheer up when I spy David’s name printed neatly on a board, held by a stout man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt, black tie and black trousers. Thank Christ The Firm has provided a driver to pick us up, especially as Anna started to wilt about half an hour ago. After the day she’s had, I can’t say I blame her.

I tug Anna gently by the hand to urge her to walk a little more quickly but she drags her feet at a snail’s pace, so I pick her up and carry her towards the driver. With any luck she’ll sleep in the car. The driver greets us with a curt ‘hello’ and takes over the trolley and I’m relieved he’s not the chatty type because I’m really not in the mood.

A wall of heat hits me in the face as soon as we step through the glass, sliding doors to the waiting car outside. Although I’ve been to New York before, I’ve never visited in late July and I can’t believe it’s still so hot this late in the evening. The added warmth from Anna, whose head is buried into the side of my neck, does not help to soothe my prickling armpits. I can feel my hair springing up – I’d forgotten how badly behaved it can be in high levels of humidity.

Carefully, I settle a dozing Anna into a car seat in the back of the limo that’s a million times more plush than our car at home, pluck Rose-Bonnie off the top of the trolley and into her arms, climb in beside her, and strap myself in, grateful for the air con. David sits in the front with the driver and then twists around.

‘Is she asleep?’ he says quietly, casting a doubtful glance at Anna.

‘On her way,’ I whisper back, noting her falling eyelids.

‘It’s 1.30 a.m. in London,’ he says, frowning at his watch. ‘I’m surprised she has lasted this long. I wonder if we should try and keep her awake until we get to the apartment? Then we can just pop her into bed straight away.’

I scrunch up my face in disbelief.

‘Are you taking the piss?’ I hiss quietly. ‘Have you ever tried to stop a child from going to sleep? If you want her to stay up, then I suggest you get back here and try it for yourself.’

He takes one look at my folded arms and hard stare and does a sort of OK, OK! motion with his hands before turning around in his seat again.

I lie back against the headrest, enjoying the quiet hum of the car as it moves slowly through the traffic-logged roads leading to Manhattan. Despite the months of conversation and endless discussions about what we’d be leaving behind and what we’d be gaining, I can’t believe we are actually here – in New York – to live. For a year.

The usual voice rises to the surface. You don’t know anyone in New York, it whispers.

My stomach turns over.

I have had this same conversation with David and Bea on several occasions, and they have both reassured me – at length – that it will all be fine: ‘You’ll make loads of friends when Anna starts school.’

And on the face of it, they’re probably right. Anna starts school in September, less than six weeks from now, and, of course, I am bound to meet other parents. But the voice says, Don’t they