Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists. Erin Knight

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      ‘Thank you, Mr Church. Come on, Darcey, we can pop in here, just this once.’

      Mr Church unlocked the room for them then returned to his flood. Sarah stood aside ushering Darcey in, pulling the door to between them. How was this going to work then? A six-year-old pulling those tights off without further disaster? Tights were a bugger at the best of times; it was one of the biggest perks of being a mother to boys, no tights.

      Sarah called around the door. ‘Darcey? Can you manage? Or would you like some help?’

      It wouldn’t be ideal, just the two of them in a single toilet. This was the way you had to think as a teacher now, Jon was constantly reminding her of this fact. Don’t leave yourself open to accusation. Ever. Jon wasn’t a mother, though.

      ‘Darcey? How about you pull your tights down at the top, then I’ll pull them over the yucky bit? So it doesn’t go anywhere else?’

      ‘Yes please, Miss Harrison,’ Darcey whispered. Sarah nudged around the toilet door. Darcey’s mum would rather Sarah helped, wouldn’t she? Heidi Thurston had seemed lovely when they’d met at parents evening in February. She’d come straight from court and listened so attentively to Sarah’s feedback on Darcey’s progress that Sarah had felt like a flaky witness, her testimony about to be picked apart for scrutiny. There was an air of celebrity about Heidi Thurston, the PFA mums were desperate to bag a barrister.

      ‘Let’s get your shoes unbuckled first, shall we, sweetheart?’

      ‘No. It’s all Jonathan’s.’

      It came from the other side of the cubicle wall. Sarah stilled. Everyone knew about the disabled loo’s acoustics. Don’t slag anyone off in the staff room. If someone’s taking a whazz next door you’re toast. There had been an unfortunate incident involving a parent volunteer overhearing a damning rumour about her husband after popping into Hornbeam one morning to listen to the reception kids read. A written apology from the head had followed, and later a divorce. Now the key to the disabled toilet was stationed on a hook in the staff room. Just so everyone could be ‘aware’ of its use. The only other key hung on Mr Church’s key chain.

      ‘Jonathan’s, really? But I thought . . . well, she’s always lived there, hasn’t she?’

      There was more than one Jonathan in the world. And it was rude to eavesdrop. ‘That’s it, Darcey, just lift your leg a sec . . .’

      More voices muffled through the wall. ‘I just assumed the house would’ve rocketed in value and she’d be stumping up a good whack herself.’ Olivia Brightman had a distinct, honeyed voice. She’d come into school to speak to Mr Pethers about running pony rides at the summer fair. And to Juliette about Sarah’s private life.

      ‘Sarah can’t stump up seven hundred thousand, Olivia.’

      ‘Good God, seven hundred thou? Is that how much they’re going for up on the bluff? They’re not even bespoke!’

      ‘They do have stunning ocean views.’

      ‘Yes, but Compass Point, have you ever heard anything so pretentious? She’ll pop a baby out soon, you watch. New house, new husband, new ankle-biter.’

      Sarah swallowed. Jon had suggested a five bed, so there was a guest room for the boys’ friends. Or for grandparents, so they could stay over when babysitting . . . once a baby arrived. She felt her head whoosh. Darcey blinked up at her, barefoot on the toilet floor, her inside-out tights dangling from Sarah’s hand. ‘Come on, poppet, let’s go find you some socks.’

      ‘What was his name? Her first husband?’

      Sarah’s hand froze on the door handle. First Husband. Sarah, the femme fatale.

      ‘Patrick Harrison. Incredibly talented photographer, got lucky when some sports giant liked one of his action shots. Started off as a wedding snapper.’

      Olivia sniggered. Sarah flinched. She’d met a lovely wedding photographer last month. Her mother had sprung a surprise consultation. He’d had a kind, tired face and worked too hard for his money. Sarah had booked him in under twenty minutes because she felt sorry for him. And because she didn’t want to talk weddings.

      ‘So where’s husband number one now, do you think?’

      Juliette paused. ‘Patio, probably. Patrick was the selfish sort, in fairness to her.’ Juliette’s reasonable deduction landed like a slap on the cheek.

      ‘Maybe she cashed in his policies? Seven hundred thousand starting price? Hardly manageable on two teachers’ salaries,’ scoffed Olivia.

      ‘Jonathan’s sitting on a small fortune. He’s loaded.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      Yes, how did she? There was a pulse thumping over Sarah’s temple. They lived well, but not ostentatiously. Jon was subtle about it. ‘Miss Harrison?’ squeaked Darcey.

      Sarah held her hand up, her ‘silent signal’ when she wanted the class to hush down.

      Juliette hesitated. Probably checking the toilet key was definitely on the staff room wall. ‘Karl read about it. In one of the nationals, right there in the surgery waiting room. Hopeless receptionist hadn’t recycled them for weeks, I can’t abide clutter in Karl’s waiting room.’

      It was inevitable, talk was inevitable, Sarah knew this. It was silly and she’d never really worried about it much; it was Jon who’d said she would need to be prepared for tittle-tattle at some point, and she was. She just wasn’t prepared for Juliette to be the one gathering the juicy cuts and processing them into a toxic gossip sausage.

      ‘Spill, Juliette! What did Karl read? What have you got on Sarah Harrison’s gorgeous fiancé?’ Sarah imagined Olivia frothing at the mouth like one of her horses.

      ‘It’s yesterday’s news, Olivia. Years old. The article was retrospective, looking at precedents for obscene payouts in education. Apparently, Jonathan Hildred had something of an ordeal a few years back at a very respected private school, Gloucester way. Left a lot better off than he started.’

      There was another pause. Olivia was connecting the dots. ‘Hot-stuff Hildred won some sort of payout?’

      ‘More of a golden farewell, with a hint of “sorry, please don’t sue us” thrown in. I wouldn’t even be discussing it at all had it not been there in a national paper. I’m not really one for gossip, Olivia. I find it all a bit . . . tacky if I’m honest.’

      Juliette knew. At least she thought she did.

      The bell crackled through the corridor towards the disabled toilet. Sarah startled. ‘Miss Harrison?’

      ‘Yes, sorry, Darcey.’ She had that awful, hot, adrenal feeling. She’d felt it before, standing like a complete and utter reject in the middle of a photography exhibition in a posh Portuguese hotel, a tired ten-year-old Will at her side in his dickie bow, Max asleep in her arms.

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