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sat in a café area separated from the actual sports hall by a glass wall. The café was part of the club and it was where committee meetings and parties took place. Christmas decorations were up and Christmas songs were booming from the stereo. The bar was serving coffee, tea and champagne. The parents had brought the food and set up a buffet on a long table. There was an abundance of Christmas biscuits, Christmas pudding and home-made cakes, as well as salads, two cheese platters and bowls of nibbles. There was no way it would all be eaten. Gillian had baked a chocolate cake and put it with the other food, but no one had yet taken a slice, as she could see out of the corner of her eye. To her own surprise, this fact upset her in an almost childish way. Her cake looked pretty good. Of course, there were two almost identical chocolate cakes next to it, which could explain why it was untouched.
    Diana had cancelled at the last minute, because Darcy’s throat infection had got worse. As Gillian had never talked to any of the other people here, she had sat completely on her own for the first half-hour. She had to do something if she was not to just stare gormlessly at the wall. The rest of the mothers seemed to be friends with each other, judging from the impenetrable wall of sound – shouts, laughter and talk. Everyone felt comfortable here, everyone was happy.
    Everyone except Gillian.
    In the end a woman had sat down next to Gillian, but only because she had arrived late and not found another seat. She put a tray down on the table in front of her, laden with various salads, cheese and a big glass of bubbly.
    ‘God, I’m hungry,’ she said. With a glance at Gillian’s empty coffee cup and the two half-nibbled biscuits on her saucer, she added, ‘Aren’t you?’
    ‘Not really,’ said Gillian.
    The other mother tucked into her food with relish, at the same time telling Gillian in detail about her son, who had suffered from eczema since early childhood and had a number of other allergies and food intolerances. She had visited any number of doctors with him, had tried everything, advised strongly against cortisone based on her own experience, but could recommend various balms and globules and was quite an expert in the field.
    ‘Does Becky have allergies too?’ she asked.
    ‘No,’ said Gillian and swallowed the answer that was on the tip of her tongue: I think she’s allergic to me. Recently there hasn’t been a single civil word between us. I wish it were something else: an allergy to grass pollen or dust mites, or a lactose intolerance. Then I’d know where to start. But as it is, I’m completely lost.
    She did not say it, but she felt how close she had been to uttering the words and it scared her. This woman was a complete stranger whose only connection to her was that their daughters played tennis together, and she had been so close to confiding to her all the pain that she had almost sunk underneath these past weeks.
    Get a grip, she ordered herself. She decided to call Tara later that evening. Tara was loyal and reliable and Gillian knew that she would not gossip about anything she told her.
    The other mother – Gillian still did not know her name – took a swig of her champagne and finally changed the subject. ‘Doesn’t Burton look fantastic today?’ she asked in a low voice.
    Gillian looked around the room and spied John Burton, the tennis coach, leaning on the bar, surrounded by a horde of mothers. No doubt he was answering questions on the children’s progress. If the situation was proving stressful, he did not let it show. Of course, it was nothing unusual for him. Every time Gillian took Becky to team practice, she could see how the mothers surrounded him. That might of course be because they wanted to be informed about everything to do with the team. No doubt Burton’s effect on women had something to do with it too. He was good-looking, and even more importantly, he had the aura of a