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his pale blue sweatshirt. We both want to hide, but it’s too late. His eyes have that glaze, the masking of momentary panic, I have seen a lot over the last year. I smile, because although people expect me to be sad, they seem to find it easier if I’m not.
    ‘Babe.’ He leans sideways across the bar, stroking his goatee with one hand. I don’t think he remembers my name either. ‘How’s it all going? How are you?’
    ‘Oh, you know, fine.’
    He stares at me, making small, regular nods of his head.
    ‘Kulon!’ Activity at the door – new arrivals, voices raised, a big entrance. I look over my shoulder and turn back quickly. It’s Alan Murphy MP. His wife, Victoria, is the old teenage friend of Zach’s who introduced him to the area. They live in Winchester, I think, but still have a holiday house down here. It’s been in her family for years. He’s a Conservative rising star; she’s a think-tank economist with a public profile of her own: local celebrities, not least in their own eyes. Zach loathed Murphy and he and Victoria had drifted apart, though we did once bump into them walking around Trebetherick Point. Zach was forced to introduce me, but I don’t think Murphy will remember.
    ‘Kulon!’ The MP shouts louder this time. ‘How the hell are you, you old devil, you!’
    Kulon – of course, not Kumon. He raises his left arm high in a salute. He has already half swivelled, his expression shifting. ‘Elena. Move some tables! Push these two together!’ He turns back. ‘Poor old Zachamundo.’
    ‘I know.’
    He shakes his head. ‘Shit, man, I miss him.’
    ‘I know,’ I say again.
    ‘Mind you, the bastard still owes me money from that last game, just before . . .’
    ‘He owed you money? Oh God, I must pay you.’
    ‘Nothing. Nothing. Peanuts!’ He slaps his hand down on the bar. Relief floods his features. He has navigated the waters of my bereavement and, through this apparently generous gesture, come out the other side. ‘Really. Nothing.’
    The Sunday newspapers are laid out on the bar and I pretend to read. Alan Murphy MP has a group of people with him, but he’s holding court, talking loudly, trying to lasso in anyone in the room who will listen. Since he became Minister of Culture, Media and Sport, he has become a big topic of conversation in the staffroom. Sam Welham says the whole buffoon malarkey is an act, that he’s utterly ruthless. But Peggy loves him, or at least the persona he presents on Have I Got News For You – all bluster and blunder. He is said to represent a new spirit in politics, a return to character . Zach used to say he was a cock. What would he think now, listening to him work the room, brandishing his charm like a spotted handkerchief? ‘How long you down for? . . . Isn’t it heaven?’
    It’s hard to concentrate on anything else, but after a short while I notice two girls have started talking to Howard, cooing and rubbing his ears. I put the paper down. Their voices are familiar. Uggs, leggings, long blonde hair. I know them from London, from Wandle Academy: Ellie and Grace Samuels, twins in year seven.
    Ellie looks up. ‘Miss Carter!’ she exclaims.
    ‘Hello, girls,’ I say. ‘Having a nice holiday?’
    Across the room, amid Murphy’s entourage, I am aware of a plump woman in an outsize jumper and glasses rising and steering rather quickly past chairs to reach us.
    ‘Yikes,’ she says, making a face. ‘Sorry. They don’t call it South London on Sea for nothing! What a nightmare, coming all this way and then bumping into kids from school!’
    ‘Doesn’t matter at all,’ I say. ‘They’re lovely.’
    ‘I always tell the girls, if you see a teacher you should pretend you haven’t.’
    ‘No, really. It’s fine.’
    She tidies her hair behind her ears. ‘We’re staying with my parents in Padstow. We’ve just come over this side to spend the day with old friends.’ She makes a small, dismissive wave in the direction of Murphy, clearly