Read Page 31

“No,” says Minnie, and slams the door in my face. She looks out of the window and scowls. “No Mummy! Minnie house!” She bangs the shutters closed, and I sink onto my heels. I’m exhausted. I can’t think of any other discoveries to identify to Minnie. I want a cup of coffee.

I pick up a toy with wooden beads strung along colored wires and idly start to fiddle with it. It’s quite a good game, actually. You have to get the different-colored beads into the four corners, which is harder than it sounds.…Advertisement

“Rebecca?”

Guiltily, I jump, dropping the game onto the play mat. “Oh, hi, Erica!”

“How’s Minnie doing?” Erica beams. “Is she learning to take those gradual steps away from you?”

“She’s playing in the house,” I say with a smile, and open the shutters—but the house is empty. Shit. “Well, she was in the house.…” I cast my eyes around wildly. “Oh, there she is.”

Minnie has linked arms with another little girl and is marching her round the room singing “My Old Man’s a Dustman,” which my dad taught her. I try to follow them, but it’s not easy, what with all the toddler trucks and jumbo foam blocks all over the place.

“Well done, darling!” I call. “You’re expressing yourself through song! Er … do you want to tell Mummy how you feel about that?”

“No,” says Minnie, and before I can catch her, she runs out into the yard, climbs to the top of the slide, and gazes down triumphantly.

I glance at Erica, who looks lost for words.

“Minnie’s a very … self-assured child,” she says at last. “Very independent.”

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“Er … yes.”

We both watch as Minnie whirls a skipping rope round her head like a lasso. Soon all the other children on the slide are copying her and shouting, “My old man’s a dustman! My old man’s a dustman!” even though they probably don’t even know what a dustman is. They probably call it a “garbage collector” or “refuse sanitator” or something.

“Minnie seems to be transitioning with great confidence,” says Erica at last. “Maybe you’d like to sit in the parents’ lounge, Rebecca. This is a facility for our parents of children who are at the latter stages of the transition program. It provides proximity yet independence and helps the child attain a sense of self while feeling secure.”

I didn’t follow a word of that. All I heard was “sit in the parents’ lounge,” which has got to be better than chase after my daughter, tripping over toy trucks and feeling like a moron.

“I’d love to.”

“We also find it a useful forum for parents to exchange views on parenting issues. I’m sure you’re burning with questions on curriculum … socialization …”

“Yes!” I perk up. “Actually, I was wondering, do the mothers have lots of coffee mornings, parties, that kind of thing?”

Erica shoots me an odd look. “I meant socialization of the children.”

“Right.” I clear my throat. “The children. Of course.”

As we near the pale wooden door marked PARENTS’ LOUNGE, I feel suddenly excited. At last! A chance to make some friends. What I need to do is launch myself wholeheartedly into school life and volunteer for everything, and then I’m bound to meet some nice people.

“Here we are.” Erica swings open the door to reveal a room furnished with brightly colored foam chairs, on which are sitting three women, all dressed in workout gear. They’re chatting avidly but stop and turn with friendly smiles. I beam back, noticing already that one of them has that cool embroidered bag I was looking at in Fred Segal.

“Let me introduce Rebecca,” Erica is saying. “Rebecca is new to L.A., and her daughter, Minnie, is joining our toddler program.”

“Hi!” I wave round the room. “Lovely to meet you all.”

“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. pqdm.com