A Game For All The Family by Sophie Hannah Page A

thing.
    I’m wondering where and how to start when Lesley says, “How’s your girl getting on with that creative writing project of hers? I’m going to have trouble keeping her teachers at bay if she doesn’t get some speed up. Has she hung a sign on her bedroom door: ‘Do Not Disturb, Genius At Work’?”
    “I wanted to ask you about that. I bumped into Kendra Squires on my way in. She seems to think I asked for Ellen not to be given any other homework until she’s finished her story.”
    “That’s right. Parents’ orders.” Lesley sits down at her desk and looks at it as if something’s missing that ought to be there.
    “In that case, there’s been a misunderstanding,” I say. “I’m Ellen’s parent and I haven’t ordered anything of the sort. It’s fine for her to be given other homework. Especially maths, where she needs all the practice she can get.”
    Lesley squints at me. It’s as if, by saying what I’ve said, I have made myself less visible somehow. “You didn’t say no other homework while she writes this story?”
    “No.”
    “Hm. That’s interesting. Ellen told me you did. She was quite unambiguous about it. It didn’t occur to me to doubt her.” Finally, Lesley removes the cake tin from under her arm and drops it on the desk between us. It sounds like a small cymbal as it lands.
    “Well, I’ll sort out the misunderstanding.” Lesley chuckles. “Ellen won’t thank you for all the extra homework. Pretty single-minded about that story, she is. She’s spending every spare second on it. On the bus, break times, lunchtime. Budding Jane Austen you’ve got there, I reckon.”
    “Break times and lunchtime?”
    “Lately, yes. You can’t drag her out of the library. We’ve all said to her, ‘You’ll give yourself RSI at this rate,’ but she’s hooked. It’s no bad thing. They say children ought to go out three times a day and get fresh air, but look where we are.” Lesley raises and spreads her arms—to indicate Devon, I think, though it’s not absolutely clear. “Can’t avoid clean air round here, inside or outside. It’s not as if we’re in Hammersmith or . . .” She shrugs, apparently unable to name another polluted part of London. “But, yes, absolutely. Normal homework for Ellen as of now.”
    “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” I say quickly, recognizing Lesley’s I’m-about-to-throw-you-out voice.
    “Oh?” She taps her fingernails on the lid of the cake tin.
    “Sorry. It won’t take long.” I try to persuade myself that this will be easy. Perhaps Lesley will be grateful to me for setting her straight.
    “It’s about George Donbavand, and Ellen’s coat. Ellen’s quite upset about it. She thinks you don’t believe her, and I can totally understand why it might seem as if she’s protecting George—”
    “Justine, I think we’d better—”
    “The thing is, George honestly didn’t steal the coat.” It’s so unusual for Lesley to interrupt me that I decide to pretend she hasn’t. “Ellen gave it to him as a present, which I know is a bizarre thing to do, but—”
    “Justine.”
    “What?”
    “Dear oh dear.” Lesley sighs. The fingernail rapping on the cake-tin lid grows louder and more insistent, then stops altogether. “Times like this, I wish I were a different sort of person. I know I can be blunt and undiplomatic, and it’s not always what people want.”
    “What do you mean? Be as blunt as you like. I have been. George didn’t steal Ellen’s coat. He doesn’t deserve to be expelled. It’s very wrong that he has been. There, you can’t get much blunter than that.” I smile in an attempt to soften the blow.
    “Justine, there is no George.”
    “No . . .” It’s the last thing I expected her to say. “Pardon?”
    “There is no boy called George at this school.”
    We stare at one another. At a loss, I say, “I don’t mean this to sound sarcastic, but . . . isn’t that because you’ve just