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‘Who wants some Sex on the Beach!’ Andy shouts to the ruddy great roar of pissed-up parents.

The man’s a born fool. He’s only been here two minutes and he’s already turned our perfectly decent bar into some kind of ruddy Tom Cruise film, chucking drinks around like an alcoholic juggler.

‘Keep your voice down – there’s kiddies here,’ I grunt at him, handing a miserable-looking Annie McCall a glass of lukewarm Sauvignon Blanc as she gazes enviously at the bloody great cocktail Jane Brightman has just been handed by Handy bloody Andy.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he grins, looking anything but as Jane shoves an extra tenner in the donations jar.

‘You’re brilliant,’ slurs Mike Richardson already three sheets to the wind. ‘It’s normally all flat beer and cheap fizz at these things. Touch of class you are, Andy.’

‘Much obliged, chief,’ says Andy with a little salute. ‘But you must try ’s punch – it’s the biz . . .’

Mike takes one look in me punch bowl and another back at Andy.

‘I’d rather have Sex on the Beach,’ he slurs back.

‘Do you do Sex in the Office Car Park?’ Flo Davies shouts as Karl reaches the front of the line. ‘That’s more Karl’s style . . .’

‘I’ll do Sex Anywhere You Want, gorgeous.’ Andy winks as the line cheers him on and he chucks the cocktail shaker we ain’t shifted in four raffles up to the ceiling.

Flashy git.

‘And you can put that back and all,’ I say to the little thief behind my back.

‘Oh, come on, Hatts,’ young Taylor strops. ‘Mum lets me at home.’

‘Happy for you both,’ I tell her straight. I’ve known Taylor since she were a bump. I can tell her what’s what. ‘But I ain’t letting you here.’

‘Whatever,’ she sulks, but doesn’t leave.

‘Why don’t you come see me no more?’ I ask her as Andy lobs his ruddy shaker through a hula hoop. ‘You too grand for your old now?’

‘Sorry,’ she says, and, to be fair to the girl, she does look a bit guilty. ‘I’m just busy.’

‘Doing what, I wonder?’ I ask. ‘You keeping your nose clean, missus? You’ll put grey hairs on your mother’s head, you will.’

‘Fat chance.’ She pouts. ‘She’d have to notice I exist first.’

I put down my cloth – the whole line’s queuing for bloody Andy now anyway – and turn round to her.

‘Now that won’t do,’ I tell her quietly. ‘Your ma has worshipped the bloody ground you walk on since the day you were born. She’s sacrificed a lot for you and—’

‘And what?’ she flashes back, fire in her eyes. ‘I didn’t ask her to get knocked up when she was my age! I didn’t ask her to ruin her life for me! I didn’t ask her to—’

‘And yet she did it anyway, you ungrateful little bugger,’ I tell her. ‘And she didn’t ask for none of it, neither. Your ma had nothing growing up, same as me. And, like me, she’s had to fight for every scrap – including you. Your pa was no use and there were plenty that wanted her to give you up. Said she was too young. Said she didn’t have nothing to offer you. And I watched that girl – same age as you are now – fight for what was hers. Fight to give you the very best she could. Fight to give you everything what she never had.’

Something seems to have broken through. The pout drops.

‘She . . . she was going to give me up?’

‘No,’ I correct her. ‘She was never going to give you up. Despite the whole wide world – the social, the doctors, the bloody Stitchwells trying to get their claws on you for the church. But your ma weren’t having none of it. So next time you decide to give her the lip, you’d do well to remember that, missy.’

For a moment, she looks like the little one who used to bake brownies in my kitchen. These teenagers can put on all the slap they like, but they can’t hide the little girl underneath.

‘Whatever,’ she says again, and goes to leave. I hold her hand and slip her a bottle of beer from behind the bar.

‘Share it with your friend.’ I wink. ‘And behave yourself.’

‘You’re the best, Hatts,’ she says, giving me a kiss. Yes, it’s cupboard love, but I’ll take it all the same.

I go back to the bar to find I do have a customer after all.

‘Do you have a Picpoul, lightly chilled?’ Clive drawls.

I grab a plastic cup and slop him out a piss-warm Sauv.

‘Gracious,’ he drawls, picking it up and holding it to the light. ‘It’s like being back at the Savoy.’

‘Not playing the quiz, Clive?’ I ask him. ‘I thought you enjoyed games?’

‘Oh, I do,’ he replies. ‘But I like it when they’re a bit more challenging. Although with a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you who played Peggy Mitchell in EastEnders . . .’

‘BARBARA WINDSOR!’ Kiera’s Matt yells out, to Grace’s horror.

‘Dad! Shurrup!’ she says, slapping him on the arm. He grins. He’s good people, is Matt. I’m a big fan. I turn back to Clive.

‘Isn’t Andy a character?’ he says. ‘Such a breath of fresh air.’

I look over to where the buffoon is balancing a bottle on his head to the delighted cheers of the parents.

‘So’s a draught,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t mean I wanna be near one.’

Clive laughs. Or as close to a laugh as he can muster.

‘Do you know, I’ve been reflecting a great deal on our chat last week,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I say, wiping down the table. ‘I ain’t given it another moment’s thought.’

‘I realise now – I’ve been handling this whole business quite the wrong way,’ he says. ‘Negotiating with your . . . past . . . is a terrible way forward.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I remark. ‘Don’t you learn a lot at quiz night? Clive Baxendale has a bloody conscience. Who knew . . .’

‘No, no, no – your past isn’t the right table for our . . . negotiations,’ he says. ‘Perhaps we should discuss . . . the future.’

So that’s his game. I got this base covered.

‘You go jabbering about Stitchwell, and Bob Alsorp’ll have a bunch o’ bank statements on his desk before the sun is up,’ I promise him with some eyes that mean business. Cos they do.

‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘And on that score, my dear, we are assured mutual destruction. And who wants that? No, no, no – let’s let dear Claudia rest in peace.’

His eyes glimmer and my heart deadens. What’s he about?

He leans in to whisper.

‘So seeing as it’s Quiz Night, here’s a question for you: how did young Grace get that scholarship to Shottsford House?’

I try not to let my relief show. So it ain’t about Stitchers. Good.

‘Well, that’s not too hard – I saw her lovely picture meself. That were talent and bloody hard work,’ I tell him. ‘You should try them. One of ’em, at least.’

‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘You saw Grace’s work? Well then . . .’

He pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. He pulls up an image of a painting.

‘Much as I’d like to help you with your interior decor, Clivey—’

‘You don’t know this picture?’

‘Never seen it a day in me life,’ I say, bottling up. ‘Now if you don’t mind . . .’

‘And yet this is the work that was submitted for Grace Fisher’s application to the Shottsford House Art Scholarship,’ he whispers. ‘So I’ll ask you again – how did she get it?’

‘LARGE HADRON COLLIDER!’ Matt shouts out again.

But that ain’t the answer.

And I wish I didn’t know what were.

And I really wish it weren’t that Kiera did it for her.

You stupid, stupid, girl . . .

‘And so you see I find myself in quite the moral quandary,’ says Clive. ‘If I reveal this to Shottsford House, young Gracie will lose her place. And as for Kiera . . . I think you’ll find this constitutes fraud. The courts take a very dim view of this kind of conduct. You remember that college business in America . . . So, remind me, how are your plans for retirement?’

The bastard.

He’s got me. Even if I play my ace, that’ll be no good to Kiera and Gracie. And Clive Baxendale bloody knows it.

‘Coming along nicely,’ I tell him. ‘Between my investment portfolio and my stock options, I should be looking forward to a grand old time.’

The sneer is back.

‘I look forward to the official announcement on Monday,’ he says. ‘But you’ll have to excuse me. I need to drop in on our esteemed headteacher – I have some paperwork for him to witness. Don’t ever offer to be an executor, Hatita. Claudia’s estate is endless, although a little easier now I’ve finally found her copy of her father’s will. Indeed, I’ve been wading through all of Claudia’s papers – such a meticulous record keeper. Would you believe I can now prove that the Stitchwell Love Child isn’t just local folklore . . .’

If he wants a reaction from me, he ain’t getting one.

‘Fascinating,’ I scoff, cleaning up the bar. ‘I suppose she wrote it all down in her little black spell book, did she?’

‘She didn’t need to,’ he whispers. ‘Because her father kept the birth certificate . . .’

‘Come on, Hats – let’s be having your punch,’ says Priya from behind Clive. ‘Everyone’s still got their kit on.’

Didn’t see her there. She’s good at that.

‘I’m taking up far too much of your time,’ says Clive. ‘No rest for the wicked. Farewell.’

I watch him slink off – it’s a wonder the man don’t leave a trail o’ slime behind him.

‘You all right, love?’ I ask Priya, pouring her a punch and one for me nerves. ‘Ain’t seen you around so much.’

‘Oh, you know me, they seek me here, they seek me there,’ she says, necking hers and handing the glass back for another. I join her, to be polite and all. ‘I’m a woman of mystery.’

‘Ain’t we all,’ I tell her. She’s looking at me funny. Can’t say as I like it.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she slightly slurs.

‘No law against it,’ I say, filling her glass for the third time.

‘What’s he like?’ she whispers, gesturing towards Andy.

I let my face give the answer.

‘I see,’ she smiles. ‘Because you know that stuff has been going missing?’

‘Stuff’s always going missing, my love,’ I laugh. ‘It’s a primary school. Kiddie could lose a bloody kidney in here.’

‘Some of the parents think he’s on the nick. You’ve got good instincts,’ she carries on. ‘Do we have a problem?’

I look over at Andy then back to Priya.

‘Yes,’ I say honestly. ‘I think we’ve got a problem.’

‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ She winks, hiccoughing slightly. ‘Oh shit – the music round, nineties pop – that’s my jam. See ya!’

I watch her wheel back to her team – she’s playing with Tanya, Borys the Ukrainian lad and Rose Sild the new Tiger teacher (’10 – nice girl, speaks Portuguese of all things). There’s no such thing as a casual question from Priya. What’s she up to?

But I have other things to worry about. I turn back to Andy – he’s now titting about juggling glasses to a slack-jawed line, you’d think none of ’em had ever been to the circus . . .

Enough.

‘Come on now,’ I grumble at him. ‘We’ve got a line to serve.’

‘Right you are, chief,’ he says, catching the glasses one inside the other to a round of applause. ‘Who’s next?’

Folk just keep on coming for the next twenty minutes or more – me serving them in seconds, Andy taking a bloomin’ age, pulling coins out of kiddies’ ears and making tenners disappear. I bet he’s good at that.

‘Where’s Kiera got to?’ I tut. ‘We need more fizz. How long does it take to get some bloody Prosecco?’

‘Maybe she can’t carry it – she’s knee-high to a grasshopper that one,’ he says. ‘Do you want me to go and give her a hand?’

‘I’ll go,’ I mutter as another parent tells him to keep the change from a twenty. I’ll give him his due – he’s coining it in. ‘You hold the fort.’

‘Roger that,’ he grins, winking at me. ‘Don’t go getting yourself into too much trouble, gorgeous.’

‘Oh, hush your hole,’ I mumble as I waddle off in search of Kiera.

The PTA cupboard is right over the other side of the school, out the back near the playground. I walk through the empty corridors, the ones that have watched over me practically my whole life. I love this place, every ruddy brick of it. And I can’t believe I’m being forced out of it by Clive bloody Baxendale. But I’m not going quiet. I’ll think of something.

The door to the PTA cupboard is shut fast – Kiera ain’t been here, the lazy bugger. I open it up and spot the missing fizz – I’m just hauling it back out the door when Kiera comes hurtling towards me. And she’s in a right two and eight.

‘What’s going on here?’ I ask her, making the daft mare near jump out of her skin. ‘You fermenting the bloody grapes yourself? And I need a word with you . . .’

She turns her streaky face to me. She’s been crying.

‘Oh my love, what’s going on?’

‘ . . .’ she sobs. ‘I’ve done something really stupid . . .’

‘I know all about it, gal. What do you think you were doing, cheating like that?’

She stops dead.

‘How do you know?’ she says.

‘Clive,’ I say grimly. ‘We got to work out what in the bloody blue blazes we’re gonna—’

‘But . . . but Clive only just . . .’ she splutters. ‘He’s still there . . .’

‘Still where? What you blithering about, woman?’

‘He’s with Ben!’ she wails. ‘Clive knows! He knows about me and Ben!’

What’s she . . . ?

Oh mercy . . .

‘You daft bugger,’ I say, the pieces falling into place as she dissolves in tears. I put my arms round her. They’re not happy. But they’re still there. The silly bint. I let her cry herself out for a minute.

‘What you doing messing around with that smooth git? He’s a wrong un, I tell you. I can feel it,’ I chide her. ‘And what the bloody hell has Clive got to do with the price of fish?’

‘He just . . . he just walked in on us,’ she says. ‘When we were . . . When we were . . .’

She breaks down completely and I don’t need her to fill in the blanks. Oh Lord . . .

‘What if he tells Matt?’ she starts to sob. ‘What if the girls find out? What if I lose my job? Shit, – what am I going to do . . . ?’

‘Where is he now?’ I ask plainly. ‘Clive, I mean.’

‘Still in the office with Ben. Said they needed to talk.’

‘I bet he did,’ I say, peeling her off me and holding her at arm’s length. ‘Now here’s the thing with Clive – knowledge is currency. And he’ll wanna spend it. All’s you need to know is the price. You have to strike a deal. He’ll want something – he always does. So give it to him.’

‘You . . . you think so?’

‘I know so,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve met a lot of Clive Baxendales in this life. You have to play them at their own game.’

I pick up my crate of Prosecco. I’m gonna need the lot meself at this rate.

‘I’d best get back, folk’ll be missing me,’ I say. ‘You pull yourself together and you go see Clive. You’ve got yourself out of bigger scrapes than this, gal. You got it. You’re a survivor, Kiera Fisher. Now go and survive.’

She pulls her shoulders back and wipes her eyes.

‘Atta girl,’ I say. ‘Come find me when you’re done.’

She nods and her lips purse in determination. I leave the cupboard with the drinks and head back to the hall, my mind ablaze.

Kiera might have been as daft as a dopey brush, but I ain’t. And I need to play smart. For both our sakes.

I might not win no quiz tonight. But when it comes to the Game of Life?

Hughes is a bloody champion.