“Jesus,” I say quietly. “So . . . ?”

Zannah’s ready. She starts talking faster than I’ve ever heard her talk before. “So, what happened next is, I held up my phone and told her I’d recorded it all. She started screaming at me, how dare I record her without permission, how dare me and Murad accuse her of racism when she was the least racist person in the world, she was going to go and get Mr. Stevens right now and we had to wait there while she did, that was our only chance, or else if we dared to leave the room before she came back with Mr. Stevens, we’d be expelled, and she wouldn’t care about the impact on our GCSEs to expel us right before them. All of that—how we wouldn’t even get good references. It was scary, Mum! Not only her psycho screaming, but the threats—like, I reckon she could make Stevens expel us if she really wanted to? He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on half the time, and he relies on her to run the school, basically. Then she was about to leave the room to go and get him, and she turned back suddenly, marched over to me and yelled, ‘Give me your phone!’ Before I could agree or disagree, she pulled it out of my fucking hand and ran out of the room. I ran after her, because, like, she can’t just do that? I couldn’t see her. She wasn’t in the corridor, and I should have been right behind her. You know where I think she was?”

I shake my head, stunned. Zannah cannot get expelled. That can’t happen. This is a disaster. Dominic will think this is the end of the world.

“Hidden away in a classroom or a stationery cupboard, deleting the recording off my phone. She pulled it out of my hand before I’d had a chance to turn it off, so she had full access, no passcode needed. And guess what?” Zannah blinks away tears and sniffs. “When Stevens turns up and I tell him I’ve got footage of Hosmer being racist and then denying it, and he asks to see it, there’s nothing there. No film. All gone. I tell him Hosmer’s deleted it, she denies it—”

“Wait. Did she deny making the racist comment?”

“Yes!” A tear rolls down Zannah’s cheek. “She flat out denied it. Said me and Murad had made up this lie, and it was serious and you can’t just call people racist, you can’t just lie about people, and I mean, like . . . exactly! You can’t just lie!”

“But we can prove she’s lying,” I say. “I’ve got the film on my phone. How did you—”

“Soon as she started screaming at us, I thought, ‘Shit, why did I tell her I had it recorded?’ I was angry and I wanted to scare her, but then she lost the plot and starting yelling about me recording her without permission, and we’re not even allowed to bring phones into school in the first place. They’ve decided to be really strict about it this term. I thought, ‘She’s going to confiscate my phone,’ so I quickly put it on my knees under the desk and emailed the proof of her racism to you, while she ranted like a loony and stomped around the classroom.”

“But, Zan, we’ve got the film. We’ll go and see Mr. Stevens and—”

“Mum, I’ve accused a teacher of racism. Not just any teacher, either—one of the few who can actually teach. Don’t you get it? They’re more likely to expel me if I make them look bad than if I’m bad. They’ll find a way—like the fact that I shouldn’t have recorded Miss Hosmer without permission or even had my phone with me . . .”

“Zan, calm down. This is going to be fine.”

“I’ve been told I have to go and see Mr. Stevens at eleven, on my own. We’ve told him our side already, and then they said they wanted to talk to each of us again, separately. They didn’t like it when we were together because we backed each other up. Murad’s in with Stevens now. He dropped his phone into my pocket before going with them, so I contacted you . . .”

“So that I’d bring my phone in with the video on it,” I say when Zannah stops to breathe.

“No, so that I could ask you what the hell I should do, before I see Stevens. I don’t know what to say. Part of me thinks if it was that serious he’d be ringing our parents, and he isn’t, but, like, it felt very serious? And he and Hosmer love bringing parents in to make them as disappointed in us as the school is—so why’s that not happening? I think he’s going to offer us a deal: we apologize for disrespect, admit we lied about Hosmer being racist and then we’ll get let off with some minor punishment. If we don’t say we lied about the racism and the recording, we’re going to get expelled.” Zannah pushes her hair away from her face. “What should I do? I mean, I could just lie. It’s not like I’ve never lied before.”

Eleven o’clock. It’s now ten to. Damn. I’m going to have to postpone another client, since its looks as if an important meeting has just added itself to my schedule.

“You’re not going to lie and you’re not going to tell the truth,” I say, passing Zannah a tissue from my bag. “Wipe your eyes. You’re going to sit quietly and let me do all the talking.”

*

Duncan Stevens remains seated behind his desk as Zannah and I walk into his office. It’s Camilla Hosmer who rises to greet us. She’s surprised to see me and not in a good way; she can’t hide it either. “Oh! Mrs. Leeson.” She manages to produce a polite smile eventually, but it takes her some time. “We only . . . I mean, there was no need for you to . . .”

“You wanted Zannah on her own, I know. But I’ve got something to contribute, so here I am.”

“That’s probably a good idea, Mrs. Leeson,” says Mr. Stevens. “This is quite serious. Miss Hosmer, since you’re on your feet, can you pull over an extra chair for Mrs. Leeson, please?”

“There’s no need,” I tell him. “I’m not staying long.”

“I think it might take longer than you think,” says the head teacher. “I’m sure Suzannah has briefed you already, so . . . you’ll know, I imagine, that a serious incident has occurred.” Behind him, all over his office wall, are framed photos of Bankside Park pupils looking like happy high achievers: holding aloft trophies, cute rabbits, iced cakes, or with sports medals draped around their necks, or shaking hands with grateful-looking elderly women in wheelchairs.

I’d like to hit Miss Hosmer with a wheelchair. Even leaving today’s disaster aside, I’ve had a petty grudge against her for more than a year, ever since she invited me in to give a talk about my massage therapy business. It was part of a series of lectures she was organizing at Bankside Park, designed to inspire the older girls to become the next generation of female entrepreneurs, rather than just the proud owners of cleavages rated “peng” and “flames” on Instagram by the upper school’s male population.

Part of my talk was about why I’d been unable to stay in my original career. I’d told the girls that I’d felt my true talents were wasted in my old job, and that, although leaving felt like a huge risk at the time, I was so glad I’d taken that risk. Then I went on to say that fear stops so many people from fulfilling their dreams and ambitions, and that bravery is required to overcome the fear. All pretty standard stuff, I thought. The girls seemed to like it; they all applauded. Some stared at me vacantly throughout, but others looked inspired. Miss Hosmer thanked me afterward and I went home thinking it had gone well.

That afternoon, Ben came home from school red-faced with fury, having heard from one or two pupils in the older year groups that Miss Hosmer had used her afternoon registration period with her form group to undermine me. The girls, it seemed, had been a bit too inspired, and evidently this had annoyed her. “Please remember that Beth Leeson is extremely lucky that things have gone well for her, and she’s probably the exception, not the norm,” Miss Hosmer had apparently told them. “She left a well-paid, secure job and started a business that happened to be successful, but that doesn’t mean it always works out that way. Job security is important too, and not everyone can be their own boss.”

“But that makes no sense,” Dom said when Ben told us. “Why would she bring you in for entrepreneurial inspiration and then say that?”

“It makes perfect sense,” I told him. “She’d love to resign from Bankside Park but she’s too scared to do it.”

None of this is relevant to what’s happened today, except that when I check the drawer of my benefit-of-the-doubt cabinet marked “Camilla Hosmer,” I find it empty.

“I do know how serious it is, yes,” I tell Mr. Stevens.