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Abigail might have told her mother who the responsible boy is and if he was a boy from school, I was going to tear him apart and make sure he got publicly flogged, expelled and his parents financially ruined.
    I just hoped it wasn’t a teacher. That was really one of my first thoughts too, because I knew Elizabeth was completely disinterested in the boys at school. She even complained about Chester, who in my opinion was a very nice young man.
    But this whole business has brought up the ‘affair’. Thirteen years ago, when Elizabeth was still a toddler, Tom had a brief fling with a student. She was nineteen at the time and it ripped me to pieces. A grown man with a teenage girl. It made me ill and set me up with a lifetime of anxiety. Lacerated my self-esteem. I’ve never gotten over it and Tom and I have never ever been close again. It ruined us.
    The sickening temptation of virginal, fresh youth. Every time I hear another story in the newspaper about a teacher having a sexual relationship with a student, I shrivel inside. I just prayed that it wasn’t a teacher who had done this to my little girl.  There was that kerfuffle with the drama teacher a year or so ago. Libby said he’d touched her breast and made a sexual innuendo. Later she said she’d just misread it and took the accusation back but what if she’d been telling the truth. Where there’s smoke…you know how it goes.  
    The Proudfoot house is one of those horrid McMansion jobs. All rendered brick and no class. A catalogue suburban palace. I pulled up in the driveway and looked at the crooked mailbox, smeared with white paint. It looked like a certain someone must have banged her new Jag while reversing. Probably drunk.
    The house had a pink door. Need I say more?  I pressed the bell and heard it tinkle tackily inside the house. Within minutes, the door opened to reveal Sally. Sally Proudfoot. Where do I begin? She’s tall. Well-built with tennis ball tits and a top lip that looks like someone used a bicycle pump on it. Her eyes were unlined and she sported very obvious blue-hued contact lenses. The blonde hair was powder puff and mono-toned pale cream. Her teeth were like something from Hollywood and her voice, oh heavens, her voice, it was what a poodle would sound like if it was human.
    ‘Corey? Hello there!’ she bubbled.
    ‘Casey,’ I corrected her. ‘How are you Sally? I wondered if I could have a talk with you. It’s serious.’
    ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good. Is it about the girls?’ she asked, trying, but not succeeding, to frown.
    She let me in and I was not surprised to see she’d redecorated after the last husband had left. It was now some kind of surreal Barbie-Wonderland. All white. With pink velvet quilted sofas and frilly, lamps. A huge cinematic television screen dominated the living room.
    ‘Come into the kitchen and Tina can make us coffees,’ she said, waving a pink talon at me, beckoning me down the sterile white corridor toward the back of the house.
    In the kitchen I learned that Tina was the uniformed maid. I personally have issues with hired help. I work for a leading publishing house…long hours and Tom is flat-out with his responsibilities at the University and we manage to keep our own house tidy and cook our own meals. I doubt very much that Sally Proudfoot does more for a living than troll up-market bars looking for a new sugar daddy. Bitchy perhaps, but true.
    Tina was a short, squat woman with a white zippered uniform trying to hold her into shape.
    ‘A latte or cappuccino?’ Sally asked me.
    ‘Latte would be great,’ I smiled and nodded and took a see-through Perspex seat at the white-washed timber table while Sally held up two fingers to her maid.
    I looked nervously at Tina. I didn’t want my conversation to become housemaid gossip. It cheapened my little girl’s harrowing situation. I gave a nervous nod toward the woman fussing at the coffee machine, steam hissing around her.
    ‘Oh, don’t