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dictation is concerned.
    Football makes Tom miserable, more so because He's acutely aware that a nine-year-old should never admit to being miserable in the context of football. He supports Arsenal, which has won him friends at his North Londonprep school, but he hates playing the game. He hates playing because his limbs are often sore from eczema. Mud can actually sting but tracksuit trousers can catch and snag on chapped skin. Though his teammates are pals enough not to comment, Tom still catches them glancing at his body, unintentionally repelled. However, what makes dictation and football bearable is that, on Tuesdays, he stays with his dad and stepmum at their cool place in Hampstead.
    They actually only live a mile or so from his home in Swiss Cottage and, though Tom spends every Tuesday, Wednesday and every other weekend with them, and any time in between that he fancies, the novelty value is still high. His dad's place is closer to school than his other home so instead of his mum slaloming her Renault through the school run (which has its plus points because she appears unaware how much she swears) Tom strolls down Hampstead High Street with his stepmum. And, without actually holding hands (He's nine now, someone might see), Tom can still subliminally tug her into a detour to Starbucks for hot chocolate.
    Tom's had Pip for nearly four years. Her presence at the school gates continues to provide much intrigue. Being a clown by trade, Pip is well known to many of Tom's classmates from the birthday-party circuit of their younger years. She's also been to assembly to talk about the other work she does, as a clown at children's hospitals. She did the splits and a flikflak on the stage, bonked the headmaster on the head with a squeaky plastic hammer, made a motorbike from balloons in four seconds flat and Tom was the centre of attention all that day. His friends still make a point of saying hullo to her when she collects him. Invariably, she has rushed to school from the hospital, with her hair still in skew-whiff pigtails and traces of make-up on her face. Far more exotic than the widespread Whistles and ubiquitous Nicole Farhi worn by the other mums.
    This Tuesday was no different. There was Pip, eye-catching in orange-and-purple stripy tights and clodhopping boots, chatting amiably with the other Hampstead mums.
    ‘Hi, I'm starving. It was shepherd's pie for lunch. Heinous ,’ said Tom, keen to drag her away.
    ‘Dear oh dear,’ said Pip, ‘heinous shepherd's pie? I'd turn vegetarian, if I were you.’
    ‘No way , José,’ Tom retched. ‘The veggie option is always vomtastic.’
    ‘Vom tastic ,’ Pip marvelled, planning to use the word in her clowning. ‘How was football?’
    Tom gave a small shrug. ‘Cold.’
    ‘Are you angling for a brownie and hot choc?’ Pip nudged him.
    ‘If you say so,’ Tom said.
    ‘Well, your dad won't be home till sevenish,’ Pip reasoned with herself, as much as with Tom.
    ‘It would be very good for my energy,’ Tom said not entirely ingenuously. ‘Starbucks would really help my homework.’
    Pip laughed. ‘Come on, tinker,’ she said. They walked towards the High Street. ‘I had a sad day at the hospital. It's lovely to see you.’
    Tom slipped his hand into hers. Just for a few strides or so.
    Pip looked at the kitchen table laden with the remains of supper later that evening, then she looked at her husband and his son embroiled in PlayStation. She put her hands on her hips and cleared her throat. They didn't look up.
    ‘Hullo?’ she called, as if testing whether anyone was there.
    Zac glanced up briefly from the console, but not briefly enough to prevent Tom taking advantage.
    ‘Dad!’ Tom objected. ‘Concentrate!’
    And then Pip decided She'd just smile and ask if anyonewanted a drink. She still found it difficult to gauge her boundaries as a stepmother. Her own standards, based on her childhood and her family's dynamic, said that a nine-year-old should help