Free Only a Game by J. M. Gregson

of her eyes, and said, ‘Now what about that pub lunch? You choose which one.’
    Agnes loved going with her daughter to eat at the pub. Respectable women had not frequented public houses when she was young. Even now she would never have ventured into such a place on her own. But somehow food made such places much more respectable than if you just went there to drink. And though she would never have admitted it, she loved to show off her detective sergeant daughter to the locals, some of whom had known her since she was a child.
    She looked up in admiration at the girl who was six inches taller than her, who had the striking chestnut hair to set off those remarkable eyes and a figure which turned heads wherever she ventured. ‘The Hare and Hounds , I think. Everything there’s cooked on the premises, not bought in.’
    â€˜The Hare and Hounds it is, then! You can guide me through the menu.’
    Agnes Blake nodded happily. ‘I will that, our Lucy. And whilst we’re waiting for the food to come, we can talk about these bonny grandchildren you’re going to produce.’
    The head teacher was scrupulously polite, concerned to treat these visitors like any other parents. They had, she allowed, a certain distinction, and their presence in the school had been noted by other parents collecting their children. Neither of these things must affect her determinedly professional attitude. She tried to shut out thoughts of the eager speculation which would be going on at the school gates at this very moment.
    Nevertheless, as she led Robbie and Debbie Black into her office, she found herself irritated by her own reactions. Designer clothes would not affect her, any more than the fact that with a sport-crazy boyfriend she had watched this woman at Wimbledon and this man at Old Trafford. But a little extra excitement coursed through her veins at the prospect of an exchange with these celebrities. That was ridiculous. Didn’t she constantly preach the tawdriness of the celebrity concept to staff and children? Didn’t she abhor the very idea that fame should in any way influence her dealings with parents?
    They must be in their forties now, these two; they were contemporaries of hers. For the first time that she could ever remember, she found herself wishing she was of an older generation, bringing the assets of age and gravitas to an exchange with parents. Yet she found herself hoping that she would be able to help with whatever problem had brought them here. She always wanted to do that, of course, she told herself firmly. But she was hoping a little more strongly than usual that she would be able to reassure this glamorous pair.
    As if she read these thoughts, Debbie Black produced her familiar dazzling smile and said, ‘I should say at the outset, Mrs Hurst, that we are not asking for any special consideration. We wish to be treated in exactly the same way as any other parents.’
    â€˜Of course. That should be taken as read.’ Louise Hurst found her mouth was unusually dry and cleared her throat. ‘What is the problem? People who come to see me usually have a problem.’ Her little laugh sounded artificial to her.
    Robbie Black smiled, trying to put the woman at ease, when in truth on her own ground she should have been in control. ‘I have the same problem as a football manager. Whenever a player knocks on my door, I know they’re bringing in trouble of some kind. You’d be surprised how many big-name players are no more than kids. Pampered kids, really – they’ve had everything done for them by their clubs, been thoroughly spoilt. You can’t tell them that, of course.’
    Louise realized with relief that he was talking a little too much because he too was nervous, that this was a situation Robbie Black had never been in before. She even divined correctly that like many men he had not wished to come here at all, had been hauled along only by his