by Fiona Gibson
This flicker of optimism leads Kerry to picturing Rob selling their London home. Although it’s on with an agency, Rob is adamant that estate agents are clueless, and that as deputy editor of a men’s magazine, he is far better equipped to point out its numerous Unique Selling Points. Reassuring herself that the house will sell, and that Rob will soon join them in Shorling, Kerry turns her attentions to the large, square chocolate cake sitting solidly on the table to her right.
In contrast to her pitiful needlework skills, Kerry can decorate cakes pretty nicely, even if she says so herself. Nothing fancy – no detailed scale models of a Loire Valley chateaux – just intricate piping that usually garners her a few brownie points at the children’s birthday parties. For Freddie’s last birthday she replicated an entire comic strip from one of his much-loved Tintin books, and when Mia turned seven she crammed the entire Simpsons cast, including many lesser-known characters, onto a ten-inch Victoria sponge. She even created a magazine cover to mark Rob’s tenth anniversary of working at Mr Jones – ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’, as the magazine’s tagline goes.
This cake, too, is for Rob, but Kerry can’t decide what to put on it. A simple ‘Happy 40th Darling’? No, too generic. She could do a portrait in glacé icing but, while her beloved is undeniably handsome with his dark-eyed Italian looks, she wouldn’t be able to resist exaggerating the long, strong nose and full, curvy mouth (trying to do a flattering portrait on a cake would be ridiculous, surely?) and she’s not sure he’d appreciate that. As his new twenty-something boss has brought in an editorial team of equally youthful pups, Kerry senses that Rob is not entirely delighted about reaching this milestone. No – better tread carefully with this cake.
She ponders some more, deciding that if she doesn’t get a move on the icing will set in the piping bag, leaving her with a cone of solidified sugar. Think, think … Taking a deep breath, and a gulp from the glass of now tepid chardonnay at her side, Kerry pipes carefully, transforming the cake into an elaborate book cover with delicate curlews all around its edges. In the centre, in her very best curly writing, she pipes:
ROBERTO TAMBINI
THIS IS YOUR CAKE!
Yep, pretty good. Kerry knows he finds exclamation marks vulgar, and is tempted to add more (CAKE!!!!!!!) just to wind him up, but manages to restrain herself. Anyway, he’ll be delighted when she turns up to surprise him tomorrow morning at their London house. He’ll be wowed by the cake, plus the smoked salmon, bagels and champagne she intends to pick up on the way for a special birthday brunch. The plan had been for Rob to head down to Shorling tomorrow afternoon, after showing more prospective buyers around their home. However, Kerry has arranged a far more enticing proposition. They’ll celebrate his birthday by having a much-needed child-free Saturday together in London, and a night all by themselves (she has already de-fuzzed and selected reasonably racy black lingerie in readiness). Even now, after thirteen years together, the thought of lovely, unhurried sex with Rob sparks a delicious shiver of desire. Then on Sunday morning they’ll pick up the children from her best friend Anita’s, when they’ll present Daddy with home-made cards and gifts.
It’s just what he needs, Kerry reflects, clearing up in the kitchen before heading upstairs. She peeks into Mia’s room where her daughter is sound asleep after an entire day on the beach. Picking up a bundle of sea-damp clothes, Kerry then steps quietly into Freddie’s room where there’s a curious odour. No, not just curious – rank, actually, like rotting fish.
‘What’re you doing, Mummy?’ he asks sleepily.
‘There’s something stinky in here,’ she whispers, her bare foot knocking against a plastic bucket half-tucked under his bed.
‘They’re my crabs.’
‘You brought crabs home? I didn’t realise. Ugh, they’re really pongy …’ In the bucket, fragments of crab shell contain the remains of flesh at various stages of decay.
‘I was keeping them in the garden,’ Freddie explains, ‘but I didn’t want them to be cold at night.’
‘Oh.’ She peers into the bucket again. ‘But they’re dead, sweetheart …’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he says brightly. ‘I’m gonna make crab sandwiches with mayonnaise on like we had with Daddy.’
‘What, you mean that day with the kite?’
‘Yeah. They were yummy.’
‘Er … yes, they were, darling, but I’m sorry – if you ate these, you’d be very, very ill.’ Picking up the bucket, and ignoring his grumbles of protest, she plants a kiss on his forehead before making her way downstairs.
Even when the bucket’s contents have been bagged up and deposited in the outside bin, the crabby odour still seems to permeate the house. Sloshing in extra orange-scented oil as she steps into her bath, Kerry decides that the smell’s probably just in her head now – like her fears that things aren’t quite the way they should be between her and Rob. She’s probably imagining that too.
She’ll get those name tapes sewn on tomorrow, and her plans will all come together beautifully. Yes, Kerry tries to convince herself – Rob’s fortieth will turn out to be the best birthday he’s ever had.
Chapter Three
‘Planning to stay here all night?’ Eddy calls good-naturedly across the editorial office of Mr Jones magazine. Rob looks up from his screen to where his new boss is pulling on his jacket.
‘Just got a few things to tidy up,’ he replies.
‘Oh, c’mon, Rob. It’s Friday night and it’s gone seven o’clock. Come out for a quick drink. Nearly everyone else has been down there since six …’
Rob shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll just head off home. Got people to show round the house tomorrow, better make sure it’s ship-shape …’
Eddy makes a bemused snort. ‘Just a quick one. It’ll do you good. What’re you working on anyway?’
‘Well, you said you wanted some alternatives to the magazine’s strapline …’ Secretly, Rob strongly believes that ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’ does the job perfectly well, conveying the message: Listen, mate, we run features on politicians and serious-looking leather briefcases. If you’re looking for topless women you’ve come to the wrong place because we’re Too Posh For Boobs. However, Eddy thinks it’s not ‘dynamic’ enough. Mr Jones isn’t supposed to be bloody dynamic, Rob mouths silently as his editor banters with Frank, the art director. That’s the whole point. We once ran a four page feature on the history of Gentleman’s Relish and that’s what our readers expect. Sensing tension radiating upwards from his back to his neck, Rob glares at the straplines he’s managed to dredge up so far:
• For men who mean business
• The discerning man’s glossy
• The glossy man’s best friend
Jesus, what the hell is a ‘glossy man’? And ‘best friend’? That sounds like a dog. He ponders some more:
• The magazine that was once respected and is now a bit shit
• No naked girls here – we’re too refined for that …
Then he adds, smiling to himself:
… Although we do feature the odd, deeply patronising sex tip which suggests that our ‘thinking’ readers aren’t that hot in the sack.
He sits back, about to add to his personal rant when he realises with alarm that Eddy is lurking behind him, pink-cheeked like a baby and flaring his nostrils at the screen.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I’m thinking of upping the sex content, Rob. We should run a few more features, practical advice, A–Z of foreplay …’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know – the usual get-her-into-bed stuff but delivered with a punchy edge …’
Rob blinks at Eddy. Try as he might, he cannot get his head around what an ‘A–Z of foreplay delivered with a punchy edge’ actually means.
‘Well,’ he says, frowning, ‘if you really think our readers—’
‘What, have sex?’ Eddy guffaws. ‘No, you’re right, Rob. The uptight little farts probably aren’t getting that much. All the more reason to
give ’em a helping hand, eh?’ He guffaws at his own joke.
‘Er, I suppose so, yes.’
Eddy slaps a hand on Rob’s shoulder. ‘I don’t mean we’d do it tackily. It’d be tastefully done …’
Nodding sagely as if taking all of this on board, Rob toys with the fantasy of opening a new document and typing out his resignation letter. How can he possibly do his job properly with a twenty-six-year-old idiot at the helm? The last magazine Eddy worked on was full of drinking games and Britain’s Best Bum competitions. It’s rumoured that the winner’s ‘prize’ was to sleep with Eddy.
‘You could write it,’ Eddy adds, giving Rob’s swivel chair an irritating jiggle.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot on and I’m sure we could find a freelancer, an expert. I could start putting out some feelers …’
Eddy shakes his head. ‘You’re the best writer here. On all the magazines I’ve worked on, I’ve never come across anyone as versatile …’
‘Really?’ Rob asks, flushing a little.
‘God, yeah. You can turn your hand to anything, can’t you? Interviews, travel, food, politics … You come across as this serious, keeps-things-ticking-along-nicely type, but actually you’re a pretty intelligent guy!’
‘Um, thanks, Eddy …’ Why don’t you patronise me a bit more, you arsehole in your pale pink shirt and Dolce & Gabbana suit …
‘So don’t tell me you can’t knock out a monthly sex column. Under a pseudonym of course – we’d have to make out it was by a woman, a sort of “what’s going on in her mind” type of thing.’
Rob jams his back teeth together, wishing Kerry were here to witness this. He’s not sure he’s managed to convey to her how awful things have been here lately.
‘We could call you Miss Jones!’ Eddy announces, triggering a bark of laughter from Frank on the other side of the office.
Rob squints at his boss. ‘Or we could just commission an actual woman.’
‘Yeah. Well, let’s think about it. Anyway, that’s enough about work – can I drag you out for that drink?’
‘Yeah, come on, Miss Jones,’ Frank sniggers, swaggering across the office from the art department.
Rob takes a moment to consider what to do next. He knows he should make an effort to socialise, as he did with the old team – the ones Eddy shunted off to the publishing group’s less prestigious magazines like Tram Enthusiast and Carp Angler. He is also aware that he doesn’t fit in with the new dynamic attitude which Eddy announced will replace the ‘stuffy, gentlemanly tone’, and that he’s lucky to still have a job. In truth, though, the thought of going out drinking with these reptiles makes him want to gouge his eyeballs out.
‘So? Can we drag you away from the coalface?’ A smirking Eddy is beckoning him now, his loyal servant Frank looking bemused at his side.
‘Well …’ Rob hesitates before shutting down his computer. ‘I don’t see why not. Where are we going then?’
‘Jack’s.’
Rob nods approvingly, wondering how to negotiate this. He’s not a member of Jack’s, and is tempted to point out that he belongs to another private members’ club – the one he, Simon and the rest of the cosy old team used to frequent. But now he’s worried that even a casual mention of The Lounge will remind Eddy of his vintage, and he’ll make a mental note to bung Rob over to Horticultural Digest first thing on Monday morning. When did life become so worrying?
The move to Shorling – that’s started to concern him too. He knows it makes sense, and he was all for it that lovely day on the beach with the kite. Yet he can’t help feeling a little anxious about the enormity of leaving the city in which he’s spent his entire adult life. Even Kerry seems slightly less enamoured with Shorling since she and the children moved down there, and he can’t quite imagine how she’ll fit in with those posh women with their haughty voices and BMWs.
‘Er, I’m not actually a member of Jack’s,’ Rob admits as the three men head for the third floor lift.
‘That’s fine, you’ll be my guest.’ Eddy sweeps back his mop of fair hair and jabs the lift button.
‘Great. Thanks.’ Rob’s mouth forms a tight line. The lift doors open, and they ride down in slightly awkward silence (despite the invitation, Rob suspects Eddy has only asked him out of politeness). It’s a relief when they step out into the early evening bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue. The warm September evening, and the good-natured hubbub around him, raises Rob’s spirits a little. He experiences a pang of missing Kerry and the children, and decides his one drink policy should mean he’ll catch Mia and Freddie for a phone call before they go to bed. This time tomorrow, he reminds himself, they’ll all be together. Maybe he’ll treat his family to a special Sunday lunch at that seafood restaurant in the big glass cube, see what the kids make of the crustacean-crushing implements. That would be fun. Despite his anxiety about the move, he is heartily sick of being alone in London from Monday to Friday.
At Jack’s, Eddy and Frank make a big show of being on first name terms with Theresa on the door.
‘Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?’ Eddy drawls, at which she chuckles indulgently and tosses back her glossy raven hair.
‘Yes, darling. You, last week.’
‘Oh, you play so hard to get. Isn’t she a terrible tease, Rob?’ Eddy emits a spluttery laugh, and Rob senses the tips of his ears turning a violent shade of puce. God, imagine having to be pleasant to wankers like this, every night of the week. Rob almost wants to apologise on behalf of all mankind. Just a quick one, he reminds himself as the three men descend the narrow stairs to the basement, so I don’t seem like a stand-offish old bugger …
His thoughts are cut short as he follows Eddy and Frank into the bar and realises that all of the Mr Jones editorial team are here – the clueless designers, the bewildering fashion team who describe clothes as ‘pieces’, and the writers who look like they’ve barely acquainted themselves with razors yet. Even Nadine, the young editorial assistant who doesn’t seem to like him much, is smiling over the rim of her glass. And they’re not only here, having a casual drink after work, but assembled before him in a rabbly semi-circle, all grinning and staring as they burst into song:
Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Robbeeeee …
Robbie? It sounds as if he’s in a boy band. Rob’s not a Robbie, but never mind that because here comes a cake, ablaze with candles and dusted with sugar (clearly, Jack’s is too cool for the kind of garish iced creations Kerry creates), carried on a big silver board by a beautiful girl with red hair cascading down her back. Shock has morphed into pleasure as someone hands Rob a drink (how did they know he likes vodka and tonic?), and his colleagues cluster around him as the cake is cut.
‘Well, thanks,’ he blusters. ‘I didn’t think, I mean I didn’t realise …’
‘Hope you don’t mind us hatching this little surprise,’ says ‘Stewie’, the new features editor whose pallid complexion suggests he spends most of his free time huddled over a games console.
‘No, of course not. Not at all.’ Rob grins in disbelief. ‘I’ve never had a surprise party before. I’m really touched …’
‘Feel okay about the big four-o?’
‘Oh yeah, it’s fine …’
‘And I hear you’re going to be our new sex columnist!’ exclaims fashion editor Ava, her severe black bob swinging excitedly.
‘Er, it hasn’t exactly been decided yet,’ he says, a little less freaked out by the prospect now he’s quickly downed most of his drink. How did she know, anyway?
‘Eddy seems to think it has,’ Ava says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Once he gets an idea in his head there’s no shifting it.’
‘Well, I suppose I’ll manage to, er …’
‘You’ll do a brilliant job,’ declares Nadine, startling Rob with her friendliness. Usually, she regards him with cool indifference as if he’s the maintenance guy.
‘Er, thanks, Nadine. I’ll give it my best shot, I supp
ose …’
She giggles, sweeping a hand over her cute gamine crop, and he feels himself blushing. Rob wonders briefly if she’s teasing him. Perhaps she finds it hugely amusing that the oldest man in the office – the Granddaddy of Mr Jones – has been chosen to write a sex column. He’s faintly relieved when Frank beckons him over to the bar to share a filthy joke.
No, he’s just being paranoid, Rob decides, which is understandable, considering the sweeping changes Eddy’s been making. Anyway, he feels better tonight, now buoyed up by his second vodka and tonic. Nadine has reappeared at his side, and is telling him about working with Eddy – ‘I follow him around like a little limpet,’ she explains with a grin – and Ava is complimenting his jacket. As the evening continues with much banter and laughter, Rob decides to socialise more often, and to try to remodel his work persona, which he suspects comes across as too earnest for Eddy’s ‘dynamic’ regime.
Rob might not be a member here at Jack’s, and he might be hanging onto his job by the tips of his neatly-filed fingernails, but right now, turning forty doesn’t seem so bad. And hours later – even though Rob rarely stays out late on a school night – he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t go along when someone suggests continuing the party at Nadine’s Baker Street flat.
Chapter Four
‘Mum. Mum! MUUUUM!’
Kerry snaps awake and peers at the alarm clock on her bedside table: 1.37 a.m. ‘What is it, Freddie?’ she croaks.
‘Mum! C’mere!’
With a groan, Kerry hauls herself out of bed and blunders barefoot in a rumpled T-shirt and knickers across the landing. By the time she’s in his room – which still retains its crabby whiff – she has already decided he sounds too perky to be ill or traumatised by a nightmare.
‘It’s the middle of the night, Freddie. What’s wrong?’