Pedigree Mum

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says, resisting the urge to reach straight for her hand. He can already detect a chilly vibe, which he’d expected, and is determined to do whatever it takes to put things right. This past week has been terrible. While he’s managed to scrape through five interminable days at the office – relieved that Nadine has been perfectly friendly, but not overly-friendly – he’s missed the children dreadfully, and been unable to quell the persistent sense of dread that he’s utterly screwed up his marriage. He’s been unable to sleep, and trying to write his first sex column for Mr Jones caused him untold grief. He sat up for hours in bed with his laptop, trying to dredge up something to write about foreplay ‘with a punchy edge’, when all he could think about was his wife yelling and him ending up splattered in chocolate frosting. In desperation, he’d rattled out a column about using food during sex. (It was sprinkled with phrases like ‘tasty treats’ and ‘finger-licking good’; the days of lengthy essays about classic Hitchcock movies were clearly long gone).

  ‘Just an Americano please,’ Kerry tells the waitress. ‘You having another, Rob?’ She eyes him coolly.

  ‘Um, no thanks.’ He glances at his cup of lukewarm coffee, knowing that a refill will make his nerves jangle even more alarmingly than they are now. The waitress glides away and a tense silence descends. ‘So, er … are the kids okay?’ Rob asks tentatively.

  ‘Yes, Anita’s with them on the beach.’

  He nods. ‘That’s good of her. Um, but I actually meant, how have they been these past few days?’

  Kerry smiles her thanks as the waitress places her coffee on the table. ‘They’re fine. They don’t realise anything’s happened, of course. Anyway, you’ve still spoken to them every evening.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’ve just been …’ He looks around, wishing she’d agreed to meet at the house, as he’d suggested, rather than in a cafe in the kind of town where you can’t paint your front door without it being trumpeted on the front page of the Shorling Advertiser. ‘I’ve been worried about them,’ he adds, taken aback by the intensity of Kerry’s green eyes. ‘Anyway, thanks for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Of course I’d see you,’ she says tersely. ‘And the kids’ll be pleased to have some time with you later, especially with you being ill last weekend …’

  This is what Kerry had told them: that a dreadful cold had caused him to stay in London last weekend, instead of seeing them on his birthday as planned. ‘Don’t make me feel worse than I do already,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Well, they were a bit put out that they couldn’t give you the cards they’d made, and now you’ve got get well cards waiting for you too. Your correspondence is starting to stack up.’

  Get well cards. God. The thought of Freddie and Mia busying away with their felt tips crushes something inside him.

  ‘What else could I do?’ she asks. ‘I couldn’t tell them what happened, could I?’

  ‘Kerry,’ he hisses, relieved that the other customers seem too engrossed in their own conversations to be listening in, ‘I told you, it was nothing.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘I still think it’s weird. Why didn’t you say straight away that you’d spent the night at her place?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d blow it up out of all pro-portion …’ A tall, statuesque blonde has wafted into the tearoom, and Rob’s heart slumps as she smiles in recognition. Her blondeness is a little brassier than the usual refined Shorling look, her jeans a tad on the tight side and her patterned top daringly low-cut. She is clutching the hand of a small child with a tangle of light brown hair that would really benefit from a little involvement with a hairbrush.

  ‘Hi,’ the woman says with a big, bold smile, right up at their table now. ‘I think I’ve seen you at Maisie Cartwright’s house, haven’t I?’ She turns to her child. ‘Remember you chatted to those nice children over the wall, darling?’

  ‘Yes, that’s us,’ Kerry says warmly when the child fails to respond. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you too …’

  ‘That’s our favourite part of the beach,’ the woman explains, ‘right across from your house. I’m Brigid, by the way …’

  ‘I’m Kerry, this is Rob …’ Her chilly demeanour has evaporated. How do women do this, he marvels, switching on a smile so easily as the occasion demands?

  ‘Not joining in with the sandcastle competition today?’ Kerry asks the child pleasantly.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘We decided to boycott it,’ Brigid laughs. ‘It’s not really for the children anymore. It’s just an opportunity for parents to show off.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Kerry agrees. ‘It’s ridiculous really …’

  Please leave, Rob urges her silently. My wife and I are busy trying to repair our marriage.

  ‘So how are you both settling in?’ Brigid wants to know.

  ‘Oh, we’re loving it,’ Kerry replies. As the women chatter on, Rob glances from Kerry to Brigid, wondering when they might run out of idle chit-chat.

  ‘I saw your ad for piano lessons,’ Brigid goes on while Rob clamps his back teeth together. ‘How’s that going?’

  ‘I’ve had a few calls. Hopefully things’ll start picking up once the children are back in school …’

  ‘Bet you’ll be inundated.’ Brigid looks down at her sullen offspring. ‘Would you like piano lessons, hon?’

  ‘Nah.’ There’s a fierce shake of the head.

  ‘Oh.’ Brigid guffaws. ‘Well, that’s that then. Worth trying, I guess. Anyway, we’ll leave you two lovebirds in peace.’ With another huge grin, Brigid ushers her child of indeterminate gender towards two chrome stools at the high table by the window.

  Now, Rob realises, it’ll be impossible for him and Kerry to talk properly. Brigid and her ill-mannered kid are within earshot – in fact, the child keeps throwing him startled glances as if he might have something terrible growing out of his nose – and the companionable chatter from the other customers has died down to a murmur.

  ‘Is that a boy or a girl?’ he whispers to Kerry.

  ‘A boy of course,’ she hisses back. ‘His name’s Joe.’

  ‘It’s just, with that messy long hair …’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She exhales loudly. ‘Lots of children have hair like that these days.’

  Rob stirs his cold coffee, wondering how to steer the conversation towards the matter in hand.

  ‘Anyway,’ Kerry adds, ‘the sandcastle competition finishes at around three. We should probably make our way down there soon.’

  ‘But we’ve just got here,’ he exclaims, feeling helpless.

  ‘Well, maybe we should get there for the judging. They were planning to make this 3D treasure map. Mia’s been drawing a plan and cutting out lots of little flags which she stuck onto toothpicks …’

  Kerry’s talking too fast, Rob decides. It’s as if the faint staleness of a decade-long marriage has merged with the awkwardness of a terrible first date. The effect is hugely unsettling, and although Rob is trying to appear riveted, he couldn’t give a damn about little toothpick flags right now. Clearly, she wants to get out of this tearoom – and away from him – as quickly as possible.

  While Kerry rattles on, Rob tries to mentally transmit to Brigid that she and her snotty-nosed child must leave the cafe this instant because he needs to talk to his wife. He glances at his watch: half two already. Joe is now amusing himself by ripping open paper sachets of sugar and sprinkling their contents onto their table.

  Glancing over, Brigid notices Rob’s irritated glare. ‘He’s exploring texture,’ she explains with an indulgent smile as Joe flicks a pile of sugar onto the floor.

  ‘Oh, right.’ He laughs hollowly.

  ‘Well, I hope they win,’ Kerry says.

  Rob frowns. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The kids. Haven’t you been listening, Rob? I said I hope they win the contest …’

  ‘Er, Kerry …’ Rob begins, distracted again as Joe swipes his mother’s teaspoon and drips coffee onto the sugary piles. What’s he
doing now – exploring how to make a bloody great mess?

  ‘Oh, God, Joe,’ Brigid cries. ‘We’ll have to go, you’re meant to be at Oliver’s party …’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, Kerry, we must get our boys together to play sometime.’ With a big flashy smile, Brigid grabs Joe’s hand as they clatter out of the cafe.

  ‘I can’t stand that,’ Rob mutters as a sense of stillness descends.

  ‘Stand what?’ Kerry asks.

  ‘That. Kids throwing sugar everywhere, mothers pretending they’re engaged in some valuable learning experience when all they’re really doing is being bloody infuriating …’

  She laughs and shakes her head, and he senses the tension dispelling a little. ‘God, Rob, when did you become such an angry old man?’

  ‘Hey, less of the old …’

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘ours aren’t perfect either, remember. But yes, I know what you mean. Brigid seems nice, though, and I really need to get to know some people around here. I wish they were all as friendly as she is …’

  ‘Kerry,’ Rob butts in, reaching for her hand across the table. ‘Let’s … let’s forget all this. Can we do that, please?’

  She slides her hand out from under his. ‘Last weekend, you mean?’

  Rob nods. ‘I know how it looked …’

  ‘Oh yes, your friendly little cleaning lady.’

  ‘… I want us to move on from this because we have to decide what to do.’

  Kerry blinks at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Er …’ He plucks a sugar sachet from the bowl, accidentally rips it and quickly puts it back. ‘The estate agent called me yesterday. That couple, the ones who came round to see the house after the, er …’

  ‘What, last Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, them. Well, they’d needed a few days to talk it over and they’ve decided they want it.’

  ‘They’ve put in an offer?’ Kerry asks, eyes widening.

  ‘Yes.’ He glances around the tearoom; even the fridge seems to have fallen silent now. ‘The asking price too,’ he adds.

  ‘Really? Wow, that’s great …’

  Rob looks at his wife, thinking how lovely she looks today with her glossy dark hair pulled back and those few strands dancing prettily around her face. She looks relieved, too, about the London house. Rob is trying to seem pleased, but he also owes it to Kerry to be absolutely honest. He pauses, wondering how best to put it, knowing he must get it absolutely right.

  Chapter Eleven

  Around the corner from Hattie’s, tucked away on a quiet cobbled side street, a new upmarket sandwich shop is struggling to survive. James Delaney, who’s helping his son to get the place in order, was up this morning at 6.35 a.m. He’s already walked his dog, Buddy, along Shorling beach, forced six-foot-three Luke out of bed and sliced a mountain of prosciutto, tomatoes and Emmental. He has also apologised numerous times for the fact that they don’t have any rocket today. Luke messed up the greengrocer’s order (again) so, while he held the fort, James raced around town, amassing as many acceptable lettuce varieties as he could manage. Although he failed to locate rocket, he did track down lollo rosso, butterhead, cos and lamb’s lettuce – how many leaf varieties do people actually need? What would customers do if presented with plain old iceberg – burst into tears or attack him? It’s one of the things that drives James mad about Shorling these days: this utter wankery about food. Which is unfortunate, really, as Luke’s business idea – to set up a sandwich shop to out-posh all the others – was built upon the new residents’ adoration of fine cheeses and hams nestling between organic sourdough.

  With the main lunchtime period over – the term ‘rush’ would be over-stating things – James pulls off his navy blue and white striped apron. Hanging it beside the enormous string of garlic behind the counter, he heads for the door of the shop. ‘Just popping home,’ he says.

  ‘Okay, Dad,’ Luke replies.

  ‘I’ll only be half an hour. Maybe you could clear the decks a bit, set out some more smoked salmon, chuck some lemon and black pepper over it …’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Pepper, Luke,’ James says with exaggerated patience. ‘You do know how to operate a pepper grinder. It’s that twisty gadget with the little black things in.’

  ‘Sure, Dad,’ Luke says with an amiable smile. James blinks at his son, exasperated, yet unable to feel irritated with him for long. Luke is a handsome, stubbly-chinned boy who, while not wildly academic, has the knack of charming the pants off girls and money out of his wealthy friends’ parents’ bank accounts (hence being able to set up his own business at twenty-two years old). James can’t help admiring his entrepreneurial streak; the way he managed to write a business plan, design the shop and amass the funds, when he’d felt sure the whole idea would come to nothing. Unfortunately, though, Shorling residents and day-trippers haven’t gone mad for fillet steak with baby spinach and grilled artichoke hearts. Maybe, James reflects as he strides down the narrow street, it’s just too much. After all, there’s nothing much wrong with a plain cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps. He and Luke are virtually living off unsold food, their fridge crammed with leftovers. James has started waking up at night, nauseous after a supper of smoked trout, stilton and figs.

  It also became apparent that, while Luke has never lacked enthusiasm, he needed someone with him in the shop to keep things running smoothly. As he can’t afford to pay one of his floppy-haired friends, James saw no option but to step in, cramming his own freelance website design work into the evenings to get things on track. ‘Just a few weeks,’ he’d told Luke. ‘Six at the most. Then you’re on your own.’ However, they both know that James will never leave Luke in the lurch.

  James is back home now, and lets himself into the neat redbrick house with the not-so-neat dangly gutter, making a mental note to get it fixed.

  ‘Hey, boy,’ he says as Buddy charges towards him. ‘Been on your own too long, huh? C’mon, just a quick walk …’

  He clips on the lead, catching sight of himself in the small mirror in the hallway. God, he needs a haircut. He likes it short, no-nonsense, and before his involvement with Luke’s (after much debate, his son decided the simplest option was to name the shop after himself), James would have regular trims at the old-fashioned Turkish barber’s. Lately, though, such non-essentials have slipped off the radar. And, although he’s glad to escape from the shop for a while, he’s beginning to wonder if looking after Buddy is something he could do without too. Luke’s on-off girlfriend Charlotte used to undertake dog-walking duties, but the status is definitely ‘off’ at the moment.

  James sets off with Buddy pulling hard on the lead, panting and straining towards a dropped ice cream cone on the pavement. He barks suddenly at an elderly man on a mobility scooter, and James has to quickly haul him away before he pees against a bucket of fresh blooms outside the florist’s. A woman with a wiry grey terrier – impeccably behaved – glares at him as she struts by. ‘Should get him some training,’ she mutters.

  Oh, really? James wants to call after her. Don’t think I haven’t tried that. We’ve even seen a behavioural expert – a dog psychologist – who diagnosed severe anxiety caused by trauma. He wasn’t like this before my wife left, you know. Buddy was very much Amy’s dog but, weirdly enough, she wasn’t too keen on taking him when she moved up to Sheffield with her hairdresser – sorry, colourist … Said Brian ‘isn’t good with animals’. Oh, really? James wasn’t particularly ‘good’ with being dumped without warning either, but he’d had to deal with that.

  Halting his racing thoughts – the tutting woman has long since disappeared – James takes a short cut through the alley towards the beach. While Buddy stops to investigate a damp patch on the pavement, James glances at the glass-covered noticeboard on the newsagent’s wall. Sandwich Express, he reads. Bespoke buffets delivered to your workplace. Contact Gary for a slice of the action. Hmmm. Should he and Luke start a delivery service? It seems over-ambitious seeing as they’re str
uggling to keep the shop afloat, but every little helps.

  Buddy is pulling again now and starts barking sharply, startling a passing teenager on a bike who gives James a two-fingered salute. Since Amy’s departure, Buddy has become fearful of cyclists, motorbikes and lorries – most vehicles, come to think of it. Despite the fact that he’s gripping Buddy’s lead, James hopes that, if he keeps staring ahead, any passers-by will assume that this dog has nothing whatsoever to do with him. He fixes his gaze on the newsagent’s ads. Most are offering boats for sale, holiday cottages to let, and essential services such as chakra realignment and ‘a full feng-shui survey to breathe life into your home’. Then a small white postcard catches his eye: Piano Tuition.

  There’s a burst of laughter from down on the shore. The beach is packed with children, he realises; must be the annual sandcastle competition, which Luke won with an impressive marble run construction when he was seven or eight (he’d been able to charm a whole horde of people to help him, even back then).

  James turns back to the noticeboard.

  All levels, abilities and musical styles – in your own home or in my music room in Shorling. Whether you wish to work towards ABRSM exams, or learn to play purely for fun, call qualified tutor Kerry Tambini on 07776 456 896.

  He smiles. A little hobby to slot in is the last thing he needs, but still …

  Without considering what he’s doing, James slips the loop of Buddy’s lead over the bollard at the end of the alley and delves into his jacket pocket. He’s forgotten his phone, but he does have a crumpled shopping list scrawled on a paper napkin. He pulls out the tiniest stub of a pencil and scribbles down the number, thinking how mad it is, assuming he’d be capable of learning anything new at forty-three years old. Anyway, hadn’t he planned to sell Amy’s piano, seeing as she clearly doesn’t want that either?

  Another barking outburst interrupts his thoughts as Buddy starts leaping wildly, clearly furious at being tied up. The sight of a small dog across the street – one of those poochy creatures with a bow at its fringe – has sent him into a frenzy. James hurriedly lifts his lead off the bollard, simultaneously making apologetic gestures to the dog’s owner in her prim floral dress while snapping, ‘That’s enough, Buddy. Calm down.’ Shooting him a furious look, the woman scoops up her quivering pet, as if fearful that Buddy might savage it. About to explain that he’s just nervous, defensive, or whatever you want to call it, James momentarily loses concentration, enabling Buddy to break free from his grasp and charge across the road in a blur of black and white fur, red leather lead flying behind him. The woman shrinks back in fear, but Buddy is no longer interested in her yapping hound. He’s now pelting down towards the beach with a cursing James in pursuit.