by Fiona Gibson
‘Er, yes, he’s pretty handy.’ With twenty-year-old editorial assistants, especially. Shame he wasn’t as efficient at knocking up IKEA wardrobes in all the years we spent together …
‘He’s got his work cut out then,’ Jasmine observes.
‘He certainly does,’ Kerry says jovially, having acquired a twinge in her jaw from maintaining a perky smile. Jasmine pays her, hooks a cornflower-blue patent bag over her shoulder and steps over Freddie’s discarded Wagon Wheel wrapper which Kerry had omitted to pick up earlier.
‘Roof looks a bit of a worry,’ is Jasmine’s parting shot as Kerry sees her out.
No, Kerry thinks as she closes the front door, that’s the least of my worries, actually, as long as it doesn’t fall off and crush someone …
Realising that any attempts to continue with her ‘Spread Your Wings’ melody will be futile now, she stuffs her hair into a ponytail, throws on a baggy sweater over her top and heads for the town centre. It’s a breezy afternoon with a colourless sky and, with the main holiday season finished, Shorling has an air of stillness, as if something is definitely over. Kerry realises, too, that now she’s here among the numerous boutiques and gift shops, there’s nothing she actually needs or, crucially, can afford to buy. A sole, bleak thought – that she appears to have become a single parent – gnaws away at her brain as she glances at window displays of dead-eyed seagulls carved from driftwood. Why would anyone covet a hand-made model yacht with a price tag of £850? She considers stopping for a coffee instead of all this aimless ambling, but is wary of being spotted by one of those school gate mothers who have so far greeted her attempts to make conversation with chilly indifference.
With a start, Kerry realises that she never used to worry so much about what people thought of her. However, these days she’d prefer to avoid being seen whiling away an empty afternoon in a cafe on her own. She can just imagine the murmurs as she waits outside school: That’s her, just moved into that clapped out old cottage that really needs a lick of paint. If we’re going to be in with a chance of winning Britain’s Prettiest Coastal Town she’d better sort it out …
As faint rain starts to fall, Kerry finds herself being lured into the dusty warmth of the charity bookshop. This being Shorling, it’s posher than most new book stores, and the moss-green velvet sofas and aromatic candles raise her spirits a little. As everything’s meticulously categorised – none of your usual charity shop mish-mash – it’s easy to locate the pet section. Kerry retires to the plush reading area with Your First Dog: A Complete Guide by Jeremy Catchpole, installing herself in a squishy armchair. There’s a montage of extremely cute pups on the cover, but from that point things skid rapidly downhill. Kerry’s eyes light upon Behaviour and aggression: Remember that ANY dog is capable of snapping and biting if provoked. While she’s not planning on ‘provoking’ Buddy, that doesn’t sound good. She flips to the health chapter: Parasites: An infection of roundworms can lead to bloating and chronic gas. Delightful. Tapeworms can be spotted in stools and occasionally glimpsed inside your dog’s ears. Certain parasites can be ingested when your dog consumes faecal matter …
Kerry bites her lip, now a little concerned about the irreversible nature of this dog project, despite James’s suggestion that Buddy could be returned, like an ill-fitting sweater. Once upon a time, she had despised people who likened the trials of early parenthood to pet ownership. ‘Ooh, I know what you mean,’ her old colleague Clemmie had sympathised when Kerry had mentioned her chronic sleep deprivation when Freddie was a baby. ‘Ginger drives us crazy too when he wants to go out at night.’ Please don’t compare a politely mewing pussy with the nocturnal roars of a six-month-old human baby, Kerry had wanted to snap. But now, she’s beginning to understand the similarities. Dog, baby: both say, ‘RESPONSIBILITY’ and ‘DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU’RE UP TO THIS?’
Her mobile rings, and she pulls it out from the pocket of her faded denim skirt with an abrupt, ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is it a good time?’ Rob always says this, realising, of course, that there is never a good time to converse with the Impregnator.
‘’S’pose so.’ The book is lying open on Kerry’s lap. Her eyes alight upon a picture of a dog attempting to mount the leg of an elderly lady sitting in a winged armchair.
‘You sound busy.’
The picture is captioned Inappropriate Sexual Behaviour. ‘I’m just out,’ she murmurs.
‘Right, well, I won’t keep you a minute. It’s about this weekend …’
‘Uh-huh …’
‘Er …’ Rob sighs audibly. ‘Look, I know how you feel, Kerry.’
She frowns so hard, it makes her head hurt. ‘Do you?’
‘Well, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just know you don’t want to see me, and I understand that, but I have to talk to the kids, okay? I need some time with them. I can’t tell you how awful I—’
‘Spare it, Rob,’ she cuts in, glaring down at a paragraph on post-operative mood changes: His over-eagerness to mate with every passing female will diminish immediately, following castration.
‘I, er, thought maybe I could come down on Saturday morning and take them over to Mum and Dad’s,’ Rob adds. ‘They could spend the night there with me, if that sounds okay.’
Kerry considers this. While her inclination is to say no – for reasons that she cannot begin to articulate – she is keenly aware how much Freddie and Mia are missing their father.
‘I suppose so,’ she mutters, ‘as long as your parents are fine with it.’
‘Of course they are. They love seeing the kids. This has been so hard for Mum and Dad and you know how fond of you they are—’
‘All right,’ she snaps.
‘Sorry.’ He pauses. ‘Are the kids okay, d’you think?’
‘Well, they’ll be happy tomorrow,’ she says tersely. ‘I’m collecting a dog.’
‘Are you? So you’re really going ahead with it?’
‘Yes, why wouldn’t I?’ Out of the corner of her eye she sees a statuesque blonde woman entering the shop. It’s Brigid, clutching the hand of Joe, her sugar-scattering little boy.
‘There’ll be all the walking,’ Rob points out.
‘I can walk, you know. I am capable of forward motion.’
‘I know, it’s just … I wouldn’t want you to rush into anything,’ Rob mumbles.
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean—’
‘You wouldn’t want me to rush into anything?’
‘I just mean,’ Rob blusters, ‘it’ll be a hell of a tie for you …’
‘Like having a baby?’ she blurts out, unable to stop herself.
‘No, no, that’s totally different …’
‘Because you’ve obviously thought that through really carefully,’ she charges on, keeping her head down and praying that Brigid doesn’t spot her. Luckily, she seems to be engrossed in the mind, body and spirit section while Joe spins a rack of charity gift leaflets with unnerving speed.
‘Kerry, please—’
‘You’ve obviously taken a really measured view of things,’ she continues, her cheeks burning, ‘and decided that, when you had a little wobble about moving to the coast, the most sensible course of action was to impregnate the intern.’
‘Er, she’s the editorial assistant,’ he mutters.
‘I don’t give a damn what she does, Rob. She could be expected to clean the urinals with her tongue for all I care.’ Kerry clamps her mouth shut, heart thumping against her ribs. An elderly woman in the poetry section peers over and frowns.
‘Anyway, good luck with the dog,’ Rob says dully as they finish the call.
Aware that her face is still scrunched into an unbecoming frown, Kerry allows herself a moment to picture Buddy attacking Rob when he shows up on Saturday. All dogs are capable of biting, after all. Perhaps, having bonded immediately with Kerry, Buddy will sense that this tall, dark-eyed man has wronged her in the most terrible way and go in for the kill. As Brigid continues to peruse the she
lves, Kerry cheers herself up by imagining Rob staggering out of her house, his favourite Aquascutum trousers ripped at the shins and splattered with blood.
How is it possible to spend thirteen years with someone and not realise what an absolute dick they are? Kerry muses. You’d think there’s be signs – iffy sexual preferences, or worrying political views. But there was nothing. Sweet, well-meaning, bit-on-the-earnest-side Rob, with the head-turning good looks. What went wrong?
‘Kerry?’ With a start, she looks up to where Brigid is towering above her in a dangerously short T-shirt dress and flat pumps.
‘Oh, hi, Brigid.’ Although she’s pleased to see her again, she doesn’t know if she’s capable right now of coming across as the kind of woman Brigid might want to be friends with.
‘Sorry, you’re reading. I didn’t mean to disturb you. God, I know how lovely it is when you can steal a few minutes with a book.’
‘Mummy-I-want-that-book,’ Joe mumbles.
‘Just a minute, darling …’
‘You’re not disturbing me at all,’ Kerry says brightly. ‘I was just having a quick browse … aren’t you well today, Joe?’
He frowns at her and shakes his head. ‘He’s supposed to have a tummy ache,’ Brigid says with a roll of her eyes, ‘but by ten o’clock he seemed to have made a full recovery.’
‘I want that book,’ he barks.
‘Well, I’m not buying it, sweetheart. I’m not having it in the house. Anyway,’ Brigid continues, indicating the hardback on Kerry’s lap, ‘can I assume you’re planning on getting a new family member?’
Kerry smiles. ‘Yes, I am. You probably think I’m completely mad …’
‘Not at all,’ she exclaims. ‘We love dogs, don’t we, Joe?’
‘I WANT THAT BOOK!’
‘Sorry, absolutely not.’ Brigid grins conspiratorially at Kerry. ‘Anyway, maybe you’d like to meet ours sometime. We could walk them together. I always think it’s good for dogs to socialise, don’t you?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ Kerry admits with a smile. ‘He’ll be our first. I’ve arranged to pick him up tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I’m so excited for you.’ Brigid’s cheery demeanour has made Kerry’s prickliness over the conversation with Rob fade away. Her gold hoop earrings and cluster of jingly bracelets are a little glitzy for Shorling, Kerry notes approvingly. How pleasing to meet someone who doesn’t appear to conform to the type.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’m pretty excited too.’
‘We’re going for a quick walk right now,’ Brigid adds, ‘to blow away the terrible virus that Joe reckoned was about to strike him dead about five hours ago. Don’t suppose you fancy joining us, if you’re finished in here?’
‘Sounds great.’ Kerry leaps up from the armchair, hurriedly pays for her book and leaves the shop with Brigid and Joe, to find their gleaming brown and white Staffy waiting patiently outside.
*
‘She was a rescue dog,’ Brigid explains as they follow the worn stone steps down onto the sand. ‘We don’t know her exact age but we reckon around ten or eleven.’
‘Is that really old?’ Kerry asks. ‘I keep realising how little I know about dogs.’
‘Oh, Roxy’s a veteran all right,’ Brigid says, casting her a fond glance, ‘and the softest girl in the world, despite Staffies’ reputations.’
‘Well, she’s still got her looks,’ Kerry says. ‘She’s a real beauty.’
‘She’s nearly as old as Mummy,’ Joe announces, all traces of ill-humour having now disappeared.
‘In dog years, she’s more like Granny’s age,’ Brigid laughs.
‘Well, I hope Buddy’s as good-natured,’ Kerry says.
‘Where are you getting him from?’
Kerry fills her in on the ad, and the owner’s brusqueness on the phone. ‘If that was my dog, I wouldn’t just hand him over to the first person to call,’ she says. ‘I’d want to make sure they were suitable. But he didn’t ask me anything – whether anyone’s at home during the day, or if we have a garden …’
‘Strange,’ Brigid agrees.
‘It’s as if he just wants to be rid of him.’
‘He’s a lucky dog then,’ she says as Joe tears away to the rock pools, dishevelled hair flying in the light October breeze. Brigid lets out a snort. ‘So much for him being ill. He knows I’m a pushover, that’s the problem. A soft touch that he can wrap around his little finger, being just the two of us.’
Kerry looks at her and smiles, suddenly picturing Brigid as a younger woman; partying in Ibiza or Goa with a bunch of similarly bronzed, leggy girls. And she finds herself telling her all about Rob: his fortieth birthday night out, the Impregnation, and the terrible days that have followed.
‘That’s awful,’ Brigid exclaims. ‘I’d never have imagined, Kerry – not even that day I saw the two of you having coffee in Hattie’s. God. You seemed so together.’
Kerry smiles wryly. ‘I imagine they’re engraving my name on that Oscar right now.’
‘Well, I think you’re amazing.’
‘Not at all,’ Kerry says briskly. ‘If it was just me, alone, I’d be lying on the sofa with a bottle of gin and the curtains shut. But you can’t, can you? Children have to be up for school and dressed and fed. It’s good for me, actually. They force me to carry on because, however wretched I might feel, it’s not just about me. They’re affected as well, and that’s the main reason I’m getting Buddy.’
‘It’s something new and positive,’ Brigid remarks, nodding. ‘I can understand that.’ She gives Joe a little wave – he’s now soaked to the knees from jumping into the rock pools – then turns back to Kerry. ‘I lend Roxy out sometimes, you know. To friends, I mean.’
‘What for?’
‘Oh, she always gets the guys.’
‘You mean male dogs? Still up for that, is she?’
‘No, no, I mean men,’ Brigid laughs. ‘Think about it. Apart from babies – which are a pretty powerful man-deterrent, let’s face it – what’s the best conversation opener you can think of?’
Kerry shrugs. ‘No idea.’
‘Being out with your dog, of course. You’ll be amazed how many people you meet. You know that just about everyone has at least one around here – it’s almost mandatory …’
Although Kerry doesn’t want to overstep the mark and scare off the sole tentative connection she’s made here, she is desperate to ask about Brigid’s love life. She likes the fact that the custard-yellow bag slung over her shoulder is rather battered looking, and would be considered a little trashy around these parts. She enjoys her loud, throaty laugh, and the fact that her child clearly isn’t impeccably behaved.
‘So have you met anyone that way?’ she ventures. ‘Using Roxy as a sort of matchmaker, I mean.’
Brigid chuckles. ‘I have actually. There was David with the King Charles spaniel – sweet, but a disgustingly noisy eater – then Jason with the Labradoodle, who’d never got over his ex, and the last one, Mike with the Doberman pinscher, typical posh boy – you know how they are around here …’
‘Wow,’ Kerry marvels. ‘That’s pretty impressive.’
‘Told you, Kerry, a dog’s a wonderful thing. For children, too – they’re a special friend they can talk to.’
Kerry nods, her throat tightening at the thought of Freddie and Mia perhaps confiding in Buddy about their father’s departure and new baby. Although they seemed to accept the new information, Freddie’s question about Rob – Will he still be our daddy? – still rings hollowly in her ears.
‘Well,’ she says, checking her watch, ‘guess I’d better head off to school.’
Brigid smiles. ‘It’s been really nice bumping into you today.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it too. Thanks for cheering me up.’ She waves goodbye to Joe, then adds, ‘What book was it, by the way? The one Joe wanted in the charity shop …’
‘Oh, that,’ Brigid laughs. ‘It was one of those Thomas the Tank Engines. I can’t bear them i
n the house, can you? Gordon and Henry and the Fat Controller. God …’ She shudders.
‘Yes, we had a year when Freddie would have nothing else at bedtime.’ Kerry laughs dryly. ‘Maybe that’s what drove Rob into the arms of another woman.’
Brigid smiles, then gives her a quick, unexpected hug before adding, ‘Listen, you can call me any time, okay? I only work three days a week, in the library. A lot of the time we’re just pottering about, especially at weekends. Let’s exchange numbers.’
‘Great,’ Kerry says, whipping out her phone. As they part company, she turns to see Joe throw a stick for Roxy as Brigid strides towards them. Despite all that’s happened, Kerry feels a little lighter as she makes her way to school. She’s certain now that getting a dog is completely the right thing to do, for all the reasons Brigid mentioned. But also, she realises with a smile, because Rob is most definitely not a dog person.
Chapter Nineteen
‘She doesn’t even like dogs,’ Rob tells Simon, clutching his bottle of beer and a cigarette outside the Soho pub. ‘It’s so out of character. She’s not one of those people who stops and strokes them in parks. In fact she’s always been a bit nervous of them, ever since one nipped her on the ankle when she was a little girl …’
He can sense Simon, his old editor and friend, appraising him over the rim of his glass of red wine. It’s disconcerting, being regarded with a mixture of incredulity and barely-disguised disapproval.
‘I don’t see why this is a big deal,’ he says levelly.
‘Well, I just don’t think she’s thought it through.’
Simon blinks at him. Although his neatly-cropped hair is far more salt than pepper these days, he’s looked younger – and certainly happier – since he was kicked off Mr Jones and shunted down to Tram Enthusiast’s basement offices. It’s as if time operates on a different system down there in the bowels of the building. In contrast, Rob feels as if he has aged with astonishing speed these past few weeks. His heart feels leaden, his intestines a mass of knots and tangles, and his gut aches with a dull, heavy pain from missing Kerry and the children.