by Fiona Gibson
Brigid lets out a big, gravelly laugh. ‘I’d say you’re allowed to give yourself a pat on the back once in a while.’
‘Well … maybe.’ Kerry glances down at Buddy. ‘He’s doing me good, too. It would drive me mad, being stuck in that little music room all day, but of course, having a dog forces you out into the real world.’
‘How’s work going?’ Brigid asks.
‘Eight songs done, five to go, and after that they want three new ones a week so it’s a sort of ongoing thing …’
‘What, indefinitely?’
Kerry chuckles. ‘Sounds like it – till the end of time. God, what a thought …’
‘You’re such a grafter,’ Brigid marvels. ‘Twenty hours a week at the library are all I can manage. And I’m glad you’re a dog person now. You know what Shorling’s like – pretty and all that, but not the friendliest place if you don’t quite fit the mould. It can be a bit lonely sometimes.’
Kerry glances at Brigid. She knows Joe’s dad disappeared years ago, deciding that Goan beaches held more appeal than his newborn son, which struck her as heartless beyond belief. She is aware, too, that Joe isn’t always invited to classmates’ parties, and has seen some of the school gate mothers giving Brigid’s clingy tops and skimpy dresses disdainful glances.
‘Same for me,’ she says. ‘Without our walks, my weekends would feel really strange and empty when the kids are with Rob. I suppose that’s why I cram in as many pupils on Saturdays and Sundays as I can.’
‘Clown guy coming along okay?’ Brigid grins.
Kerry laughs as she unclips Buddy’s lead. ‘He’s only had one proper lesson but yes, seems ultra-keen.’
‘Keen on you, I bet.’ She raises a brow.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not looking …’
‘Right, now you’ve got Buddy instead …’
They stop and perch on the rocks as the dogs potter around together.
‘Don’t knock it,’ Kerry laughs. ‘I was all over the place when Rob left and now, well … it’s as if Buddy’s given our lives some kind of shape and order. And it’s great watching him home in on Rob’s crotch like a heat-seeking missile …’
‘Kerry,’ Brigid nudges her, ‘I think you’d better call him back.’
Hell, Buddy has taken off, and is pelting across the wet sand, paying no heed to her calls.
‘Buddy!’ she yells, heading towards the sea where he’s leaping through the shallow waves, sending up a spray of water behind him. If he weren’t showing her up – several dog walkers are watching with interest as she calls him ineffectually – she’d delight in his exuberance. He turns inland then, pelting towards the dunes. Kerry spots a small figure in a pink coat who shrinks back as Buddy leaps up at her.
‘Buddy, get down,’ she calls out, breathless as she catches up with him and clips on his lead. The woman glares down at the wet splodges all over her coat.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Kerry exclaims.
‘He’s out of control,’ the woman splutters, her small, immaculately-clipped dog – Kerry has yet to be able to identify breeds – sitting neatly beside her.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Kerry repeats. ‘He just loves people and—’
‘You shouldn’t have a big dog like that if you can’t control him.’
‘But he’s only …’ Kerry falters, instantly pinged back to a terrible moment in the Co-op when she’d taken her eye off Freddie – who was just a toddler then – for just long enough for him to clamber onto a freezer, extract a packet of potato waffles and fling them across the store like a frisbee, hitting an elderly man on the neck. Of course, she’d apologised profusely. Sometimes it feels as if she spends her life saying sorry for things she hasn’t actually done. Women like that, she heard the man mutter as he stomped away, shouldn’t be allowed to have kids. Like there was a series of child-rearing tests you had to pass in order to be ‘allowed’ to make them.
‘I can control him actually,’ Kerry fibs, glowering at the woman, ‘and there’s no need to be so unpleasant.’
‘I think you’d be a little annoyed,’ she splutters, ‘if your coat was dry clean only.’ The white dog twitches its nose at the woman’s feet.
‘Tell you what, then,’ Kerry retorts. ‘I live at 82 Ocean Drive. Have your coat cleaned and send me the bill, okay?’
The woman growls something unintelligible as Kerry marches back to where Brigid and Roxy are waiting by the rocks.
‘Take it she gave you a hard time?’ she asks.
Kerry sighs. ‘Oh, I suppose she was justified. You don’t see any other dogs leaping up at strangers, and her coat is dry clean only.’
‘Who’d wear something like that to walk their dog?’ Brigid scoffs. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here. Let’s grab a coffee and a snack.’
Kerry hesitates. ‘Buddy doesn’t like being tied up outside and I don’t fancy another scene, to be honest.’
‘Oh, I know just the place. We can sit right by the window so he’ll be able to see you. We’re both child-free, aren’t we? Let’s make the most of it.’
*
The cafe Brigid has in mind is Luke’s, the sandwich place which came to the rescue with the Egyptian feast, and which has two tables by the window overlooking the narrow cobbled street.
‘I love their Emmental and spinach on wholegrain,’ Brigid enthuses, scanning the chalked menu above the counter.
Kerry glances outside. ‘Just look at him, Brigid.’ She indicates Buddy’s mournful face at the glass. ‘He looks like a pitiful orphan waiting for scraps.’
‘Rubbish,’ Brigid retorts. ‘I’ve never seen a happier, healthier-looking dog. Anyway, he’s got Roxy for company. Now, what are you having? My treat.’
‘Um … an Americano and a chocolate brownie please.’
‘That’s my girl.’ Brigid gives their order to the floppy-haired boy behind the counter – the one who saved Kerry’s bacon with his figs – and carries their tray to the table. Outside, Roxy is sitting politely, almost motionless, like one of those model dogs with a slot in their head where you can post coins for charity. Beside her, Buddy gazes in at Kerry, radiating adoration.
‘So I had my first encounter from that dating site,’ Brigid is telling her.
‘What – grownupandsorted.com?’
‘That’s the one. God, what a disaster that was.’
‘What happened?’ Kerry asks.
‘Ugh.’ Brigid shudders. ‘Have you ever noticed how off-putting it is to watch a man eating salad? Like, when you’re not eating – we were only supposed to be meeting for coffee – and you’ve got this big, strapping man in front of you cramming lettuce leaves into his mouth …’ She makes a chomping rabbit face, and they’re both sniggering as Kerry’s mobile rings.
She checks the screen. ‘Damn, it’s the Impregnator … hi, Rob? Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mumbles vaguely.
‘Are the children all right?’
‘Uh … yes. I, um … I’m just sitting in Mum and Dad’s back garden having a fag.’
‘A fag? But I thought you stopped years ago.’ Kerry throws Brigid an exasperated look.
‘Yeah, well, no. I’ve sort of started again.’ He pauses. ‘I just … wanted to call you. Things, er … didn’t go too well over lunch. I’ve had to take Nadine to the station …’
Kerry takes a moment to process this. ‘Did something happen with her and kids? Did she upset them?’
‘No, no,’ he says quickly. ‘It wasn’t that. It was more between her and Mum, they didn’t quite see eye-to-eye—’
‘Rob, why are you calling me about this?’ she cuts in.
‘I … just thought …’
‘Well, don’t think,’ she snaps. ‘Having to listen while you tell me about things that have gone wrong … it’s just not in my job description anymore, okay?’
‘I’m sorry, I just—’
‘And I’m actually with someone right now,’ she adds firmly. ‘I’m busy, Rob.’
‘Oh.’ There’s a baffled silence, as if he fully expects her to spend these long, child-free weekends gawping bleakly at daytime TV, or perhaps chipping limescale off the toilet bowl. Across the table, Brigid is sniggering silently.
‘So it’s not the best time for me,’ Kerry adds, barely stifling a laugh.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Rob blusters. ‘You should have said.’
‘Well, I’m saying now.’
‘Right. Okay. See-you-tomorrow-about-fourish,’ he barks before ringing off, at which Kerry and Brigid dissolve into laughter.
‘He thinks you’re in bed,’ Brigid hisses.
‘Good.’
‘And now he’s torturing himself, imagining you naked with some hot man.’
Kerry snorts, wishing now that she’d fully exploited the moment, perhaps by murmuring, Hang on, darling, just let me get my ex off the phone … ‘When actually,’ she adds, ‘I’m just caressing a sexy little brownie.’
‘It is sexy,’ Brigid agrees. ‘Look at it, giving you come-hither looks from its plate.’
‘Mmmm, I love it.’ Kerry strokes it suggestively before taking a nibble. ‘God, you’re such a foxy little brownie.’ She emits a dreamy mmmmm sound.
‘Glad you like it, Kerry.’ James has marched into the shop, brandishing a large cardboard box. He nods in recognition to Brigid and breaks into a grin.
‘Hi, James …’ Kerry feels her cheeks flaming.
‘I bake them myself, you know.’
‘Do you? This is your place, is it?’
‘Well, Luke’s officially.’ James indicates his son behind the counter, then glances towards the dogs sitting outside. ‘Looks like you’re making good progress with Buddy. He’d never have sat waiting patiently for me like that. Would have made a complete spectacle of himself by now …’
She frowns. ‘Don’t you think he looks abandoned, though?’
James goes behind the counter and starts slicing ham. ‘He has a needy face. That’s just his look, isn’t it, Luke?’
‘Yeah,’ Luke laughs, and Kerry can see the striking father-son resemblance: same soft grey eyes and angular jawlines. A sprawling family has burst into the shop, and she marvels at the extensive list of exotic sandwiches they’re asking James and Luke to prepare. Mia’s party is still some weeks off but, as well as requesting a bought cake, her daughter has already decreed that ‘we will not be having sandwiches’.
‘Oh, I booked clown man for the party,’ Kerry tells Brigid.
‘Great, that should take the pressure off. Is he single by any chance?’
‘God.’ She bursts out laughing. ‘I have no idea. I thought you were dating salad man anyway.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Brigid snorts.
‘And, er … clowns do it for you, do they?’
‘Um … possibly,’ she says, unfathomably. They get up to leave the shop, and Brigid is already untying Buddy’s lead outside when James emerges from behind the counter.
‘Erm, Kerry,’ he says as Luke banters with the customers, ‘I wondered if you’d like to meet up sometime? I kind of feel I was never really clear about Buddy, never explained things properly. It’s great to see him looking so happy’ – she glances out and sees that he’s still wearing his orphan face – ‘and I’d like to say thanks.’
‘Oh.’ She smiles, registering something she hadn’t noticed about him until now: a pleasing grown-up-ness – not in a Rob way, not the poncey grown-up-ness of Mr Jones magazine, but someone sweet, kind and infinitely capable. ‘I’d really like that,’ she says.
‘So … can I call you?’
‘Sure, of course,’ she says, then strides out to join Brigid, murmuring, ‘My God, it looks like I’ve got a date.’
‘He asked you out?’
‘Er … well, sort of. Yes, he did.’
Brigid grins approvingly. ‘Told you dogs were useful for all sorts of things.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
The mood has lifted at Rob’s parents’ place, not only as a result of Nadine’s departure but also the arrival of his younger brother Domenico, plus Dom’s wife Jessie and their two children. Dom and Jessie are big on banter and laughs, delighting Freddie and Mia with boisterous tickling games on the living room floor, while their sons Ollie and Marcus tear into the remains of Mary’s toffee tart and the cheeses, despite the fact that another gargantuan meal is just around the corner.
‘Shame we missed Nadine,’ Dom tells Rob as they find themselves alone in their parents’ kitchen.
‘Yeah, she was looking forward to meeting you all.’ Rob starts unloading the dishwasher.
‘Er, Mum said she wasn’t feeling well?’ Dom wipes his hands on a dish towel. Only eighteen months younger than Rob, he could easily pass for a disgustingly handsome thirty. Rob sometimes wonders if he’s ageing in reverse, like a bloody better-looking Dorian Gray.
‘She was just feeling a bit off-colour,’ he murmurs.
‘Um … yeah. I heard about the Brie.’
Rob sighs, knowing that whatever he says is unlikely to get past his brother’s razor-sharp bullshit detector. And so it all spills out, not only about the suspected Tambini plot to poison her unborn child, but the way he’s stumbled into her life of girlie get-togethers and abominable cooking, as if he’s in a first-night performance of some terrible play, and no one thought to give him a script beforehand.
‘Fuck, Rob,’ Dom mutters, raking back his abundant dark hair. ‘I was shocked, you know, when it happened. I’d never realised you and Kerry had problems …’
‘Well, we didn’t. That’s the whole point.’
Dom frowns at him. ‘So why …?’
‘I’d rather not go into the ins and outs,’ he blusters, choosing to ignore his brother’s flamboyant eyebrow wiggles. ‘I fucked up, okay?’
‘Er … just a bit, Rob.’
‘Yeah. Well, it’s happened and I’m not going to walk away from Nadine and the baby. I’m … you might find this really hard to believe, but I’m trying to do the decent thing here.’
‘I know you are.’ Dom’s voice softens.
‘Anyway,’ Rob says with forced jollity, ‘here I am. One minute, happily married, about to move into a pretty little cottage by the sea. Next thing, living in a flat strewn with fairy lights like Santa’s fucking grotto.’
‘So you’re living together now?’
Rob pauses to extract a carton of orange juice from the fridge and takes a big swig from it, a small gesture that both brothers know drives their mother insane. ‘Kind of half-and-half at the moment, but we’re about to complete on the sale of the house. It seems crazy to rent a flat of my own when she’ll need me there.’ He senses his kid brother studying him, as if he’s an interviewer, not entirely sure that Rob is cut out for the job.
‘What’s it like at work, the two of you being in the same office?’
‘We sort of … orbit each other.’
‘Like planets.’
‘Yeah, with the feeling that a meteor’s going to smash right into us.’
Dom laughs dryly, adding, ‘You’ll have to give up this porn shit when there’s an innocent little baby toddling around.’
Rob sniggers, slightly regretting having told Dom about his Miss Jones column. ‘Can’t afford to at the moment, not with things so iffy at work.’
‘Hmmm.’ Dom smirks. ‘Have to say, it’s quite … believable actually. You as a woman, I mean.’
‘You actually read it?’
‘Well, I don’t pore over it but, y’know – they usually have a copy lying around at the barber’s. And I might have a quick look, if it happens to fall open at the right page.’ He grins, and Rob is overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude that his brother made the journey today, despite the fact that he’s still emitting an air of slight disapproval and bewilderment.
All four children, plus Rob’s parents and sister-in-law, are playing a rowdy game of Pictionary in the living room. The tense atmosphere of lunchtime has made way for a comforting sense
of bonhomie, and the rest of the evening passes pleasantly amidst a steady flow of wine and chatter.
‘I’m fine,’ is all Nadine will divulge when Rob calls her before heading upstairs to bed.
‘Are you sure? I still worry, you know, after that scare you had …’
‘I’m just tired, Rob. I am in my second trimester, you know.’ Hmmm. As far as Rob recalls, the first few weeks are the exhausting part. Come her second trimesters, Kerry was full of energy, glowing and gorgeous with hair all glossy and … no, he mustn’t think about that.
It’ll all be okay when I’m back in London, he reassures himself as he climbs into bed. Yet, despite trying to think soothing thoughts, he realises there is no possibility of being able to drop off to sleep tonight. What had possessed him to call Kerry today, just for a chat? He must stop doing this. She was obviously in bed with someone, or at the very least in a state of undress – he can picture the scene right now, which triggers a wave of queasiness. It’s not good for his digestion, imagining his wife in the throes of passion with someone else, especially after two slices of his mum’s toffee tart and a whacking great slab of that Brie.
Rob is starting to sweat now beneath the thick, hairy blanket – Mary remains suspicious of duvets, they’re far too modern and convenient – and burps loudly. His stomach is in turmoil and he feels as if he’s gained half a stone since arriving here. He sits up, wishing his parents didn’t keep the house so hot, but realising it’s far too chilly on this bitter December night to open the window.
What kind of father are you to do this to your children?
The question has lodged itself firmly in his brain, and he wipes a lick of perspiration from his brow.
You’ve messed up your entire family. What sort of man do you think you are, shacking up with a twenty-year-old?
Tears spring into Rob’s eyes, and he dabs them away with a corner of the blanket. God, he has to snap out of this. No point in going over and over it, torturing himself in the middle of the night. What good will that do Mia and Freddie?
Rob slides out of bed and clicks on the bedside lamp. He needs to distract himself from these terrible thoughts, and the only thing he can think of is to turn on his laptop and try to focus on work. If he can just finish his column, it’ll be out of his hair and he won’t need to think about it when he gets back to London tomorrow night. Nothing makes him feel more phoney and ridiculous than writing his latest Miss Jones despatch in Nadine’s flat, especially when she keeps peering over his shoulder, giggling and suggesting teasing little touches for him to add. ‘Well, I am a woman,’ she’s reminded him on numerous occasions. Only just, replied the voice in his head.