Pedigree Mum

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Erm, just someone, a piano teacher …’ Hell, why did he say that? A tentative arrangement to meet up at New Year, that’s all they have. It startles him, the way Kerry sprung into his mind like that.

  ‘Been seeing her long?’

  ‘Um, just a few weeks.’ Another pause.

  ‘How’s Buddy?’

  ‘I rehomed him,’ James murmurs.

  ‘You rehomed him?’ she shrieks. ‘Why?’

  ‘Amy, listen …’

  ‘You gave him away? Who to?’

  ‘If you’d let me get a word in,’ he says sharply, ‘I’ll explain what happened. Luke’s set up a sandwich place in town …’

  ‘Yes, so I heard …’

  ‘… And it was going down the pan, frankly, so I’m working there most days and trying to keep the freelance website stuff going and I just didn’t have time, okay, for the walks and all that. Plus, he turned into a bit of nightmare after you left. I mean, he was highly strung after Suzie died, but once you’d gone off with Brian’ – he laces the name with distaste – ‘he was all over the place. Barking constantly, peeing indoors, chewing anything he could get hold of—’

  ‘He never did any of that when I was there,’ Amy cuts in. ‘He was a fantastic dog.’

  ‘Well, then he wasn’t such a fantastic dog and frankly, I couldn’t cope with him. And it wasn’t fair to leave him all day in the house.’

  Luke has appeared in the hall and is looking quizzically at his father. Mum, James mouths, at which Luke looks aghast.

  ‘So who’s he with now?’ Amy asks again.

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’ she asks, sounding choked.

  Luke is showing no sign of going back into the living room, and James doesn’t feel comfortable inventing a love life at forty-three years old. Nevertheless, he hears himself mumble, ‘Yes, he’s with her. It just seemed like the best solution …’

  There’s a stunned pause. ‘Well,’ Amy says tersely, ‘I’ll be down in a couple of weeks. Maybe we could have coffee or something.’

  ‘Er … okay.’

  ‘I’d like to see Luke, too.’

  James flicks his gaze at his son. ‘Um, I’ll see what he says.’

  He hears Amy sniffing now, and wonders if she’s actually crying. ‘I am his mother,’ she declares before finishing the call.

  James looks at Luke, and neither say anything for a few moments.

  ‘Shit,’ Luke says finally. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘To see us, I guess. She’s moving back down here.’

  Luke exhales loudly. ‘Right. And what was that about, telling her you’d given Buddy to your girlfriend?’

  James’s cheeks flare. ‘So you heard that.’

  ‘Yeah. So … you’re seeing Kerry, are you?’ He waggles a brow.

  ‘No, of course I’m not …’

  Luke is helpless with laughter now as he wraps an arm fondly around his father’s shoulders. ‘You’re a mental case, Dad, trying to make Mum jealous like that. How old are you again?’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Harvey hadn’t planned for this to happen. But how could he refuse Brigid a lift when she’d asked him? And she is pretty pissed, having knocked back that bottle of wine as if she couldn’t believe her luck at being out after dark, albeit in the aftermath of a children’s party. In fact she’s probably had more than a bottle – Harvey isn’t in the habit of monitoring how much women drink. He just knows he wouldn’t have felt good about letting her wobble off home by herself.

  ‘Mum off the leash,’ she giggles from the passenger seat, as if reading his mind. ‘I’ve been so badly behaved, Harvey. You must think I’m such a lush.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replies with a smile. ‘We’ve all got to kick back sometimes.’

  She snorts and, with no discernible logic, quips, ‘You think all single mothers are up for it, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’ He frowns and indicates to turn into her road. ‘I didn’t say that. I don’t think that at all. Um, which number are you again?’

  ‘Yes you do, they all think it …’ She laughs a little insanely.

  ‘Um, Brigid, which number—’

  ‘Ninety-seven. I don’t mind, you know. I don’t care. God, I never go out, last time I enjoyed myself was …’ Oh no, she’s dabbing at her eyes now, and laughing at the same time. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ she exclaims as he pulls up outside her rather shabby bow-fronted house. ‘I’m an idiot, Harvey, take no notice of me. I shouldn’t be allowed out.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says gently. ‘You could probably just do with some sleep.’ He turns off the engine and waits for her to get out of the car.

  ‘Oh, so knackered old mother should be tucked up in bed with her Horlicks!’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You just seem a bit upset …’ Harvey can feel himself ageing rapidly as if time has fast-forwarded. He wants to go home now; no, what he really wants to do is turn around and head back to Kerry’s and just sit talking into the night. It’s so easy with her, and not just because of his ridiculous crush, which he has to get over. He’s met the ridiculously handsome ex-husband now – big-shot magazine editor or whatever he is – and he saw the way he kept looking at her. Drooling, virtually, still clearly in love. Must be a nut-job for cheating on her. Still, Harvey bets she’ll take him back. For one thing, the children obviously adore their dad …

  Brigid is still showing no sign of saying goodnight, and Harvey can’t exactly manhandle her out of his car. She’s staring at him now, a little scarily with those wide grey-blue eyes and parted lips with most of her lipstick worn off (the slightly darker outline is still there, though: how does that happen?). Brigid is a good-looking woman, but far more Ethan’s type than his: robust, almost regal, like the figurehead of a ship.

  ‘Want to come in for a drink?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘Er, thanks, Brigid, but it’s getting late and I’ve been working …’ He grips the steering wheel tightly.

  ‘Yeah, right, getting a few children to rattle some tambourines.’ She guffaws. ‘I don’t call that work. Come on, just for a quickie …’

  ‘I’ve got to drive, Brigid—’

  ‘Yeah, two minutes up the road. Have a coffee then, or leave your car here and walk home, lazy boy. How far away are you?’

  ‘Erm, just up by the golf course …’

  ‘There you are then! Come on, I’ve got a lovely bottle of Prosecco in the fridge.’

  Harvey turns this possibility over in his mind. She might be a little unhinged, but a quick drink is tempting. It’s certainly more appealing than going home right now, as Ethan has invited his old friends Baz and Georgie over, and they’ll all be lolling around drinking cheap lager and smoking copious amounts of weed. They’d spent much of the Christmas period there, too, Ethan admitted after Harvey had taken him to task about the almighty mess he’d come home to after his stay at his sister’s. ‘I told them to put their bottles in the bin,’ he’d whinged, as if describing toddlers rather than enormous bikers in Anthrax T-shirts.

  Brigid, who’s been rubbing at a sore spot on her ankle, looks up and beams a hopeful smile.

  ‘Okay, just a quick one then.’ Harvey unclips his seatbelt, then gallantly unclips Brigid’s for her and takes her arm as she wobbles along her cobbled front path.

  Her house feels chilly as they step inside, as if she’s intent on keeping the heating bills down. In the small, cluttered living room, ethnic embroideries hang on two of the walls, and a chunky brown and white Staffy stirs on its cushion.

  ‘Sorry, Roxy, darling,’ Brigid murmurs, coaxing the dog outside and chatting to her on the tiny front lawn. There’s effusive praise for doing her business, then Brigid reappears and the dog potters back in. ‘Didn’t expect to be so long at Kerry’s,’ she explains, motioning for Harvey to sit down. ‘Poor thing. Never complains, very undemanding. Anyway, I’ll get us that wine.’

  As she trots off to the kitchen, Harvey takes in
the rest of his surroundings: pine fireplace cluttered with pictures of Brigid’s little boy (the one who raised merry hell over not being given all the icing balloons off the cake), and a faded Turkish rug with children’s books strewn all over it. Various ethnic artefacts are clustered around the tiled fireplace: a papier mâché cockerel, some gilt-edged tea glasses containing burnt-out candles, and a jazzily-painted plaster skull which Harvey assumes is one of those Mexican Day of the Dead accessories.

  Brigid reappears with two glasses of Prosecco, plus the bottle, and a fresh layer of pinky-red lipstick. ‘Here,’ she says, grinning and handing him a glass.

  ‘Thanks Brigid.’

  ‘So!’ She sprawls beside him on the sofa. ‘What d’you think of Kerry?’

  ‘Er … I think she’s great. Why?’

  ‘Oh, she is. She’s an amazing person. So strong, after everything she’s gone through.’ Brigid jumps up and wends her way over to an ancient-looking CD player. ‘We need music,’ she declares, putting on some thumpy dance track and refilling his glass to the brim, even though he’s barely drunk a third of it.

  ‘Thanks.’ He sips it, deciding he’ll definitely be walking home tonight.

  She casts him a slightly wonky smile. ‘You’re such a sweet guy. Kerry never said how lovely you are. Think she wants you all to herself, haha!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so …’ He chuckles awkwardly, wondering when he might feasibly be able to make his excuses and leave.

  ‘Kerry told me you used to be a model,’ she adds.

  ‘God, a couple of jobs about sixty years ago,’ he says, cringing.

  ‘Oh, come on! Don’t be modest. Did you strut your stuff on the Prada catwalk?’

  ‘No,’ he laughs, shaking his head. ‘More like a fashion spread in Prima.’

  Her eyes are on him now, wide and vaguely glassy and he takes another gulp of wine. ‘I wish there were more men around like you,’ she declares, snuggling a little closer on the clapped-out sofa.

  He doesn’t know how to respond to this. Yet he realises that every second he sits here, doing nothing, brings him closer to the moment when Brigid will pounce. He just knows she will. There’s something slightly coiled about her, like a cat, poised to spring on a mouse. He glances at the Mexican skull, which seems to be leering at him from the fireplace. Would it be so terrible anyway, to be lunged at? Christ, it’s not as if he’s awash with offers, and he can’t blame it completely on clowning, or even Ethan, as they rarely go out drinking together. And if an attractive woman like Brigid wants to lunge in for a big snog, surely it would be rude of him to push her off? He has barely processed this thought before they’re kissing. They fall back onto the sofa, snogging like teenagers, while Harvey tries unsuccessfully to place his wine glass on the stripped floor. There’s a clonk as it falls over, causing the Staffy to flinch on her cushion.

  ‘Damn, sorry,’ he mutters, twisting round to peer at the floor. While the glass is still intact, a small Prosecco puddle has formed on the floor, which Roxy is now padding towards and investigating with tentative sniffs.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Brigid growls, waving a hand ineffectually in Roxy’s direction in an attempt to shoo her away. ‘That’s the great thing about natural floorboards …’ She’s on top of him now, straddling and kissing him with such ferocity he’s starting to fear for his teeth. He can taste her lipstick – honey-flavoured – and, although he tries to concentrate on the matter in hand, he’s aware that Roxy hasn’t obediently trotted back to her cushion, but is standing there, watching. She’s far too close for comfort. He can hear her breathing, for God’s sake. The situation is ridiculous; he’s kissing a woman just because she’s there, and initiated it, and it seemed more appealing than going home to a living room filled with hairy-arsed bikers.

  Brigid is pulling at Harvey’s jeans now, unbuttoning his fly. Then they’re off and cast onto the floor, followed by his sweater and boxers. Now he’s clad only in a pale grey T-shirt while she grapples at his genitals as if playing the game where you have to stick your hand through a hole in a box and identify the mysterious objects by touch alone.

  ‘Whoa!’ Harvey cries.

  Brigid’s hand flies away. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your dog,’ he exclaims, turning round to face Roxy whose perky seated position suggests she’s eagerly anticipating a matinée. ‘She just prodded my hip with her nose.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about her,’ Brigid purrs. ‘She’s very friendly.’

  ‘Brigid, I don’t really want a dog being friendly right now, thanks very much …’ He’s up on his feet now, pulling on his boxers and jeans and buttoning his fly securely.

  She emits a deep, throaty laugh. ‘You’re far too sensitive.’

  He laughs, shaking his head. ‘It’s just too … bizarre. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay, c’mere, Roxy babe …’ With an air of reluctance, Roxy trots after Brigid into the kitchen, where the door is shut firmly behind her. ‘There,’ she announces, reappearing just as Harvey has decided how appealing his lovely king-sized bed seems at this moment. ‘She can’t bother us now.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he says tentatively.

  ‘So now, could you do something for me?’

  ‘Er … what exactly?’

  ‘Go and get your clown stuff from the car.’

  Harvey laughs involuntarily. ‘You are joking …’

  She sways a little and places a hand on the doorframe for support. ‘No, I’m not. Come on – don’t be a spoilsport, sweetie.’

  ‘Brigid, I’m really not in the mood for showing you how to balloon-model or juggle or whatever.’

  ‘No, not that. I mean your costume. I want to see you with it on.’

  ‘But … you have, at the party,’ he says uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Yeah, that was different, though, wasn’t it? That was party clown.’ She raises a harshly pencilled brow, her unwavering gaze triggering a creeping sense of unease in him. ‘The one I want to get to know,’ she adds, ‘is naughty clown.’

  He blinks at her. ‘Naughty clown,’ he repeats.

  ‘Yeah.’ She sniggers. ‘Please, Harvey. Just for me …’

  ‘You … want me to do some tricks for you?’ he says carefully.

  ‘Yes!’ She claps her hands together. ‘Go on. I’ve always wanted to do this. Tell you what – I’ll nip upstairs for a quick shower, okay? That’ll give you time to get ready …’

  She grins squiffily, and for a brief moment, Harvey wonders what Kerry is doing right now: if she’s curled up all gorgeously on her sofa, or already tucked up in bed.

  ‘Um, Brigid, I really think I’d better—’ he starts as she turns and charges upstairs, missing her footing more than once.

  ‘Oh, and don’t forget to paint your face,’ she yells back. ‘There’s a mirror in the downstairs loo if you need it. Go on, Harv. Be a good boy and get ready.’

  He takes a moment to assess the situation. Of course, Ethan would leap at the chance of some no-strings, uncomplicated sex. He’d be slathering on the greasepaint and have the wig on by now. Christ, he’d probably be juggling, naked apart from the red plastic nose and oversized shoes if it meant the chance of a shag.

  But Harvey isn’t Ethan – he has better hair for a start – and hadn’t he vowed to himself to retire from the clowning game anyway? He fixes his gaze on the skull while, clearly cheesed off at being banished to the kitchen, Roxy emits a pitiful howl.

  Chapter Fifty

  Kerry knows precisely what will be happening right now. Brigid will have invited Harvey in ‘for coffee’ and that’ll be that. She’s a striking woman with fabulous legs and swathes of blonde hair, and he’s a young, single, attractive guy – of course he’ll be up for it. What man wouldn’t? If Rob couldn’t resist a fling with a wedding ring firmly en-

  circling his finger, what chance is there that Harvey will make his excuses and leave?

  There is, Kerry reflects as she tackles a quivering spillage of pink jelly with a d
ustpan and brush, no way they’re not doing it right now. Bloody hell. It had been lovely, that afternoon drink she and Harvey had had, with the patio heater roaring away in the pub garden, and she’d felt happier than she could remember as they’d strolled slowly back to town. Had he been interested then? Had she wasted an opportunity? Kerry curses herself for not only being unable to recognise whether a man fancies her or not, but also for resorting to that ‘I’m just one of those batty pet people now’ routine. Where the hell had that come from?

  As Kerry rinses the jelly-gunked brush in the sink, she realises how ill-equipped she clearly is when it comes to – snort – ‘dating’. She’d be no more up to speed if she were suddenly thrust into a biology exam and required to describe the process of photosynthesis. Plus, what made her think that brushing up jelly was a good idea? Throwing the sticky brush into the sink, she bobs down to peel a lump of blue fondant icing off the floor and rescues a spare party bag which appears to have been kicked under the kitchen table.

  Tipping its contents onto the counter, Kerry glares at the sparkly plastic necklace and bracelet, the candy lipstick that turns your mouth bright cerise, and the temporary glittery butterfly ‘body transfers’ that Mia had insisted on including. She and Mia had chosen all of the contents together, and had a fun time labelling the bags. Brash jewellery, make-up and tattoos – was ever a party more slapperish? No wonder those mothers today – like the one who’d emerged from the downstairs loo, remarking, ‘Gosh, that’s a very bijoux bathroom’ – regard her with blatant distaste. Kerry makes a mental note to include little packets of candy fags in next year’s party bags, if such items are available within the Shorling postcode.

  ‘What’s inside the cuck-oo clock?’

  The chorus from upstairs makes her flinch.

  ‘What’s inside those lit-tle doors …’ There’s an explosion of laughter from Freddie’s room. Glimpsing her reflection in the mirror on the fridge – her make-up is long dissolved, her hair a study in limpness – she charges upstairs to find Mia in the boys’ room, the three of them giggling hysterically.