Rob feels his cheeks burning. ‘Yeah, well. Got to get into character, you know.’
‘Hmm. Anyway, I just wondered what you’re doing for lunch today, now your
migraine’s
gone?’
‘No plans,’ he murmurs. ‘Shall we, er, grab a sandwich or something?’
She nods curtly. ‘I think we should.’
He glances quickly around the office to check no one’s listening in. ‘I have tried to talk to you,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve called you so many times but you always seem—’
She nods, already turning away. ‘Let’s have lunch.’
Now it’s impossible for Rob to concentrate on the wretched column. Yet he ploughs onwards, suggesting more possible reasons for this poor female’s libido to have plummeted, and by the time he’s arrived at the ‘what you can do bit’ he is barely capable of focusing on the screen.
So lunchtime, when it finally rolls around, is almost a relief. Having brazenly left the office together, he and Nadine have settled upon a new deli-cum-cafe they’ve never been to before, having carefully avoided the team’s usual haunts. They have chosen the table furthest from the window, yet Rob still wishes there was a screen or something, to shield them from prying eyes.
‘So … how are you feeling?’ he asks glumly.
‘All right,’ Nadine says with a weak smile. ‘Still shell-shocked, I guess.’
‘Have you told many people yet?’
‘No, just my closest friends – my besties.’
‘Right.’ He grimaces at the waitress as their orders arrive; hers a neat grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side, his a gargantuan salt beef sandwich.
‘You haven’t told your parents?’ he asks.
She shakes her head.
‘How d’you think they’ll react?’
‘Er … Mum’ll be fine, I think. Dad maybe not, but we’ll
see.’
Rob nods and glances down at his plate, realising he’s not remotely hungry. These past few days he’s barely eaten a thing, surviving on black coffee and the odd cigarette, the first he’s smoked since giving up a decade ago.
‘Nadine,’ he starts, his stomach tightening as he tries to formulate the right words, ‘please don’t take this the wrong way. It’s just something I have to ask you, okay?’
‘Uh-huh,’ she says, pursing her lips.
‘It’s, um … definitely mine, isn’t it?’
‘Jesus, Rob,’ she hisses. ‘
Yes
. Whose d’you think it is?’ Her eyes flash angrily, and a blotchy rash appears instantly on her slender neck.
‘I don’t – well, I just …’
‘There hasn’t been anyone else. It’s
yours
, whether you believe that or not—’
‘Okay, okay,’ he says quickly. ‘I just wanted to be sure …’
‘Well, now you can be.’
Rob nods and they fall into a tense silence. ‘Look,’ she murmurs finally, her voice softening, ‘I know this is a horrible mess for you …’
She looks so small and vulnerable, he reaches for her hand instinctively. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he murmurs.
‘No, what I mean is …’ She musters a smile then – her first genuine smile since that night at her flat. ‘I’m single, Rob. Okay, I’d never imagined having a baby at my age, but I started to think … why not? How hard can it be?’ Rob wants to cut in and say
It’s bloody hard, Nadine. If you think it’s all reading picture books and making coochy-coo noises you’re in for a shock
… but manages to stop himself. It’s not the time for a lecture from a been-there, done-that dad.
‘I’ll help you. I’ll do anything I can.’ As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Rob knows he means it. Despite Kerry, the children and the whole mess he’s made – or perhaps because of it – he has to prove to himself that he’s capable of being a decent human being.
A baby
. Bloody hell. It’ll be the size of a tangerine pip or something, but it’s still his flesh and blood. ‘Nadine, listen,’ he continues, ‘I know none of this is ideal, and God knows what’s ahead of us, but I want you to know I’m here for you, whatever happens.’
Her eyes widen. ‘That’s a nice thing to say, Rob.’
‘Well, I didn’t say it to be nice, so you’d think I’m some kind of decent guy. I said it because it’s true.’
She nods, carefully placing her cutlery on her plate. Her lunch, and his, remain untouched.
‘Did you think I’d leave you in the lurch?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t know what to think. I’ve been terrified actually.’ She lets out a small, mirthless laugh.
‘Well, of course I won’t.’
‘Um … thanks,’ she says as he squeezes her hand. ‘But what about your kids, your wife …’
‘We’ll have to see. I don’t know what Kerry’s told them, and I can only hope they won’t hate my guts, that they’ll still want to see me …’
‘Oh, Rob,’ Nadine exclaims, ‘I feel so bad. That’s what I meant, you see – I’m young, I can have a baby and carry on with my life. It’s more complicated for you.’
‘I guess I’ll have to figure out some way to deal with it all,’ he mutters. He doesn’t mention the fact that, until today, he has plagued Kerry with texts and calls to the point at which she made it clear that his begging and pleading was pointless.
As they stroll back to the office, Rob notices that Nadine’s demeanour has changed. She seems brighter and happier, heightening the fact that she must have spent the days since the pregnancy test in a state of terror. She is also strikingly beautiful, he notices, perhaps for the first time. Sure, he’d always thought she was cute, but now he sees men giving her the odd quick, appreciative glance, checking her out, hoping for a glimmer of eye contact. One passerby – young and handsome in an expensive-looking suit – gives him a quizzical look, or perhaps one of envy? Rob swallows hard, feeling himself blush. A homeless man with a filthy blanket over his knees is sitting in a disused doorway and, when he extends his hand for money, Rob pulls out his wallet and presses a tenner into his palm, as if that might somehow undo some of the damage he’s done.
You’re forty years old
, he reminds himself as he and Nadine turn into Shaftesbury Avenue and their faceless office block comes into view.
You had everything going for you – a beautiful wife and children who loved you, a new house by the sea, and you’ve gone and got a girl pregnant who’s precisely half your age, you stupid bloody fool …
As they approach the main entrance, he is aware of being spotted by Frank, who’s striding towards them while forking noodles into his mouth from a carton.
If ever there was the time to start behaving like a proper adult
,
Rob decides, greeting him with a nod and a stoical smile,
it’s right now.
Kerry can hardly believe she’s about to call a man about a dog. It feels like one of those rash things people do post-break-up, like sleeping with a platonic male friend or having an extravagant tattoo. Of course, her dog-owning credentials are impeccable:
Not averse to walking/being outdoors. Not especially house-proud so won’t freak out at sight of odd dog hair/muddy paw print. Works from home so dog won’t be left alone for long periods. Has two dog-loving children so lashings of affection and fuss guaranteed …
Yet what if Buddy doesn’t like fuss, or children for that matter? He sounds perfect – ‘Adorable, loving and well-behaved dog seeks happy family home’, the ad read – but say they don’t click? Over a week has passed since Kerry scribbled down the owner’s number. In the aftermath of Rob’s announcement, and being unable to face him last weekend – even though he wanted to come down to Shorling for ‘a proper chat’ with the children – her energies have been consumed by trying to maintain a sense of normality, while dealing with Freddie and Mia’s persistent questions about when they’ll next see their dad.
‘Soon,’ she keeps saying. ‘Daddy and I just need to talk, then we’ll figure out the regular days you’ll be with him. You’ll still see him lots, I promise. It won’t be that different from before.’ Yeah, right.
In fact, Kerry had forgotten about the dog until she’d discovered the scrap of paper bearing the phone number in a jeans pocket this morning. Unable to face making lunch, she taps out the number.
‘Hello?’ The male voice is abrupt.
‘Hi, erm … I’m probably too late about this,’ Kerry starts, ‘but I saw the ad for your dog …’
‘Oh yes, he’s still here if you’re interested …’
‘Could you possibly tell me a bit more about him?’
She hears an intake of breath. ‘Why don’t you just come over and meet him? Are you local?’
‘Yes, we’re down at the seafront …’
‘Sorry,’ he says briskly, ‘I’m just taking a quick lunchbreak – would tomorrow be okay? I can arrange to be at home if I know you’re coming.’ Kerry pauses, rapidly losing her nerve. ‘If you think he might be right for you, you can have him on loan to see how you get along,’ the man adds, which to Kerry’s mind sounds like the equivalent of meeting for coffee on a blind date, rather than committing to a whole evening in a restaurant.
‘I have a feeling that, once my children meet him, there’ll be no question of handing him back.’ She laughs, expecting a hint of warmth from this man who hasn’t even introduced himself. Yet there’s none. He’s clearly eager to finish the call.
‘Could you come around six-ish tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘I’d like to make it earlier, if that’s okay. If he seems right for us, I’d love to be able to surprise the children by taking him with me when I collect them from school …’ Now, surely, he’ll thaw a little.
‘Right … well, I suppose I could leave the shop for an hour or so … would two o’clock be okay?’
‘That’s perfect. I’m Kerry, by the way. Kerry Tambini.’
‘James,’ he says. And that’s that. God, Kerry thinks; he’s
rehoming his dog
. The way he spoke, anyone would think he’d advertised a dining table.
Their cool exchange replays in her mind as she tries to pick up the melody she started to write this morning. Barely three bars of ‘Spread Your Wings’, her latest
Cuckoo Clock
offering, have been written, and now she is finding it impossible to focus. Buddy is threatening to bankrupt them before he’s even joined their family.
At one thirty, her first pupil arrives, a reed-thin woman in a grey shift dress and heels, her fair hair secured in a neat French plait. After several minutes, Kerry surmises that she dutifully worked her way through the early grades as a child.
‘What made you want to start playing again?’ she asks, registering Jasmine’s perfect, peach-tinted manicure.
‘Oh, my modern dance classes have moved to another day,’ she says airily, ‘so I suddenly had a gap to fill on Thursday lunchtimes.’
‘Right.’ Kerry smiles, conscious now that the top she’s wearing is a little bobbly from the wash, and her own nails conspicuously bare. She sees Jasmine glancing around the music room, taking in the dated wallpaper with its pale lime floral design, and Aunt Maisie’s sun-faded blue velvet curtains, which had seemed perfectly acceptable this morning when she did a speedy Hoover and dust, but are now bleating ‘Replace me.’
‘It’s a funny old house, isn’t it?’ Jasmine asks as the lesson draws to a close.
‘Yes,’ Kerry agrees. ‘I know it so well, though, I suppose I’m kind of immune to its faults. It was my aunt’s place, you see. I spent most of my holidays here as a child.’
Jasmine gives her an inscrutable look. ‘Well, I hope your husband’s good at DIY,’ she says with a chuckle.
‘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 …