Fiona Gibson 3 Book Bundle. Fiona Gibson
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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.
Pillows propped up behind him, Rob is now back in bed with fingers poised over his keyboard. This month’s column is addressing all those men out there who are under the illusion that nipples should be twiddled like old-fashioned radio knobs. My breasts, he types, are what I think of as fun pillows, so take your time and enjoy … What did that cab driver call him again? Big shot journalist? My nipples, he continues, are the super-charged epicentres of a zillion tingly nerve endings … Yeah, Eddy will love that. Plus, miraculously, spilling out such ridiculous prose is helping to chase away those gloomy thoughts …
‘Daddy!’
Rob’s heart lurches.
‘Daaaad!’
Shit. Freddie’s awake. Something must be really wrong. He never wakes in the night here, he loves his cosy bed in the huge spare bedroom … Hurtling out of bed and across the landing, Rob manages to locate Freddie’s bed in the semi-darkness.
‘What’s wrong?’ he whispers, instinctively reaching out to touch his son’s clammy forehead.
‘I had a dream, Daddy.’
‘Shhh. It’s okay, darling. We’re at Nanny and Nonno’s, remember? Everyone else is asleep, we mustn’t wake them …’
Across the shadowy room, Marcus shifts beneath his covers on the bottom bunk, while Mia mutters quietly in the bed above. Ollie, who’s on a camp bed at the far end of the room, doesn’t even stir.
‘I can’t sleep.’ Freddie sniffs into the sleeve of his PJ top.
‘I’ll lie with you for a little while,’ Rob whispers. ‘Move up a bit. But we’ve got to be very quiet, okay?’
‘Yeah. I had a really scary nightmare, Dad.’
‘What about?’ Rob is now in bed with his son, stroking his hair. It’s been so long since he’s lain close to one of his children, it causes an ache in his heart.
‘Bad cheese,’ Freddie mutters.
‘What?’
‘Cheese with germs in.’
‘Oh, love.’ Curling an arm around Freddie, Rob pulls him close. ‘That was just Nadine. There are certain things you shouldn’t eat when you’re having a baby but you needn’t worry about that.’
‘Yeah, only ladies have babies.’
‘That’s right. Now hush, try to go to sleep.’
‘It comes out their vagina, Mummy said.’
‘Um, yes.’ Christ, how about we wake everyone up and have a little where-babies-come-from talk right now?
‘Can you see germs?’ Freddie whispers.
‘What germs?’
‘The cheese ones.’
‘No, not just by looking with your normal eyes. You’d need a microscope …’
‘It is germy then!’ Freddie exclaims.
‘Shhhh!’ Rob sighs, feeling suddenly, achingly tired, as if his bones could crumble like the thin, salty crackers his father likes. ‘Well, there are good and bad germs.’
‘I wanna see the germs in Nanny’s cheese.’
‘Freddie, please go to sleep …’
‘Can I have a microscope?’
‘Shush!’ It’s gone 2 a.m., and Mary will be rousing everyone at eight thirty for her customary Sunday breakfast: eggs, salamis, a great mound of pastries and amazing coffee he’s never managed to replicate at home, despite investing in various hideously expensive gadgets. Picturing his mum’s breakfasts, coupled with the steady rhythm of Freddie’s breathing, gives Rob a warm feeling inside. As he finally drifts off, the day’s worries start to float away and he’s a proper dad again, before the split – before Shorling, even – when they all lived together in Bethnal Green in a rather gloomy little house, but happy as anything.
Rob is properly asleep now, back with Kerry at home, and his old mate Simon in the editor’s chair. In his dreams, Rob is carefully crafting a lengthy feature