Pedigree Mum. Fiona Gibson
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anything’s happened, of course. Anyway, you’ve still spoken to them every evening.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve just been …’ He looks around, wishing she’d agreed to meet at the house, as he’d suggested, rather than in a cafe in the kind of town where you can’t paint your front door without it being trumpeted on the front page of the Shorling Advertiser. ‘I’ve been worried about them,’ he adds, taken aback by the intensity of Kerry’s green eyes. ‘Anyway, thanks for agreeing to see me.’
‘Of course I’d see you,’ she says tersely. ‘And the kids’ll be pleased to have some time with you later, especially with you being ill last weekend …’
This is what Kerry had told them: that a dreadful cold had caused him to stay in London last weekend, instead of seeing them on his birthday as planned. ‘Don’t make me feel worse than I do already,’ he murmurs.
‘Well, they were a bit put out that they couldn’t give you the cards they’d made, and now you’ve got get well cards waiting for you too. Your correspondence is starting to stack up.’
Get well cards. God. The thought of Freddie and Mia busying away with their felt tips crushes something inside him.
‘What else could I do?’ she asks. ‘I couldn’t tell them what happened, could I?’
‘Kerry,’ he hisses, relieved that the other customers seem too engrossed in their own conversations to be listening in, ‘I told you, it was nothing.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘I still think it’s weird. Why didn’t you say straight away that you’d spent the night at her place?’
‘Because I knew you’d blow it up out of all pro-portion …’ A tall, statuesque blonde has wafted into the tearoom, and Rob’s heart slumps as she smiles in recognition. Her blondeness is a little brassier than the usual refined Shorling look, her jeans a tad on the tight side and her patterned top daringly low-cut. She is clutching the hand of a small child with a tangle of light brown hair that would really benefit from a little involvement with a hairbrush.
‘Hi,’ the woman says with a big, bold smile, right up at their table now. ‘I think I’ve seen you at Maisie Cartwright’s house, haven’t I?’ She turns to her child. ‘Remember you chatted to those nice children over the wall, darling?’
‘Yes, that’s us,’ Kerry says warmly when the child fails to respond. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you too …’
‘That’s our favourite part of the beach,’ the woman explains, ‘right across from your house. I’m Brigid, by the way …’
‘I’m Kerry, this is Rob …’ Her chilly demeanour has evaporated. How do women do this, he marvels, switching on a smile so easily as the occasion demands?
‘Not joining in with the sandcastle competition today?’ Kerry asks the child pleasantly.
‘Nah.’
‘We decided to boycott it,’ Brigid laughs. ‘It’s not really for the children anymore. It’s just an opportunity for parents to show off.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Kerry agrees. ‘It’s ridiculous really …’
Please leave, Rob urges her silently. My wife and I are busy trying to repair our marriage.
‘So how are you both settling in?’ Brigid wants to know.
‘Oh, we’re loving it,’ Kerry replies. As the women chatter on, Rob glances from Kerry to Brigid, wondering when they might run out of idle chit-chat.
‘I saw your ad for piano lessons,’ Brigid goes on while Rob clamps his back teeth together. ‘How’s that going?’
‘I’ve had a few calls. Hopefully things’ll start picking up once the children are back in school …’
‘Bet you’ll be inundated.’ Brigid looks down at her sullen offspring. ‘Would you like piano lessons, hon?’
‘Nah.’ There’s a fierce shake of the head.
‘Oh.’ Brigid guffaws. ‘Well, that’s that then. Worth trying, I guess. Anyway, we’ll leave you two lovebirds in peace.’ With another huge grin, Brigid ushers her child of indeterminate gender towards two chrome stools at the high table by the window.
Now, Rob realises, it’ll be impossible for him and Kerry to talk properly. Brigid and her ill-mannered kid are within earshot – in fact, the child keeps throwing him startled glances as if he might have something terrible growing out of his nose – and the companionable chatter from the other customers has died down to a murmur.
‘Is that a boy or a girl?’ he whispers to Kerry.
‘A boy of course,’ she hisses back. ‘His name’s Joe.’
‘It’s just, with that messy long hair …’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ She exhales loudly. ‘Lots of children have hair like that these days.’
Rob stirs his cold coffee, wondering how to steer the conversation towards the matter in hand.
‘Anyway,’ Kerry adds, ‘the sandcastle competition finishes at around three. We should probably make our way down there soon.’
‘But we’ve just got here,’ he exclaims, feeling helpless.
‘Well, maybe we should get there for the judging. They were planning to make this 3D treasure map. Mia’s been drawing a plan and cutting out lots of little flags which she stuck onto toothpicks …’
Kerry’s talking too fast, Rob decides. It’s as if the faint staleness of a decade-long marriage has merged with the awkwardness of a terrible first date. The effect is hugely unsettling, and although Rob is trying to appear riveted, he couldn’t give a damn about little toothpick flags right now. Clearly, she wants to get out of this tearoom – and away from him – as quickly as possible.
While Kerry rattles on, Rob tries to mentally transmit to Brigid that she and her snotty-nosed child must leave the cafe this instant because he needs to talk to his wife. He glances at his watch: half two already. Joe is now amusing himself by ripping open paper sachets of sugar and sprinkling their contents onto their table.
Glancing over, Brigid notices Rob’s irritated glare. ‘He’s exploring texture,’ she explains with an indulgent smile as Joe flicks a pile of sugar onto the floor.
‘Oh, right.’ He laughs hollowly.
‘Well, I hope they win,’ Kerry says.
Rob frowns. ‘Sorry?’
‘The kids. Haven’t you been listening, Rob? I said I hope they win the contest …’
‘Er, Kerry …’ Rob begins, distracted again as Joe swipes his mother’s teaspoon and drips coffee onto the sugary piles. What’s he doing now – exploring how to make a bloody great mess?
‘Oh, God, Joe,’ Brigid cries. ‘We’ll have to go, you’re meant to be at Oliver’s party …’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, Kerry, we must get our boys together to play sometime.’ With a big flashy smile, Brigid grabs Joe’s hand as they clatter out of the cafe.
‘I can’t stand that,’ Rob mutters as a sense of stillness descends.
‘Stand what?’ Kerry asks.
‘That. Kids throwing sugar everywhere, mothers pretending they’re engaged in some valuable learning experience when all they’re really doing is being bloody infuriating …’
She laughs and shakes her head, and he senses the tension dispelling a little. ‘God, Rob, when did you become such an angry old man?’
‘Hey, less of the old …’
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘ours aren’t perfect either, remember. But