by Fiona Gibson
‘Daddy did that,’ Mia adds, turning to her brother. ‘His seed met her egg.’
Freddie frowns. ‘Where?’
‘In London,’ she says knowledgeably.
‘In … in her body actually,’ Kerry says firmly.
‘Whose body?’ Freddie asks.
‘His girlfriend’s. She’s, um … called Nadine.’
Cupping a hand over her mouth, Mia leans in to whisper into Freddie’s ear, making him dissolve into giggles. ‘What’s that, Freddie?’ Kerry asks.
‘She said it’s in her vagina.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘The baby’s in there, in her vagina.’
‘Well, not exactly but you’re nearly right – it’s not too far away from there and that’s probably where it’ll come out …’ Kerry blows out air and feels herself sweating. ‘Anyway, enough about babies. I don’t suppose you’re hungry, are you? Would you like a treat before bed?’
‘Can I have Coco Pops?’ Freddie asks, as if startled by his good luck.
‘Coco Pops?’ Mia repeats. ‘Are we allowed them at bedtime after our teeth?’
‘Sure. Why not?’ Kerry says. ‘In fact, I’m going down to get two bowlfuls right now and you can both eat them in bed.’
‘Yeah!’ Freddie exclaims. ‘And I’m not doing my teeth again neither.’
Kerry gets up, relieved that her children have been so easily cheered up after her shock announcement. She’s grateful, too, to have a simple task to occupy her, even if it is only filling two bowls with contraband cereal. In fact, right at this moment, it feels like exactly the right thing to do.
‘Mummy!’ Freddie shouts as she makes for the bedroom door.
‘Yes, Freddie?’
‘Will he still be our daddy?’
She frowns. ‘D’you mean when the new baby comes?’
‘Yeah.’ He nods solemnly.
Kerry bites her lip, willing herself not to cry, at least not until she’s reached the sanctuary of the kitchen. ‘Of course he will,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry, darling. Daddy loves both of you and nothing will ever change that.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Migraine better?’ Eddy enquires as Rob saunters into the office on Thursday morning.
‘Yes, much better thanks.’ He plans to get the pleasantries over with as quickly as possible so he can hide behind his screen and at least pretend to be working.
‘Unusual for one to last for two days,’ Eddy adds with a smirk.
‘Er, yeah. Anyway, I’m fine now,’ Rob says, marching towards his desk with what feels like a ridiculously bouncy walk in order to display his wellness to all. Does everyone know, he wonders? Surely Nadine hasn’t said anything yet. During their brief, slightly terse conversations during the past few days, she’s assured him that she has no intention of ‘making a grand announcement’, as she put it. She’s at her desk at the far end of the office, prim and expressionless in a dress with tiny purple flowers all over it. Hair neat, red lipstick immaculately applied. She flicks her gaze up at Rob, then quickly back down to her screen.
Rob switches on his computer and stares at it. His first task today is to write his second Miss Jones column, although at this moment it feels as insurmountable as building a cathedral with his bare hands. On this grim, drizzly October morning, the very concept of sex seems appalling; dirty, misguided, leading only to cake-throwing and despair. Yet he has no choice other than to get on with it. Having missed two days of work, and being incapable of switching on his laptop at home, he’s hopelessly behind with everything. He needs to talk to Kerry but, understandably, she either cuts him off or won’t pick up the call. How can he possibly write a coherent sentence with all of this whirling around in his brain?
Gazing at his blank screen, Rob tries to force his brain into writer mode. As they work three months ahead – they are already planning the January issue – his first Miss Jones column has yet to provoke any reader response, so he has no idea if he got it right with the food-in-the-bedroom one. For this issue, Eddy has suggested the topic of ‘Why women sometimes go off sex’. How the hell should Rob know? He’s not a woman, as he’s reminded his editor on several occasions. ‘Think like a woman then,’ Eddy instructed him with a snigger.
Okay, think. Think. It’s not easy, considering his wife has left him and God knows when he’ll next see Mia and Freddie. He also can’t quite believe that Nadine plans to go ahead with this pregnancy, but Rob can’t allow his thoughts to venture down that sorry route now. Using all his faculties to tune out the background chatter, Rob tries to think himself into being a woman. Right. He is now not only a woman but a woman who has gone off sex. More than frigid, she is virtually deep-frozen. She would rather have a cup of tea or an episode of EastEnders – anything rather than her boyfriend’s mauling hands all over her.
How has Rob’s life ended up like this? This isn’t how he’d envisaged himself as a rookie journalist nearly twenty years ago. He’d imagined travelling to war-torn countries, crafting insightful pieces and making a name for himself. Rob glances around the office in mild alarm. Catching Nadine’s eye, he quickly turns back to his screen. It’s only six hundred words, he reminds himself. Get on with it, idiot. Before we talk about what you can do, he types quickly, we need to look at why I might not be in the mood right now. Maybe I’m stressed at work and you’re not paying me enough attention when I come home, shattered, after a terrible Tube journey … These days it’s assumed that Mr Jones’s entire readership lives in London. ‘Why live somewhere that tries to be like London but is smaller and crapper?’ Eddy once remarked. ‘Crappier,’ Rob yearned to correct him.
Damn, now he’s lost his thread. A small photo in a silver frame eyes him from his desk. It’s of Mia and Freddie on a Majorcan beach a couple of summers ago; they’d been thrilled by the tiny fish that had darted around their legs. What are they doing right now, he wonders? Has Kerry told them yet? If they were terribly distraught – as he imagines they were – perhaps she’s kept them off school and they’re all huddled on the sofa, discussing what a despicable father he is. Rob blinks at the photo again before placing it carefully in his desk drawer.
When he looks up, Nadine is strolling towards him. ‘Hi,’ she says, her eyes flicking towards his screen and a small smile crossing her lips.
‘Er, hi, Nadine.’ He wills her to go away and play with her gonk pencils or something. Instead, she starts reading the text on his screen. ‘“Maybe I’m not in the mood right now”,’ she teases in a breathy voice. ‘“Maybe you need to pay me a little more attention instead of coming home and spending an hour offloading about work …”’
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.’<
br />
‘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.
Chapter Eighteen
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.
