Pedigree Mum (2 page)

It doesn’t spoil the day though. The afternoon drifts by in a pleasant blur, and Rob is even persuaded by Mia to roll up his pristine Levi’s and have a paddle. The muffins are devoured, plus delicious crab sandwiches from a nearby cafe. The children are engrossed in playing with a bouncy white terrier now, throwing a wrecked tennis ball for him with the approval of his elderly lady owner.

‘I wish we had a dog,’ Mia announces. ‘Why can’t we have one, Mummy?’

‘Please don’t start on about that now,’ Kerry says, resting her head on Rob’s shoulder.

He turns to her in the pinkish evening light and gently brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘This is beautiful, Kerry. I don’t think I’ve ever realised how lovely it is to be by the sea.’

‘It’s been a perfect day,’ she agrees. ‘We should come down here more often.’

He nods, and there’s a pause, as if he’s taking care to choose the right words. ‘You know what? I think we should do it. We should take up Maisie’s offer and move here.’

She sits up and stares at him for a moment, wary of overreacting and causing him to backtrack. Then, unable to help herself, she flings her arms around his broad shoulders and kisses him long and hard on the lips.

‘Are you sure?’ she says finally. ‘You’re not feeling pushed into it, are you?’

‘No, I’m not. Look at this place, and how the kids are here – it’s so much better for them than a tiny backyard …’

‘Well,
I
think so.’ She swallows hard, watching as the yellow kite, now being flown single-handedly by Mia, darts gracefully, as if performing its own excited dance. The posh picnics have long been packed away and the beach is deserted apart from a couple of dog walkers in the far distance.

‘Let’s talk to her,’ Rob says, ‘as soon as she comes back from Spain.’

Kerry nods. ‘Okay.’ Closing her hand around his, she squeezes it tightly. ‘It’ll be great for us,’ she adds. ‘I can just feel it, Rob. I think it’ll turn out to be one of the best things we’ve ever done.’

Certain activities should be left until the children are safely tucked up in bed. Sewing falls into this category. With all the swearing and blood loss involved, it’s best not undertaken with impressionable young people around. Kerry has already acquired a repetitive injury from jabbing herself with a needle; all this to stitch a few name tapes onto school uniforms for the new term ahead. Could she get away with writing their names in biro on the wash-care labels instead? It’s considered slovenly, Kerry knows this, but surely it’s better than sending the children to their new school in blood-stained tops?

As a fresh scarlet bead seeps from the wound, Kerry manages to
locate the first aid box from one of the many packing crates. These are still full and stacked precariously along one wall of the living room, like reinforcements against floods. Opening the tin of plasters, she selects one disguised as a bacon rasher (Freddie requested these last birthday; the set includes an egg, sausage and a blob of beans – a full English breakfast in plaster form). The name
tapes are too thick, that’s the trouble. The biro option hovers tantalisingly in Kerry’s mind, even though she has already surmised that Shorling-on-Sea is a
sewn-in-name-tapes
sort of place.

The small, compact seaside town had a very different vibe when she spent childhood holidays here, in this very house where her Aunt Maisie used to live. Back then, the place bustled with visitors eating burgers on the seafront and children plucking tufts from pink candyfloss clouds. Where the town once smelt of fried onions, these days it’s all organic bakeries and seafood restaurants. Apparently, more scallops and langoustines are consumed per capita in Shorling than anywhere else in Britain. Eating a doughnut in public would probably have you shot. The Gold Rush Arcade is now a Wagamama, the World’s Biggest Museum of Tattoo Art has become a glass-walled restaurant filled with glossy people tackling crustaceans with an impressive array of little metal tools. The bleach-blonde ladies in velour tracksuits who once ran the numerous B&Bs – where did they all go, Kerry wonders? – have been replaced by glowing-skinned women with long, glossy hair, perfect teeth and children called Lottie and Felix.

Of course, it had been clear on kite-flying day that Shorling had gone upmarket. But it wasn’t until they’d actually moved that the extent of the transformation had truly sunk in. Still, Kerry reflects, at least there’s one final week of summer holidays. She’d noticed a sign advertising a children’s end-of-summer beach party, and if Freddie and Mia could make some new friends, surely starting school would be a little easier. And what about her? Without lurking weirdly around the dog-walking women who hang out on Shorling beach, she hasn’t the faintest idea how she’ll meet anyone. Maybe it’ll be easier at the school gates. Even more important, then, that Mia and Freddie’s names aren’t biro-ed on.

This flicker of optimism leads Kerry to picturing Rob selling their London home. Although it’s on with an agency, Rob is adamant that estate agents are clueless, and that as deputy editor of a men’s magazine, he is far better equipped to point out its numerous Unique Selling Points. Reassuring herself that the house
will
sell, and that Rob will soon join them in Shorling, Kerry turns her attentions to the large, square chocolate cake sitting solidly on the table to her right.

In contrast to her pitiful needlework skills, Kerry can decorate cakes pretty nicely, even if she says so herself. Nothing fancy – no detailed scale models of a Loire Valley chateaux – just intricate piping that usually garners her a few brownie points at the children’s birthday parties. For Freddie’s last birthday she replicated an entire comic strip from one of his much-loved Tintin books, and when Mia turned seven she crammed the entire Simpsons cast, including many lesser-known characters, onto a ten-inch Victoria sponge. She even created a magazine cover to mark Rob’s tenth anniversary of working at
Mr Jones
– ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’, as the magazine’s tagline goes.

This cake, too, is for Rob, but Kerry can’t decide what
to put on it. A simple ‘Happy 40
^th
Darling’? No, too generic.
She could do a portrait in glacé icing but, while her beloved is undeniably handsome with his dark-eyed Italian looks, she wouldn’t be able to resist exaggerating the long, strong nose and full, curvy mouth (trying to do a
flattering
portrait on a cake would be ridiculous, surely?) and she’s not sure he’d appreciate that. As his new twenty-something boss has brought in an editorial team of equally youthful pups, Kerry senses that Rob is not entirely delighted about reaching this milestone. No – better tread carefully with this cake.

She ponders some more, deciding that if she doesn’t get a move on the icing will set in the piping bag, leaving her with a cone of solidified sugar. Think,
think …
Taking a deep breath, and a gulp from the glass of now tepid chardonnay at her side, Kerry pipes carefully, transforming the cake into an elaborate book cover with delicate curlews all around its edges. In the centre, in her very best curly writing, she pipes:

ROBERTO TAMBINI

THIS IS YOUR CAKE!

Yep, pretty good. Kerry knows he finds exclamation marks vulgar, and is tempted to add more (CAKE!!!!!!!) just to wind him up, but manages to restrain herself. Anyway, he’ll be delighted when she turns up to surprise him tomorrow morning at their London house. He’ll be wowed by the cake, plus the smoked salmon, bagels and champagne she intends to pick up on the way for a special birthday brunch. The plan had been for Rob to head down to Shorling tomorrow afternoon, after showing more prospective buyers around their home. However, Kerry has arranged a far more enticing proposition. They’ll celebrate his birthday by having a much-needed child-free Saturday together in London,
and
a night all by themselves (she has already de-fuzzed and selected reasonably racy black lingerie in readiness). Even now, after thirteen years together, the thought of lovely, unhurried sex with Rob sparks a delicious shiver of desire. Then on Sunday morning they’ll pick up the children from her best friend Anita’s, when they’ll present Daddy with home-made cards and gifts.

It’s just what he needs, Kerry reflects, clearing up in the kitchen before heading upstairs. She peeks into Mia’s room where her daughter is sound asleep after an entire day on the beach. Picking up a bundle of sea-damp clothes, Kerry then steps quietly into Freddie’s room where there’s a curious odour. No, not just curious – rank, actually, like rotting fish.

‘What’re you doing, Mummy?’ he asks sleepily.

‘There’s something stinky in here,’ she whispers, her bare foot knocking against a plastic bucket half-tucked under his bed.

‘They’re my crabs.’

‘You brought crabs home? I didn’t realise. Ugh, they’re
really
pongy …’ In the bucket, fragments of crab shell contain the remains of flesh at various stages of decay.

‘I was keeping them in the garden,’ Freddie explains, ‘but I didn’t want them to be cold at night.’

‘Oh.’ She peers into the bucket again. ‘But they’re dead, sweetheart …’

‘Yeah, I know,’ he says brightly. ‘I’m gonna make crab sandwiches with mayonnaise on like we had with Daddy.’

‘What, you mean that day with the kite?’

‘Yeah. They were yummy.’

‘Er … yes, they were, darling, but I’m sorry – if you ate these, you’d be very, very ill.’ Picking up the bucket, and ignoring his grumbles of protest, she plants a kiss on his forehead before making her way downstairs.

Even when the bucket’s contents have been bagged up and deposited in the outside bin, the crabby odour still seems to permeate the house. Sloshing in extra orange-scented oil as she steps into her bath, Kerry decides that the smell’s probably just in her head now – like her fears that things aren’t quite the way they should be between her and Rob. She’s probably imagining that too.

She’ll get those name tapes sewn on tomorrow, and her plans will all come together beautifully. Yes, Kerry tries to convince herself – Rob’s fortieth will turn out to be the best birthday he’s ever had.

‘Planning to stay here all
night?’ Eddy calls good-naturedly across the editorial office of
Mr Jones
magazine. Rob looks up from his screen to where his new boss is pulling on his jacket.

‘Just got a few things to tidy up,’ he replies.

‘Oh, c’mon, Rob. It’s Friday night and it’s gone seven o’clock. Come out for a quick drink. Nearly everyone else has been down there since six …’

Rob shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll just head off home. Got people to show round the house tomorrow, better make sure it’s ship-shape …’

Eddy makes a bemused snort. ‘Just a quick one. It’ll do you good. What’re you working on anyway?’

‘Well, you said you wanted some alternatives to the magazine’s strapline …’ Secretly, Rob strongly believes that ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’ does the job perfectly well, conveying the message:
Listen, mate, we run features on politicians and serious-looking leather briefcases. If you’re looking for topless women you’ve come to the wrong place because we’re Too Posh For Boobs.
However, Eddy thinks it’s not ‘dynamic’ enough.
Mr Jones isn’t supposed to be bloody dynamic
, Rob mouths silently as his editor banters with Frank, the art director.
That’s the whole point. We once ran a four page feature on the history of Gentleman’s Relish and that’s what our readers expect.
Sensing tension radiating upwards from his back to his neck, Rob glares at the straplines he’s managed to dredge up so far:

•
For men who mean business

•
The discerning man’s glossy

•
The glossy man’s best friend

Jesus, what the hell is a ‘glossy man’? And ‘best friend’? That sounds like a dog. He ponders some more:

•
The magazine that was once respected and is now a bit shit

•
No naked girls here – we’re too refined for that …

Then he adds, smiling to himself:

…
Although we do feature the odd, deeply patronising sex tip which suggests that our ‘thinking’ readers aren’t that hot in the sack.

He sits back, about to add to his personal rant when he realises with alarm that Eddy is lurking behind him, pink-cheeked like a baby and flaring his nostrils at the screen.

‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I’m thinking of upping the sex content, Rob. We should run a few more features, practical advice, A–Z of foreplay …’

‘Sorry?’

‘You
know – the usual get-her-into-bed stuff but delivered with a punchy edge …’

Rob blinks at Eddy. Try as he might, he cannot get his head around what an ‘A–Z of foreplay delivered with a punchy edge’ actually means.

‘Well,’ he says, frowning, ‘if you really think our readers—’

‘What, have sex?’ Eddy guffaws. ‘No, you’re right, Rob. The uptight little farts probably aren’t getting that much. All the more reason to give
’
em a helping hand, eh?’ He guffaws at his own joke.

‘Er, I suppose so, yes.’

Eddy slaps a hand on Rob’s shoulder. ‘I don’t mean we’d do it tackily. It’d be tastefully done …’

Nodding sagely as if taking all of this on board, Rob toys with the fantasy of opening a new document and typing out his resignation letter. How can he possibly do his job properly with a twenty-six-year-old idiot at the helm? The last magazine Eddy worked on was full of drinking games and Britain’s Best Bum competitions. It’s rumoured that the winner’s ‘prize’ was to sleep with Eddy.

‘
You
could write it,’ Eddy adds, giving Rob’s swivel chair an irritating jiggle.

‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot on and I’m sure we could find a freelancer, an expert. I could start putting out some feelers …’