Pedigree Mum (41 page)

‘James, I just need the bathroom.’

‘Okay.’ Mercifully, he removes his hand from her breast.

She slips out of bed, feeling conscious of her nakedness now, and perches on the loo. In fact, she doesn’t really need to go. She’s just buying some time while cursing herself for wasting this lovely man, this incredible room, this opportunity. Two bathrobes are hanging on the back of the door. They look like possibly the fluffiest bathrobes ever; James probably checked up on robe quality when he made the booking. She gets up and slips one on. When she emerges from the bathroom he is sitting up in bed, a particularly fine specimen of a man, his lightly-tanned body shown off to best effect by all the whiteness around him.

‘Hi,’ he says with a smile.

‘Hi.’ She pauses for a moment. Then, with the belt on her robe done up tightly – a little too tightly after that amazing dinner – she climbs into bed beside him.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks gently.

‘Yes, I’m fine …’ She’s about to concoct an excuse, like she’s eaten too much or doesn’t feel well, but she can’t bring herself to lie to him. ‘I’m really sorry. I’ve had such a lovely time but, James … I’m not sure this is going to work.’

His mouth forms a firm line, and for a moment she wonders what the hell is wrong with her. ‘You’re right,’ he murmurs, taking her hand in his. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

‘I’m
really
sorry.’

James sighs. ‘Yes, me too. But it’s not your fault, you have nothing to apologise for.’

She looks at him. ‘I do love our days together, though …’

He nods, and they fall silent for a few moments. ‘It’s just – Amy moved on,’ he murmurs. ‘She was with someone else. She got on with her life and I wonder if I ever will.’ He turns to meet her gaze and she kisses him lightly on the lips.

‘You’re probably the most eligible man in Shorling, James.’

He chuckles. ‘Good God. I very much doubt that.’

Kerry stretches out, grateful for the coolness of sheets against her skin, and hoping he comes back sometime to this very room, with a woman who appreciates it.

‘It’s been a perfect day,’ she murmurs, feeling drowsy now, ‘but … let’s just sleep.’

Rob is at his desk in the office, trying to write a Miss Jones column on the theme of women’s sexual fantasies. It’s Friday evening, way past home time, and he’s finding it virtually impossible to squeeze a single intelligible sentence out of his addled brain. Every time he types something like, ‘Sometimes I want a big dirty trucker man’, a hectoring voice in his head bellows, ‘For Christ’s sake, Rob. You have an innocent baby at home. This has got to stop.’

He squints at his screen, his head aching and RSI tingles shooting up his right arm, willing the voice to shut the hell up. It’s only work, after all, so why is he getting himself into such a stew? People do all kinds of crappy jobs just to bring in some money – what about that clown guy Kerry seems to have befriended? Anyway, Rob can’t afford to show anything less than one hundred percent commitment right now, even though he’s barely managing to restrain himself from slapping Eddy most days. Even when his boss quipped, ‘God, Rob, you look knackered – rather you than me with this baby lark, mate!’, he had to just smile benignly and get on with his work. Rob is now living full-time with Nadine and their beautiful baby son, and is acutely aware that he has two families to support.

He performs a quick calculation. By the time Rafferty is, what, twenty-two and has finished university, Rob will be …
sixty-two
. That’s perilously close to pensionable age, and at this rate he’ll still be dashing off Miss Jones columns suggesting that it might be a good idea to dress up as a fireman once in a while.

‘Just get on with it,’ he mutters to himself, flinching as his mobile rings. ‘Er, hi, Nadine, everything okay?’

‘Yes, it’s just … how much longer are you going to be? It’s nearly seven and Rafferty’s a bit fractious and I thought you might be home by now …’

‘Okay, won’t be long.’

‘What’s keeping you, Rob? I’ve been here all day, haven’t talked to another living soul – at least, not one who can talk back …’

He exhales fiercely and glares at his screen. ‘I’ve just got to finish this thing about women’s fantasies. Then I’ll be out of here, I promise.’ He pauses and bites his lip. ‘What kind of fantasies do women have?’

‘Huh?’ Her response hangs in the air like a bad smell.

‘I mean … what kind of thoughts go through a woman’s brain when she’s, y’know … imagining her ideal scenario in a bed type thing?’

There’s a burst of bitter laughter. ‘You are fucking joking, Rob?’

He frowns. ‘No. I just wondered—’

‘Right,’ she snaps, ‘you thought it’d be a good idea to ask a woman who’s barely recovered from having a baby yanked out of her vagina with forceps about what kind of sexual fantasies she has?’

He opens his mouth and shuts it again, relieved that everyone else has gone home. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he mutters.

‘Would you be up for exotic scenarios if you had five stitches in your perineum?’

‘Er …’ He racks his brain, trying to recall what a perineum is exactly, and whether or not he has one. ‘No, I probably wouldn’t,’ he concedes.

He can hear Nadine’s urgent breathing down the phone. ‘The health visitor said, “Don’t worry, Nadine, you’ll be able to resume intercourse after your six week check-up.” Ha!’ she barks mirthlessly. ‘Like I’ll be ready then. God, the way I feel now, it’ll be more like six
years
…’

‘That’s fine, it’s not as if I feel like
—’
Rob starts, before realising that she has abruptly ended the call.

For God’s sake. There was no need to take it like that. He despises his stupid column more than ever now; this would never have happened if he was still allowed to write the entertainment pages – the film reviews and celebrity interviews. He suggested swapping his Miss Jones page for a monthly recipe at the last features meeting – for busy dads with hungry mouths to feed – but was met with a gale of derisive laughter. Eddy has even taken the Style Tip of the Month page off him and given it to Ava instead.

In a fit of annoyance, he turns off his computer, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and storms out of the office. At least it’s Friday, and he’ll be able to get stuck into baby-related duties over the weekend and relieve some of the pressure at home. Rafferty is adorable, but he has yet to learn to distinguish day from night. Nadine is convinced that his nocturnal howlings are due to the fact that she can’t produce enough milk, yet when Rob suggested giving him the odd bottle of formula, anyone would have thought he’d suggested force-feeding him gin.

Hmmm. He
should
head straight home, he decides as he dries his hands in the gents. But would anyone blame him for having a quick drink, just to bolster himself before the onslaught of feeding and bathing and being spurted with baby sick? Maybe it would give Nadine time to calm down, so they’d have a nicer evening. He calls Simon’s number on his mobile. ‘Still in the office?’

‘Yeah, unfortunately,’ Simon replies.

‘Just wondered if you fancied a quick pint …’

‘Sorry, still a bit busy, mate,’ he says distractedly.

‘Oh.’ Rob checks his watch – 7.20 p.m. ‘Mind if I pop down for a quick coffee? That is,’ he chortles, ‘if you have coffee down there and not just Horlicks.’ Why did he say that? He didn’t mean to sound like a crashing snob. In fact, as he’s never ventured down to the bowels of the building where the hobby magazines reside – no one from
Mr Jones
does – it wouldn’t surprise him if they still used manual typewriters.

‘Things are a bit full-on at the moment,’ Simon explains, sounding echoey, as if in a cave. ‘We’re on deadline tonight and I’ve still got to pass the cover. But if you’re around later, we’re all off to Bill’s retirement party …’

A
retirement party
? Lord help us. It’s a short step from ordering trousers (‘slacks’) from the small ads in Sunday supplements.

‘Er, I don’t think I know Bill,’ Rob mumbles, ‘so I might leave it.’

‘Oh, you
must
know Bill. He’s our features editor, been working here for thirty-five years, virtually part of the furniture …’

‘Oh, um, yeah,’ Rob fibs. In fact, the
Mr Jones
team have always made a point of avoiding the likes of Bill. Rob once spotted Eddy flinching when forced to ride in the lift with one of the old blokes, as if close contact might somehow contaminate him or damage his suit.

‘… Heading down to The Lounge,’ Simon is saying. ‘See you down there, if you fancy it. Should be a laugh.’

Right – as long as no one chokes on their false teeth …

‘Uh …’ Rob pauses. ‘Okay then, if you’re sure it’s okay for me to tag along.’

‘’Course it is,’ Simon laughs. ‘They won’t mind associating with a ponce like you just for one night.’

Nadine checks her watch. It’s gone 9 p.m., and when Rob called again to say he was off for a quick drink with Simon, he promised he’d be home by eight. She didn’t mind him having a catch-up, even though it had meant having to bath Rafferty all by herself – but why isn’t he home now?

Since Rob went back to work, she has developed an aversion to being alone in her flat. It’s manageable during the day, when she accepts that Rob has to be at the office, but come the evening, she’s craving adult company so badly that she finds herself staring at the clock, willing the hands to whir round, and sometimes even takes Rafferty out to buy milk or bread, simply so she can talk to someone. The flat feels so small and cramped these days, and it terrifies her, being in sole charge of a baby who’s not even one month old. Besides, she should be having her customary long, sudsy bath by now – her reward after a gruelling day – with Rob taking care of Rafferty in the living room. She’ll still have it, she decides, popping the baby into his sling and carrying him through to the bathroom while she runs a bath. He can sit in his baby seat on the floor beside her. She needs to be clean and have ten minutes’ respite: ‘I
am
still a human being,’ she blurts out into the tense, milky-scented air.

Leaving the bath running, and with Rafferty still strapped to her chest, she gathers together her pyjamas, dressing gown and a magazine. But by the time she returns to the bathroom, the roll-top bath is full to the brim, having reached the overflow, and is stone cold too. Brilliant. She must have used up all the hot water. She plunges in a hand and pulls out the plug, checking the time again on the starfish clock on the shelf: 9.47 p.m. Where
is
he?

Rafferty is whimpering now, so she feeds him and puts him to sleep in the cradle at the side of the bed. His eyes ping open immediately.
Waaaaah!
Nadine lifts him out, accidentally elbowing the revolving sheep night light on her bedside table and sending it tumbling to the floor. ‘Oh,’ she gasps. Its paper cylinder shade, onto which the little sheep are projected, is crumpled and torn. ‘Daddy never liked it anyway,’ she tells Rafferty, her heart thumping as she crushes its balsawood frame with her bare foot.

Stomping through to the living room, she perches on the sofa with Rafferty on her lap. What should she do now while her boyfriend enjoys his impromptu night out in Soho? She
won’t
call Rob’s mobile. Her father has always kept her mum virtually under surveillance and she won’t lower herself to that. No, she’ll watch TV instead so she’ll be nice and calm for when he finally comes home. However drunk he is, Nadine is determined not to have a row, not in front of Rafferty. Her overriding memories of childhood are of her father’s loud, bullying voice, and her mother trying to hold her ground, inevitably giving in and tearfully agreeing that he was right. Jens
always
wins an argument.

It’s nearly 10 p.m. now and it’ll be eleven in Geneva, but Nadine finds herself calling her parents’ number, desperately hoping it’s her mother who picks up.

‘Mummy?’ She almost weeps with relief.

‘Sweetheart, is everything okay? Is Rafferty all right?’

‘Yes … we’re both fine. I’m sorry to phone so late. You weren’t asleep, were you?’

Candida emits a small laugh. ‘No, darling. Just pottering about – your father’s out for the evening. So, tell me how things have been …’

Nadine wonders where to start. ‘It was easier when you were here.’

‘I know, darling, but I had to get back and didn’t want Rob to think I was getting in the way …’

‘He didn’t, not at all. Anyway, we
are
doing okay, I suppose, but … it’s hard work, isn’t it? It never stops.’

‘Oh yes,’ Candida laughs sympathetically. ‘I do remember all that, sweetheart.’

‘And Rob’s out at some undisclosed location tonight,’ Nadine adds before she can stop herself.

‘That’s very rare, though, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes,’ Nadine says grudgingly.

‘And he is very good with Rafferty. That was lovely to see.’

‘Uh-huh.’ It’s true, he really is, so perhaps it’s for the best that he’s been through this parenting thing before. Every time she sees him tenderly cradling Rafferty in his arms, or managing to rock him to sleep when she’s failed dismally, she reminds herself that it wasn’t such a bad thing, to sleep with Rob to make Eddy jealous. In fact she hardly thinks about Eddy at all these days. He’s made no contact since she’s been on leave – hasn’t even sent her a quick text, even though he must have heard how gruelling the birth was. She suspects that the enormous hand-tied bouquet he sent had more to do with Ava than him. Even so, she quickly tore off the accompanying card – which merely said ‘Love from Eddy’ – and threw it away before Rob could see it. ‘They’re just from work,’ she explained when Rob had asked who’d sent the flowers.

As her mother chats on, reassuring her that she’s doing fine, Nadine’s thoughts drift until she’s barely listening. Right now, she isn’t even sure she wants to go back to work, even when her maternity leave is up. When Ava dropped by last night, she told Nadine that sales have plummeted, and that some of the major advertisers are threatening to pull out because they don’t like the new topless element that’s snuck into such a ‘respectable’ magazine.