wanna take honey.’
‘What about fruit then? They must’ve had fruit …’ But when she Googles ‘Egyptian fruit’, all that pops up are Egyptian fruit bats for sale, £250 for a breeding pair.
‘Look, Mummy,’ Mia exclaims, jabbing the screen. ‘Figs.’
Kerry sighs. ‘If you moan about the apricots I give you for playtime, then I don’t think you’ll like figs.’
‘That’s ’cause those apricots are brown,’ she retorts. Yes, angel, because they’re from the hideously expensive wholefood store, i.e. sulphur dioxide-free, which is more important, apparently, than them being a prettier shade of orange …
‘Are you crying, Mummy?’ Freddie asks with interest.
‘No, I’ve just got something in my eye.’ She pulls a fake smile and rubs her leaking eyes on the sleeve of her top.
‘Figs are nice,’ Mia says levelly. ‘We had ’em at Nanny and Nonno’s with ham.’
Ah, Rob’s foodie parents who have always been unswervingly kind to their grandchildren, and almost like a surrogate mum and dad to Kerry. What will they make of the impregnation when he dares to tell them?
‘So,’ Mia says, having perked up now, ‘can we go to the fruit shop?’
‘Not at half-eight in the morning, no. Sorry, love. Come on now, you two – shoes on. We’ve got to go now.’ Amidst protests, Kerry switches off her laptop, crams small feet into shoes, hooks schoolbags onto their backs and grabs lunchboxes. She ushers them out and bangs the front door shut, realising that Freddie’s school trousers have a smear of mud on one leg but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Mia continues to protest, and Freddie refuses to hold Kerry’s hand as they cross the road.
‘Everyone else’ll have stuff,’ Mia grumbles, dragging her feet.
‘Yes, and I’m sure Miss Pettifer will make sure it’s all shared out …’
‘No, she won’t.’
‘Why d’you say that? You were telling me yesterday how kind she is …’
‘I hate it here!’ Mia announces, stopping in her tracks. ‘I hate it. I want to see Daddy and I want to go back to London.’
‘Mia, please …’ Her daughter’s eyes flood with tears, and Kerry bobs down to hug her tightly. ‘Come on, darling. You’ve been so good about moving …’
‘WHY CAN’T I HAVE FIGS?’ she roars, pulling away from Kerry, her cheeks flaming. Kerry stands there, feeling as if she’s been punched in the stomach.
‘Mia,’ she mutters, ‘please stop this …’
‘It’s not fair! I told you about the feast …’
Yes, and quite a lot has happened since then … A few metres ahead, a couple of mothers – each with an immaculate daughter – have turned back for a gawp, because not much happens in a genteel seaside town. (Kerry has noticed this: the way people stop and gaze when something of mild interest occurs, like a car exhaust backfiring or a plane flying overhead). Grabbing Mia and Freddie’s hands, she marches onwards, past the staring women – one auburn, one pale blonde, both wearing what would be termed ‘fun skirts’ in the Boden catalogue.
‘Did you hear that?’ one of the women hisses. ‘I can hardly believe it. That little girl was yelling for fags.’
Kerry turns to face them. ‘No, she wasn’t. She’s seven years old. She said figs, for the Egyptian feast at school.’
‘Oh!’ At least the auburn-haired one has the decency to blush. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘It’s okay,’ Kerry says tersely.
‘That’s Mia, Mummy,’ the woman’s daughter announces. ‘She’s in my class.’
‘Hi, Audrey-Jane,’ Mia says shyly. ‘Hi, Tabitha.’ The blonde woman’s daughter grins, showing missing front teeth.
The auburn mother musters a smile. ‘Er, I’m Lara, this is Emily …’
‘Kerry.’
‘Nice to meet you, Kerry,’ Lara says rather coolly, as if still unconvinced over the fags issue.
‘You’ve moved into Maisie Cartwright’s house, haven’t you?’ Emily asks. Christ, does everyone know everything around here?
‘That’s right, she’s my aunt actually. She’s moved to Spain …’
‘So I heard. Is she enjoying it?’
Kerry casts her mind to the postcard she received this morning which she could hardly bear to read: I’m so happy that you, Rob and the children will be living in the cottage. I hope you have many happy years there … ‘Um, yes, she seems to be.’
‘Lucky woman,’ Emily says with a prim smile as they all start marching briskly towards school. ‘So, how are you settling in?’
‘Oh, we’re doing fine, thank you,’ Kerry says blithely.
‘My mummy forgot the Egyptian feast,’ Mia murmurs to Audrey-Jane.
‘God, so did I,’ Emily exclaims.
‘Me too,’ adds Lara, seemingly unconcerned, ‘but I’m not sure about food-sharing in the classroom anyway. I mean, you can’t be sure where everything’s come from …’ She winces at Kerry as if expecting her to agree, and the two friends fall into a discussion about various crimes against nutrition. Diluted cordial at the school Christmas party, fun-sized Mars Bars hidden during the Easter egg hunt … that’s the thing about living somewhere like this, Kerry realises. Everything’s so damned policed. You have those Beach Buddies, scanning the shoreline for so much as a discarded ice lolly stick, and mothers checking each other out as their ravenous children surge through the school gates at home time to be handed punnets of cherries and bottles of water.
As they turn into a side street, Kerry glances at the chalkboard propped up outside a sandwich shop. Char-grilled mozzarella and figs on lightly-toasted walnut sourdough …
‘Figs!’ she blurts out. ‘Look – FIGS!’
‘Sorry?’ Lara gives her a quizzical look.
‘Figs! They have figs here, and they’re open …’ And that’s not all. Manchego cheese with dates and Serrano ham … ‘Are dates Egyptian, Mia?’
‘Er, I think so. I don’t like ’em …’
‘It doesn’t matter what you like,’ Kerry says quickly. ‘Oh, and look, they do chargrilled chicken with spinach and honey and pomegranate dressing …’
‘The Egyptians had pomegranates,’ Tabitha exclaims as Kerry marches into the shop.
The gangly, dark-haired boy behind the counter couldn’t be sweeter, allowing
