his lip as she browses anti-stretch-mark oils in a mums-to-be boutique off Oxford Street, and stuffs his traumatised Visa card back into his wallet as she chats with the salesgirl.
‘Massage in the oil at least twice a day,’ the woman advises her. ‘That way, you’ll keep the skin supple so it’ll accommodate your growing bump.’ She beams at Rob. ‘You’ll do that for her, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he blusters, sensing himself flushing. At least she didn’t assume he was her dad, dragged out on bag-carrying duties.
‘God, you’re so uptight,’ Nadine chastises him as they leave the shop.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Looking all embarrassed when that woman said you should massage me.’ She laughs disparagingly. ‘It is natural, you know, to take care of your pregnant girlfriend …’
The carrier-bag handles are biting into Rob’s hands, and he dumps them on the pavement as he scans Oxford Street for a cab. ‘I’m not embarrassed. It just a bit public, that’s all.’
‘Hmmm.’ She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Maybe it’s just an age thing. I guess men of your generation just aren’t that comfortable with nudity.’
Rob snorts involuntarily. ‘Oh, right, so I’ve become a man of my generation now, have I? Well, I’m sorry but there’s not much I can do about that.’ Funny how his age didn’t seem to matter while she was ravaging him in his drunken stupor. He glances down at the numerous shopping bags at his feet. ‘Those night lights are rubbish,’ he adds. ‘Mia had one and it broke within two days.’
‘Well, we’ll be more careful, won’t we?’
‘No,’ he insists, ‘I mean they have a design flaw. The rotating bit rests on a little spike and it’s just not sturdy enough to withstand any knocks—’
‘Rob,’ she cuts in, ‘I don’t feel too good.’
‘There are other kinds of night lights,’ he continues, still scanning the street for a cab. ‘They’re little glowing things to plug in which seem to work better and are less complicated …’
‘My stomach hurts,’ Nadine murmurs.
He looks down at her, realising now how pale she is, and how fragile-looking in her little black jacket and red knitted dress. ‘Maybe it’s that bean thing you made last night. To be honest, I’ve been a bit, um, flatulent in the office …’
‘I’m not flatulent,’ she snaps, waving as a cab approaches while Rob gathers up their bags. ‘I’ve got a pain in my stomach, okay? I’m worried, Rob. This doesn’t feel right.’
‘You don’t think something’s wrong with the baby?’ He feels sick with panic as the cab pulls up alongside them.
‘I don’t know. I’ve just got these pains …’
Something changes then, and Rob no longer cares that she’s chosen a silly sheep night light or seems overly hung-up about stretch marks as they climb into the cab. He puts an arm around her and holds her hand tightly as they speed towards the hospital.
Chapter Thirty-One
Whenever Rob is due to pick up the children, Kerry experiences the same dilemma. Should she be polished and fully made-up, suggesting that she’s swishing off on a lunch date followed by copious afternoon sex the instant his car’s pulled away? Or slump to the door in scabby jogging bottoms, hair unwashed and face raw from sobbing? Reminding herself that trying to project some kind of image would imply that she actually cares what he thinks, she quickly pulls on a corduroy skirt, pale grey sweater and brushes on mascara and tinted lipgloss. Harvey-the-Clown is coming for his first proper lesson today and, after her watery-eyed moment last time he was here, it feels important to present herself as a properly functioning human being.
Rob, who’s arrived now, does look different these days. While he still favours his usual weekend attire of smart jeans and expensive-looking cotton sweater, there’s also a cloud of tension around him.
‘Is he always like this?’ Rob asks from his cross-legged position on the kitchen floor as he tries to bat Buddy away from his crotch. Disconcertingly, instead of dashing straight off to his parents with the children, he has chosen to hang around to help Freddie with his Great Wall of China, an ambitious Lego construction which now bisects the kitchen.
‘You know what’s strange?’ Kerry says tersely. ‘He might not be the best-behaved dog in the world, but he’s actually never done this to anyone but you.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ Rob says as Buddy continues to investigate his nether regions. ‘Suppose I should be flattered, then.’
As Kerry regards him with distaste, sitting there pathetically on the floor, she is overwhelmed by an urge to kick him hard in the shins. She can’t, of course – not with Freddie beside him, carefully placing a yellow brick on the top of the wall. She must behave nicely. God. The effort required triggers a strong desire for wine, and it’s only 11 a.m… .
‘Maybe it’s a smell you’re giving off,’ she adds.
‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘Well,’ she says dryly, ‘perhaps you’re giving off a powerful testosterone scent that only dogs can detect. Maybe it’s an age thing – you know, your final hormonal surge.’
Rob makes a small grunting sound.
‘Or,’ she continues, quite enjoying herself now, ‘you’ve brought it on yourself because you’ve got this thing about dogs homing straight for your toilet parts and it’s become a self-fulfilling prophecy.’
‘You’re deranged,’ he mutters, shaking his head.
‘I don’t think I am, Rob.’
‘Look,’ he says tetchily, ‘could you just call him off me please?’
Call him off, as if he’s a savage police hound. Kerry snorts in derision as Rob tries to push him away, which has the effect of making Buddy sit obediently at his side and offer him a paw.
‘He’s giving you his paw, Daddy,’ Freddie observes.
‘Is he? That’s nice.’ Rob shrinks away a little.
‘Don’t you like Buddy?’
‘Of course I do, Freddie. He’s, ah … a real character.’
Kerry turns away, wondering if these handovers will become easier with time, and if she’ll ever stop wanting to physically hurt him. Please leave now, she urges him silently. Just fuck off out of my house.
‘Buddy’s fine with all the other men who come round,’ she says before she can stop herself. Oh, the murky depths she’s plummeted to now. All the men who are desperate to ravish me, you arse, and who are thrilling in bed, unlike you who – I have to say this – was a pretty bloody tedious lay with your, ‘Ooh, give me a little scratchy first’ routine …
The
