Pedigree Mum (8 page)

‘Oh, right.’ He laughs hollowly.

‘Well, I hope they win,’ Kerry says.

Rob frowns. ‘Sorry?’

‘The kids. Haven’t you been listening, Rob? I said I hope they win the contest …’

‘Er, Kerry …’ Rob begins, distracted again as Joe swipes his mother’s teaspoon and drips coffee onto the sugary piles. What’s he doing now – exploring how to make a bloody great mess?

‘Oh, God, Joe,’ Brigid cries. ‘We’ll have to go, you’re meant to be at Oliver’s party …’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, Kerry, we must get our boys together to play sometime.’ With a big flashy smile, Brigid grabs Joe’s hand as they clatter out of the cafe.

‘I can’t stand that,’ Rob mutters as a sense of stillness descends.

‘Stand what?’ Kerry asks.

‘
That
. Kids throwing sugar everywhere, mothers pretending they’re engaged in some valuable learning experience when all they’re really doing is being bloody infuriating …’

She laughs and shakes her head, and he senses the tension dispelling a little. ‘God, Rob, when did you become such an angry old man?’

‘Hey, less of the old …’

‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘ours aren’t perfect either, remember. But yes, I know what you mean. Brigid seems nice, though, and I really need to get to know some people around here. I wish they were all as friendly as she is …’

‘Kerry,’ Rob butts in, reaching for her hand across the table. ‘Let’s … let’s forget all this. Can we do that, please?’

She slides her hand out from under his. ‘Last weekend, you mean?’

Rob nods. ‘I know how it looked …’

‘Oh yes, your friendly little cleaning lady.’

‘… I want us to move on from this because we have to decide what to do.’

Kerry blinks at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Er …’ He plucks a sugar sachet from the bowl, accidentally rips it and quickly puts it back. ‘The estate agent called me yesterday. That couple, the ones who came round to see the house after the, er …’

‘What, last Saturday?’

‘Yes, them. Well, they’d needed a few days to talk it over and they’ve decided they want it.’

‘They’ve put in an offer?’ Kerry asks, eyes widening.

‘Yes.’ He glances around the tearoom; even the fridge seems to have fallen silent now. ‘The asking price too,’ he adds.

‘Really? Wow, that’s great …’

Rob looks at his wife, thinking how lovely she looks today with her glossy dark hair pulled back and those few strands dancing prettily around her face. She looks relieved, too, about the London house. Rob is trying to seem pleased, but he also owes it to Kerry to be absolutely honest. He pauses, wondering how best to put it, knowing he must get it absolutely right.

Around the corner from Hattie’s, tucked away on a quiet cobbled side street, a new upmarket sandwich shop is struggling to survive. James Delaney, who’s helping his son to get the place in order, was up this morning at 6.35 a.m. He’s already walked his dog, Buddy, along Shorling beach, forced six-foot-three Luke out of bed and sliced a mountain of prosciutto, tomatoes and Emmental. He has also apologised numerous times for the fact that they don’t have any rocket today. Luke messed up the greengrocer’s order (again) so, while he held the fort, James raced around town, amassing as many acceptable lettuce varieties as he could manage. Although he failed to locate rocket, he did track down lollo rosso, butterhead, cos and lamb’s lettuce – how many leaf varieties do people actually need? What would customers do if presented with plain old iceberg – burst into tears or attack him? It’s one of the things that drives James mad about Shorling these days: this utter wankery about food. Which is unfortunate, really, as Luke’s business idea – to set up a sandwich shop to out-posh all the others – was built upon the new residents’ adoration of fine cheeses and hams nestling between organic sourdough.

With the main lunchtime period over – the term ‘rush’ would be over-stating things – James pulls off his navy blue and white striped apron. Hanging it beside the enormous string of garlic behind the counter, he heads for the door of the shop. ‘Just popping home,’ he says.

‘Okay, Dad,’ Luke replies.

‘I’ll only be half an hour. Maybe you could clear the decks a bit, set out some more smoked salmon, chuck some lemon and black pepper over it …’

‘Uh?’

‘Pepper, Luke,’ James says with exaggerated patience. ‘You do know how to operate a pepper grinder. It’s that twisty gadget with the little black things in.’

‘Sure, Dad,’ Luke says with an amiable smile. James blinks at his son, exasperated, yet unable to feel irritated with him for long. Luke is a handsome, stubbly-chinned boy who, while not wildly academic, has the knack of charming the pants off girls and money out of his wealthy friends’ parents’ bank accounts (hence being able to set up his own business at twenty-two years old). James can’t help admiring his entrepreneurial streak; the way he managed to write a business plan, design the shop and amass the funds, when he’d felt sure the whole idea would come to nothing. Unfortunately, though, Shorling residents and day-trippers haven’t gone mad for fillet steak with baby spinach and grilled artichoke hearts. Maybe, James reflects as he strides down the narrow street, it’s just too much. After all, there’s nothing much wrong with a plain cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps. He and Luke are virtually living off unsold food, their fridge crammed with leftovers. James has started waking up at night, nauseous after a supper of smoked trout, stilton and figs.

It also became apparent that, while Luke has never lacked enthusiasm, he needed someone with him in the shop to keep things running smoothly. As he can’t afford to pay one of his floppy-haired friends, James saw no option but to step in, cramming his own freelance website design work into the evenings to get things on track. ‘Just a few weeks,’ he’d told Luke. ‘Six at the most. Then you’re on your own.’ However, they both know that James will never leave Luke in the lurch.

James is back home now, and lets himself into the neat redbrick house with the not-so-neat dangly gutter, making a mental note to get it fixed.

‘Hey, boy,’ he says as Buddy charges towards him. ‘Been on your own too long, huh? C’mon, just a quick walk …’

He clips on the lead, catching sight of himself in the small mirror in the hallway. God, he needs a haircut. He likes it short, no-nonsense, and before his involvement with Luke’s (after much debate, his son decided the simplest option was to name the shop after himself), James would have regular trims at the old-fashioned Turkish barber’s. Lately, though, such non-essentials have slipped off the radar. And, although he’s glad to escape from the shop for a while, he’s beginning to wonder if looking after Buddy is something he could do without too. Luke’s on-off girlfriend Charlotte used to undertake dog-walking duties, but the status is definitely ‘off’ at the moment.

James sets off with Buddy pulling hard on the lead, panting and straining towards a dropped ice cream cone on the pavement. He barks suddenly at an elderly man on a mobility scooter, and James has to quickly haul him away before he pees against a bucket of fresh blooms outside the florist’s. A woman with a wiry grey terrier – impeccably behaved – glares at him as she struts by. ‘Should get him some training,’ she mutters.

Oh, really?
James wants to call after her.
Don’t think I haven’t tried that. We’ve even seen a behavioural expert – a dog psychologist – who diagnosed severe anxiety caused by trauma. He wasn’t like this before my wife left, you know. Buddy was very much Amy’s dog but, weirdly enough, she wasn’t too keen on taking him when she moved up to Sheffield with her hairdresser – sorry, colourist … Said Brian ‘isn’t good with animals’.
Oh, really? James wasn’t particularly ‘good’ with being dumped without warning either, but he’d had to deal with that.

Halting his racing thoughts – the tutting woman has long since disappeared – James takes a short cut through the alley towards the beach. While Buddy stops to investigate a damp patch on the pavement, James glances at the glass-covered noticeboard on the newsagent’s wall.
Sandwich Express
, he reads.
Bespoke buffets delivered to your workplace. Contact Gary for a slice of the action.
Hmmm. Should he and Luke start a delivery service? It seems over-ambitious seeing as they’re struggling to keep the shop afloat, but every little helps.

Buddy is pulling again now and starts barking sharply, startling a passing teenager on a bike who gives James a two-fingered salute. Since Amy’s departure, Buddy has become fearful of cyclists, motorbikes and lorries – most vehicles, come to think of it. Despite the fact that he’s gripping Buddy’s lead, James hopes that, if he keeps staring ahead, any passers-by will assume that this dog has nothing whatsoever to do with him. He fixes his gaze on the newsagent’s ads. Most are offering boats for sale, holiday cottages to let, and essential services such as chakra realignment and ‘a full feng-shui survey to breathe life into your home’. Then a small white postcard catches his eye:
Piano Tuition.

There’s a burst of laughter from down on the shore. The beach is packed with children, he realises; must be the annual sandcastle competition, which Luke won with an impressive marble run construction when he was seven or eight (he’d been able to charm a whole horde of people to help him, even back then).

James turns back to the noticeboard.

All levels, abilities and musical styles – in your own home or in my music room in Shorling. Whether you wish to work towards ABRSM exams, or learn to play purely for fun, call qualified tutor Kerry Tambini on 07776 456 896.

He smiles. A little hobby to slot in is the last thing he needs, but still …

Without considering what he’s doing, James slips the loop of Buddy’s lead over the bollard at the end of the alley and delves into his jacket pocket. He’s forgotten his phone, but he does have a crumpled shopping list scrawled on a paper napkin. He pulls out the tiniest stub of a pencil and scribbles down the number, thinking how mad it is, assuming he’d be capable of learning anything new at forty-three years old. Anyway, hadn’t he planned to sell Amy’s piano, seeing as she clearly doesn’t want that either?

Another barking outburst interrupts his thoughts as Buddy starts leaping wildly, clearly furious at being tied up. The sight of a small dog across the street – one of those poochy creatures with a bow at its fringe – has sent him into a frenzy. James hurriedly lifts his lead off the bollard, simultaneously making apologetic gestures to the dog’s owner in her prim floral dress while snapping, ‘That’s
enough
, Buddy. Calm down.’ Shooting him a furious look, the woman scoops up her quivering pet, as if fearful that Buddy might savage it. About to explain that he’s just nervous, defensive, or whatever you want to call it, James momentarily loses concentration, enabling Buddy to break free from his grasp and charge across the road in a blur of black and white fur, red leather lead flying behind him. The woman shrinks back in fear, but Buddy is no longer interested in her yapping hound. He’s now pelting down towards the beach with a cursing James in pursuit.

To his horror, Buddy is heading straight for the sandcastle competition, paying no heed to the fact that most of these structures have clearly required weeks of careful planning and complex architectural plans.

‘Buddy!’ James cries, carefully stepping around what looks like a scale model of the Sagrada Família with wet sand dribbled over its majestic spires. ‘Come here
right now
.’

Buddy stops for a moment, investigating the remains of a picnic spread out on a rainbow-striped blanket. A bearded man who might have stepped out of the Toast catalogue shoos him away, and a bunch of children yell in protest as Buddy scampers over a mound of sand with little flags stuck all over it, like some kind of gigantic pin cushion.

‘It’s ridiculous!’ someone cries. ‘That dog’s out of control.’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ James mutters as he tears after his dog, who has now cocked his leg against the judges’ trestle table for a hasty pee before continuing his explorations of the beach.

‘Could the owner of this dog
please
remove him from the area,’ a male voice booms over the PA system. ‘A Beach Buddy has already been informed …’

Ah, the illustrious BBs, jumped-up volunteers in lilac T-shirts who appear out of thin air on the rare occasion that someone dares to stub out a fag in the sand. They don’t take kindly to dogs venturing into the wrong zone – as James has been reminded on several occasions by a zealous-dad type with a shiny ‘BB’ button badge, who clearly derived great pleasure from having the authority to tell people off.

At least Buddy has left the competition now, and is prancing delightedly in the shallow waves. James marches towards him, not realising that the paper napkin with the piano teacher’s number has fluttered away behind him and is being carried away by the light breeze. By the time he’s marched Buddy back to the promenade, wondering if 3 p.m. is too early for strong alcohol, he has forgotten that he even wrote it down.

Kerry had always assumed that a mid-life crisis involves the purchase of an enormous motorbike and ill-advised leather trousers. But now she thinks maybe they’re more complicated than that. More like a forty-year-old man gets monumentally pissed with younger colleagues, stays over at the flat of some little princess, then announces that perhaps moving to the south coast wasn’t such a great idea after all, despite being one hundred percent certain that blissful day with the kite. And that now he’s had time to ‘really think things through’, and despite the fact that they have an offer on the house, maybe they should hang onto their London home for a while longer, as a sort of … ‘base’.

‘What d’you mean, a “base”?’ Kerry asks. She and Rob have left the tearoom and are waiting at the pedestrian crossing to cross the road to the beach.

‘Just … somewhere I’d stay,’ Rob says, ‘one or two nights a week instead of commuting every day, until we’re sure about selling it.’