again.
This time, she hears a voice inside. It’s a girl – an undeniably young and rather posh-sounding girl whose voice Kerry doesn’t recognise.
‘Someone at the door!’ the voice trills. ‘Shall I get it?’
Something tightens in Kerry’s chest, and she frowns at a lump of gloss paint on the door. No, she must have misheard. Perhaps it had come from next door …
‘Robbie, want me to get that, babe?’
Robbie? Babe? Kerry has barely processed these words as the door opens. And she’s no longer aware of her pinchy shoes or the carrier bag handles digging into her fingers because a girl is there – a girl with short dark hair and red lips, tipping her head to one side.
‘Can I help you?’ she says in a breathy voice as a wild thought courses through Kerry’s brain: I’ve come to the wrong bloody house. Jesus. Writing those Cuckoo Clock songs has sent me mad …
The girl is still looking expectantly at her when Rob appears – sorry, Robbie, babe – babbling, ‘Kerry, hi! This is, um, Nadine …’ His eyebrows shoot up, and he and Nadine step back into the house as Kerry follows them wordlessly in. ‘A friend from work …’ Rob is explaining, raking his hair with his fingers. ‘Came over to help me spruce the place up …’ Kerry sees him glance down at her flesh-pinching shoes.
‘Really?’ She frowns and places her bags carefully on the floor. This girl, this Nadine, is wearing a figure-hugging vest top and the tiniest denim cut-offs Kerry has ever seen – they’d barely fit one of Mia’s Barbies – and looks about nineteen. ‘What’s going on, Rob?’ she asks coolly, trying to cut out the girl from her vision.
‘Nothing, I told you, she’s just helping.’ Rob clamps his mouth shut, and Nadine shoots him an alarmed look, as if expecting instructions on what to do now.
‘You make it sound as if you’ve been living in squalor,’ Kerry remarks. He’s lying, she knows it; Rob cleans the cooker hob daily and replaces his toothbrush if so much as one bristle flares out.
‘The place was looking a bit unloved,’ he mutters. ‘People are coming round, I’ve already missed the first lot—’
‘Why?’
‘Uh?’
‘How come you missed them?’
‘Er, I was just out … just popped out for a few minutes …’
‘Really? Where did you pop out to?’
His dark eyes meet hers imploringly. ‘Okay,’ he says, exhaling forcefully. ‘It was a big night last night. The guys at work had put on a bit of a party for me and I had too much to drink. Crashed out at Nadine’s place because it was handy …’ His bottom lip twitches as he tails off.
Kerry glances at Nadine, then back at Rob. ‘So why didn’t you just say that?’
‘I knew what you’d think,’ he mutters.
‘We were just chatting, Kerry,’ Nadine offers, her voice rising to even breathier heights. ‘There was a whole gang of us from the office. It was just an impromptu get-together, a bit of a laugh, you should have been there …’ She smiles nervously, then glances at the living room window as if considering launching herself through it.
‘And then,’ Rob cuts in, clearly getting into his stride now, ‘Nadine said she’d come over and help me do some, uh, scrubbing … didn’t you?’ He turns to her and she nods over-enthusiastically.
‘Yeah! Er, anyway, I think I’d better go. Really nice to meet you, Kerry.’ Nadine flashes a wide, fake smile and hurriedly lets herself out.
‘Um … bye,’ Rob mutters to the floor.
‘So,’ Kerry says flatly when she’s gone. ‘What the fuck was all that about?’
Rob reddens. ‘Nothing. I told you, she was just helping.’
Feeling ridiculous now in her dress and shoes, with her make-up carefully applied and that black lacy bra and French knickers underneath, Kerry wills herself not to cry.
‘Don’t insult me,’ she gulps. ‘It’s absolutely obvious what’s going on …’
‘Oh, so I can’t have female friends, is that it?’ Rob barks. ‘D’you know how hard it’s been for me at work since Eddy and the new lot arrived, how stressed I’ve been about the move and the possibility of losing my job and—’
‘Poor darling,’ she snaps.
‘Stop being like this!’
‘Being like what, Rob? Do you know what I was, just ten minutes ago when I was buying champagne? Excited, that’s what …’ She gives the carrier bag containing the bottle a fierce kick. ‘And I was excited putting on my red dress and heels—’
‘You look lovely,’ he blurts out. ‘Very, er … done up.’
‘Done up? What does that mean?’
‘No, no … I mean nice. You look, er … sexy.’
‘Really?’ she barks. ‘You know what you look? Post-bloody-coital …’
He shakes his head and rubs his hands across his face. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it?’ she rages. ‘Just tell me, Rob. Did you sleep with her?’
‘Of course not!’ he cries. ‘God, Kerry, I can’t believe you’d think—’
‘Oh,’ she cuts in, ‘and I made you this …’ She bends down to snatch the cake tin from its bag and whips off the lid.
‘Er, that’s … lovely. You’re great at, um, icing …’ He winces involuntarily.
‘Don’t bloody patronise me, Rob, after you’ve spent the entire night with a girl who must be half your age. Don’t think you can make it all right by telling me what a great icer I am …’
‘Kerry, please—’
‘Happy birthday,’ she snaps, accompanied by a gulping sob, the words ROBERTO TAMBINI THIS IS YOUR CAKE! mocking her now as she finds herself lifting the sponge from its tin. The tin falls to the wooden floor with a clang, and now Kerry is gripping the huge, squishy confection with both hands, registering her neatly-applied red nail polish for a second before the cake starts to fly, almost gracefully, in a strange sort of slow motion, hitting Rob squarely in the chest.
‘For God’s sake!’ He looks down in horror.
She eyes him coldly. ‘Oh, is that your Paul Smith T-shirt?’
‘I don’t care about the sodding T-shirt.’ He stares at her, open-mouthed. The collapsed mound of sponge lies at his feet like a scene from a child’s birthday party gone horribly wrong.
‘Bye, Rob,’ Kerry says, feeling eerily calm now. ‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday.’
‘You’re not going, are you? This is mad, you’ve gone insane …’ Kerry is aware of Rob saying her name over and over as she marches out to the street and climbs into her car.
‘Kerry,’ he mouths through the window as she turns on the ignition. Fixing her gaze determinedly ahead, she indicates and pulls away, revving violently and ignoring the angry toot from a black cab behind her. Glancing back just once, she sees her husband – deputy editor of the Thinking Man’s Monthly – distraught on the pavement with chocolate ganache icing splattered across his chest.
‘Stick that on your Style Tip of the Month page,’ she yells as she drives away.
Chapter Nine
One week later