Pedigree Mum (36 page)

‘Whoa!’ Harvey cries.

Brigid’s hand flies away. ‘What is it?’

‘Your
dog
,’ he exclaims, turning round to face Roxy whose perky seated position suggests she’s eagerly anticipating a matinée. ‘She just prodded my hip with her nose.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about her,’ Brigid purrs. ‘She’s very friendly.’

‘Brigid, I don’t really want a dog being
friendly
right now, thanks very much …’ He’s up on his feet now, pulling on his boxers and jeans and buttoning his fly securely.

She emits a deep, throaty laugh. ‘You’re far too sensitive.’

He laughs, shaking his head. ‘It’s just too … bizarre. I’m sorry.’

‘Okay, c’mere, Roxy babe …’ With an air of reluctance, Roxy trots after Brigid into the kitchen, where the door is shut firmly behind her. ‘There,’ she announces, reappearing just as Harvey has decided how appealing his lovely king-sized bed seems at this moment. ‘She can’t bother us now.’

‘That’s good,’ he says tentatively.

‘So now, could you do something for
me
?’

‘Er … what exactly?’

‘Go and get your clown stuff from the car.’

Harvey laughs involuntarily. ‘You
are
joking …’

She sways a little and places a hand on the doorframe for support. ‘No, I’m not. Come on – don’t be a spoilsport, sweetie.’

‘Brigid, I’m really not in the mood for showing you how to balloon-model or juggle or whatever.’

‘No, not that. I mean your
costume
. I want to see you with it on.’

‘But … you have, at the party,’ he says uncomprehendingly.

‘Yeah, that was different, though, wasn’t it? That was party clown.’ She raises a harshly pencilled brow, her unwavering gaze triggering a creeping sense of unease in him. ‘The one I want to get to know,’ she adds, ‘is
naughty
clown.’

He blinks at her. ‘Naughty clown,’ he repeats.

‘Yeah.’ She sniggers. ‘Please, Harvey. Just for me …’

‘You … want me to do some tricks for you?’ he says carefully.

‘Yes!’ She claps her hands together. ‘Go on. I’ve always wanted to do this. Tell you what – I’ll nip upstairs for a quick shower, okay? That’ll give you time to get ready …’

She grins squiffily, and for a brief moment, Harvey wonders what Kerry is doing right now: if she’s curled up all gorgeously on her sofa, or already tucked up in bed.

‘Um, Brigid, I really think I’d better—’ he starts as she turns and charges upstairs, missing her footing more than once.

‘Oh, and don’t forget to paint your face,’ she yells back. ‘There’s a mirror in the downstairs loo if you need it. Go on, Harv. Be a good boy and get ready.’

He takes a moment to assess the situation. Of course, Ethan would leap at the chance of some no-strings, uncomplicated sex. He’d be slathering on the greasepaint and have the wig on by now. Christ, he’d probably be juggling, naked apart from the red plastic nose and oversized shoes if it meant the chance of a shag.

But Harvey isn’t Ethan – he has better hair for a start – and hadn’t he vowed to himself to retire from the clowning game anyway? He fixes his gaze on the skull while, clearly cheesed off at being banished to the kitchen, Roxy emits a pitiful howl.

Kerry knows precisely what will be happening right now. Brigid will have invited Harvey in ‘for coffee’ and that’ll be that. She’s a striking woman with fabulous legs and swathes of blonde hair, and he’s a young, single, attractive guy – of course he’ll be up for it. What man wouldn’t? If Rob couldn’t resist a fling with a wedding ring firmly en-

circling his finger, what chance is there that Harvey will make his excuses and leave?

There is, Kerry reflects as she tackles a quivering spillage of pink jelly with a dustpan and brush, no way they’re
not
doing it right now. Bloody hell. It had been lovely, that afternoon drink she and Harvey had had, with the patio heater roaring away in the pub garden, and she’d felt happier than she could remember as they’d strolled slowly back to town. Had he been interested then? Had she wasted an opportunity? Kerry curses herself for not only being unable to recognise whether a man fancies her or not, but also for resorting to that ‘I’m just one of those batty pet people now’ routine. Where the hell had that come from?

As Kerry rinses the jelly-gunked brush in the sink, she realises how ill-equipped she clearly is when it comes to – snort – ‘dating’. She’d be no more up to speed if she were suddenly thrust into a biology exam and required to describe the process of photosynthesis. Plus, what made her think that brushing up jelly was a good idea? Throwing the sticky brush into the sink, she bobs down to peel a lump of blue fondant icing off the floor and rescues a spare party bag which appears to have been kicked under the kitchen table.

Tipping its contents onto the counter, Kerry glares at the sparkly plastic necklace and bracelet, the candy lipstick that turns your mouth bright cerise, and the temporary glittery butterfly ‘body transfers’ that Mia had insisted on including. She and Mia had chosen all of the contents together, and had a fun time labelling the bags. Brash jewellery, make-up and tattoos – was ever a party more slapperish? No wonder those mothers today – like the one who’d emerged from the downstairs loo, remarking, ‘Gosh, that’s a very
bijoux
bathroom’ – regard her with blatant distaste. Kerry makes a mental note to include little packets of candy fags in next year’s party bags, if such items are available within the Shorling postcode.

‘What’s inside the cuck-oo clock?’

The chorus from upstairs makes her flinch.

‘What’s inside those lit-tle doors …’
There’s an explosion of laughter from Freddie’s room. Glimpsing her reflection in the mirror on the fridge – her make-up is long dissolved, her hair a study in limpness – she charges upstairs to find Mia in the boys’ room, the three of them giggling hysterically.

‘Come on, Mia, off back to bed,’ she says firmly, ‘and, boys, get to sleep if you want to go swimming tomorrow.’

Freddie eyes her from his bed. ‘It’s a bad song, Mum, everyone says.’

‘Well, they might,’ she says briskly, ‘but it’s for younger children, not your age.’

‘I hate
Cuckoo Clock
.’

‘Yes, I know you do.’

‘It’s crap.’

‘Freddie! That’s enough,’ she says, drowned out by Joe’s delighted laughter from the futon on the floor.

‘It’s the fat people in bird costumes I don’t like,’ Freddie adds helpfully.

‘Me too,’ Joe agrees.

‘Why do they wear ’em?’ Freddie wants to know.

Kerry blinks in the doorway, overwhelmed by a crashing wave of tiredness. Brigid and Harvey aren’t trying to coax small children to sleep; they’re in bed, naked, having one of those spontaneous nights you remember for the rest of your life. She’s probably
orgasming
right now. Christ.

‘It’s just their job,’ Kerry says levelly. ‘Some people are doctors and have to tweeze bits of corn out of little boys’ ears. And other people have to wear bird costumes.’

‘I’d rather be a doctor,’ Joe says, as if they are the only career options on offer.

‘Yeah,’ Freddie declares, ‘birds are shit.’

‘Freddie, that’s
enough
.’ Ushering Mia back to bed, and stomping downstairs, Kerry wonders where Freddie is getting his language from. It’s ironic, really, that he’s started talking this way – she’s heard him telling Mia to ‘uck-off’ – since they relocated to Langoustine Land. She carries on de-partying the house until midnight, but even when she’s finished, she still feels too riled to go to bed.

Brigid and Harvey
. How will things be if they become a couple? Awkward, or fine once she’s got used to it? It’s amazing, she reflects, flipping from channel to channel on TV, what can seem almost normal once enough time has passed. Like Rob, Nadine and the baby …

Kerry’s phone bleeps, and she retrieves it from the top of the TV. It’s a text from James, saying simply,
Fancy that lunch tomorrow?
As if he knows she’s sitting here, feeling dismal and alone.

Sorry, taking kids swimming
, she replies, pausing before adding,
Some other time?

Monday good for you?
he pings back, and she wonders if he, too, is having an aimless Saturday night, finding nothing to watch on TV but a stupid quiz show and an ancient episode of
Minder
.

Monday is New Year’s Eve. Clearly, he doesn’t expect to be working or busy with other, New Year-ish things, which makes Kerry feel marginally better about her own lack of plans. Plus, the children are going to some art event during the day so, technically, she’s free.

Sounds great
, she replies.
Where shall we go?

Glasshouse at one? I’ll book.
Ooh, the big, glassy cube where you glimpse the glossy and beautiful grappling crustaceans. Very chic, and cripplingly expensive, but what the hell. This has been – how should she put it? – a
challenging
year. And it seems somehow fitting that she’ll spend the last day of it popping scallops into her mouth in the company of a kind, handsome, grown-up man. And not some
clown
, she thinks, with more than a trace of bitterness.

Harvey perches on the edge of Brigid’s Aztec-patterned sofa, wondering what to do. She finds the clown thing a
turn-on
? Could this really be happening to him, or was there something hallucinogenic in those bite-sized sausage rolls? His mind skims the possibilities of what’s really going on: 1) Brigid wants him to dress up so she can have a laugh, maybe take some photos, then tell him it’s okay, he can put his normal clothes back on now because she was only kidding; 2) She actually wants clown sex – i.e. to do it with him in costume. Harvey rubs his tired face and wonders if this is something he can participate in.

Granted, it’s been a long time since he’s done it with anyone, and no one needs to know. Casual sex has never been his thing, but maybe that’s all that’s on offer these days. He examines his fingernails, wondering why this isn’t making him feel very fortunate indeed.

Harvey can hear Brigid pottering about in the bathroom upstairs, singing out of tune. She’s taking ages, and it’s so tempting to creep stealthily out of her house and head home. Wouldn’t that be the worst manners ever, though? Plus, she’s a friend of Kerry’s, and what would
she
think? It would be so awkward at his next piano lesson. No, he must sit here and wait, as if anticipating an invasive and highly embarrassing medical procedure. Then, when she finally reappears, he’ll explain, very politely, that this isn’t really his sort of thing.

She’s coming now, padding softly downstairs. ‘Close your eyes!’ she trills.

‘Er, Brigid …’

‘I’m not coming in unless your eyes are closed.
Are
they?’

‘Yes,’ he replies truthfully.

‘Good boy.’ God, he wishes she wouldn’t address him like an obedient hound …

He hears her stepping quietly into the living room, her soft footsteps on the ageing Turkish rug. ‘You’re a naughty, naughty clown,’ comes her husky voice. ‘You’re not in costume, Harvey.’

He opens his eyes, about to rattle through his rehearsed speech:
It’s not you, it’s me. And it’s been a lovely evening but—

‘So what d’you think?’ She does a little shimmy in her thigh-length white dress. At least, he assumes it’s a dress. It’s sort of gathered at the neck, like an outlandish silken napkin with three large fluffy black pom-poms down the front. There’s a kind of ruff thing happening at the neck too, like something from the Elizabethan era, and her pale-painted face has been adorned with a purple teardrop.

‘Er … what
are
you wearing?’ he splutters.

‘I’m a sad Pierrot clown! Don’t you like it?’

Oh, dear God.

‘No, no – you look
great
…’ Sweat springs from his forehead as he glances towards the living room door, quickly calculating how many strides away it is. Perhaps he’d underestimated how pissed she really is. Or maybe, unwittingly, he’d somehow given the signal that getting it on with a lady-clown would round off his evening perfectly. In a flash of optimism, he wonders if she’s dressed up like this just to
chat
, or because she’s thinking of going into the entertainment business herself and wants his considered opinion on her costume …

She’s plonked herself beside him now and draped her arms around his shoulders. ‘Go get your outfit,’ she purrs. ‘Get those funny long shoes with the bells on.’

‘Brigid, look, I’m just not into—’

‘Just the hat, then, with the bobble on top …’

He shrinks away, pressing himself into the back of the sofa. ‘Erm, your teardrop’s a bit smudged.’

‘Never mind that,’ she growls, leaning towards him and breathing hotly into his ear. ‘Be a good clown and ravish me in your big top …’

He explodes with laughter. ‘My big
what
?’

‘Your big top! Oh, go on, it’s just a bit of fun …’

‘I don’t actually have one,’ he says, shoulders bobbing as he tries to contain his hysteria. ‘I have a two bedroom flat next to the Carpet Warehouse. I’m sorry, I really have to go …’

‘Pierrot’s sad,’ she exclaims. ‘Pierrot’s
crying
…’

Oh no. Now she’s referring to herself in the third person, as if being trapped in a cluttered living room with a deranged mime artist person wasn’t enough for one night.

‘Sorry,’ he says again, wiping the tears of mirth from his cheeks as he leaps up. ‘Got a party to do first thing in the morning.’

‘A party? In the morning?’ Her nostrils flare a little and the effect – of an extremely
vexed
Pierrot – is reminiscent of a nightmare he can still recall from when he was off school with measles, aged seven. No wonder people joke about the thin line between circus people being entertaining and completely fucking creepy.

‘Er, it’s a
breakfast
party,’ he blusters, at the front door now, already stepping outside into the bitterly cold night. ‘Anyway, see you around soon, I’d imagine …’ He hears Roxy whining and scraping at the kitchen door.