Fiona Gibson 3 Book Bundle. Fiona Gibson

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      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 …

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