‘Fine.’ He tries a smile. ‘We, er…’ He pats Fishpant’s tummy protectively and I decide that, yes, I really might be about to puke. Fathers-to-be shouldn’t be allowed to be that damn attractive. He should be out cleaning the car, or mowing the lawn. Not strutting round the supermarket, getting in my face.
‘So I see. Well, I’d better get going…’ I drift uncomfortably. ‘I’ve got a party to cook for.’
‘I’m sure you have. Happy birthday, by the way.’
My stomach flick-flacks like an Olympic gymnast. He’s remembered.
Fishpants looks as though she might be about to slap him.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Anyway. Better go. Good luck with the…you know. Child.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiles.
As I scuttle away, I tell myself that him remembering my birthday means nothing. I caught him shagging someone else, for fuck’s sake. And he didn’t exactly rush out and send me a card, did he?
I wander round in a daze, picking things up and slamming them into my trolley in arbitrary fashion. I don’t even know what I’m buying. I’m just fingering a carton of orange juice when a sharp little voice behind me yells, ‘Put that back. Immediately.’
I’m so confused I wonder if I might have been caught stealing. Then I spin round to see George hopping up and down like an angry pixie.
‘We need orange juice for the Harvey Wallbangers,’ I protest. ‘Sam’s bringing a load of Galliano.’
‘It’s got economy written all over it,’ he points out. ‘You can’t buy that. Go and get us some of the reassuringly expensive kind.’
‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Immediately.’
As we wait in the queue I tell him what I’ve just seen.
‘They must have been at it for months before I found out,’ I say miserably. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think,’ he says joyfully, ‘that I’d like to see her head on a stick. I hope she gets dental caries and all her teeth fall out. I hope she gets a horrible yeast infection.’
I cheer up slightly.
‘And genital herpes,’ I say happily.
‘And burning wee,’ he adds. ‘For life.’
‘And alopecia.’
‘And I hope the baby has a hare lip,’ George screeches.
‘Oh no,’ I plead. ‘It’s not the baby’s fault if its father thinks with his dick and its mother’s a brazen slag. Can’t we just hope it has a big strawberry birthmark? On its back perhaps, so people only notice when it’s changing for swimming.’
‘If you want.’ He chews his lip. ‘But, God, you’re too nice. That’s why you let him treat you like poo in the first place, darling.’
Then seeing how miserable I am, he gives me a big hug. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll pay for this lot then we’ll have a lovely, faggotty clack round the shops.’
As we approach the till, the man in front of us hastily neatens his frozen lasagne, Fairy liquid and six-pack of Carlsberg into an anally retentive little pile so there’s no chance of anything of ours getting mixed up with his and infecting it. I lob everything onto the belt. Scarlet cherry tomatoes. Ripe goat’s cheese. Fragrant bunches of herbs. Spicy mango chutney. Bitter chocolate. Double cream. Plump prunes. Gooey Brie. Cheddar. Chicken. Steaks. A pineapple. The peroxide blonde on the till scans through the last of them and, setting her frosted peach lips into a hard line, tells us what we owe.
‘Can we have a couple more bags, do you think?’ I ask politely.
She sullenly slams down two more carriers and George hands over his Amex.
‘Thank you so much, Jean,’ he says, pointing at her badge. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, I don’t think.’
‘I beg your—’
‘I take it you can read?’ he asks sternly. ‘Even though you only work in a shop? So you’ll know what that says.’ He stabs a finger at the sign above her head.
Jean glances at it with a face that has forty Lambert and Butler a day stamped all over it.
‘Says Service Till, does it not?’ he prompts. ‘Not Rudeness Till. And that badge you’re wearing says “Here to help”, not “Here to dish out the large”. Perhaps you’d care to remember that in future.’
And with a final sneer he waltzes off with the trolley, clicking one last ‘sour cow’ in her direction.
I thank God I don’t normally shop here and mentally cross it off my list for future patronage.
Chapter 6
George and I get a free sauna as I spend the rest of my big day slaving over a hot stove. I steam tiny Chinese pork dumplings over the stove and simmer hot and sour soup. Tumble juicy king prawns into coconut milk for fragrant green curry and sprinkle chunks of tender chicken into chopped fresh tomatoes for spicy balti. I chop mangoes. Simmer sugar. Find prawn crackers, fish sauce and chillies. I mix and mash, stir and steam. Make miniature Yorkshire puddings with cocktail sausages on top. As the room begins to fill with a medley of delicious aromas, I heave a sigh of satisfaction. Jamie and Delia, eat your bloody hearts out.