LITMIR.BIZ

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nervy, though, isn’t he? I’d say he has issues.’

      ‘I don’t think—’

      ‘He was only barking,’ Brigid exclaims, striding towards them in a garish pink mac, her hair piled up messily and secured with a giant plastic tortoiseshell claw. ‘That’s what dogs are designed to do, Lara.’

      ‘Yes, but that one doesn’t.’ Kerry indicates the cushion dog lurking beside its owner, and quickly repositions herself to block it from Buddy’s vision.

      Brigid has bobbed down to ruffle Buddy’s fur. ‘He’s adorable, isn’t he? What a gorgeous dog! And he’ll soon settle down. He’s just trying to assert his authority.’

      ‘Well, I hope so.’ Kerry checks her watch, willing the minutes to flash by and the children to rush out of school so they can meet Buddy and go home before he attracts any more sour looks.

      ‘Oh, is he new?’ A woman in a sky-blue running top and startlingly tight shorts grins down at Buddy.

      ‘Yes, I’ve just picked him up today.’

      ‘Bet the children love him.’

      Kerry grins. ‘They haven’t met him yet. He’s a surprise for them, can’t wait till they come out …’

      ‘Ah, that’ll be nice for them after all they’ve been through.’

      Kerry blinks at the woman. ‘Er, well, they’ve been begging me for years to get one. It’s been a long, intense campaign and I finally crumbled.’

      The woman makes big, patronising eyes at Kerry and pats her arm. ‘That’s wonderful. I have to say, I think you’re all coping very well, considering.’

      ‘Do you?’ Kerry frowns, aware of Brigid regarding the woman with mild horror.

      ‘Oh yes. It must be so hard …’

      What, to have your husband impregnate the work experience – sorry, editorial assistant? It’s shocking, the way details about your life spread around here, Chinese-whispers style. Kerry has mentioned her situation in passing to Lara, Emily and a couple of others, but is floored by this sudden outpouring of sympathy.

      ‘We’re all doing fine, thanks,’ she says firmly, making a point of turning away to cut that woman, with her you-can-tell-me-all-about-it-dear therapist’s voice, from her vision. Not much happens around here, that’s the problem, so any small event is leapt upon and gleefully discussed. And now that woman is murmuring to a friend, ‘That’s the one who …’ ‘That’s right,’ Kerry wants to scream, ‘and you know what else? His new girlfriend is twenty years old. That’s seventeen years younger than me. She is astoundingly pretty with huge blue eyes and small, sticky-out, modelly breasts. and I know this because I’ve not only met her, albeit briefly – but I also went out and bought that stupid magazine, Mr Jones, and when I saw her pouty picture on the contributors’ page I nearly threw up all over it …’

      Thankfully, Brigid has swiftly engaged the two gossiping women in a conversation about plans for improving the playground. Kerry should probably join in, perhaps ingratiating herself by offering to make several hundred cupcakes to raise funds, but she doesn’t have the energy right now. She glances down at Buddy, wondering if this is how her life will be now: hanging out with a black and white mongrel with an aversion to cushions. Well, at least he’s being sweet, pressed up lovingly against her legs, the pleasing warmth from his furry body permeating her jeans. And the benefits, she suspects, will be many. Unlike a husband of ten years, he won’t moan about the office or the fact that Freddie has crayoned his trousers or squirted his man moisturiser into the sink. Dogs don’t have jobs, trousers or expensive skincare. Their needs are simple: food, water, exercise and love – ah. And the other thing. The thing that appears to be happening now as Buddy shifts away from Kerry’s legs and assumes a squatting stance on the pavement.

      For one brief, optimistic moment, she wonders if he’s merely … flexing. When Freddie was a baby, she’d signed up for a course of yoga classes in the hope of becoming one of those serene, dreamy mums who reacts to spilt milk-sodden Weetabix with a beatific smile. In fact, she’d only made it to one class, and Buddy’s tensed, slightly trembling pose reminds her of the only position she could manage: on hands and knees, bum to the ground, as if pooing.

      Only, in this case, not ‘as if’, but actually dumping a load. ‘Oh, God,’ Kerry mutters.

      She glances around at the glowy-faced parents in the hope that, by the time she looks back down at the ground, the mighty deposit will have miraculously disappeared, or at the very least have slipped discreetly away down a pavement crack. But no. It’s still horribly, conspicuously there, almost glowing like neon. Could she blame it on that cushion dog? She spots him through the gathering of parents, snuffling at the ground. No, he’s tiny compared to Buddy. Anything that drops out of his bottom will be no bigger than a chickpea.

      ‘Brigid,’ she hisses as a couple of mothers turn to glare at the mess.

      Brigid breaks off her conversation and hurries over. ‘You okay, Kerry?’

      ‘Not really. Look.’ She points at the ground and grimaces.

      ‘Oh dear. Not a good place for that.’

      ‘I know, and I don’t have a bag with me. I didn’t even bring my shoulder bag, I just shoved my purse and phone in my pocket …’

      Brigid groans. ‘I don’t have a thing on me. Sorry.’

      ‘Er, I’ve got this.’ With a withering smile, Lara holds up a lilac paper carrier bag with a ribbon tie and ‘Dilly’s Bakery’ printed on it in elegant script. ‘It’s got macaroons in it,’ she adds. ‘They’re our regular Friday treat but I guess you could have the bag, if you’re desperate …’

      ‘No, I can’t use your lovely macaroon bag for poo.’ Kerry pulls out her purse and flicks through its cluttered interior. Much as she’d like to pretend otherwise, there’s no way she’ll be able to pick up Buddy’s rank deposit with a WH Smiths receipt.

      Cushion dog’s owner is at her side now, pursing her lips and extracting a little black plastic sack from her handbag. ‘Here,’ she says with a tight smile.

      ‘Thank you. I must be better prepared next time.’ Kerry quickly bags up the poo and knots it tightly, privately marvelling at how weighty it is. At least Buddy hasn’t started barking again, even though the other dog is beside them now, sniffing him with great interest. Distance seems to be his trigger, Kerry observes. ‘Guess I’ve got a lot to learn,’ she adds with a forced laugh. ‘If he starts that crouching thing again, I’ll know to put a cork in it, haha.’

      The woman eyes her with distaste and takes a step back. But Kerry no longer cares what anyone thinks, because Brigid is exclaiming, ‘Look – here they come!’ The rain has stopped, and the playground is wet and shiny in the weak afternoon sun as the children surge out of school. Kerry spots Mia first in her tomato-red sweatshirt and grey pleated skirt, swinging her battered Horrible Histories lunchbox. Spotting her mother, she smiles and waves; she hasn’t registered Buddy yet. Then she does, and there’s a small hesitation as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, or perhaps she’s thinking, Oh, that’s a cute dog sitting near Mummy. Her smile brightens as she hurries towards Kerry, then Freddie appears, registering Buddy immediately and zooming towards them like a rocket.

      ‘Mummy!’ he yells. ‘Whose dog is this?’

      ‘He’s ours,’ Kerry laughs.

      ‘Really?’ Mia exclaims, tears springing into her dark eyes. ‘Ours to keep, forever?’

      ‘Yes – yes, of course, sweetheart.’ Kerry realises she’s not just laughing but crying too, as her children bob down to hug Buddy.

      ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ Mia wants to know.

      ‘He’s a boy, about six, his owner didn’t want …’ She tails off,

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