Fiona Gibson 3 Book Bundle. Fiona Gibson

at 8.10 a.m. on a grey Wednesday morning, Kerry must continue to behave as if nothing untoward has happened. Her marriage may be over but she must still brush hair, put out juice and cereal and locate gym shoes and playtime snacks deemed acceptable at Shorling Primary (e.g. little pouches of dried apricots from the wholefood store; crisps, it would appear, are regarded as the devil’s work).

      The landline rings and, without thinking, she grabs it. ‘It’s me,’ Rob croaks.

      ‘What d’you want?’

      ‘I need to talk to you …’ His voice is thick and hoarse, as if he’s been up all night.

      Kerry blinks rapidly. ‘I can’t, not now …’

      ‘Please listen to me,’ he implores her. ‘Okay, it happened, but you have to believe that I can’t remember anything—’

      ‘Does that mean it doesn’t count?’ she snaps.

      ‘No, of course it does, I didn’t mean …’

      ‘Mummy, who’s on the phone?’ Mia demands from the breakfast table. ‘What doesn’t count?’

      Kerry rubs her eyes and growls, ‘I’ve got to go,’ before abruptly ending the call.

      ‘Was that Daddy?’ Mia asks, grinning.

      ‘Yes, darling.’

      ‘Why did he phone?’ Freddie wants to know.

      ‘Oh … he just wanted to check something …’

      ‘Why didn’t he want to speak to me?’ Mia tosses her spoon into her empty cereal bowl.

      Kerry blinks slowly. ‘He was in a rush, sweetie.’

      Mia nods, apparently satisfied with this. ‘Remember it’s the feast today, Mummy.’

      ‘What feast?’ Kerry asks, hoping her pink, swollen eyes will continue to pass unnoticed.

      ‘The feast. I need my stuff, Mum. It said in that letter.’

      ‘What letter?’ Kerry chooses to ignore the fact that Freddie has picked up his bowl and is noisily slurping chocolate-tinged milk.

      ‘That letter from school,’ Mia says with a roll of her eyes. Ah, yes, Kerry vaguely remembers now. How remiss of her to allow torturous thoughts of her husband having energetic sex with a girl who was born in something like 1992 – she’s not even old enough to remember Britpop, for God’s sake – to take precedence over preparing for Miss Pettifer’s Egyptian banquet. Now, as she focuses hard, she vaguely recalls Mia’s teacher’s request for the kind of delicacies people would have enjoyed four thousand years ago, but she’s darned if she can remember what they are. The letter doesn’t appear to be lurking in the teetering pile of unattended-to mail on top of the microwave. Nor is it hiding in what Mia has christened the ‘everything drawer’ which, although they’ve only lived here for six weeks, is already jammed with take-away menus, matted hairbrushes and any random small item which has yet to be allocated a proper home.

      ‘We’ll have to forget about it,’ Kerry says briskly. ‘I’m sure everyone else will bring lots of things to share. I’ll write a note to Miss Pettifer saying I’m sorry but I totally forgot.’

      Mia stares at her, aghast. ‘You can’t do that.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I’ll be the only one!’ Mia’s mouth crumples and her dark eyes fill with tears.

      ‘Darling …’ Kerry puts an arm around her daughter but is abruptly shrugged off. ‘I’m really sorry but it’s quarter past eight and there isn’t time to get anything together.’

      ‘No one’ll let me share,’ Mia cries. ‘They’re not my friends …’

      ‘What makes you think that, hon?’

      ‘They’re just not!’ she shouts. ‘I’ve got to take something. We can buy stuff on the way to school …’

      ‘We could,’ Kerry says, feeling helpless, ‘but we don’t know what to buy.’

      ‘Stuff the Egyptians liked,’ Freddie offers helpfully.

      ‘I know, Freddie, but I don’t know what they liked.’

      ‘Why not?’ He throws her a disdainful look.

       Because, sweethearts, your father has made someone else pregnant. Although I know that’s a shoddy excuse and, if I were a proper mother with one of those hyper-efficient maternal brains, I’d still be able to locate a typical menu from a pharaohs’ feast …

      ‘I can’t remember,’ she says, feeling horribly close to crying herself. The landline rings again; Kerry lifts the receiver and bangs it straight back down again.

      ‘Google it then,’ Mia commands.

      Kerry tries to blink away the moisture that keeps blurring her vision. She thought she’d been doing so well today, breezing through the morning routine as if nothing untoward had happened. Now she’s hastily Googling ‘Egyptian food’ but all she can find is a theme restaurant called Cleopatra’s in nearby Sandhead where it appears that the waitresses wear gold crocheted headdresses.

      Now Mia and Freddie are both looming over her as she scowls at an image of Lamb Koftas – ‘poos on sticks’, Freddie announces delightedly – on her laptop. With the best will in the world, these cannot be knocked together in the thirteen minutes before they must leave for school. Kerry flicks through other options: rice-stuffed pigeon. Yoghurt pudding with fried onions and a puddle of chicken broth. Honey and cinnamon pie …

      ‘You could take a jar of honey,’ she announces. ‘I read that someone discovered some from Ancient Egyptian times and it was still fine to eat …’

      Mia shudders. ‘No, ew, it’d be dirty.’

      ‘No, ours wasn’t dug up. It’s from the Co-op. But it’ll still taste just like the kind they used to have—’

      Mia shakes her head. ‘Don’t wanna take honey.’

      ‘What about fruit then? They must’ve had fruit …’ But when she Googles ‘Egyptian fruit’, all that pops up are Egyptian fruit bats for sale, £250 for a breeding pair.

      ‘Look, Mummy,’ Mia exclaims, jabbing the screen. ‘Figs.’

      Kerry sighs. ‘If you moan about the apricots I give you for playtime, then I don’t think you’ll like figs.’

      ‘That’s ’cause those apricots are brown,’ she retorts. Yes, angel, because they’re from the hideously expensive wholefood store, i.e. sulphur dioxide-free, which is more important, apparently, than them being a prettier shade of orange …

      ‘Are you crying, Mummy?’ Freddie asks with interest.

      ‘No, I’ve just got something in my eye.’ She pulls a fake smile and rubs her leaking eyes on the sleeve of her top.

      ‘Figs are nice,’ Mia says levelly. ‘We had ’em at Nanny and Nonno’s with ham.’

      Ah, Rob’s foodie parents who have always been unswervingly kind to their grandchildren, and almost like a surrogate mum and dad to Kerry. What will they make of the impregnation when he dares to tell them?

      ‘So,’ Mia says, having perked up now, ‘can we go to the fruit shop?’

      ‘Not at half-eight in the morning, no. Sorry, love. Come on now, you two – shoes on. We’ve got to go now.’ Amidst protests, Kerry switches off her laptop, crams small feet into shoes, hooks schoolbags onto their backs and grabs lunchboxes. She ushers them out and bangs the front door shut, realising that Freddie’s school trousers have a smear of mud on one leg but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Mia continues to protest, and Freddie refuses to hold Kerry’s hand as they cross the