As Good As It Gets? Read online

  Copyright

  Published by Avon

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

  This ebook edition 2015

  Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2015

  Cover design © Emma Rogers 2015

  Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780007469390

  Version: 2014-12-24

  Dedication

  For Jane Parbury with love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Reading on for an Interview of Fiona Gibson

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the same author

  About the Publisher

  February 14, 1997

  Dear Fraser,

  Happy Valentine’s Day! Sorry this is late. You see, a few of the girls at work got flowers today and that made me think of you.

  It also made me wonder why your phone number’s unavailable. Perhaps it’s broken? And maybe you’ve injured your hand and haven’t been able to write? If so, I sympathise. I know you don’t handle pain well. I’m still smirking at the memory of you being agonisingly constipated after wolfing that massive bag of toffees on the train to Amsterdam.

  Surely, though, phone issues aside, you could have got in touch somehow? You know – just to tell me you’re okay and haven’t died (maybe you ARE dead? But then, wouldn’t someone have tracked me down and let me know?). In fact I don’t really think of any of that. You know what I do think? That you’re scared, Fraser. You’re a terrified boy who – despite all your promises – has decided to run away.

  BLOODY COWARD!!!

  Honestly, I didn’t expect this from you. ‘It’ll be fine,’ you told me, that day when we drove down to Brighton. ‘It’ll be amazing. I’m so happy. Please don’t worry about a thing.’ Do you remember saying all that? The ensuing silence suggests you were lying through your very nice, very posh teeth.

  So I’ve made a decision. I’ve stopped hoping you’ll get back in touch at some distant point and throw me a crumb of support. I’m not scrabbling around like a fat pigeon, waiting for your scraps. You were right – our baby and I will be just fine. We don’t need you.

  Goodbye, Fraser.

  Charlotte

  PS Actually, I wish I could be a pigeon for just long enough to shit on your head.

  *

  February 19, 1997

  Dear Charlotte,

  I hope this finds you well. My name is Arlene Johnson and I am Fraser’s mother. After receiving your charming letter he wishes to have no further contact with you. I trust you will find both the enclosed cheque and small gift useful, and sincerely hope that there will be no further correspondence between yourself and my son. Please remember that he is only 19 years old and has a promising future ahead of him.

  Yours,

  Arlene

  Enclosed:

  1 cheque for £10,000

  1 packet Chirpy Nut and Seed Mix For Wild Birds

  *

  February 23, 1997

  Dear Arlene,

  That was kind of you, trying to pay me off. Thanks, too, for reminding me of Fraser’s age. I am aware of how old he is. I’m only 21 myself and some might say I have a promising future too. The last time I saw him, we drove down to Brighton in the middle of the night and sat on the seafront watching the sun coming up. He seemed very happy about the baby. We both were. It might not have been planned but we decided we could make it work and that we wanted to be together.

  Obviously, he’s had a change of heart. I’d be grateful if you could ask him to contact me. I know he’s a very capable boy and I’m sure he could manage to write a letter himself instead of getting his mummy to do it for him.

  Charlotte

  Enclosed: 1 torn-up cheque. Perhaps you could use it as confetti, when Fraser marries a more suitable (preferably un-pregnant) girl?

  *

  February 28, 1997

  Letter returned to sender. No further correspondence.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  ‘Hey, beautiful!’ the blond boy yells, nudging his friend. They watch, admiring, as the shopping crowds mill around us. There are more glances as we walk: some fleeting, others more direct. All this attention isn’t for me; Christ no, that hasn’t happened since Madonna vogued in a gold conical bra. Even then, it pretty much amounted to a bloke up some scaffolding yelling, ‘Your arse looks like two footballs!’ I’d adored my stretch jeans until that sole cruel comment killed the love affair stone dead. Not that I’m the kind of woman to take any notice of construction workers’ remarks. I mean, I’ve only festered over it for twenty-three years …

  Anyway, of course it’s not me who’s causing virtually every young male in this over-heated shopping mall to perform a quick double-take. I am thirty-eight years old with wavy, muddy brown hair that’s supposed to be shoulder-length but has outgrown its style, yet isn’t properly long – it’s just long-ish. That’s what my hair is: ish. I am also laden with copious bulging bags, like a yak. Judging by the odd glimpse in mirrored surfaces, I note that I have acquired a deathly pallor beneath the mall’s unforgiving lights. I also have what the magazines term ‘a shiny breakth
rough’ on my nose and cheeks.

  The cruel lighting, of course, is not detracting from my daughter Rosie’s beauty. Leggy and slender, with a cascade of chestnut hair which actually gleams, like polished wood, she’s marching several paces ahead, lest someone might assume we’re together. Faster and faster she goes, on the verge of breaking into a trot, while I scuttle behind, tasked with carrying the shopping. Incredibly, Rosie doesn’t seem to notice the glances she’s attracting from all these good-looking young males. Perhaps, when you’re so often admired, you simply become immune to it.

  I stop, dumping the bags on the floor and checking my hands for lacerations while she courses ahead. ‘Rosie!’ I call after her. ‘Rosie – wait!’ While there are no open wounds, I have acquired a callus on my left palm from lugging Will’s birthday presents through the mall. Sure, I could have bought them online, but when we stumbled upon a closing down sale earlier, I couldn’t resist grabbing a quality turntable, headphones and speakers (yes, I am transporting speakers – i.e., virtually furniture) at bargain prices.

  At first, I comforted myself with the thought that my husband will enjoy unearthing his vinyl collection from the loft, and be able to re-live those heady, music-filled evenings of his youth. Now, though, I’m concerned that Will, who’s been without gainful employment for six months, might view my purchases as ‘something to fill your copious spare time’-type gifts – i.e., faintly patronising, and not something I’d have thought of buying when he was busy being a senior person with an environmental charity. It’s his birthday tomorrow; he’ll be forty-one. I have already stashed away a blue cashmere sweater and the delicious figgy fragrance he likes. Maybe that was enough. I don’t want him to think I’m festooning him with presents because I feel sorry for him … oh, God. Things were so much simpler when he went off to work every day, either by Tube to his Hammersmith office or off in his car to some marshy bit of London, with his waders and big waxy jacket stashed in the boot. He doesn’t even have his own car anymore. He sold it, saying, ‘I don’t need it, do I? So what’s the point of keeping it?’

  ‘Better for the environment anyway,’ our son Ollie added, in an attempt to cheer him up.

  Through the shopping crowds I glimpse Rosie in her baggy red top and skinny black jeans which make her legs even longer than they really are. They are limbs of a foal, or a sleek gazelle. She canters past Gap and Fat Face with her hair billowing behind her before performing a swift left turn into Forever 21.

  Please, no – not Forever 21. The shop is vast, almost a city in itself, with its own transport system (about fifty escalators) and populated by millions of hot-cheeked teenagers snatching at skirts in sizes that didn’t even exist (six! four!!) when I was that age. Size ten was considered tiny then. I’m what’s commonly termed a ‘curvy’ fourteen: neatish waist nestling between ample hips and sizeable boobs, which aren’t quite the blessing one might imagine. In the wrong kind of outfit, they make me look as if I have one of those huge German sausages – a kochwurst, I believe they’re called – stuffed up my top. Or a bolster, like you find on posh hotel beds. Those weird cylindrical pillows you never know what to do with and end up throwing on the floor. Chest-wise, I have to be careful with necklines so as to avoid a stern matronly look. Yes, a big rack can be sexy in the right context. Too often, though, it gives off an ‘I am unfazed by bedpans’ sort of vibe.

  I peer through the enormous glass frontage of Forever 21. It’s packed in there, virtually a scrum, as if these highly-charged girls are terrified that the supply of sequinned T-shirts and iridescent leggings is about to run dry. I can imagine the pained looks I’d attract if I dared to hobble in with my sacks of stereophonic equipment, never mind tried to enter the changing rooms and try anything on. They’d probably call security and wrestle me out of the building.

  I hover at the doors with my bags clustered around my feet, like someone who has unexpectedly become homeless. I’ll never find Rosie in there. She might as well have gone to China. Another woman, presumably a mother, loiters nearby, pursing her lips and stabbing irritably at her phone. There’s also a scattering of boys and men, all waiting, presumably wondering what the heck their girlfriends and daughters have been doing in there for eighteen hours.

  After what I regard as an acceptable browsing period, I call Rosie’s mobile. No answer. I actually don’t know why she has a phone – or at least, why I pay the contract for it. It’s supposed to enable us to stay in contact. When she was younger, she’d constantly call and message me while she was out. These days, she texts me about once a month. They usually say ‘ok’ or ‘yeah’, although she does still put a kiss, for which I’m grateful.

  A woman strolls by with a little girl who looks about seven years old. ‘Shall we go for ice cream, darling?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ the girl enthuses. ‘Can we go to that place where they sprinkle Smarties on?’

  ‘Of course,’ the woman replies, causing a wave of nostalgia to crash over me. How excited she is, out shopping with her mum, like Rosie used to be with me. I’d only suggested coming here so we could spend some mum-and-daughter time together, because I know she prefers shopping malls with their weird, artificial atmosphere and piped music to actual streets with proper weather and pigeons and sky. But I’d imagined that we’d at least stroll around together, and stop off for hot chocolate and cake.

  My phone rings, and I snatch it from my jeans pocket. ‘Mum, where are you?’

  ‘Outside Forever 21,’ I reply.

  ‘Come in!’ she commands.

  ‘It’s okay thanks, darling. I’ll wait here.’ I would rather spear my own eye than enter the Emporium of Cropped Tops.

  ‘Mum, please—’

  ‘I need at least a week’s warning to go in,’ I explain. ‘I have to rev myself up for it and get special breathing equipment. I’m sure the atmosphere’s thinner up at the top, the fifth floor or whatever it is, where the underwear is—’

  ‘Mum, something’s happened!’

  ‘What? Are you okay?’ I grab at my bags, realising it’ll be quite a feat to carry them all while clutching my phone.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Rosie says.

  ‘Where are you exactly? What’s happened?’

  ‘You’ll never believe this, Mum. I’ve been scouted!’ What pops into my mind is the actual Scouts, which Rosie chose over Guides because they did all the fun stuff like camping and cooking on fires. She was a tomboyish, outdoorsy kid who shunned pink. She never used to gallop ahead, or spend an entire morning choosing a nail polish. ‘What d’you mean, scouted? Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yeah, just hurry up. There’s someone here from a model agency and they want to do pictures …’

  Ah, that kind of scouted. Nice try, I decide, finishing the call. So a random stranger’s trying to sweet-talk my daughter with that old ‘could be a model’ line? I can imagine how that goes. All she has to do is come along to his ‘studio’, which happens to be a dingy flat with filthy net curtains above a fried chicken shop …

  The security man eyes me in the manner of a suspicious immigration officer as I barge my way into the store. I stride up the escalators, barely noticing the weight of my carrier bags now.

  I arrive, panting, at the summit of Forever 21 and scan the floor for a man with paedo glasses, smiling too much and telling Rosie she has a great future ahead of her. I’m fine – well, sort of – when boys of her own age look at her. Of course they do: she’s a lovely girl. I’m aware that teenagers are supposed to find each other attractive and, while there’s been nothing serious yet, she’s never short of attention from boys. I’m okay with that – truly. Honestly. Well, mostly … What I’m not fine about is the idea of some fifty-year-old perv with nicotine fingers and winking gold jewellery thinking he can take advantage of my daughter …

  No sign of her anywhere. My hair seems to crackle as I push it out of my face, probably due to the static electricity generated by millions of nylon knickers and bras.

&
nbsp; ‘Mum! Hey, Mum, over here!’

  I turn and spot Rosie, who’s waving excitedly. Beside her stands a tall, slim and elegant woman – late-forties perhaps – in a cream linen jacket and faded skinny jeans, her ash-blonde hair scooped up artfully into a tousled bun. Not quite the chicken-shop perv I had in mind, but we’ll see …

  ‘Hi.’ I stride over and look expectantly at the stranger.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, fixing on a wide smile, ‘I’m Laurie and I work for a model agency called Face …’

  ‘I’m Charlotte.’ I dump the bags at my feet and shake her hand.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she goes on, ‘but I spotted your daughter a few minutes ago. We’ve been chatting.’ She casts Rosie a fond glance, in the manner of a glamorous aunt, before turning back to me. ‘I really think she has the potential to be a model.’

  ‘Really?’ I wipe a slick of sweat from my upper lip. ‘Well, you see, she’s still at school …’

  ‘Yes, she told me. That’s fine, lots of our girls are. I love her look, the stunning blue eyes and dark hair … it’s very dramatic.’ She turns back to Rosie. ‘You have fantastic bone structure, sweetheart. I can’t believe you’ve never been scouted before …’

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ I say firmly. ‘We’d need to think it over.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Laurie says, addressing Rosie again: ‘How tall are you, darling?’

  Rosie frowns. ‘Er, what would you say, Mum? About five-foot-eight?’

  ‘Yes, around that,’ I reply, noticing Laurie looking her up and down. This is more unsettling than the admiring looks she was attracting in the mall. She is sizing up my precious firstborn as a commodity, a thing, tilting her head this way and that, as if my daughter were a bookshelf and she’s trying to imagine if she’d fit in that corner behind the sofa.

  ‘I’d say more like five-nine,’ she observes, ‘at the very least. And you said you’re sixteen, Rosie?’

  ‘Only just,’ I cut in.

  ‘Mum,’ Rosie splutters, ‘I’m seventeen in August. That’s next month!’ She cuts me from her vision. ‘I’m actually nearly seventeen.’

  ‘I still think it’s a bit young,’ I remark. ‘And anyway, she has a lot on at school over the next few months—’