As Good As It Gets? Read online

  ‘Well, I need to put something,’ Joely says, sounding impatient now, ‘because all the other mums in my feature have told me theirs. That’s the thing, you see – I want to know the beauty advice you’ve passed on to your daughter. That’s the whole crux of the thing.’

  ‘I don’t think she needs my beauty advice,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light.

  Joely sighs. ‘Just tell me some of the products you use, then.’

  My mind is a blank. I try to picture our bathroom shelf, but all I can see is the London Dungeons mug crammed with far more toothbrushes than there are members of my family, their bristles all spayed as if gnawed by dogs. ‘Elvive shampoo?’ I say.

  ‘I mean aspirational brands,’ Joely says hotly.

  Shit. My gaze falls to the copy of Vogue, which is lying open on the table. There’s a full-page advert for some kind of serum containing real gold particles. It’s packaged in a tiny, multi-faceted glass bottle with a cylindrical golden lid. It looks more like a precious object to be displayed on a shelf than something you’d put on your face. ‘Erm, Belle Visage Beauty Elixir,’ I blurt out, causing Rosie’s head to whip round in my direction.

  ‘Wow,’ Joely says. ‘You have expensive tastes, Mum!’ Today, clearly, I have ceased to have an actual name.

  ‘Um, well, you know how it is. When you find the right product …’

  ‘God, yeah. I’d love to try it but it’s way beyond my budget, unfortunately. So … what d’you like about the Elixir specifically?’

  Hell, this is the part where I’m supposed to rave about its inter-molecular-cellular-plumping effects or whatever these miracle serums are meant to do. ‘It smells nice,’ I reply.

  ‘Really?’ She laughs. ‘Well, good for you. I love hearing about mums treating themselves instead of letting themselves go. I mean, I’m not a mother, so it’s all a mystery to me really, but how come so many women stop even wearing mascara when they have kids?’

  ‘Er, they’re just busy, I guess …’

  ‘But how long does it take to apply it? Twenty seconds tops?’

  I really don’t know. I have never timed it and anyway, I can’t even start to explain that it’s not time – anyone can spare twenty seconds, after all – but priorities, and that the last thing you’re thinking about when children are clamouring, demanding breakfast, is your eyelashes. ‘I think it’s more a case of forgetting,’ I explain.

  ‘Well, I’d never forget, and I bet you don’t either. I admire you for spending all that money and putting yourself first …’ This, I can see, is going to sound fantastic in a national magazine: a thinly veiled criticism of women who temporarily lose themselves in the fug of early motherhood. For the whole of Rosie’s first year, my legs were shrouded in hair and I forgot that moisturiser even existed.

  I touch my cheek as Joely witters on. It feels eerily waxy with its many layers of product, and I’m overcome by an urge to scrub my face. ‘I don’t want it to sound as if I’m obsessed with expensive skincare,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she retorts, ‘we all know it’s important to look good. Like it or not, everyone’s judged by their appearance.’ A chilling thought hits me: maybe she’s right, maybe I need to make more of an effort and then perhaps Will wouldn’t politely remove my hand from his nethers and Rosie wouldn’t canter about ten metres ahead when we were out shopping together … ‘Anyway,’ Joely concludes, ‘thanks so much for your time. I hope you’ll like the feature when it comes out.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ I say, relieved to finish the call and say our goodbyes and leave the studio.

  Rosie stares at me as we step outside the building. ‘Are you really going home like that?’

  ‘Of course I am. What else am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Er … find somewhere to wash it off?’

  ‘Where exactly? There’s nowhere around here.’ We march past a beleaguered fountain constructed from stained concrete blocks. Its surrounding pond, no bigger than a child’s paddling pool, is littered with crisp packets and drinks cans. ‘Perhaps I could have a quick dip in there,’ I suggest, facetiously.

  Rosie sighs. ‘You could have taken it all off in the studio. Boo had cleansers and wipes, or you could have gone to the loo …’

  I touch my hair, which feels as if it’s sitting on my head like a giant meringue. ‘I thought she might be offended,’ I explain, ‘as if I couldn’t wait to get it off.’

  ‘God, Mum. You look really weird! And what was that thing you were saying about the elixir stuff? What where you on about?’

  ‘She just wanted my beauty tips,’ I reply with a smirk.

  ‘You don’t even use serum,’ Rosie says, giggling now.

  ‘I might,’ I say, feigning defensiveness. ‘For all you know I could have a secret supply, locked away to stop you getting your hands on it.’

  She snorts with laughter, then stabs at her phone and makes a call. ‘Nina? It’s me. You’ll never guess what happened today. Mum totally muscled her way into my shoot.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later, by which point my hair has just about returned to its normal texture, Liza comes round to hear all about it. Sabrina drops by too, returning the stack of dishes that Will used to transport his barbecue offerings, and now the three of us are working our way through a chilled bottle of sauvignon in the warmth of the early evening sun.

  ‘So are you married, Liza?’ Sabrina asks with her customary directness.

  ‘Single since pretty much forever,’ Liza replies. ‘My daughter’s twenty and at Bristol uni. Her dad and I split up about ten years ago but it was pretty amicable. We’d just kind of …’ She shrugs. ‘Run out of steam, I guess.’

  Sabrina nods. Her white broderie anglaise dress enhances her tan; she looks astonishingly pretty. ‘Well, you tend to know when there’s no going back, don’t you?’

  ‘Yep, it’s that point where you’re just … existing together,’ Liza says.

  ‘Like housemates,’ Sabrina agrees. ‘Not like you and Will, Charlotte. You’ve got a real catch there. Bet he was all over you when you came from that shoot.’ I have already filled them in on Boo’s enthusiasm for ‘a smoky eye’, as if I had just the one, rather than a matching pair.

  ‘Can’t wait to see the pictures,’ Liza adds.

  I grin. ‘Actually, I have one on my phone. I forced Rosie to take it when we got home.’

  ‘Show us!’ Sabrina commands, extracting a packet of cigarettes from her bag and lighting one up. I grab my phone and bring up the picture.

  ‘Oh my God, you look …’ Liza peals with laughter.

  ‘… Amazing,’ Sabrina exclaims as they peer at the screen.

  ‘No, I don’t. I look like a transvestite.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Sabrina shrieks. ‘You look fabulous. Your hair, your make-up—’

  ‘But they’re not my hair and make-up,’ I cut in, topping up everyone’s glasses. ‘Rosie said I looked weird and she was right. The make-up artist looked like she needed a stiff drink by the time she’d finished. I’m hoping they crop me out of the picture so it’s just Rosie on her own.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Sabrina chuckles. ‘What did Will say?’

  I smirk. ‘He said, “Bloody hell”, then carried on wiping his mushrooms.’

  ‘You are joking …’

  ‘Well,’ I start, ‘some of them are pretty grubby and you never know what might’ve peed on them …’

  ‘I’m not talking about mushrooms,’ she asserts. ‘I mean you. Wasn’t he overwhelmed?’

  ‘Er, not that I noticed,’ I reply.

  She shakes her head in bewilderment.

  ‘He was probably in shock,’ Liza suggests. ‘I mean, you’re so natural, usually. He just likes you the way you are.’

  We fall silent for a moment as I consider this, and try to dredge up some evidence that, secretly, Will is still desperately in love with me. ‘Actually,’ I mutter, ‘when you said about just existing together, Liza … well,
that’s us.’

  She frowns. ‘It’s not really that bad, is it? I know it’s frustrating, the whole job situation and Will being here all the time—’

  ‘We are though,’ I interrupt. ‘We’re like housemates. The only difference is, we sleep in the same bed.’ I blink and swallow hard, glimpsing Rosie through the window, pottering about with Nina in the kitchen.

  Sabrina clears her throat. ‘Will’s lovely, though.’

  I nod, feeling slightly irritated. That’s not the point; I’m not denying his attractiveness, or his talents with the barbecue tongs. ‘Yes, he is,’ I reply, ‘but sometimes I worry that we’re just not that lovely together anymore.’

  She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Everyone goes through little spells like that.’

  I smile wryly. ‘Ours isn’t so little, Sabrina.’

  ‘You need to spice things up then,’ she offers. ‘What about a date night? Sometimes you have to set it up – get it in the diary. Me and Tommy go on dates all the time. And make things different at home. In bed, I mean. If Will didn’t go for the full-on glamour from your shoot, how about trying something else?’

  I frown, uncomprehending. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like … you know. Role play or something. Introduce an element of surprise.’

  I glance at Liza who’s suppressing a laugh. ‘Sorry, Sabrina. I hate to sound negative, and I know plenty of people are into the saucy nurse outfit and all that, but I don’t think it’d exactly surprise Will …’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘He’d have a heart attack,’ I cut in, ‘or give himself a hernia from laughing. He’d be bound to burst something. Anyway, I don’t really have the body for a sexy nurse outfit.’ I jab at my ample chest. ‘I’m more your stern matron.’

  Sabrina lights another cigarette. ‘That might do it for him. A matronly thing, I mean …’

  ‘No, that would hospitalise him and anyway, I’m not sure about dressing up as someone else just to get him interested, you know?’ I sip my wine.

  ‘Maybe he could dress up then?’

  ‘But what as?’

  Sabrina shakes her ahead, as if I really am a lost cause. ‘I don’t know. Whatever your thing is …’

  ‘The trouble is,’ I explain, ‘I don’t think I have one. A thing, I mean. I might have had once, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was—’

  ‘Come on, what about policemen?’

  Liza and I laugh some more. ‘Don’t get started on uniforms,’ I say, trying to compose myself. ‘His mother’s convinced he should be a prison officer or a traffic warden …’

  ‘A traffic warden could be pretty sexy,’ Liza teases. ‘He could book you for parking in a restricted area.’

  We all hoot with laughter. ‘You could offer a personal favour to avoid getting a ticket,’ Sabrina suggests.

  Will appears at the back door, and we try to rearrange our expressions into some semblance of normality as he makes his way towards us with another bottle of wine.

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you have a drink with us?’ I can hardly look at him now without imagining him marching along the street, pausing to check each parked car.

  ‘No, I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, giving me a curious look. ‘It’s pretty late anyway.’

  Sabrina watches him fondly as he heads back to the house. ‘Oh, he’s such a love,’ she exclaims, and I wonder if she really has him down for some kind of superman, the George Clooney of London E11, or if she’s just trying to make me feel warmer towards him. Thankfully, the conversation moves away from my love life and into the altogether more sparkling realm of Sabrina’s wedding dress designs. We chatter away until it’s dark and, when they’ve left, I feel oddly disorientated.

  Sure, it’s partly due to the wine I’ve guzzled. But, despite having had a lovely time, I’m also thinking: nurses, policemen, traffic wardens? Is this what it’s come to, really – that I should pretend to be someone else in order to seem sexy and interesting to Will?

  I loiter at the open back door, breathing in the warm evening air. A small movement gives me a start. Guinness is still in his run. I doubt very much if he’d expire if left out here, but what if he did? How bad would I feel then? I lift him up and carry him inside. It feels so comforting, cradling a warm, fluffy animal, that instead of putting him straight to bed, I sit at the kitchen table, holding him in my arms.

  It’s eleven-thirty and the whole house is silent. I can feel Guinness’s tiny beating heart. Perhaps I’m more pissed than I realised, what with planning to have only one glass (maybe two) with Liza, then the three of us accidentally tippling nearly three bottles. But I actually feel quite … loved. Yes, I tell myself: Guinness loves me in his own pure, small mammal-ish way.

  Christ – what am I doing? I snap back to reality and stare down at our pet. Of course he doesn’t love me. I’m just the person who happened to notice he was still out there at night time. I mean, as rabbits go, he’s cute enough – but he’s basically just sitting here on my lap, twitching. And not only that. He has also, I discover as I stand up, pooped on my denim skirt. The pellets bounce on our green speckled lino before rolling under the table. I place him in his utility room bed, then, without attending to the poos, stride back outside and plonk myself on our back step.

  I can’t go to bed yet. There’s no way I could sleep. My mind is whirring over the fact that I’ve become one of those ‘pet people’: the kind of dotty middle-aged woman who sits with a small, fluffy animal on her lap in restaurants and posts little morsels into its mouth. I’ll be the kind of person who might be faintly amusing to observe from a distance, but you wouldn’t want to be stuck at the same table as her.

  I’m starved of human love, that’s what it is. That’s why I was Googling Fraser – not just because Rosie had asked about him. No one searches for exes if they’re completely happy with their lot. It’s a symptom of, of … well, of something, anyway. I gnaw at a fingernail, wishing I’d asked Sabrina to leave me a ciggie, despite the fact that I haven’t had so much as a puff since 1996. Getting up from the step, I make my way to our garden table, planning to gather up the glasses to avoid Tricia beaking over the fence tomorrow and muttering to Gerald about what a bunch of lushes we are, not only boozing – on a week night – but smoking too. Sabrina’s fag ends are stubbed out in a plastic plant pot.

  However, instead of clearing the table, I pick up an unfinished glass of wine. It smells nasty, sour and slightly pee-like, but I still have a sip, whilst staring at our shed. Could Will and I possibly do it in there? Maybe Sabrina just meant that I should be more proactive, and shake things up a little in the sex department. Well, that’s probably true. ‘Night-night,’ we say, like a couple of octogenarians, before turning off our bedside lamps and assuming our positions so far apart, a caravan could trundle between us. So maybe I should take matters into my own hands. I mean, I do fancy Will, even after all these years; I probably still would if he was fat and bald and had turned into a farting snorer – but none of that has even happened to him. He is just an older, slightly more ruggedly handsome – and more muscular, due to all the gardening and cycling – version of his younger self.

  What does Fraser look like now?

  The sudden thought makes me feel quite dizzy. I try to push it out of my brain, annoyed for even letting it in. He’s definitely sneaking back into my consciousness more often these days – the posh git with his upper-class accent and public-school hair. I inhale deeply, have another slug of spiteful plonk and focus instead on our shed.

  It’s a particularly unlovely one, it has to be said. It hasn’t been painted since we moved here and is rotting at the bottom, its timbers slowly crumbling into the ground. Its sole small, square window is cracked from when Ollie and Saul were attempting to play rounders (SMASH! ‘We didn’t do anything!’). Could it really be a haven of raunch, a secret den of saucy goings-on?

  Perhaps it could. Knocking back the rest of the tepid wine, I place the gla
ss on the garden table. Then I push open the creaky wooden door – we’ve never had a key for it – and sneak in.

  There’s a light but I daren’t switch it on. Our bedroom overlooks the garden, and there’s a small chance that Will might happen to glance out, spot the glow from the bare bulb and assume an intruder was about to make off with his big yellow tub of hormone rooting powder. It’s sitting on the shelf, illuminated in a shaft of streetlight that’s struggling through the grubby window, and sounds like pretty exciting stuff. Rude, actually: hormonal rootings. What’s happening to me? One minute I’m virtually planning a romantic minibreak with a rabbit. Then I’m sensing a stirring in my loins while glimpsing some kind of stimulating powder for plants. Perhaps I need some kind of therapy.

  So what else is in here? I need a torch in order to make full inventory of all the other goodies. After all, it’s Will’s private lair: God knows what he gets up to in here. I sneak back to the house, enjoying myself now – feeling reckless and naughty and less the tragic middle-aged-bunny-fancier – and find Ollie’s new torch under a heap of detritus on the worktop. I click it on in the kitchen. Yep, it works.

  Back in the shed, I continue my explorations. There are stacks of plastic plant pots, oil cans and a polythene bag of rather sinister-sounding Blood Fish & Bone Fertiliser. Hmmm. Don’t fancy that near my private parts. There’s not much space in here either. Clearing out some of the bulkier stuff – lawnmower, Ollie’s wrecked old bike and a cluster of rusty old rakes and hoes – would attract suspicion from my beloved, and make the whole enterprise less spontaneous than I’d like.

  Cans of creosote and Nitromors Stripper, lined up neatly on the top shelf, are illuminated by the torch as I step on something soft and bouncy. They’re Will’s waders, from when he was gainfully, happily employed, and used to slosh about in the marshes, checking the nesting habitats of Canada Geese. I pick one up and sniff it. It’s reassuringly rubbery, like the erasers we had at school.

  A smile plays on my lips. Could waders be sexy? They’re not my thing: as I confessed to Sabrina, I don’t actually have one. But maybe Will would go for it, or at the very least find it amusing, and applaud my efforts? I could surprise him, summoning him out from the house via a call to his mobile and let him find me in here, naked – apart from the big rubber boots. Even if he thought I’d lost my mind, it’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it? We should have more laughs, I decide. That would stop me thinking about Fraser-bloody-Johnson. The two of us could just about squeeze in here, and there’s a bench – a bit splintery, granted, but I could pad it with cushions smuggled out of the house. Excited now, and fuelled by cheap Chilean booze, I place Ollie’s torch on the shelf in order to free up both hands.