As Good As It Gets? Page 12

  I tug off my blue canvas shoes, hitch up my skirt and pull on the waders. They’re far too big for me. They don’t even look funny, let alone sexy. So what next? I find Ollie’s pair, worn on his field trips with Will, squished under the bench. They look more my size so, just out of curiosity, I pull them on. They’re tight – too tight. Ollie must have worn them when he was about seven or eight. I stare down at my legs, beginning to think that waders possibly aren’t quite right for a passionate encounter. Maybe some marriage counselling sessions would be more beneficial?

  I start to try and pull them off. They seem to be stuck, as if some kind of vacuum has formed around my feet. I pull and pull, finally wrestling one off and taking a minute to catch my breath before attacking the other. It’s even harder to shift. Christ, I’m going to have to creep back into the house like this, in my T-shirt and skirt and one wader. Looking around the shed, I spot the big yellow tub and twist off its lid. Powder is what I need, of the hormone rooting variety if necessary.

  Just before my fateful Inter-railing trip, my friend Angie and I had gone to a fetish club in Soho. While she’d dared to wear a red rubber crop top and a hip-hugging mini, I’d gone in a normal black dress from Miss Selfridge and loitered about by the bar, sipping my beer and feeling intimidated until it became apparent that these shiny, rubbery people were in fact extremely friendly. In the loo, a girl had explained that sprinkling talc into rubber garments made them easy to slip on and off.

  It’s a nugget of information I’d completely forgotten, until now. Reaching for the yellow pot, I twist off its lid and sprinkle a little into the boot. I’m trying to banish the unsettling thought that the hormone powder might cause my leg hair to sprout profusely and make Will think I’m having some kind of middle-aged testosterone surge. One normal leg, and the other, the thickly-haired limb of a mammoth – that would take some explaining. But needs must. I give the boot a sharp tug, and it flies off, sending me staggering backwards into the bench which slams against the flimsy wooden wall, juddering the entire shed as something very hard and heavy crashes down on top of me.

  ‘Owww!’ I scream, clamping both hands to my head. I crouch down in the dark – the torch must have rolled off the shelf, and switched off – feeling dizzy and sick. Concussed, probably. ‘My fucking head,’ I bleat, gingerly patting my scalp.

  There’s a wet patch. I am bleeding. I remain still, staring at my hands until my eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Now I can make out dark, sticky smears on my fingers. What if I need stitches? Never mind Will – what would Ollie and Rosie think if their mother had to be carted off to hospital and sewn up? Parents are meant to set a good example. We’re not supposed to get piddled on wine and injure ourselves in sheds. I’m a terrible mother and, if Will takes the kids away from me, it’ll be my own fault.

  I need to survey the damage properly. I pat about on the floor, trying to find Ollie’s torch, and discover instead a big tin of something sticky, emitting a pungent smell. So that’s what happened. The tin fell down on my head and its lid pinged off, and now creosote is pooling around my bare feet.

  ‘Gerald!’

  Shit, that’s Tricia from next door, sounding horribly close.

  ‘Gerald, come out here right now.’

  ‘Tricia, it’s nothing, I told you …’

  I can hear her stomping about in her garden, muttering to herself, something about intruders and police. A horrible image forms in my mind – of Will, standing calmly with his arms around a bleak-faced Rosie and Ollie as he explains, ‘I’m sorry, but Mum has some … issues right now …’

  ‘Gerald?’ Tricia yells, seemingly inches from our shed. ‘I told you I heard something out here. For God’s sake, hurry up and help me.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Oh, Christ. Gerald. Brigadier General of the Neighbourhood Watch who spearheaded a campaign to chalk a circle around every dog poo deposit in our neighbourhood and write, WHO DID THIS? beside each one (‘Scooby Doo!’ Ollie scrawled beside a particularly extravagant pile). Anyway, Gerald is not to be messed with.

  A slice of bright white light beams from their open back door. ‘No, I don’t know where your grey cardigan is,’ Tricia snaps. ‘Just put on your dressing gown and hurry up.’

  My heart is thumping as I remain, motionless, crouched in the shed. I’m paddling in creosote, I realise, in my thin cotton socks. My shoes are covered in the stuff too. ‘Just a fox,’ Gerald mutters, his voice growing nearer. ‘What’s all the fuss?’

  ‘A fox that screamed in a woman’s voice?’ she retorts.

  ‘Well, they do, actually. They cry, you know that, and it can sound just like a human. Now will you just forget this and come up to bed?’

  ‘A fox that swore?’ she exclaims. ‘A fox that screamed, My fucking head?’ There follows some mumbled discussion. ‘… the Bristows’ garden,’ Tricia goes on. ‘If he actually tried to tame it, there wouldn’t be all that undergrowth for people to hide in …’

  Undergrowth? Damn cheek. They are herbaceous borders, bursting with hollyhocks and all the other flowers I don’t know the names of but make a point of admiring, to show Will that I appreciate his efforts. ‘What kind of people?’ Gerald retorts.

  ‘I don’t know. Drug addicts. Burglars. You don’t seem remotely concerned …’

  Another pause, then Gerald mutters, ‘You said it was a woman, though?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I think so. God, I don’t know. Could’ve been someone in pain. A woman, a child – anyone. Maybe someone being attacked …’

  ‘Right, well, we’d better have a look around …’ Obviously, Gerald in his stripy pyjamas and tartan slippers would terrify the wits out of any lurking crack addict. There’s more ill-humoured murmuring, then, having apparently satisfied themselves that no one is likely to crash through the fence and attack them, our neighbours make their way back indoors.

  Shivering now, I tug down my skirt, then peer out of the shed towards Tricia and Gerald’s house. Their kitchen light goes out. I step out, shutting the shed door and darting across our garden before quietly letting myself into our house.

  In the hallway I peel off my ruined socks and stuff them deep into the kitchen bin. Then I hoist up one foot at a time and give it a good scrub at the sink with the dishwasher sponge, taking care to bin it when I’m done, to avoid poisoning anyone. I might be a little tipsy, and a complete fool for even considering waders as erotic attire, but at least I’m being methodical and taking care to cover my tracks – literally, as our kitchen floor needs a thorough wipe to erase my creosotey footprints. Thank God my family is asleep.

  In the sanctuary of the bathroom I inspect my head. An impressive quantity of blood has seeped from the cut, which I dab at ineffectually with a dampened cotton wool pad. As it’s stinging quite badly, I daub on what we used to call ‘magic cream’, because the last thing I need is a septic scalp. Then, still feeling a little nauseous, I tread lightly to our darkened bedroom.

  Mercifully, Will doesn’t seem to register me undressing or climbing into bed beside him. It’s not unusual, me coming up to bed later, although I’ve long suspected that synchronising our bedtimes might benefit our marriage. Now, though, I’m ridiculously grateful for being able to lie down in the dark without any attention whatsoever being bestowed upon me. I close my eyes, wondering when the wound will stop smarting.

  Will’s hand edges over, making me flinch. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Apart from being shat on by a rabbit and attacked by a two-litre can of creosote, I’m absolutely tickety-boo.

  ‘What time is it?’ he murmurs.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Late. After midnight. Night, darling.’ Please, please go back to sleep …

  A beat’s silence. I think he’s dropped back off, so I’m safe for now. Skin repairs itself more quickly at night, so I’ve heard, so by morning the hole in my head will be all healed again. At least, that’s what I’d like to believe. The negative side of my brain is telling me it’ll cont
inue to bleed all night and I’ll wake up with the pillowcase stuck to my scalp. It might even have to be surgically removed. I turn away from Will and pray for sleep to come.

  A hand slides over my back. Then he spoons around me, and if that’s not enough, he starts kissing the back of my neck. This is highly irregular, him cuddling in like this – and on a normal night I’d be delighted and all over him in a nanosecond. But tonight isn’t a normal night. It’s one of humiliation and pain.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispers.

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ I whisper back, gritting my teeth as his hand edges round and round … what’s going on here? All that sex talk in the garden with Liza and Sabrina … did some of it drift in to the house, like pollen? Or did he hear me saying we’re like housemates, and vowed to put things right? Oh-my-God, now the hand is doing things which, again, I’d find thrilling under normal circumstances but now cannot entertain at all.

  This is so weird. The last couple of times, I’ve been the one to instigate things. I’ve tried to gently ask if there’s any reason why we hardly ever do it these days, and he’s just brushed me off, saying it’s ‘just life’, whatever that means. But now, it’s as if another man, who looks very like Will, has broken in and snuck into our bed. Or maybe he’s been taken over by an amorous alien. I wriggle uncomfortably and let out a little murmur, which I hope he’ll interpret as ‘I am completely exhausted’ rather than, ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Charlotte?’ he whispers.

  ‘Mmmrr,’ I mumble unintelligibly.

  ‘Look … I’m sorry.’

  ‘’S’okay.’ I have no idea what he’s sorry for but I don’t want to hear it now. I want to sleep for six hours and wake up with a mended head.

  The hand comes to rest on the soft curve of my stomach. ‘Just wanted to say …’ I realise I’m holding my breath. ‘… you’ve been really good about the job thing.’

  ‘’S’all right,’ I whisper.

  ‘I, um … I know it hasn’t been easy lately …’ Why has he decided to talk about this now, when I’ve tried so many times during normal daylight hours and he’s never been anything other than brusque or defensive?

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s good, you being here, er … doing stuff.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He kisses the back of my neck so tenderly, I almost want to cry. Now please go straight to sleep like you do virtually every other night … But he doesn’t. He keeps kissing me, and I know I’m being a bit offish, lying here rigid and not responding in any way. So I turn and plant a speedy kiss on his cheek.

  He pulls away and frowns. ‘Can you smell something?’

  ‘Er, I don’t think so …’

  ‘Well, I can.’ He sniffs loudly. ‘It’s sort of … medicinal. It’s coming from your hair. Have you been using a new product or something?’

  ‘No,’ I say defensively.

  ‘You must have. It’s a medicated smell. D’you have dandruff?’

  ‘I’ve never had dandruff in my life!’ I protest.

  ‘Well, it smells a bit like it. Or is it that tea tree stuff? D’you have nits?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Let me have a look …’ He clicks on his bedside light and starts raking through my hair.

  ‘I don’t have nits, Will! Get off—’

  ‘Hold still. I’m just checking …’

  ‘Ow!’ I yelp.

  He shrinks back. ‘What’s wrong? What have I done?’

  ‘It’s just … would you leave my hair alone please? It’s a bit … sore.’

  ‘You have sore hair?’ He squints at the top of my head. ‘My God, there’s a cut here. It looks pretty bad. What on earth happened?’

  ‘I banged it,’ I mutter, feeling like a silly child.

  Gently, protectively, Will eases a strand of hair away from my face. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I, er, fell.’ Shivering, I bunch the duvet around my shoulders as Will continues to examine the wound.

  ‘You’ve put something on it.’

  ‘Yeah, Sudocrem.’

  He sighs. ‘It looks pretty deep. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I …’ I clear my throat. ‘I felt a bit stupid …’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ He puts his arms around me and pulls me close. It’s so rare for him to do this, my eyes well up with tears. ‘You idiot,’ he murmurs. ‘Bit pissed, were you?’

  ‘A bit,’ I agree.

  ‘On a Wednesday night,’ he chastises me gently. ‘In the garden, too. What would Tricia and Gerald say?’

  ‘Er, hopefully they didn’t see,’ I say with a feeble laugh.

  Will’s face turns serious. ‘Did you fall outside?’

  ‘No, I, er, bumped my head when I was coming in.’

  ‘What, on the door or something?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Did you trip?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ As he’s feeding me the lines, it doesn’t count as lying.

  ‘Maybe we should put a dressing on it,’ he suggests.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say firmly. ‘Better let the air get to it.’ He gives me another concerned look, then switches off the lamp. I expect him to turn away and say goodnight, but instead, he takes me in his arms and holds me close. And it’s just what I need, after my shed trauma: being held as I drift off to sleep. ‘I love you, Charlotte,’ he whispers.

  ‘I love you too, darling.’

  ‘I love you, you drunk, crazy woman, and I know I don’t tell you that enough.’ I turn and kiss him again, thinking: this is lovely. This is a million times better than cuddling a rabbit. Will does care, after all, and he’s being all affectionate and sweet because I am injured.

  Maybe, I reflect, I should arrange to be whacked on the head by a tin of creosote more often.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There is no further questioning from Will regarding my wound over breakfast, and Rosie and Ollie are too concerned with the grave injustices inflicted upon their own lives to even notice it. Besides, I have carefully combed my hair over the crusty bit, like a balding man.

  ‘My agency haven’t phoned yet,’ Rosie announces, with a dramatic sigh, like a seasoned model whose career is experiencing a temporary downturn.

  ‘You’ve got an agent,’ Ollie muses. ‘I’d love that. I’d love to be able to say, “Speak to my agent.”’

  Rosie wrinkles her nose at him. ‘I’m sure they will,’ I say, absent-mindedly, wondering if my husband will detect that anything untoward happened in the shed last night. Half past six, I was up this morning, to creep out and mop up the spilt creosote, plus the dark, sticky footprints leading to our back door. I even wiped the grass where I’d trampled on it, concealing the gunky rags under black bags in the wheelie bin. I’d felt like someone covering up their tracks after committing a violent crime.

  ‘Mum?’ Rosie’s voice interrupts my thoughts. ‘I said I thought I’d have some go-sees to go on by now.’

  ‘D’you go on go-sees then?’ Ollie teases. ‘D’you go-see people?’

  She frowns. ‘That’s why they’re called go-sees, Ollie. But no, I don’t go on them ’cause no one wants to see me.’

  ‘We want to see you,’ he says with a grin. ‘We like you, Ro, even if the model agency doesn’t—’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ she snaps.

  ‘Rosie, there’s no need to be so grumpy or take it out on Ollie …’ I tail off as he examines the sweatshirt I bought him from deepest, darkest Hollister.

  ‘I can’t wear this for school, Mum,’ he announces.

  I stare at it. ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cause it’s dark blue, not black.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. Is it?’

  ‘Yeah! It’s obvious. Are you colour blind or something?’

  ‘No, I’m not, Ollie. I told you, it was completely dark in there, like a cave. Next time I’m going to Primark …’

  ‘Not Primark,’ he groans, catching his father’s eye. Throug
hout all this, Will has been standing and smirking and drinking his coffee.

  ‘Can’t you take it back?’ Will suggests.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ I reply. ‘If he’d said at the time, if he’d actually looked at it properly, then I might have had the receipt—’ I tail off and grab my jacket and bag. ‘Anyway, I’d better get off to work.’

  ‘Head feeling better?’ Will asks, somewhat belatedly, as I kiss him goodbye.

  ‘Yes, much better, thanks.’ I hug Rosie and Ollie – who don’t even enquire as to what might be wrong with me – and leave.

  In contrast, everyone at work not only spots the scab immediately, my comb-over having dislodged somewhat, but lavishes me with concern. Rupert even suggests that I shouldn’t have come in at all. ‘Head injuries can be serious,’ he says gravely, towering over me in the shop. He peers at my wound like a sympathetic GP. ‘Are you sure you were okay to drive?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say firmly, flattered by the attention.

  ‘It’s just …’ He smiles and his eyes glint playfully. ‘Um … maybe you should be at home … resting.’

  I laugh, baffled by his concern. ‘I’m okay, honestly. I just bumped it on the door. It’s my age, I think. My spatial awareness isn’t what it was.’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ Dee says, as she and Rupert follow me upstairs to the office. ‘We were just thinking, with this being such a special day …’ I frown, not getting it at all.