As Good As It Gets? Read online

  ‘That’s right,’ Rupert adds, parking his bum on my desk, ‘and I have to say, despite it all, you still look radiant …’

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ I reply.

  ‘You do, truthfully.’ He grins at Dee. ‘Think it’s that cream she uses? That stuff with the real gold particles in?’

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ chuckles Dee.

  I blink at them in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be bashful,’ Rupert cuts in. ‘We all have our little beauty secrets. Me – I use a nasal hair trimmer. Marcelle bought it for me last Christmas … charming, eh? Nice to see romance isn’t dead!’ As he barks with laughter it starts to dawn on me: the only time real gold particle cream – serum, actually – has entered my consciousness was at Rosie’s shoot. That ad in Vogue, which I’d happened to glance at while being interviewed on the phone … Oh, Christ. ‘Is it out?’ I gasp.

  ‘Sure is,’ Dee says with a grin, waving a copy of Front magazine from her desk.

  ‘Oh God, let me see.’ I lurch over as she flicks it open to the significant page. Rosie looks lovely, and incredibly relaxed, considering this was her first shoot. I, on the other hand, am perched awkwardly on the Perspex chair as if fearful that someone might march over and snap, ‘Please don’t sit on that.’ But worse than that – because the photo is fine really, despite my man make-up and guitar-player-out-of-Queen hair – is the headline.

  In huge type, across two whole pages, it reads:

  We’re the High-Maintenance Mums Behind

  Fashion’s New Faces!

  ‘Oh my God,’ I croak.

  ‘We’re obviously paying you too much,’ Rupert sniggers.

  I glare at the page. ‘But that’s not what she said when she did the interview. No one mentioned anything about high-maintenance mums. I’ve been totally misrepresented!’ It’s true: I buy a supermarket moisturiser that’s actually a bum cream for babies and haven’t had my eyebrows shaped by anything other than my own unsteady hand and some rusting tweezers since about 2005. I’ve never had a massage, unless you count Will grudgingly rubbing my shoulders for about three seconds, before enquiring, ‘Is that enough?’ Guinness is more pampered than I am. At least he has his nails clipped at the vet’s. My head has started to sting again with the stress of it all.

  As Rupert and Dee’s laughter subsides I sit down with the magazine at my desk.

  Charlotte Bristow, 42, looks amazing for her age …

  That’s because I’m thirty-bloody-eight. I don’t remember my age even being mentioned. With Rosie and I being last-minute participants, Joely probably forgot to ask.

  … Fabulous bone structure and a dewy complexion, it goes on. And her beauty secret? She swears by super-luxe Belle Visage Beauty Elixir containing real gold micro-particles. At £750 for 50ml, it’s the most expensive serum on the market today …

  My wound throbs even harder as I stare at the figure. £750. I have owned cars that cost less than that. ‘This is rubbish,’ I mutter. ‘I use the cheapest stuff imaginable. My shampoo’s 99p—’

  ‘No wonder,’ Dee teases, ‘when you spend that much on your face.’

  Still grinning, Rupert peers over my shoulder. ‘They’re saying Rosie’s fifteen …’

  ‘Yes, they’ve got her age wrong too.’

  ‘You’re saying they made it all up then?’

  My cheeks flush. ‘Well, er, I did say I use that serum, but only because I didn’t want to seem like a cheapskate …’

  He smiles. ‘Well, you certainly don’t. Anyway, listen – I’ve got just the thing to take your mind off it.’

  ‘Yes?’ I say eagerly, closing the magazine.

  ‘Website really needs an update. Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I reply with genuine relief. Anything to stop me fretting about that headline.

  ‘Great. With the festival coming up, it really needs to look tip-top. Could you cobble together a shoot today? Something lovely and sunny with everyone having a jolly time?’

  I nod. ‘D’you have anything in mind?’

  ‘Erm …’ He rakes a hand through his unruly dark hair. ‘I’ll leave that to you and your creative genius. Just pull together something fun, okay?’

  ‘Yes, no problem—’

  He bounds for the door, pausing to add, ‘Oh, and I meant to say, that magazine thing …’ He beams a fond, big brotherly sort of smile. ‘You do scrub up very well, Charlotte Bristow.’

  ‘For my age,’ I call after him as he clatters downstairs.

  ‘For any age,’ he shouts back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m feeling better already about Front magazine. When I sneaked another look, I learnt that the other mothers were partial to algae body wraps and enzyme facials. So perhaps I’m small fry, in model-mum circles, where self-maintenance is concerned.

  Turning my attention to work, I decide to stage a staff picnic – the sky is perfectly cloudless, it’s an ideal day for it – to photograph for our website. I gather up hampers, blankets and assorted paraphernalia from the shop, then drive to the nearest supermarket and amass enormous quantities of sandwiches and cakes. Finally, I stop off at a gift shop for plastic windmills and Tibetan prayer flags to pin up about the place.

  Back at work, in the spud store – the cool, dark shed where cuddly Farmer Mickey’s Maris Pipers are kept – I find the enormous bundle of bunting which I used for a shoot last summer (each time the word ‘shoot’ forms in my mind, I imagine Parker, a proper photographer, snorting with derisive laughter). Although it’s a bit dusty, the bunting looks fine once I’ve pinned it up between trees in the garden in front of the visitors’ centre and shop.

  In fact, with the sun beating down onto my colourful scene, it’s actually very pleasing. You might even believe we were in the depths of the real countryside, rather than barely beyond the East London sprawl. Even last night’s sorry episode with the waders and hormone rooting powder is fading from my consciousness as I put the finishing touches to the picnic scene. I’m further distracted when it comes to persuading ‘teamsters’ to take part in the shoot, whilst laughing off yet more comments about my outing as a high-maintenance mother (which everyone appears to have examined forensically, despite Parker insisting that ‘no one will see it’).

  ‘What d’you want us to do?’ Frank asks grumpily, rubbing his hands on the front of his factory apron and blinking in the sunshine as if he’s just emerged from hibernation.

  ‘Could you just arrange yourselves around the picnic?’ I say, adding, ‘And, er, would you mind taking your overalls off please, folks?’

  The teamsters obligingly pull off their uniforms and sling them out of shot. Then Frank pulls out a packet of Silk Cut and lights one up, so then I have to politely ask him to dispose of that too, because no one smokes at an Archie’s picnic. I realise, of course, that he’s winding me up, being the naughty Spanish factory lad whom I suspect his female colleagues all secretly fancy. While he doesn’t quite cut it on the jolly teamster front, I know Rupert values him for being a grafter.

  ‘Dee, come and join the picnic,’ I say as she emerges from the shop, looking lovely with her blonde hair artfully pinned up, and not just for her age. I notice, too, that Frank’s demeanour changes as she arranges herself on a corner of the brightly-striped blanket. ‘Could you sit a bit nearer to Frank, Dee?’ I ask as I start to take pictures. ‘We’re meant to be a family, remember? You look a bit lost, sitting there all by yourself.’

  She laughs awkwardly. ‘Bit closer,’ I murmur, realising she’s flushed bright pink, and wishing now that I’d asked Sandra to sit next to him instead, because obviously, Dee is hugely uncomfortable. Maybe she’s worried about how Mike will react if he sees her on our website, cosying up to a handsome colleague. I keep snapping away, aiming to get the job done as quickly as possible, and deciding that I could appear on our site naked, draped over all the factory guys, and Will probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

  Shoot
over, I spend the next couple of hours in the office writing the accompanying blurb, then hit upon the idea of calling Will for ideas for picnic recipes. ‘Hi?’ he says curtly.

  ‘Erm, are you busy right now? It’s just, I’m writing a thing about picnics for the website and I’m a bit stuck for ideas.’

  ‘Right, er …’

  ‘Sorry, are you in the middle of something?’

  He clears his throat. ‘No, no – it’s fine, it’s just, Sabrina popped by …’

  ‘Oh, what does she want?’ I didn’t mean that the way it probably sounded. Just that it seems odd, her dropping in when I’m not there. But then, why shouldn’t she? Will spends far too much time alone.

  ‘We’re just having coffee,’ he says.

  ‘Right. Great! That’s … really good. Well, er, I was going to ask if you could help me with some recipes but I’m sure I’ll think of something.’

  ‘No, it’s fine – I’ll call you back, okay?’ he says in an over-bright voice.

  ‘Yeah, sure, no hurry.’ Feeling a tad put out, and wondering if Sabrina’s wearing that pretty white broderie anglaise dress again, or perhaps her foxy leather trousers, I finish the call and start to edit my photos. I take care to choose the ones where Dee looks least uneasy – although she’s hardly a picture of relaxed, picnicky joy in any of them. Still, the site now looks pleasingly summery. I write some blurb about how we’re always larking about in the garden, and add a few competitions; all I need now are some recipes. Still no call back from Will, so I start searching online.

  I find Stilton tarts and falafels with a spicy Moroccan dip, plus a bevy of interesting salads, which I tweak slightly so as not to copy them directly. I even dash off a few wonky coloured pencil drawings (my ‘charming illustrations’ as Rupert rather generously calls them) and scan them in. There. All done. It’s now two hours since I called Will and he’s obviously had far too many other pressing matters on his hands to find the time to phone me back.

  Anyway, I tell myself as I drive home, I don’t need him to tell me how to make a bloody falafel.

  *

  In contrast, Sabrina is obviously thrilled by Will’s culinary expertise, as I discover when I find her still installed in our kitchen, swooning over his finds from his latest foraging trip. ‘Giant puffballs,’ she marvels.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say with a grin, ‘although this is meant to be a minimiser bra.’

  She laughs huskily, looking especially radiant in a pale pink strappy top – it’s more of a hankie, really – and old, faded jeans which hug her tiny bottom. ‘I mean these mushrooms. Aren’t they amazing? Would you believe you can find them in London?’

  ‘I had no idea,’ I reply.

  ‘He’s going to sauté them in breadcrumbs as a starter,’ she enthuses in the manner of a cookery show presenter.

  ‘Sounds lovely. Very impressive.’ I drop my bag at my feet and tell myself there’s no reason to feel miffed by this cosy domestic scene, because they’re talking about fungi, for God’s sake. While Sabrina carefully wipes one with a piece of kitchen roll, Will ambles over and plants a kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Good day?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, busy,’ I say breezily as Sabrina places the clean mushroom on a large white plate and gazes at it reverentially.

  She sighs loudly. ‘I wish my husband took an interest in food. There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows what he’s doing in the kitchen. Tommy can barely manage to rip open a bag of oven chips.’

  I laugh politely, reminding myself that of course this is innocent, because for one thing the kids are here. Rosie wanders in from watching TV in the living room and flops down onto a kitchen chair. ‘Hi, love,’ I say, kissing the top of her head. ‘Did you see the magazine?’

  She nods. ‘Yeah. They got my age wrong. They said I was fifteen.’

  ‘Yes, mine too, but they added three years on for me …’

  ‘I saw that too,’ Sabrina chuckles. ‘I’d never have had you down as a high-maintenance mum, Charlotte! But you both looked gorgeous …’

  ‘They did,’ Will says absent-mindedly, sautéing now and turning to add, ‘You will stay for dinner, Sabrina?’ I glance at him, taken aback by his sudden invitation. It’s unlike him to be so spontaneous. But then, don’t I often wish he’d be more sociable and loosen up a little?

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she replies. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘What about Tommy and Zach?’ I ask. ‘Would you like to ask them over too?’

  ‘Oh, Tommy’s away for a few days and Zach prefers to fend for himself …’ She turns to Rosie. ‘He asked me to mention that he’ll pick you up after dinner, is that okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, blushing.

  I study her face. ‘Does this mean you’re hanging out together?’

  ‘Er, kind of,’ she mumbles as Ollie ambles in for dinner and gives me a fleeting hug.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I chirp, wondering how Will feels about this. We have seen the boy smoking pot, after all, but then, maybe it’s par for the course for a seventeen-year-old boy? I glance at Will, who looks a little taken aback himself by the Zach announcement.

  ‘What are these, Dad?’ Ollie asks, peering at the plate.

  ‘Mushrooms,’ Will replies.

  ‘They look like they’ve got skin disease,’ Rosie remarks.

  ‘No they don’t,’ Sabrina retorts. ‘They’re amazing. They’re nothing like the anaemic little mushrooms you get in cartons from the shops—’

  ‘The kind we like,’ Ollie quips, stuffing one into his mouth anyway, if only to please his dad.

  The main event is baked salmon, and it’s so delicious – perfectly baked in foil with chilli and dill – that I’ve already forgiven Will for not phoning me back at work. I must stop being so sensitive. As for feeling iffy about Sabrina spending all afternoon installed in our kitchen – well, that was just a flash of juvenile ridiculousness on my part.

  ‘So are you and Zach planning to hang out here?’ I ask Rosie lightly, spearing a French bean.

  ‘Erm, no, we’re going to the cinema.’ Right on cue, our doorbell rings. Dinner barely touched, she throws down her cutlery and leaps up to answer it. ‘Let’s just go,’ she says quickly, her face clouding as I hurry through to the hall.

  ‘Hi, Zach, how are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Good, thanks.’ Taller than Rosie, he’s all gangly handsomeness with burnt toffee-coloured eyes and a mop of dark hair which he’s constantly flicking out of his face. She throws me a don’t-you-dare-interrogate-him look.

  ‘What film are you going to see?’ I ask pleasantly.

  ‘We’ll just see what’s on,’ Zach says with a shrug.

  ‘But shouldn’t you check first? You could book tickets online—’

  ‘Mum,’ Rosie cuts in, eyes wide, ‘we do know how to go to the cinema.’

  ‘Okay, okay …’ I laugh and step away. ‘So, um, are you going to finish your dinner first?’

  She pulls a horrified face. ‘We’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Oh! Right. So, er, what time will you be back?’

  ‘It’s only seven,’ Sabrina chuckles, appearing at my side. ‘They’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Not planning to kidnap her, are you, Zach?’

  ‘Nah,’ he chuckles with a wry grin.

  That’s not the point, I reflect as they leave; of course it’s fine for Rosie to date boys. It’s just … Sabrina’s spent all afternoon with Will, and now Rosie and Zach appear to be ‘going out’, if that’s not too decrepit a phrase … it’s starting to feel a bit much.

  ‘Isn’t it sweet,’ Sabrina says, back in our kitchen, ‘how well those two get on?’

  I nod, trying to hide my disappointment that Rosie hadn’t even mentioned tonight’s date. But then, she has also appeared in a national magazine and barely uttered two sentences about it.

  *

  She’s in a chattier mood when she returns, unscathed, just after ten. ‘Well, that was awkward,’ she announces, squeezing in b
etween Will and me on the sofa.

  ‘What was?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you have a good time?’

  ‘Yeah, we did – the movie was a bit crap, some action thing Zach wanted to see …’ She turns to me. ‘I mean you making such a fuss about us going out.’

  ‘I didn’t make a fuss,’ I protest. ‘All I said was—’

  ‘Zach couldn’t believe it,’ she adds with a smirk, ‘how protective you are.’

  ‘All I did was suggest you booked tickets. I hardly chaperoned you, Rosie.’

  ‘… And you know what’s funny? You’re all worried about me going out to the cinema, but Dad’s happy to collect mushrooms that could make our whole family die!’ She peals with derisive laughter.

  ‘Of course you can go to the cinema,’ I mutter, my head wound beginning to sting again. It seems to have become a barometer of my moods.

  ‘Hey, Mum.’ She touches my arm. ‘It’s okay, you know. Zach’s just a friend.’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I say sulkily, deciding she’s right: I probably do worry too much. So she’s made a new friend, and it looks as if Will has too – which is good for him, of course. I’d far rather see him being friendly and chatty and asking neighbours over for dinner spontaneously than furiously mowing our lawn.

  But I’m still not completely delighted about walking in to find Sabrina fawning over his puffballs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It drops next day. The bombshell, I mean, just as I’m about to set off for the Festival of Savoury Snacks.

  There’s just Rosie and me in the kitchen, and I’m grinning like an idiot at my phone. Dee and Rupert have gone down early to Bournemouth to set up our stand at the exhibition centre, and Dee’s sent me a photo of the two of them posing proudly beside the world’s biggest crisp. It’ll take pride of place on our stand and gain a mention in the Guinness Book of Records, if anyone still cares about such a thing (Rosie was obsessed with it as a little girl; that’s what our rabbit is named after, and not ‘the alcoholic beverage’, as Tricia put it, assuming a not-entirely-approving face).

  ‘Rupert told us he was going to make the crisp,’ I witter away, even though I suspect Rosie’s not really listening, ‘but he can’t have fried it, at least not in one piece. You’d never find a potato big enough.’ I study it again. ‘I think he must’ve baked it. So really, it’s more of a giant Pringle …’