As Good As It Gets? Page 15

  And at around 2 a.m., I am wide awake.

  ‘Why are you up, Peter? What are you doing?’ Mum’s voice rings out from their bedroom.

  ‘Just getting a glass of water,’ Dad replies. I hear him crossing the landing and making his way downstairs. There’s the squeak of an ancient bedroom door, then Mum’s soft footsteps padding downstairs, followed by a mumbled exchange in the kitchen.

  ‘Come on, darling, let’s just go to bed,’ she says. Dad mutters something else, but Mum’s voice is firm: ‘I just don’t see the point in worrying her, Peter.’

  ‘She should know. We have to tell her.’

  ‘But why? It’ll only upset her …’

  My heart thuds as I lurch upright. Hearing my parents making their way back upstairs, I slip out of bed and meet them on the landing. ‘Oh, did we wake you?’ Mum asks, looking startled.

  ‘No, not really. It doesn’t matter. Mum, Dad … what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mum says, smoothing the front of her white lacy nightie. ‘Sorry we disturbed you. Just go back to bed, love …’

  ‘Dad, what’s wrong? You can talk to me, you know. There’s nothing you can’t tell me.’

  He looks down at his feet in their suede moccasin slippers. Oh God, one of them is ill. I’ve always assumed their lives are pretty perfect, filled with sailing and pastry-making and all the social events they’re involved in. ‘Dad?’ I prompt him.

  He looks at Mum, then at me, and says, ‘We’ve had an email, Charlotte.’

  An email. My mind whirls with possibilities: They’re in terrible debt. They’re about to lose their home. One of them has a serious illness …

  ‘Well, who from?’ I ask impatiently.

  Mum purses her lips.

  ‘Could you please tell me?’

  ‘I don’t think—’ she starts.

  ‘Mum, I’m not a child!’ Didn’t Rosie utter those very few words a few hours ago?

  Dad coughs and mumbles, ‘It was from that man.’

  That man. Well, that hardly narrows it down …

  ‘Which man? Is it someone I know?’

  ‘The one who …’ Mum starts.

  ‘… who wouldn’t support you when you needed him,’ Dad cuts in, as it dawns on me who they’re talking about: he who shall not be named.

  ‘You mean Fraser?’ I exclaim.

  Dad nods.

  ‘What did he want? And how on earth did he find you?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it was too difficult,’ Mum replies, ‘with your dad being the sailing club secretary …’

  ‘But …’ I look from Dad to Mum, feeling suddenly, horribly sick. Has he somehow sensed that Rosie wants to meet him? ‘I guess you’ve read it,’ I murmur.

  Mum flushes. ‘We did, love, and we probably shouldn’t, but we wanted to see—’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘It doesn’t matter. I would have too … so can I read it?’

  Dad suddenly looks very tired in his rumpled M&S pyjamas. He beckons me into their bedroom where their computer is set up on a rickety table in the corner. My parents have the good grace to switch it on and leave me alone, sitting on a folding chair in the yellowy glow of their ancient desk lamp. They both pad softly downstairs, pretending it’s perfectly normal to make a pot of tea at 2.17 a.m.

  I peer at his name in their inbox. Fraser Johnson. Subject: For Charlotte. So he’s alive, at least. My heart is hammering away as I click open the mail.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dear Charlotte,

  Hi, it’s me, Fraser. I know it’s been an awfully long time. I really don’t know how to start so I’ll just say what feels right.

  I push my bed-hair out of my face. It’s a warm, stuffy night, and it feels as if there’s not enough air in my parents’ bedroom.

  I feel terrible barging into your life like this, he goes on, and hope you don’t mind me contacting you via your dad. I remembered you telling me how passionate he was about sailing, so I thought I’d try Googling him. I couldn’t believe how easy he was to find. I’ve looked for you online over the years but assume you’re married and have a different surname now. It looked that way in the magazine. I couldn’t believe it when I opened it and saw you and your daughter …

  My daughter. So he’s conveniently airbrushed himself out of the picture. Or perhaps he’s genuinely forgotten the two of us, driving down to Brighton as the sun came up, just because it seemed like a good idea. The positive pregnancy test was stashed in my bag, wrapped in tissue, so we could look at it again and again and convince ourselves it was real.

  As we sat holding hands on a bench on the seafront, I genuinely believed everything would be okay. So what does he mean, my daughter?

  … didn’t even want the magazine, he continues, but the guy at the station was insistent about me taking a copy, and at lunchtime I had a quick look through. And there you were. You look exactly as I remember …

  Oh, come on. The combination of Boo’s make-up and Parker’s lighting probably knocked off a few years, but not seventeen of them.

  Of course, there’s a tiny chance you’re not the Charlotte I knew, in which case I apologise. But I’d bet my life it’s you and I’d like to make contact, if that’s okay. I know many years have passed. I understand that we both made decisions on the spur of the moment because we were so young and scared. And of course I accept that you might prefer not to be in touch again.

  I’d just like you to know that I have never forgotten you.

  Love,

  Fraser x

  I stare at the screen, rage fizzling up in my stomach. I’d gone to bed feeling soothed by Mum’s heavenly pie and now I could vomit it right up. My knee-jerk reaction is to reply immediately, asking, What d’you mean, we both made decisions on the spur of the moment? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Yeah – I’d use shouty capitals, just like that. I hadn’t been ‘scared’, either, as he’s so patronisingly put it. Sure, becoming a mother before I’d learnt to drive, or indeed cook anything more taxing than scrambled eggs, hadn’t quite been my plan. But it had happened, and I’d loved Fraser, and after he’d been so sweet and reassuring that we could make it work, I wasn’t scared at all. He’d even talked about shelving his plans to go into banking and moving down to London, so he could be with me. We’d get a flat, he reckoned, mentioning several areas that might appeal: Notting Hill, Camden, Islington. Money didn’t seem to be an issue with him at all.

  I exhale loudly, forward his email to my own address, then turn off my parents’ computer.

  That’s better. For once, I haven’t leapt in and made an idiot of myself. I have been measured and calm. ‘Thanks,’ I call downstairs to Mum and Dad. ‘I’ve read it. I’m going back to bed now.’

  Mum appears in the hallway, her face ghostly pale as she looks up. ‘Are you all right, love?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’

  ‘I … I just don’t want him upsetting everything all over again.’

  ‘No one’s upset,’ I say briskly. ‘Honestly, it’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’ Then, before she has time to come up and be kind and understanding, I scuttle to the little guest room, climb into bed and shut my eyes tightly, as if that will keep Fraser Johnson out of my life.

  *

  ‘Hey, how was it?’ Will greets me the following lunchtime with a fleeting kiss. The back door is open, sunshine is flooding in, and our kitchen is full of chattering boys all tucking into bowls of strawberry ice cream.

  ‘Great,’ I reply. ‘Our stand was mobbed all day. Rupert seemed pleased.’

  ‘That’s great. Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Will made this,’ Saul announces, scraping the dregs from his bowl.

  ‘No, he just got it out of the freezer,’ Ollie corrects him.

  I chuckle, catching Will’s eye. ‘Yes, but it’s proper stuff with fruit and cream, Ollie. You take it for granted that Dad makes ice cream. You think it’s a normal thing everyone has.’

  Saul grins. ‘It’s th
e best ice cream ever. My dad’s too busy to make anything. I wish he was unemployed.’

  Ouch. Will turns away, busying himself with fixing a punctured bicycle inner tube on the back step. The visiting boys eventually drift off home, and Rosie appears with Nina after an afternoon at the pool. For the rest of the day I’m conscious of going through the motions of catching up with everyone’s news, whilst being unable to stop thinking about Fraser’s email.

  … I have never forgotten you …

  Even if it is true, what am I supposed to do with that information? Judging by the tone of his email, it sounds as if he’s conveniently forgotten that he chose not to involve himself in the colicky nights and exploding nappies, or the obliteration of verrucas and nits. His sole contributions to Rosie’s life can be summed up as provider of sperm, and much enthusiasm (fake, as it turned out) when shown the pregnancy test. Now our child is almost grown up, he’s curious, all of a sudden. The bloody nerve of it! And my poor mum and dad, receiving that email out of the blue and wondering what on earth to do for the best.

  They’d only met Fraser once: a rather tense occasion, I vividly recall. He was terribly nervous, and although my parents were clearly trying to be welcoming and reasonable, they were obviously thinking: you swine! Meeting our daughter – our adored only child – on a train and impregnating her about five minutes later!

  At least, that’s probably how it seemed to them.

  Anyway, the more pressing issue now isn’t my parents, but Will, who’s crouched on the lawn, and fussing about with bicycle parts. I pull on a sweater – there’s a chill in the early evening air – and wander out to join him. ‘Hey,’ I say, sitting cross-legged beside him on the grass.

  He looks round. ‘Hi. So, um … how were your mum and dad?’ I’ve been back for hours, and he’s only just thought to ask.

  ‘Great. It was lovely to see them.’ I smile stiffly. ‘Isn’t it brilliant about Rosie’s job on Monday?’

  ‘Yes, I s’pose it is. She’s a very happy girl.’ At least, I decide, he’s pretending to be pleased for her. He straightens up and we wander down to the bench together.

  ‘Who’s the job for, d’you know?’ I ask. ‘She was pretty vague on the phone.’

  Will shakes his head. ‘Some designer, I think. Italian-sounding …’ We sit together in silence for a few moments. ‘So, nothing else going on?’ he asks lightly.

  Christ, it’s as if he knows.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You just … seem a bit … edgy.’

  I pause, figuring that I could deflect this. I could make up something about being tired from the show yesterday, or not having slept well at Mum and Dad’s. ‘Um … something did happen actually.’

  He frowns. ‘What?’

  I clear my throat. ‘Fraser emailed Dad.’

  Will’s entire body stiffens as he turns to stare at me. ‘You are kidding.’

  ‘No, Will. I wish I was. He emailed Dad after seeing Rosie and me in that magazine …’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ While I’d hardly expected him to be overjoyed at this news, I hadn’t imagined he’d look so … stricken.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s not a big deal. I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all. I mean, I can’t believe he thought he could just drop me a friendly little email after all these years …’

  I study Will’s face. His eyes are guarded, his whole demeanour defensive, as if Fraser Johnson might appear in our garden, pelt into our house and yell, ‘Here I am, Rosie! Your real dad! You’re going to love me so much more than this shabby imposter with his foraged sorrel which, let’s face it, smells weird, doesn’t it? Like pee?’

  ‘A friendly little email,’ Will repeats.

  ‘I know. It’s really weird. Honestly – I never thought I’d hear from him again.’

  Will frowns and rubs at his forehead. ‘How the hell did he manage to track down your dad?’

  ‘Through the sailing club. Dad’s the secretary so I guess he’s easy to find …’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say firmly. ‘Absolutely nothing at the moment.’

  ‘Does he want to meet Rosie? Is that what he’s after?’

  ‘No, that’s the oddest thing. It was just, “I saw you in the magazine, and I wanted to get in touch.” There was no mention of meeting her at all. In fact, he referred to her as my daughter …’ I bite my lip as music drifts down from Rosie’s room. Ollie’s bedroom light is off, but Rosie and Nina, who’s staying over, will be up chatting half the night.

  ‘He’s fucking unbelievable,’ Will mutters.

  ‘Yes, I know. Imagine him seeing her like that, for the first time and almost all grown up …’

  Will turns to me. ‘Shows what kind of person he is. I mean, he could have found us if he’d wanted to. And you know I’d have been fine – well, I’d have accepted it. Him seeing Rosie, I mean, if that’s what she wanted.’ Will’s voice cracks. I go to hug him but he shrugs me away. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have been an arsehole about it …’

  ‘No, I know, darling,’ I say gently. ‘We’ve always been realistic about it, haven’t we? That she’ll probably want to get to know him at some point …’

  Will nods. I know that now’s the perfect opportunity to add that, in fact, only yesterday morning she said she wanted to meet him. But he looks so crushed, I can’t bring myself to spring this on him too. Besides, I need to get things straight in my head, before we can start to formulate a proper plan.

  He fixes me with a look. His eyes are a startling blue, like sapphires. ‘So you’re not going to reply, then?’

  ‘What, to his email?’ I hesitate. ‘I need time to think, Will.’

  ‘What is there to think about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I bluster. ‘It’s just, if she ever does want to contact him, then I’ll have his email address—’

  ‘Great. That’ll be handy.’ I glance at Will, realising that it doesn’t matter that he’s been Rosie’s dad for fifteen years, and that he’s shown her how to swim, ride her bike and tackle long division. Despite all of that, his Dad-status must still seem as fragile as the finest glass. I don’t blame him for feeling that way; Rosie has cooled towards him lately. She’s not exactly all over me either. But the difference is, I’ll always be her mum, and no one can ever change that.

  Will gets up from the bench. ‘I’m going to have an early night,’ he murmurs. Leaving bike parts scattered all over the lawn, he strolls back into the house.

  I could run in after him. I could shout, ‘It’s okay! I’ll delete it! I’ll have no contact with him again, ever.’ But what about Rosie? He’s her father and I can’t delete that.

  In the kitchen, I potter about, attending to jobs we never seem to get around to: shaking crumbs out of the toaster and rounding up various school memos which are scattered about. I refill Guinness’s water bottle and replenish his hay. Upstairs, I find Will in our bedroom, pretending to search for a book on the shelf. ‘I know this is hard for you,’ I say, tentatively.

  ‘It’s just a bit of a surprise.’ He tugs off his socks and throws them into the laundry basket.

  I watch him pulling off his jeans and clambering into bed with his T-shirt and boxers still on. He hasn’t even cleaned his teeth, which I suspect is a first: Will is fastidious about such matters. I head for the bathroom and wash and undress, taking a few minutes to compose myself in order to discuss this rationally. Wrapping myself in my dressing gown, I pad through to our room where Will is lying on his back, staring bleakly at the ceiling. ‘Are you okay, darling?’ I slip in beside him and kiss his cheek.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Will, the thing is …’ I start.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he snaps. ‘Reply to him if that’s what you want to do.’

  ‘I don’t want that,’ I insist. ‘How can you suggest that? That I’m happy about him dropping into our lives again, out of the blue?’ My heart is hammering now. Of course he�
�s hurt, I understand that – but it’s happened, and we have to deal with it somehow …

  ‘I just want the best for Rosie,’ Will mutters.

  ‘Of course you do. That’s all that matters. But we need to talk—’

  He turns away from me. ‘I’m just scared, okay? I’m scared of things changing, and what this is going to do to us …’

  Tears prick my eyes as I find his hand in the dark. ‘I’m scared too, Will. I really am.’

  His breathing changes. Perhaps he’s drifting to sleep, or just pretending – it’s impossible to tell. But I hold on tightly to his hand, never wanting to let go.

  Chapter Nineteen

  All next day, the spectre of Fraser’s email hovers in the air between me and Will like a particularly unpleasant smell. We orbit each other politely, to the point at which I’m delighted to escape to work on Monday morning. As it’s Rosie’s first proper modelling job today, at least she’s been reasonably cheerful.

  I’m busy at work, thankfully, with lots of upcoming press coverage to finalise. We are supplying crisps to food shoots, setting up interviews with Rupert for business magazines, and launching a major ‘design your own flavour’ competition. I manage to push the Will/Fraser issue out of my mind, hoping that my husband’s mood will have lifted by the time I get home.

  As soon as I walk in it’s clear that it hasn’t. ‘Wonder how Rosie’s getting on at her shoot?’ I ask, pulling off my jacket.

  Will shrugs. ‘Fine, I expect. You okay with pizza?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I reply, adding, ‘look – I’ve got tons of samples …’ I start to unload numerous packets of reject crisps from a giant carrier bag. They’re not dangerous, or even out of date; just substandard visually, having been bashed around at some point during the bagging process. I mean, they’re perfectly fine. But as Will eyes the growing pile of packets on the table, I realise it was ridiculously optimistic of me to expect a load of shattered crisps to make things right between us. I suspect that the only thing that’d perk him up would be to call him over so he could watch me deleting Fraser’s email, then deleting it from my deleted folder too. But I can’t do that. Apart from Rosie wanting to meet him, I’m also curious to find out what he’s up to these days. And to ask questions too, of course. I am beside myself with curiosity.