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  ‘We’re getting quite a stockpile,’ Will remarks, opening a cupboard to illustrate his point. Sure enough, it’s jammed with Archie’s premium products. A stranger might surmise that a member of our family was suffering from a hoarding disorder or, quite simply, an obsession with crisps. Trouble is, Will and the kids don’t really go for crisps of any kind – sick to the back teeth of them, probably. As a result, we are now ‘approaching critical mass’, as he puts it.

  He picks up a lump of pizza dough from the bowl and drops it on the table with a dull thud. I hate it when he’s like this. Maybe it’s nothing to do with Fraser’s email, or even me, but his age, his hormones – dwindling testosterone levels, perhaps. But of course, a man who’s acting all frosty and distant is never hormonal. He’s just a bit tired, or thinking.

  ‘We should do stuff with the crisps,’ I suggest.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well … we should be inventive.’

  He starts to knead the dough rather aggressively. ‘What d’you have in mind?’

  ‘Er … I don’t know. One of the girls made crisp cookies at the show …’

  ‘Crisp cookies,’ he repeats, curling his lip as if I’d said pancakes, with a smearing of dung.

  ‘It might sound weird,’ I continue, ‘but the combination of oats and raisins and salty little crispy bits is absolutely delicious …’

  ‘Crisp cookies,’ Will repeats again, like a malfunctioning robot. ‘Crisp cookies? Are they really a thing?’

  ‘Yes, but it was just an idea,’ I mutter, wishing now that I’d left the damn packets at work.

  ‘Hmm,’ Will says.

  ‘A crisp pizza could be interesting,’ I add lamely. ‘Anyway, don’t bother cooking for me if you and Ollie have already eaten …’ That’s another thing: I’ve spotted two dirty plates in the sink. Usually, Will doesn’t make dinner until I’m home from work. Look at me, his martyred kneading tells me, making a second meal like a bloody underpaid short-order cook …

  ‘It’s fine,’ he mutters, fetching his kilner jar of fresh tomato and basil sauce from the fridge. ‘Oh, and I meant to say – Tricia’s been over, going on about us chipping in to install CCTV out the back …’

  ‘CCTV? What would we want that for?’

  Will shrugs.

  ‘I mean, we’ve got nothing to steal,’ I point out.

  ‘She was still going on about intruders in our garden …’

  ‘Probably just some drunk teenagers,’ I remark, pretending to study a packet of Sea Salt and Balsamic as if I’ve never seen such a thing before.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’ He dollops sauce straight from the jar onto the base so it puddles unfetchingly, then mozzarella is ripped up at speed and dropped on. The few remaining leaves of our wilting basil plant are torn off with such force, the whole plant topples out of its little plastic pot. I have witnessed Pizza Express chefs exhibiting more pride in their work.

  ‘We could try crisp omelettes sometime,’ I blurt out into the anxious air.

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Crisp omelettes. They’re surprisingly good. Or, d’you remember this from Blue Peter, when they covered a loaf with soft cheese and then rolled it in broken crisps, so it looked like a sort of spiky hedgehog?’ There’s a rap at the door. Grateful to escape Will’s withering stare, I rush to answer it.

  ‘Sabrina, hi, come in …’ As she strides into our kitchen, smiling broadly, I swear Will’s stony expression melts: the first glimmer of warmth in forty-eight hours.

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she says, looking delightful in a blue patterned wrap dress, hair pulled up with wavy fronds dancing delightfully around her face.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I say. ‘Come on in. Will’s just making pizza …’

  ‘Isn’t he a marvel in the kitchen?’ She gazes at my misshapen dinner as he transports it to the oven.

  He grins bashfully. ‘Would you like one, Sabrina? There’s plenty of dough left.’

  ‘Oh …’ She winces. ‘I shouldn’t really but Tommy’s still away and I was just going to have a sandwich. You know how it is. I hate cooking actually …’

  ‘Yes, Charlotte’s like that …’ Hey, what about the thousands of dinners I made when he was gainfully employed at Greenspace Heritage? All the millions of sausages grilled and potatoes mashed? My hair stank of pork, and I nearly gave myself tennis elbow with that darn masher! Granted, they weren’t quite the offerings of a kitchen marvel, but no one starved. As Will starts kneading the dough – caressing it, actually, with his big, manly hands – I silently forbid myself from opening the fridge, snatching the half-bottle of pinot which I know is nestling there and upending it into my mouth.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you about Zach’s next gig,’ Sabrina says, perching on the edge of the table. ‘They’re playing on Thursday night in some divey pub, not too far away from here. Ticket sales are awfully slow, and after all their rehearsing I hate to think of them playing to a couple of bored bar staff plus Tommy and me …’

  I can tell Will’s not fully listening because he’s now fondling the dough, swooping his hands over its curves while pretending, perhaps, that this isn’t the trusty base from our battered old copy of Jamie’s Italian, but one of Sabrina’s pert breasts.

  I watch him, agog, and check his face for evidence of arousal. He’s flushed, certainly, and his pupils look dilated to me. I lower my gaze to check whether there’s any untoward activity in the trouser department. But without going over and peering directly at his crotch, it’s impossible to tell.

  Sabrina is chattering on about Zach’s gig, but I’m finding it hard to focus. Catching me scrutinising him, Will throws me a curious look. Then he rolls out the dough into a perfect circle and gives it a final, unnecessary tweak before lovingly painting on sauce with his pastry brush. Cheese is added, then – the climax of his performance – a liberal dribbling of oil, the posh Tuscan stuff which he’s always a bit iffy about me using, and didn’t put on my pizza. ‘There,’ he says, sounding exceedingly pleased with himself. I almost expect the pizza to emit a little sigh.

  ‘So, er, Zach’s gig,’ I prompt Sabrina.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Bit of a disaster-in-waiting, I think. Don’t suppose you’d both like to come?’ She flashes a hopeful smile. It is, I remind myself, ridiculous to suspect that she fancies Will, or vice versa. She is being friendly and neighbourly and is only inviting us to her son’s gig, for goodness’ sake.

  ‘Er, yeah,’ Will says, sounding less than sure. ‘I don’t see any reason why not, do you, Charlotte?’

  In fact, I can think of one major reason: Zach is a teenager, and I’d imagine his band make teenage music, and we’ll feel about a thousand years old. ‘Sounds great,’ I say firmly.

  ‘What about Rosie?’ Sabrina asks. ‘She could bring a few friends, boost the numbers—’

  ‘She should be back pretty soon,’ Will says. ‘I’m sure she’d love to come.’

  ‘It was her first modelling job today,’ I explain while Will checks our pizzas in the oven. ‘They were shooting at Cambersands. She’s being dropped off on the way back.’

  ‘How exciting!’ Sabrina says with genuine pleasure. ‘Can’t wait to hear about it.’ Then, right on cue, the door bursts open and in Rosie stomps, muttering a quick hello before clattering up to her room.

  I grimace at Will and step out to the hallway. ‘Rosie?’ I call up. ‘How did it go? What were the clothes like?’

  ‘Nuttin’,’ she barks.

  I go back into the kitchen and sigh. ‘I know this sounds awful, Sabrina, but sometimes I can’t wait until she’s about twenty-five and we can talk normally again – you know, communicate, using proper words …’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she laughs as Will places our pizzas on the table. She tears into hers with gusto, making appreciative noises as she munches away.

  Will looks at me. ‘Sorry yours is a bit burnt.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I like it like this.’ I force a smile as I ha
ck through the blackened crust.

  ‘Do you?’ Sabrina asks. ‘Tommy’s like that. Likes everything charred – virtually incinerated. I’m always on at him about it because everyone knows burnt food can cause cancer …’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ I say, ‘and it’s not that burnt.’ I mean, it hasn’t quite been reduced to ash.

  ‘Hi.’ Rosie has reappeared in the doorway. She is milky-pale and looks utterly worn out.

  ‘So how did it go?’ Will asks, handing her a mug of tea. ‘Want some pizza? Or something else?’

  ‘We had burgers after the shoot.’ Her mouth sets in a grim line.

  ‘So, tell us all about the clothes,’ Sabrina chips in. ‘What did you wear?’

  ‘Nuttin’.’

  I frown at her. ‘Nothing? You weren’t naked, were you?’

  ‘No,’ she splutters, ‘I said knitting, Mum. We were shooting for a wool company and it was all jumpers and cardis and hats. Can you imagine wearing horrible hairy wool on a day like this?’

  ‘Oh, you poor love,’ Sabrina exclaims.

  ‘It was the hottest day of the year,’ Rosie bleats. ‘I thought I was going to die!’

  ‘But I thought it was for some Italian designer?’ Will says.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Laurie said the client was Giordano and I just assumed it was an Italian label, and it turned out it is – but for knitting.’

  ‘You mean it’s a wool company?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ She nods glumly.

  ‘At least it was a job,’ Will remarks, ‘and you’ve started earning … and it’s all experience isn’t it?’

  Rosie emits a strangled gasp. ‘Dad, I’m going to be in a knitting magazine! What if people see?’ Good lord: one tiddly modelling job and she’s already developed a sort of flounce.

  He shrugs. ‘Well, if you’re a model, then people are going to see your picture, aren’t they? It’s an occupational hazard, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Yeah, but wearing a big sweaty jumper with a stupid knitted belt? And mittens?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Who’s going to see it? Who, out of all of your friends, actually knits?’

  She sniffs loudly. ‘No one.’

  ‘There you go then,’ Will remarks. ‘You’re perfectly safe. Anyway, like we said from the start, if you feel remotely uncomfortable about it, then just stop. It’s totally your call.’

  ‘S’pose so,’ Rosie says reluctantly, flopping onto the chair next to Sabrina. ‘Look, though. Look what happened to me.’ She pulls up her T-shirt sleeve and shows Sabrina – not me, her own mother, who birthed her – her right armpit.

  ‘Oooh, that’s nasty,’ Sabrina sympathises.

  ‘A heat rash by the look of it,’ I suggest, peering at the mottled skin. ‘You need calamine lotion …’

  ‘Do we have any?’

  ‘No, but I can get some tomorrow—’

  ‘We have,’ Sabrina announces, leaping up. ‘Had to buy some for Tommy after he lay out in the garden last weekend, burnt himself to a cinder, the silly bugger.’ She laughs. ‘Too macho for sunscreen. I’ll just pop over and get it – oh, and before I forget, Rosie, would you like to come to Zach’s gig on Thursday night?’

  ‘Yeah, cool,’ she says, rash momentarily forgotten as Ollie wanders in with Saul in his wake, both clutching steaming cartons of chips despite having eaten earlier. Colossal appetites, the pair of them, yet each weighs about the same as a runner bean.

  Sabrina darts off, returning with medical supplies and dabbing the lotion onto my daughter’s armpit while I watch, pretending to adopt a supervisory role. ‘That’s much better,’ Rosie says gratefully. ‘Thanks, Sabrina. It’s really cooled it down.’

  ‘Aw, you’re welcome,’ Sabrina says.

  Will chuckles. ‘At least someone brings something useful into this house.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Dad?’ Rosie asks.

  He smirks. ‘Mum’s brought home a load of reject crisps again, and you’d better watch out—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s planning to turn them into biscuits,’ he says, at which everyone hoots with laughter, including me, to show what a jolly good sport I am.

  Chapter Twenty

  While I might have failed on the calamine lotion front, I have to say I do put on an excellent end-of-term gathering. Something of a tradition – it’s always assumed we’ll host it, which I love – these events began as jelly-splattered affairs which Tricia and Gerald would observe, fearfully, over the fence (quite possibly giving silent thanks to the fact that they’d settled on raising Nipper rather than producing any human children of their own). These days, Will and I are expected to strew the garden with cushions, pile the table with good things to eat, then quietly melt away into the background, like impeccably-trained staff.

  If fact, as I’m a little concerned that Will is beginning to feel like the kitchen serf around here, I’ve prepared today’s food and taken some time off work to give him a break. I’m sure my offspring will be thrilled to have me around at the start of the holidays. It’s a warm, hazy Wednesday afternoon. Liza has arrived to help out, and Ollie and Rosie’s friends have descended – including Zach, who’s clearly enjoying being the centre of attention. He is, admittedly, a very good-looking boy, in a rather brooding, malnourished kind of way. He makes the other boys present – perfectly average-sized urban kids – look extremely robust in comparison.

  The arrival of a delicate blonde girl causes even more of a stir. ‘This is Delph,’ Rosie announces. ‘We worked together on that shoot …’

  ‘That awful shoot!’ Delph exclaims, scanning the garden and looking, it has to be said, mightily unimpressed by either the guests or surroundings, it’s impossible to tell. She is astonishingly pretty with golden hair which hangs in a silken sheet all the way down to her bum – the world’s teeniest bum, I’d wager, clad in denim cut-offs the size of a pencil case.

  ‘What was so bad about it?’ Zach asks.

  ‘It was hell,’ she retorts, at which Ollie – God, I love that boy to pieces – sidles over and says, ‘I thought you went to the seaside?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Delph rolls her eyes as if to say, And who are you?

  ‘We had to wear mittens,’ Rosie tells Zach, looking less than comfortable about her new friend making such a fuss.

  There’s a ripple of laughter. ‘So?’ Saul says.

  ‘So,’ Delph retorts, ‘it was hot! Would you like to wear mittens on the hottest day of the year?’

  ‘If I was paid, I would,’ Ollie replies with a shrug. ‘I’d wear a big woolly hat as well. I’d wear anything for money—’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Delph retorts, linking Rosie’s arm and whisking her away from the riff-raff, ‘maybe next time you could do it. I’ll put a word in for you with my agency. I heard they were looking for annoying brats for Littlewoods’ schoolwear adverts …’

  Blimey, that was unnecessary. I glance at Liza; after running back and forth with the food, we’re taking a breather on a rug at the bottom of the garden. ‘Not sure about Rosie’s new friend,’ I murmur.

  ‘Doesn’t seem her usual type,’ Liza agrees. We watch as Nina hovers around them, obviously feeling a little pushed aside in favour of the exotic newcomer.

  ‘Liza,’ I add, dropping my voice to a whisper, ‘something happened when I was at Mum and Dad’s …’

  ‘What?’ She frowns.

  ‘Rosie’s dad got in touch. Fraser, I mean …’

  ‘No! How?’

  ‘Through Dad. He managed to find his email address. Asked if I want to meet up sometime.’

  ‘You mean, casually? As if you’re old school friends or something?’

  ‘Sort of, yes. It was a bit odd actually. He said something about us being young and scared and making mistakes …’

  She blows out air. ‘The mistake he made was fucking off when you needed him.’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’


  ‘I’m not sure yet. Will didn’t take it too well, understandably. But Rosie asked about meeting him recently. It’s obviously playing on her mind. I haven’t even told Will about that …’ I cut off abruptly as he approaches with a plate of cookies and three beers.

  ‘Party’s a bit different this year,’ he observes with a wry smile, handing us a bottle of Corona each and reclining beside us.

  I nod. ‘Remember when the highlight was the boys building that enormous den? Seems like only last summer …’

  ‘We’re not completely past it, though,’ he adds, offering Liza a cookie. ‘We’re going to a gig tomorrow night.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Liza splutters.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘It’s Zach’s band,’ I explain. ‘We’ve been asked along to boost the numbers.’

  Will grimaces. ‘Can we possibly get out of it, d’you think?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I say, pleased that he’s not exactly overjoyed at the thought of more Sabrina-time. Although I do like her, I was also slightly relieved that she didn’t show up today. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to come?’ I ask Liza.

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re always out seeing bands,’ Will adds. ‘You can give us tips on how to behave.’

  ‘Like, do we stage dive?’ I ask.

  She laughs and bites into a biscuit. ‘Just try and look a bit rock ‘n’ roll, Will.’

  ‘Seriously?’ he exclaims with a trace of alarm.

  ‘No, Christ – I’m joking. Just relax and have a good time.’ She pauses, munching on her cookie. ‘Ooh, these are amazing, Will. Kind of salty-sweet. What’s in them?’

  ‘They’re all Charlotte’s work, actually,’ he admits.

  ‘See?’ I say, laughing. ‘They are good. They’re crisp cookies. Ready salted with raisins. Will thought I was out of my mind …’

  I look at him and he smiles back – smiles properly, I mean. Fondly, the way he used to. My heart lifts; it’s all going to be fine, I tell myself, drinking in the scene in our garden. My culinary experiment worked. As I’ve never made cookies that people actually wanted to eat before, I take this to be a very good omen indeed. It means Fraser won’t contact me again, and Rosie will perform an about-turn and decide she doesn’t want to meet him after all.