As Good As It Gets? Read online

  I glance at Will. We look like the parents who’ve returned a day early from holiday and walked in to find their home full of unfamiliar teenagers guzzling all the drink and stubbing out fags in the pot pourri. We only came to swell the numbers! I want to explain to a gawping boy with a fuzzy, gingery chin. I glimpse my pallid expression with my ridiculous hair in a cracked mirrored pillar. So that’s what I’d look like embalmed, I muse, hoping it’s just the terribly unkind lighting that’s making me look that way. I seem to be blaming a lot of things on ‘the light’ these days.

  ‘Just going to the loo,’ I tell Liza. In fact, I don’t really need it. What I do need are a few moments to rev myself up for the party at Sabrina and Tommy’s, as Will seems keen to go back to their place. His trousers seem to be impregnating him with an unusual eagerness to party.

  As I stride into the ladies’, the floor of which is entirely covered with sodden loo roll, a boy and a girl emerge, dishevelled, from one of the cubicles. Surely they haven’t just done it, in a stinky basement loo? It seems terribly insalubrious but then, what do I know? And only a few days ago I was seriously considering persuading Will to do it with me in our shed.

  Disconcertingly, as if I’m not here, the couple start snogging hungrily against the chipped basins. I make for a cubicle, inadvertently setting off the roaring hand dryer as I brush past. ‘Oh my God!’ the girl screams, as if she’s been shot. I bolt the wobbly door and plonk myself down on the clammy plastic toilet lid, wondering if it would be so terrible to make my excuses and not to go to the party after all.

  I can’t, of course. My family is going (well, apart from Ollie, who I’d give anything to swap places with right now. Saul still nurtures a slightly furtive love of Lego. I’d rather be building an elaborate space station from coloured bricks than be parked on this rather manky-looking loo). Anyway, it would look pathetic to just limp off home.

  I get up from the loo and stride out, feigning confidence. Things are looking brighter already, I tell myself: the snogging couple have disappeared, and when I find everyone, they’re ready to leave. We all make our way up the spiral metal staircase to street level, where the night air feels fresher than I can ever remember. After the fungal atmosphere of Down Below, it could be the Cotswolds. ‘What a talented son you have,’ I tell Sabrina, meaning it, as we make our way home.

  She smiles proudly. ‘Thanks. They were great, weren’t they?’

  ‘They really were,’ Liza says, and Will murmurs in agreement. Maybe it’ll be fun, I decide, back at Sabrina and Tommy’s: a big group of us, all ages, having fun together instead of Will and I reading our books or watching a box set. In fact, by the time we reach their place I am quite in the mood for a party. Even Will’s trousers seem less startling now. Perhaps they just took a bit of getting used to.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Sabrina trills as she lets us in, although this time there are no overflowing packing cases, or bottles strewn all over the dining table: just a gold vase filled with enormous white lilies emitting a pungent perfume.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. Although they’re not quite my thing – I prefer a jumble of flowers cut from the garden – I can’t deny that it’s an impressive display.

  ‘From Tommy,’ Sabrina announces with a grin. ‘It’s my birthday.’

  ‘Oh, why didn’t you say?’ Will exclaims, turning to me and whispering, ‘We should have got her something.’

  ‘I know,’ I mouth back, remembering him suggesting that we celebrated my 38th birthday by having the cracks filled in our house. Stop this, I tell myself sternly. You’re a grown woman, not a teenager.

  ‘I wish we’d known,’ Will witters on as Sabrina wanders off to fetch drinks.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Her birthday!’

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. I’m sure she won’t mind getting the Tiffany necklace a couple of days late. ‘It doesn’t matter, Will,’ I mutter. ‘She wouldn’t have expected anything from us …’

  ‘I just think it would’ve been nice—’

  ‘Can we leave it please?’ I hiss, at which he mutters something unintelligible. Oh, I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s probably due to the fact that, now I’ve had time to mull things over, I realise I am not completely appalled by the fact that Fraser emailed me. Curiosity, that’s all it is: he meant the world to me once. And, because I know I shouldn’t even be entertaining such thoughts, I’m trying to convince myself that Will – loyal Will, who makes his own strawberry ice cream – is behaving in a similarly devious manner.

  He turns away and falls into conversation with one of the men I vaguely remember from the barbecue. I join Liza and Sabrina, and soon the music’s cranked up; Tommy has appointed himself as DJ for the night, much to the amusement of Zach’s mates. It soon turns into quite a party, yet I can’t quite throw myself into it. Looks like Nina can’t either. I catch her, dolefully checking her phone, while Rosie and Delph are locked in intense conversation.

  It’s nearly midnight when my mobile rings. My stomach does a little lurch when I see that it’s Maria, Saul’s mum. ‘Hi, Maria. Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry, it’s nothing really. I know you’re out tonight. It’s just, Ollie’s not very well. I’m sorry …’

  ‘Oh, I’ll come and get him right away …’ Will gives me a quizzical look as I start to pull on my jacket.

  ‘I’m happy for him to stay,’ Maria says quickly, ‘and he keeps saying he wants to, but he feels terribly hot—’

  ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I’ll be ten minutes at the most.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Will asks, frowning as I finish the call.

  ‘Ollie’s not well. Sounds like he’s running a temperature …’

  ‘I’ll go and get him,’ Will says.

  I shake my head. ‘It’s fine. I’d rather go, honestly. You stay here and have fun.’ I feel bad now, as I kiss his cheek, for my iffy reaction to his trousers and the surges of jealousy I keep experiencing over him just being friendly to Sabrina, when I virtually hauled him over the street to meet her in the first place.

  I really must grow up.

  ‘I’m going to pick up Ollie,’ I tell Rosie. ‘Are you girls ready to come back to ours now?’

  She looks as appalled as if I’d suggested cutting up her food. ‘We can come home on our own, Mum, when we’re ready.’

  ‘Okay, fine. Don’t stay too late, though.’ I hesitate, realising how silly I’m being. Will’s here, and Liza too. Nothing untoward is going to happen. So I say my goodbyes and stride down the street towards Saul’s place, where I find my boy perched on the sofa, jacket on already, looking slightly shrunken. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he grunts.

  ‘Hi, darling. Oh, you poor love. C’mon, let’s get you home …’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ says Maria, a generous woman who’s managed to bring up no less than four children, seemingly without ever raising her voice.

  I smile, grateful for her kindness. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be home in two minutes and a breath of fresh air will do him good.’ I hug her goodbye.

  ‘Such a shame to spoil your night.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ I say truthfully. ‘Honestly, I’d had enough.’

  Back home, it’s clear that Ollie still feels ropey as he lets me fuss around him – tucking him into bed and dabbing at his clammy forehead with a flannel. I miss being able to pamper my kids. I don’t mean the everyday stuff like washing their clothes or making them fried egg on toast. I mean being … motherly. Nursey, almost. I fetch Calpol and perch on the edge of his bed until he starts to doze, then I head downstairs and wonder what to do next.

  Twenty minutes later, Rosie and Delph tumble in in an explosion of giggles. ‘Hi girls,’ I say, wondering if they’ve been drinking, and deciding not to interrogate them – they’re fine, actually. Just high spirited. ‘Where’s Nina?’ I ask.

  ‘Gone home,’ Rosie says airily.

  ‘Really? But I thought she was coming back to ours—’

  ‘Her dad pi
cked her up,’ Delph adds with a smirk, as if this were the most humiliating thing ever.

  I frown at Rosie. ‘You did invite her to stay, didn’t you? I mean, I hope she didn’t feel left out …’

  ‘Mum, she’s sixteen,’ Rosie scoffs, rolling her eyes in Delph’s direction. ‘Of course she didn’t feel left out. She was just being a bit … I dunno …’ She shrugs and turns to Delph. ‘C’mon, let’s go up to my room.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I call after them. ‘D’you want me to bring you up some water?’

  ‘Nah, ’s all right,’ Rosie mutters.

  Then, on the landing – and clearly not caring that I’m within earshot – Delph says, ‘So what d’you think of Sabrina?’

  ‘She’s really nice,’ Rosie replies.

  ‘Isn’t she orange, though? Like, she’s just had a cheap spray tan?’

  ‘Er, I guess so,’ Rosie says, sounding unconvinced.

  ‘She’s tangerine,’ Delph adds, giggling, ‘or satsuma. Or mandarin. What’s the difference anyway? I never understand the difference between all the little orange fruits …’ There’s much laughter as they clatter into Rosie’s room, banging the door behind them.

  As I shower off the mouldy whiff from Down Below – the venue, that is, which I’ve now decided ranks as the worst name ever for a venue – I mull over what’s just happened. Rosie might be tricky, but she rarely has a bad word to say about anyone; it’s one of her loveliest qualities. I can’t believe she’s being so dismissive about Nina either. And Delph should ask Ollie about tangerines, I think huffily. He knows about fruit.

  Back downstairs, I rummage around in the kitchen for something to eat. I don’t fancy crisps. I especially don’t fancy Lobster Bisque flavour. Something warm and soothing is needed … I spot a jar of Ovaltine, untouched for years, and make myself a steaming mugful. Carrying it through to the living room, I perch on the window ledge in the dark, enjoying the malty sweetness of my drink.

  From here I can see straight into Tommy and Sabrina’s living room. Like ours, their place has a big bay window facing the street. Looks like more people have arrived for the party, as the room is pretty crowded now. Although it looks fun, I’d actually rather be sitting here, enjoying the stillness before going to bed. I sip my drink, thinking, well, tonight wasn’t so bad. They’re fun, generous people and I really need to get a grip on myself.

  Their front door opens and Liza emerges, turning to wave at someone in the hallway, then strides off, slender and leggy with her long, light brown hair wafting behind her. I wonder how long Will’s planning to stay. A few people are dancing in the living room now: middle-aged dancing, otherwise known as ‘throwing shapes’. Just as well the girls aren’t witnessing this. Rosie can’t tolerate adults dancing – even me singing along to the radio seems to cause her actual physical pain these days – and, fortunately, Will rarely succumbs.

  He is now, though. Blimey, some fancy shapes are being thrown. Hexagons, maybe. Or – Ollie’s favourite – dodecahedrons, multi-faceted with stabbing motions of the arms, as if he’s trying to swat away moths. Highly unusual behaviour, but it’s definitely Will, gyrating his leather-clad hips and waving his arms in a curious melding of eras and styles.

  It’ll do him good, I tell myself. It’ll get those endorphins flying through his system and hopefully put a smile back on his face. He needs to let off steam – to cast off the shackles of domesticity and pizza-kneading and all that. Christ, I’d be drunk too if I’d spent the best part of six months lashed to the cooker and tugging up dandelions. I’d be going berserk, actually. I might even be giving that recruitment advert for traffic wardens some serious thought. I’d encounter hostility every single day, but would it really be any different from living with a teenager?

  That’s it, I decide: Rosie regards me with at best suspicion, and at worst, outright hostility, as if I am about to fine her – when in fact I am a pretty easy-going mother just going about my daily business. Anyway, Will and I must sit down and have a proper chat about what’s happening with his job applications, and whether he should widen the net a little – be open to possibilities … Maybe he could be a landscape gardener? Or a pizza chef?

  In Tommy and Sabrina’s living room other guests briefly appear, then dip out of sight. The room seems to empty completely, then Will strides back in, not all by himself but clutching a woman tightly to his chest. Her long, tousled hair is mussed all over her face; I have no idea who she is. Bile rises in my throat as he twirls her round in a passionate embrace.

  I don’t mean a tango or any other kind of sexy Latin thing, which would be okay – sort of. I mean, of course he can dance with other women if he wants to. It’s just, he never dances with anyone – not even me – unless he can possibly avoid it. He’ll go round gathering up glasses, or even start washing up; anything rather than be bullied into throwing himself around to some 70s disco tune with a load of pissed adults in someone’s living room. It’s just not his thing. At least, I thought it wasn’t, just as I’d never imagined him breaking into Chrissie Hynde’s wardrobe from 1979 and stealing her trousers …

  Anyway, if we’re going to be technical about it, this isn’t really dancing at all. It’s actually foreplay: i.e., a lot of steamy clutching and – ugh – burying his head between her breasts which jut out from her torso, like weapons. Who is this woman? Sabrina, or one of her friends? Is it that Abs woman? All I can make out is a slender body with pneumatic tits and a big tussle of hair being tossed about the place.

  A cluster of people have appeared in the room and seem to be laughing or applauding. Maybe this is the kind of party game Sabrina and Tommy are into? Perhaps shed sex is just the tip of the iceberg and they’re planning some kind of orgy scenario? The Ovaltine tastes sickly at the back of my throat.

  I should get dressed and go over and usher him home, before he makes a complete tit of himself. But I can’t face marching in, as if I’m his irate mother. Anyway, I told him to stay and enjoy himself. What I should do is stop torturing myself, and staring at this ridiculous spectacle, idiot wife that I am with my stupid aubergine hair. I don’t even like aubergines. What’s the point of a vegetable – sorry, fruit – that you have to sprinkle with salt so as to draw the bitterness out? I am bitter, though. I’m as bitter as the bitterest aubergine, I decide, as tears fuzz my eyes.

  I get up and stride away from the window, then carry my mug upstairs, hoping my husband is at least horribly sweaty and chafey in those leather trousers. I hope he wakes up tomorrow with a terrible crotch rash and has to slosh the rest of that calamine lotion (Sabrina’s calamine lotion) all over his dick. I am already planning my strategy: to be calm and aloof while he lies in bed, horribly hung over and clawing at his angry toilet parts. He has never danced with me that way. Not that I’d want him to – but still. I sip the dregs of my tepid Ovaltine. A bit of milky skin sticks to my lip.

  In our bedroom now, I undress and pull my dressing gown tightly around me, then fetch my laptop and climb into bed with it. Sitting up, cross-legged, I click it on and skim through my inbox. There it is: the message from Fraser.

  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 …

  Tears are spilling onto my cheeks now. I rub them away with the back of my hand. All I can see is Will, pressing his face between that woman’s pointy tits, like a dog trying to snaffle a biscuit that’s slipped between the sofa cushions. What was he thinking? How drunk is he? I’ve been sloshed, yes. Very recently in fact. But I only paddled about in creosote and scared our neighbours.

  I fully understand if you’d rather not be in touch again. I’d just like you to know that I have never forgotten you …

  *

  Before I can even consider what I’m doing, as if I have no control over my fingers at all, I type,

  Hello Fraser,

  Dad passed on your email. Yes, it’s me – I’m Charlotte Bristow now. Quite a surprise to pu
t it mildly but good to hear from you all the same. Anyway, here I am.

  Charlotte

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Will is home. The dancing bear has returned from the woods, having caroused with She-Bear – she’s probably blown on his porridge – and is now making his way unsteadily to the kitchen. At least, I think he is. I am lying, ears pricked, in bed. It’s 2.07 a.m. and I haven’t slept at all. So what to do next?

  Obvious options appear to be: 1. continue to lie here, pretending to be asleep and thus avoiding confrontation, possibly forever. Or, 2. storm downstairs and tell him precisely what I saw. No – can’t do that. I will not admit that, while he attempted to devour some woman’s cleavage, I was staring out through the window, sipping Ovaltine.

  No, I shall just pretend I didn’t see a thing. I’ll carry on with my life, taking care of the kids and going to work; I shall be a model of dignity. On a positive note, at least none of the kids have woken up, despite him clattering about downstairs. It would be bad enough, Rosie and Ollie finding out – but we have a visitor here, who barely knows us. I could do without Delph finding out about Will’s erotic display and spreading it around the modelling world about what an embarrassment Rosie’s dad is. Things are tense enough around here as it is.

  ‘Uhhh …’ There’s a groan from the stairs. Another sound comes: whimpering, like a small injured dog. I slip out of bed and creep towards the landing.

  Will is lying in a heap on the stairs. His hair is askew, plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there’s a drink spillage on the front of his T-shirt. I observe the scene, wondering why I feel so different about my husband, who clearly needs urgent assistance, from when one of the children has hurt themselves or been upset for some reason. It is different, though. Kids need you. They might be unfeeling and selfish and make you crave strong drink, in huge quantities, but they don’t do it on purpose. Once, when I had to fill in a form at the doctors’ reception, I pulled out a tampon instead of a pen from my bag and tried to write with it. ‘That’s not a pen,’ Ollie yelled. ‘That’s one of them things ladies stick up their bums!’ Mortifying, yes, but he was only trying to help.