As Good As It Gets? Read online

  Will shrugs. ‘What did you tell her then?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything. It’s not as if she was offering Rosie an actual job or a contract or however they do it. I mean, she wasn’t about to drag her off by her hair and throw her onto a catwalk …’ He flares his nostrils, a relatively new habit of his. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘I said we’d think it over.’

  ‘What is there to think about?’ Will asks. ‘You know what the modelling world’s like …’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say firmly, ‘and neither do you.’

  He turns to me, eyes guarded. ‘Well, I can imagine. Half a tomato a day, hoovering up a ton of coke—’

  ‘What?’ I splutter. ‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. And what about photographers preying on young girls?’

  Deep breath. Keep calm. Focus on the blue haze of cornflowers. ‘Well, yes, I s’pose that does happen occasionally …’

  ‘And you’d be okay with that, would you?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t. God. What a thing to say, Will!’ I glare at him, knowing he’s only acting this way because he’s concerned, and wants the best for Rosie. However, he wasn’t snippy like this when he had barely a moment to himself, often working evenings and weekends if Greenspace required it. And, whilst I’m hugely impressed that he’s learnt how to make food shoot up from the earth, I also worry that he’s become a little … anchorless. ‘Face is a proper agency,’ I add huffily. ‘The woman gave me her card.’

  ‘Oh, her card! She couldn’t have faked that then.’

  ‘You’re suggesting she prints up bogus cards to lure girls to her office?’

  Will shrugs again. ‘Maybe.’

  I clamp my back teeth together and fix my gaze on our unlovely shed which is huddled, slowly sagging and rotting, at the bottom of the garden. ‘Look,’ I say carefully, ‘this obviously means a lot to Rosie. You should have seen her – she was thrilled to bits. I’m not madly keen on the idea either, but I think it’s only fair to let her visit the agency so we can find out what it’s all about.’ Will slides his gaze towards me. ‘It’s just a chat,’ I add. ‘I know you’re being protective, but surely you realise I’d never say yes if I thought she was going to be exploited in any way …’

  Will digs a trainer toe into the gravel path. ‘Sorry. You’re right. I’m just being a jerk.’

  I link my arm through his. His arms are lightly tanned, his skin warm to the touch. ‘No, you’re not. You’re her dad and you love her and just want to keep her safe.’

  He musters a smile. ‘Wonder what Mum’ll have to say?’

  ‘God, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Gloria, my mother-in-law, was a beauty queen in the 70s and she’s coming round later for dinner. I can’t decide whether her input will be helpful; she’s never seemed especially keen to discuss her glamorous past. But maybe, as it concerns Rosie, she’ll be happy to offer advice.

  Then it hits me: my friend Liza’s daughter, Scarlett, appeared in a couple of catalogues before going to university. Liza will have a more up-to-date view of modelling than Gloria does and, more importantly, she’s brilliant company and gets along with everyone. I call her to invite her to dinner and, thankfully, she sounds delighted to come. Diluting the mother-in-law effect, I think it’s called.

  Chapter Three

  Gloria’s golden hair – it’s actually gold, rather than merely blonde – is set in stiff waves, as if piped on top of her head. She has a neat, narrow nose and large, carefully made-up pale blue eyes, involving several toning shades of iridescent shadow. The overall effect is of refined beauty, although, if small children were around, you’d be worried that they might cut themselves on her cheekbones. ‘Hello, Gloria,’ I say, kissing her powdered cheek. ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘You too,’ she says briskly. ‘That’s a very pretty dress.’ Reed thin and wearing a peach blouse and immaculate navy blue trouser suit, she eyes my pistachio Ghost dress. I still love it, despite it being of a similar vintage to Guinness, who’s reappeared, still being cradled by Rosie as she greets her grandma. I reassure myself that a girl who still adores her bunny is unlikely to have her head turned by a load of coke-hoovering fashion types.

  I also note that Will appears to have acquired a new jumper at some point during his trip to collect Gloria, which is odd. Even stranger, it’s identical to the one I bought for his birthday.

  ‘Present from Mum,’ he says, giving me a wink. ‘She wanted to make sure it fitted.’

  ‘Doesn’t it suit him?’ she observes.

  ‘Er, yes, it really does,’ I reply, trying to keep down a smirk. ‘You have lovely taste, Gloria.’

  She smiles and eagerly snatches the glass of wine he offers her. ‘Now you mustn’t keep topping me up, Will.’ Enthusiastic sip. ‘I’m not supposed to be drinking, you know. My nutritionist …’ Massive gulp. ‘Mmm, it does smell good in here …’

  ‘All Will’s work,’ I explain. ‘He’s doing roast chicken and all these clever things with vegetables. Me and Rosie have been out shopping …’

  ‘… Spending your money, Will?’ she titters, a comment so clearly ill-chosen it causes sweat to spring from my armpits. ‘Oh, I know you work hard, Charlotte,’ she adds, ‘at that … place.’ You’d think, by the accompanying curl of her lip, that she means a sauna or lapdancing club. In fact it’s a crisp factory in Essex. A posh crisp factory, I might add, offering fancy varieties such as crushed pink peppercorn and the alarming-sounding lobster bisque. It’s all very upmarket. In fact we don’t even call them crisps but hand-cooked potato chips. But they’re still basically fried potatoes, and my job is to market them. I am a flogger of fat-drenched Maris Pipers coming in at around 1025 calories per family pack, and Gloria, whose diet appears to consist mainly of Chilean sauvignon and the occasional olive, cannot bring herself to speak of it.

  ‘So how is the job-hunting going, Will?’ she asks, turning to her son.

  ‘Really well, thanks,’ Will replies, peering through the oven’s glass door.

  ‘Any interviews yet?’

  I see his jaw tighten as he straightens up. Now I realise why he invited Gloria over this evening instead of tomorrow. While he’s always been happy to take care of her – especially since his father died four years ago – he couldn’t face being grilled about his future career plans on his actual birthday. ‘I’m sure something’ll come up soon,’ he replies firmly as Ollie and I set the kitchen table and Rosie returns Guinness to the utility room.

  ‘Have you thought about the police force?’ Gloria asks, glugging more wine.

  Will grimaces. ‘It’s not quite my area of expertise, Mum.’

  ‘I know that,’ she concedes, ‘but they have excellent training and pension schemes …’

  ‘Isn’t Dad a bit old to be a cop?’ Ollie asks.

  ‘Thanks, Ollie,’ Will chuckles, giving me a look.

  ‘Well, I’m sure they do a mature entry scheme,’ she goes on, clearly an expert in such matters. ‘Or what about the prison service?’

  ‘Dad can’t work in a prison!’ Rosie exclaims with a loud guffaw.

  Gloria frowns. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’ Rosie smirks. ‘I just … can’t imagine it.’

  ‘Working with a load of murderers,’ Ollie adds, eyes widening. ‘That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it, Dad?’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Will agrees, turning his attention to a saucepan of gravy on the hob.

  ‘But what if he was attacked?’ Rosie asks. ‘Can you imagine Dad managing to fight someone off?’ Both she and Ollie peal with laughter.

  ‘Well, er, I’d imagine that’s not necessary,’ Gloria says curtly.

  ‘He’d be scared witless,’ Ollie adds.

  ‘Thanks, everyone,’ Will cuts in, pushing back his dark hair with an oven-gloved hand. ‘I do appreciate all your career advice but don’t worry, I actually have everything under control …’ Really? I’d love to believe it’s true. He brightens as Liza
arrives, greeting us with a bottle of wine and hugs all round – even Gloria, as if she’s an old friend – and having the miraculous effect of instantly lightening the atmosphere. Fair and pretty with a slim, boyish body, Liza looks a decade younger than her fifty-two years. She never bothers with make-up beyond a lick of mascara. Her lilac embroidered top and skinny jeans were probably thrown on, but she looks radiant and lovely. Liza calls herself a ‘slasher’; i.e., Spanish-teacher-slash-yoga-instructor-slash-wholefood-store-employee. Her life is full and varied and she seems to thrive on it. I start to relax as we catch up on each other’s news; unlike Gloria, Liza knows to avoid quizzing Will directly about his job hunt.

  ‘So, how are you, Rosie?’ she asks as Will and I bring a myriad of dishes to the table.

  Rosie grins, taking the seat next to her. ‘I got scouted today. A woman from an agency thought I could be a model.’

  ‘Wow!’ Liza looks impressed. ‘Are you going to do it?’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ she exclaims.

  ‘Well, um, we still need to talk about that,’ I say quickly.

  ‘I was the same,’ Liza remarks, smiling her thanks as Will fills her wine glass. ‘Freaked out when Scarlett first mentioned it. Remember she entered that competition without telling me? And then only went and won?’

  I laugh. ‘But you knew she could look after herself …’

  ‘… And so can Rosie.’ She turns to my daughter. ‘You’ll be fine, honey. You’ll be an amazing model …’

  ‘It’s not a fait accompli, Liza,’ Will remarks.

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Rosie rolls her eyes. ‘You did some modelling, didn’t you, Grandma? Weren’t you in pageants or something when you were young?’

  Gloria purses her lips. ‘That’s the American term. We called them beauty contests and yes, I did take part in a few …’

  ‘You’re beautiful, Gloria,’ Liza says truthfully. ‘I can imagine you all glammed up.’

  ‘Wasn’t it fun?’ Rosie asks. Gloria pauses to tip the rest of her wine down her throat, seemingly without making any swallowing motion at all.

  ‘No,’ she says finally, ‘it certainly wasn’t.’

  We all stare at her. ‘Why not?’ Ollie asks.

  ‘Was it horribly pressurised?’ Will enquires gently. ‘I can imagine it was a very competitive world.’

  She emits a little cough, as if preparing to make an important announcement. ‘No, it wasn’t that. I was very successful actually. I was Miss Foil Wrap in 1972 …’ To avoid an attack of the giggles, I focus hard on the deliciousness of Will’s glazed carrots.

  ‘What’s foil wrap?’ Ollie wants to know.

  ‘You know, foil,’ I explain, ‘like you wrap a chicken in.’

  Confused, Ollie peers at her. ‘Why did they have a “Miss Foil Wrap”?’

  ‘I was a brand ambassador,’ Gloria says grandly. ‘For the sashing ceremony I wore a dress entirely made of foil.’

  ‘Wow,’ Rosie breathes. ‘Bet that was amazing.’

  ‘Very futuristic,’ Will says with a grin, but Gloria’s face has clouded. Maybe she thinks he’s taking the piss. She has that effect: of making those around her feel intensely uncomfortable, without actually doing very much. I note that, while the rest of us have been tucking into Will’s delicious roast dinner, she has consumed a sliver of chicken roughly the size of a fingernail clipping.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘it wasn’t. An unfortunate incident happened, but I don’t want to talk about it in front of the children.’ Now, of course, we’re all agog.

  ‘We’re not children,’ Rosie points out gently. ‘I’m sixteen, Grandma. I’m not shockable, honest …’

  Gloria shakes her head and pushes away her plate.

  ‘Did the foil rip?’ Ollie asks. ‘Did everyone see your—’

  ‘Ollie,’ I say sharply, although I’m as keen as he is to hear the story. ‘Just leave it, love. I don’t think Grandma wants to—’

  ‘I mean,’ he goes on, mouth crammed with roast potato, ‘foil’s just thin aluminium. We did the properties of metals at school. I s’pose it’s good for a dress, though, ’cause it doesn’t rust …’

  Will clears his throat. ‘I think we can move on from the foil now, Ollie.’

  ‘No,’ Gloria says tersely, ‘it’s quite all right. I will tell you what happened, but only because I hope it’ll serve as a warning to Rosie.’

  A rapt silence descends, interrupted only by the rustle of Guinness shuffling about in his box. ‘Grandma …?’ Rosie prompts her.

  Gloria twiddles her empty glass. ‘I was accosted.’

  ‘You mean during a contest?’ I gasp, wishing now that we’d never brought this up.

  ‘No, at a photo call,’ Gloria explains. ‘All the local papers were there. Everyone. It was a major event. All the reporters wanted to talk to me. And there was a nasty little man from the Sorrington Bugle …’

  I glance at Will in alarm. Poor Gloria. She’s clearly harboured an unspeakable secret all these years. Maybe that’s what’s caused her to develop a rather critical edge.

  ‘Mum,’ Will says, ‘you needn’t talk about it. We don’t want to stir up horrible memories for you.’

  She peers down at her lap. ‘It’s okay. If Rosie’s even considering modelling, then I think she should know about this …’

  ‘What did the man do?’ Ollie asks eagerly, tilting his head.

  ‘He … poked me.’

  Oh, Christ. Does that mean what I think it means? Now I’m slugging my wine, Gloria-style.

  ‘Where?’ Rosie asks, aghast.

  ‘In the car park in front of everybody.’

  ‘With his Sorrington Bugle?’ Ollie blurts out, crumpling with laughter.

  ‘Ollie!’ I bark at him. ‘It’s not funny, you know, being poked—’

  ‘I mean where in the body, Grandma,’ Rosie explains as I top up the adults’ glasses with wine, except for Will’s, as he’s driving his mother home to East Finchley later. I catch him eyeing the wine bottle greedily.

  ‘In the bottom, darling,’ Gloria replies, mouthing the word bottom in the way that people say tumour.

  ‘Were you still wearing the aluminium dress?’ Ollie asks.

  ‘Yes, that’s right—’

  ‘Did he make a hole in it with his finger?’

  ‘Ollie, that’s enough, thank you,’ Will says firmly. ‘I think we’ve heard all we need to about the dress.’

  ‘So, um … is that why you gave up, Grandma?’ Rosie asks, clearly having difficulty keeping a straight face.

  ‘Well, no,’ Gloria replies. ‘I became a Mum. Will was my priority and of course, my figure was never the same after that …’

  Will catches my eye. Sorry, he mouths, making me smile.

  ‘So now you know what can happen in the modelling world,’ Gloria adds. ‘It’s not safe, Rosie. There are people out there who’ll want to take advantage of a beautiful young girl like you.’

  Rosie turns to me with a stricken face.

  ‘Of course, Gloria,’ Liza starts, ‘no one should think it’s acceptable to behave in that way …’

  ‘I agree,’ Will cuts in, ‘so, obviously, Rosie shouldn’t get involved.’

  ‘What?’ she gasps. ‘You mean we can’t even go to the agency?’

  ‘Well,’ he starts, ‘I don’t think it’s—’

  ‘Dad, that’s not fair! Please!’

  He frowns, catching my eye in a silent plea for me to back him up.

  ‘Horrible little man,’ Gloria mutters. ‘I always remember he wore a banana yellow tie—’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Rosie cries. ‘No one cares what I think. You’re all discussing this as if it was nothing to do with me at all!’

  ‘Rosie,’ I say quickly, ‘we’ll talk about this later, okay?’

  ‘Dad’s saying no,’ she wails, ‘because of something that happened, like, fifty years ago!’

  ‘Forty-three actually,’ Gloria murmurs, placing her cutlery neatly on her plate.


  Rosie doesn’t appear to have heard her. ‘For God’s sake, Dad. Things are different now …’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ollie cuts in. ‘Everyone was a perv in the seventies. It was on the news, they’ve got this thing called Operation Yew Tree where they’re rounding them all up—’

  ‘Good God,’ Will mutters as we clear the table together and he sets down the chocolate cake he made earlier. While it’s normally one of my favourite things, right now I’m not sure I can stomach a crumb. What on earth made me think it would be helpful to chat to Gloria about modelling?

  ‘This looks amazing,’ Liza enthuses, darting me a quick look. I glance at Rosie, whose eyes are brimming with tears.

  ‘Mum,’ she mutters, glaring at Will’s cake as if he’d scraped it up off the pavement, ‘tell Dad how nice Laurie was.’

  I look at both of them, trapped in the middle as I so often seem to be these days. They adore each other, but recently, during their frequent spats, I’ve noticed Will stepping carefully around Rosie as if she were made of the finest porcelain. And I’ve begun to suspect that there’s something else she wants to add, but doesn’t quite dare: You’re not my real dad so you can’t tell me what to do.

  ‘The seventies were well weird,’ Ollie continues cheerfully. ‘Everyone wore massive flares and there was this programme on telly with these little pink creatures on another planet. We saw it at the TV museum. They didn’t even speak …’

  ‘The Clangers,’ I mutter.

  ‘All paedos,’ Ollie observes.

  ‘The Clangers weren’t paedos,’ I retort. ‘They were innocent little knitted mice …’

  Liza turns to Gloria. ‘Er, I don’t mean to belittle your experience, and I’m sure it was traumatic …’ Gloria nods. ‘… But my daughter Scarlett did some modelling too, before she went to Bristol. She had a fantastic time and saved all her earnings and she’s paying her own way through university. It’s meant she hasn’t had to take out a loan.’

  Rosie’s eyes widen. ‘Wasn’t she in some catalogues?’

  Liza nods. ‘Yes. Boden, mostly—’