As Good As It Gets? Page 7

  The three of us wait uncertainly as Laurie falls into an unintelligible exchange about rates and options with one of the girls at the table. I’d hardly expected to waltz in here and blend right in. But I hadn’t expected to feel quite so … alien. I wish I’d made an effort, like Will has, and changed out of my work clothes. My cream shirt and black needlecord skirt looked fine this morning. Now, though, I’m conscious of a distinct ‘I spent the morning in a crisp factory in Essex’ air about myself. I also wish I’d cleaned my teeth when I got home. What if I smell of cheddar and vintage ale?

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Laurie says, beckoning us into a smaller, glass-walled office furnished with an acid-yellow coffee table and two squashy, pale grey sofas. ‘It’s less shouty in here,’ she adds. We arrange ourselves on the sofas. On the white walls are several framed magazine covers and adverts, the most prominent featuring a not entirely unpleasant-looking young man wearing nothing but a pair of snugly fitting white Armani briefs. ‘So, Rosie,’ Laurie says, ‘did you bring some photos?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie says, sounding a little breathless. She delves into her battered suede bag and pulls out a small plastic wallet of snapshots. ‘Sorry, they’re not very good,’ she murmurs.

  ‘These are fine,’ Laurie says, flicking through them quickly: Rosie on holiday in Brittany last summer, when we could still afford holidays, and sitting cross-legged on a rug in our overgrown garden, pre its Will-instigated make-over. In the background are Ollie’s old, sun-faded plastic tractor and a wash stand draped with knickers and bras. It looks a little tawdry. ‘You have a lovely face,’ Laurie muses, ‘but would you mind taking your make-up off please?’

  ‘Oh.’ Rosie throws me a startled glance. ‘I already did.’

  Laurie smiles kindly. ‘It’s just, I need the team to see the real you, darling, and you still have quite a lot of eye make-up on. Come on, I’ll show you to the bathroom. There’s cleanser and wipes in there. And don’t worry, girls do this all the time. You tell them natural and they come in absolutely caked.’ We all laugh stiffly as Rosie and Laurie head for the loos.

  ‘When are Chanel going to confirm if they want Courtney?’ yells someone in the main office. I glance at Will and squeeze his hand.

  ‘Hey,’ he says with a wry smile.

  ‘This is a bit weird, isn’t it?’

  He nods, then indicates pants-man on the wall. ‘Maybe I should give it a go?’

  I chuckle. ‘I’m sure they’d snap you up.’

  ‘Seriously, d’you think this place is okay? I mean, is it a proper, bona fide company?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry – I’ve checked.’ In fact, Rosie isn’t the only one who’s been conducting a little research about the modelling business. I’ve learnt from late-night Googling sessions that Face is a highly-respected establishment, and not one of those rogue agencies where they’ll say, ‘Of course you can be a model at four-foot-eleven, height doesn’t matter at all’ – then politely ask for £950 to ‘cover costs’ and ping you back out, cackling at your gullibility, with no more hope of becoming a model than being asked to take over the helm of the BBC. I’ve also discovered that Face represents many ‘top girls’, and that a gap between the front teeth is very ‘now’, along with fierce eyebrows and cheekbones like knives. It’s all very mysterious – the idea that certain types of facial features fall in and out of fashion, like clothes – and, although I’m reluctant to admit it, it’s quite fascinating in a perverse sort of way. I’ve found myself reading about famous models and their ‘industry’ (a word I’d formerly associated with car manufacturing plants, belching fumes), and tried to figure out how Rosie might fit into all of that, and how it might affect our family. Admittedly, I’m nervous. Everything feels a little precarious as it is.

  ‘Look,’ I whisper. ‘D’you think she’s a new girl too?’

  We both watch as a tall, teenage girl with a froth of blonde curls wanders into the main office with her mum (not both parents, I note). ‘Yeah, poor thing looks terrified,’ Will notes. ‘You have to ask yourself if it’s good for girls of that age to be judged on their looks. I mean, they’re self-conscious enough as it is. Then they’re thrown into this world where they’re going to be scrutinised every single day …’

  I bite my lip. ‘I know, but we’re here now, aren’t we? And remember, the whole thing’s completely in our control. If we don’t feel it’s right for Rosie …’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he says as a pixie-haired Asian woman flicks through the snapshots the girl has brought with her. There’s a brief chat, inaudible to us in our little glass cube, and the woman pulls a sorry, not quite right for us sort of face. The girl tries to look brave but seems visibly deflated as she turns to leave, like some of the air has been let out of her. Even her curls seem to have lost their bounce.

  ‘Rosie’s been ages,’ I murmur.

  ‘I know. D’you think she’s having another meltdown?’

  ‘God, I hope not …’ I glance through the window where a bunch of the staff have gathered on the pavement. They are all puffing urgently on their cigarettes, as if told that they have precisely ten seconds to finish them.

  ‘Here we are!’ Laurie trills, striding towards us with Rosie at her side. My daughter, face as shiny as a polished apple, smiles meekly. ‘I’m just going to introduce her to the team,’ she adds. ‘Are you okay waiting here, Mum and Dad?’

  I feel myself ageing rapidly. ‘Er, yes, of course.’

  We wait as Rosie is whisked around the table, then Laurie beckons us to join them. I am aware of the staff taking more interest in us now: Will in his smartest jeans – would these agency people describe them as Dad-jeans, I wonder? – and me in my provincial officey outfit, with my muddy brown hair lacking any specific shape or style.

  ‘The way things work,’ Laurie explains, ‘is that we’ll handle Rosie’s bookings and manage her career. Clients pay us, the agency, and we deduct fifteen per cent commission and then the money is paid into Rosie’s account.’

  Her directness slightly floors me. ‘Does this mean you want to take her on?’

  ‘Yes, but let’s see how it goes. Sometimes a girl takes off right away, and she’s doing all the shows and amazing editorial, covers and fashion and fabulous campaigns – and other times …’ Laurie falters. ‘Nothing. You simply never can tell.’ She turns to Rosie. ‘First of all, we’ll need to get some decent test shots done. That way, you’ll build up your book – that’s a portfolio of your pictures, showing different looks – and we can start sending you on go-sees and castings …’

  ‘Great,’ Rosie says, clearly delighted.

  ‘You do remember she’s still at school?’ I point out.

  ‘Yep, don’t worry – it’ll be holidays and out-of-school-hours only. You’ll find all the info you need in this pack –’ she hands me a thick white folder with Face’s logo in elegant type on the front – ‘and there’s lots of advice in there too. So, is there anything else you’d like to ask?’

  I glance at Will, urging him to speak. ‘Erm, I’m sure there will be,’ he replies, ‘when we’ve read through all the info.’

  Laurie smiles warmly. ‘Call me anytime. I’ve attached a card with the pack and my mobile’s on there. I know it’s worrying for parents but I can assure you, she’ll be in excellent hands with us.’

  ‘I’m sure she will be,’ I say, deciding I do like her – she seems to have a knack of putting Rosie at her ease – and anyway, how can I possibly deny my daughter this chance? This is a top agency; there won’t be any creepy Sorrington Bugle types lurking about here. In fact, I’m starting to feel more comfortable with the whole thing. It’s only a spot of part-time modelling, like Liza’s daughter Scarlett does, frolicking about in a Boden duffel coat. It’s hardly Agent Provocateur.

  ‘You’re absolutely stunning, darling,’ Laurie adds, giving Rosie another unexpected hug, ‘and I have an instinct where our girls are concerned …’ She laughs, checking herself. ‘I shouldn’t say this
because there are no guarantees, but I have a very good feeling about you.’

  ‘Me too,’ pipes up the sandy-haired man from the table. ‘She’s a stunning girl. And isn’t she the absolute image of her dad?’

  Chapter Eight

  Rosie is so thrilled about being signed up by Face that the comment seems to bounce right off her. But it sticks with me – as I’m sure it does with Will – following us home and niggling away in my head like a small, persistent worm.

  Of course, Rosie knows Will isn’t her biological father, and I’ve never made any secret of that. ‘Your birth daddy,’ I explained when she was little, ‘is someone I met when I was travelling around Europe, and it just didn’t work out with us.’ She’d ask where he was now, and I’d say – truthfully – that I didn’t know. That was enough back then. She’d accept it and get on with playing with her cars and garage. Then, by the time she was eight or nine, the questions became trickier:

  Did you love my birth daddy?

  We were both so young, darling.

  I know, but were you IN LOVE?

  (Gigantic swallow.) Yes, I suppose we were at the time. We weren’t together for very long, though, so I didn’t know him like I know Daddy.

  Did you love him as much as you love Daddy?

  It was just different …

  How different?

  Well, Daddy and me … we’re a family and it’s a deep, real love.

  The sort that lasts for ever and ever?

  Yes. (Said with certainty then. These days, I’m not sure I’d be able to answer with such rock-solid confidence.) So I dealt with her questions as best I could – although at times it felt like being pelted with tennis balls. And, although I try to reassure myself that I’ve always been honest and open, I’ve never told her about Fraser’s sudden disappearing act, or his mother’s subsequent letter with the bird seed and cheque. It would sound far too hurtful and rejecting. Anyway, luckily, Rosie has seemed pretty satisfied with my explanations so far. Although she knows Fraser’s name, she has made no attempt to track him down, as far as I am aware. In fact, just a year or so ago, when the subject came up – she asked if I thought he might live in London – she quickly added, ‘He’s not a big deal to me, you know, Mum. Dad’s my dad. He always will be. I don’t care about genes and stuff like that.’

  Plus, while we use the phrase ‘birth daddy’, it’s misleading as Fraser was presumably 200 miles away in Manchester, in his fancy turreted house, when Rosie was born (my own parents were with me, holding my hand and being completely fantastic). But what else to call him? ‘Biological’ brings to mind warfare – or washing powder – and ‘real dad’ wouldn’t be right either. Will is Rosie’s real father, in every way that matters.

  And what a dad he is, throwing together an impromptu feast when we arrive home to celebrate Rosie’s success at the agency, despite not really approving of modelling at all. We invite Liza, plus Nina, who’s been Rosie’s best friend since their first day at school, and Ollie appears with his friends Saul and Danny. ‘When d’you think they’ll call me?’ Rosie asks when we’re all tucking into marinated lamb around our garden table.

  ‘Soon, I bet,’ Nina says, her light brown hair shining in the evening sun. ‘It’s going to be amazing, Ro. Oh my God. Your whole life’s going to change! You’ll get loads of free clothes and meet famous people. You’ll be invited to film premieres and parties …’

  ‘Just wait and see what happens,’ Liza says, placing a hand over Rosie’s. ‘Try not to stress about it, love.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she asserts. ‘I’m not stressed at all. It’s just …’ She bursts out laughing. ‘I’m just so excited!’ I look at my daughter, and can almost see the joy radiating from her. It’s like the old Rosie – or rather, the younger Rosie – who’d whoop with delight when we arrived at the beach, and pelt to the sea, still in a T-shirt and shorts, desperate to plunge in. She didn’t march ahead in shopping malls. She held my hand whenever we were out, and we’d spend hours at the kitchen table together, making pictures with glitter and glue.

  Isn’t she the absolute image of her dad? the agency man had remarked. Well, yes – both she and Will have striking blue eyes and generous, expressive mouths. But of course, any similarities are coincidental.

  In fact, she really looks like Fraser. I pretend she doesn’t – that she’s far more like me – but occasionally she’ll look a certain way, and it’s him, the boy I fell for on a train to Paris. We’d caught each other’s eye as a bunch of rowdy Scousers had burst into a rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at the other end of the carriage. ‘Don’t know about you,’ Fraser murmured, leaning across the aisle towards me, ‘but I can’t stand Queen. I actually can’t listen to them. They make me feel ill.’

  ‘Me too,’ I’d replied, and we’d quickly agreed that this song in particular had a fervently sick-making effect. It had bonded us, stifling laughter as the boys filled the carriage with raucous singing; by the time they reached the Beelzebub part, we were in hysterics. From that day on, we were inseparable. Although I’d had a few boyfriends before, I’d never been properly in love. And here I was, not Inter-railing alone after all but hopping around Europe with a beautiful blond boy with posh vowels and perfect teeth.

  After our travels I’d wait at Euston for him to step off the Manchester train. My life revolved around our weekends together. I try not to think about it but occasionally, especially when Will seems to be inhabiting his own, private universe and stomps about with his hoe, I can’t help it. Why did Fraser just leave us like that? It seemed completely un-him. He’d always phoned every day – until he stopped phoning – and would always bring a small present for me: a necklace, a battered paperback we’d talked about, or a CD to boost my meagre collection.

  ‘Maybe you didn’t really know him,’ Mum said gently, meaning well but causing me to fly on the defensive. Of course I had! I’d known him for a whole eight months. Okay, put like that it didn’t seem long, but to me it had felt as if my life had been divided into two parts – before and after Fraser. I’d never met anyone I felt so right with, from the very start. Trouble was, the ‘after’ part soon lurched from our lovely weekends together, to being without him with no explanation at all.

  It’s getting closer, too – the moment when Rosie will announce that she wants to track him down. It’s as inevitable as her falling in love, and leaving home and having her heart broken for the first time, and it’s terrifying.

  ‘Let me help with those,’ Liza says, breaking off from her conversation with Will as I gather up the plates.

  ‘No, it’s fine, honestly. It’s lovely out here in the sunshine. Just relax and enjoy it.’

  In the kitchen, I set about loading the dishwasher, trying not to fixate on what we’ll do if Fraser turns out to be un-track-downable, or dead – or if we do find him, and he’s a whopping disappointment to Rosie. Or, perhaps worse, he turns out to be completely fantastic and she adores him instantly, and thereafter regards Will as a substandard fake dad. There’s always the option of ignoring the whole issue, and hoping it’ll miraculously go away – like when my last car started making strange grinding noises. I pretended it wasn’t happening, gamely driving around until the grinding turned into an almighty racket of things crunching and snapping and that was it, the big end – whatever that was – had ‘gone’. If only you’d dealt with it sooner, the garage mechanic told me, you’d have avoided a disaster like this.

  Of course, I reflect, Fraser Johnson probably has a family of his own now and might refuse to see Rosie at all. How would that feel, to be rejected by the person who half-made her? There are so many possible outcomes, all of which make me feel a little bit sick. Through the window, I watch Will and Liza laughing at the garden table and mentally tell myself off for imagining problems when, as yet, there aren’t any. ‘We’ll deal with it if – and when – it happens,’ has been Will’s rather brave, reassuring line on the whole Fraser issue.

  Just like he’s dealing with th
is, the prospect of Rosie launching into a world we know nothing about, which seems to involve lots of shrieking at the agency, and girls photographed with filthy hair. Really, I should just give myself a damn good shake and be grateful for what I have.

  Chapter Nine

  With the festival rattling towards us, work is frantic for the rest of the week. In fact, I’m grateful to have too much to do as it’s allowed me precious little time to fret over the agency man’s comment about Fraser. Thankfully, neither Rosie nor Will has mentioned it, and at home, things seem fairly harmonious. Although I suspect Rosie is on tenterhooks, waiting for a call from the agency, she is putting on a good show of pretending not to care. By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m relieved that we’re all going out, to our new neighbours’ party, with the addition of Ollie’s friend Saul who’s been hanging out with us for the day.

  ‘Why are you wearing that?’ Ollie asks as I trot downstairs, ready to go.

  ‘You mean a dress?’ I look down at it. It’s a simple pale blue shift, and is – I thought, until a moment ago – quite flattering.

  ‘Yeah. We’re only going to the neighbours’ …’

  ‘Yes, our neighbours’ party. I just thought I’d make an effort, Ollie. It’s customary, you know – to try and look nice when you’re socialising.’

  Will comes over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You look lovely. That colour really suits you.’

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ I smile, sensing my cheeks flushing; compliments are so rare these days, I’ve almost forgotten what to do with them.

  ‘How long are we staying?’ Ollie wants to know.

  I grin. ‘We’ll leave at precisely 12.07 a.m.’

  ‘What?’ he barks. ‘What are we gonna do for all that time?’

  ‘Bring Scrabble,’ Will mutters with a smirk.

  I snigger, grateful that at least he’s not moaning, and that Rosie is ready to go – fresh-faced and casual in soft, old jeans and a pretty embroidered top. ‘Only kidding,’ I tell Ollie. ‘We won’t be too late, okay? Come on, let’s try to be pleasant and sociable and meet some new people, like normal families do.’