As Good As It Gets? Read online

  She jumps down from the worktop. ‘Think I’ll get some sleep, Mum.’

  ‘What about your tea? Want to take it up with you?’ I fish out the teabag and add a generous slosh of milk, plus two sugars, just the way she likes it.

  ‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m pretty tired.’ She allows me to hug her, then pulls back and meets my gaze. ‘That was a bit weird for me, you know,’ she murmurs.

  ‘What, the party? I thought you were enjoying it …’

  ‘No, that thing the man said at the agency.’ I frown at her, genuinely uncomprehending for a moment. ‘About me being the image of Dad,’ she adds.

  ‘Oh.’ My heart drops like a stone.

  She picks at a fingernail. ‘I’ve thought about it all week. I can’t stop thinking about it.’

  I blink at her, shimmeringly sober now despite all the wine and champagne I’ve knocked back tonight. At least Will’s not here. That’s a relief. ‘I’m sure it was a bit weird for you,’ I manage. ‘But, you know … you do look like him. Like Dad, I mean. Like Will.’

  The pause is filled by faint music drifting across from Tommy and Sabrina’s house. ‘So am I like my real dad too?’ she asks.

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose you are. But to be honest, it’s so long since I’ve seen him, I can’t really picture—’

  ‘You can’t picture his face?’ She looks aghast.

  ‘Well, yes, of course I can but, you know – it’s kind of … blurry.’

  ‘Blurry?’ she repeats. ‘That’s nice, Mum.’

  Well, yes, being sent a packet of bird seed and a sod-off-don’t-bother-us-again cheque was nice too. ‘I’m just trying to be honest,’ I say gently.

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘You mean you can hardly remember him at all?’

  ‘No, of course I can.’ I can sense my cheeks sizzling, and my heart seems to be rattling away at twice its normal speed. In fact, his face has faded in my mind, like an old tea towel where the pattern’s nearly gone. Yet the essence of Fraser – his huge, bright smile, his raucous, head-turning laugh, the way he made me feel as we giggled our way around Europe – is indelibly imprinted on my mind.

  ‘D’you have any photos of him?’ Now Rosie, who professed to be so tired, is showing no sign of heading up to bed.

  ‘No, sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They must’ve all got lost,’ I mutter, at which she utters a little pfff of disdain and trots up to her room.

  And of course, I know my response wasn’t in any way adequate. What I should do now is follow her up and coax her to talk, and find out what she wants to do next – track him down somehow? And arrange to meet him? I would, if Will and I felt closer at this moment in time. But we need to handle this together, and right now, together is the last thing I feel.

  Crushingly tired now, I pad lightly upstairs. I’ve made up a bed on Ollie’s bedroom floor for Saul; the light is off and it looks as if they’ve crashed out already. While Rosie’s is still on, I can sense do-not-disturb vibes seeping out beneath her closed bedroom door. So I go to bed and try to calm myself by thinking about positive things: the people I’ve met tonight, and the way Will saved the day with his minted lamb and glamorous salads. You’re lucky, I remind myself, and we’ll handle the Fraser thing carefully, when the time’s right. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.

  It’s gone 2 a.m. when Will slips into bed beside me. His beery breath is oddly alluring, reminding me as it does of our earlier days when we went out nearly every night and woke up entangled in each other’s arms, a time before he even owned a strimmer.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of the party?’ I murmur.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘It’s okay, I haven’t managed to drop off yet.’

  I want to tell him about Rosie, and the whole blurted-out thing about Fraser, but now’s not the time, not in the middle of the night when he’s fuzzy with booze. Instead, I snuggle closer, spooning around his naked body. I’m ridiculously pleased when he takes my hand and wraps my arm around him. It’s a gesture which I interpret to mean he wouldn’t be completely appalled if I were to become a little, uh … amorous. I mean, he’s not giving the impression that he’d throw me off and scream for the police. So I edge my hand downwards.

  Will flinches, as if an electric current has shot out of my fingers. Perhaps I’m being too tentative, and just tickling him. Better be firmer – not too languorous, either, as I can tell by his deep, steady breathing that he’s moments away from sleep. My foot brushes his, and I detect a fine knit: M&S lambswool blend, at a guess. He’s forgotten to take his socks off. That’s good, I decide. It means he’s pretty pissed, which might make him less worried about anyone hearing, or any of the other possible reasons he’ll only do it with me four times a year.

  Yep, socks I can handle. Christ, I’d do it with him wearing a fake fur tiger outfit if that’s what it took. I mean, I’m not fussy—

  ‘Hahaha!’ Laughter rings out from Ollie’s room. ‘That inflatable doll, that was so funny …’

  Ah, it would appear that my darling son and his friend are not slumbering after all. ‘Yeah,’ Saul agrees. ‘What did your mum say again?’

  ‘That it was for watching telly with.’

  ‘HAHAAAA!’ They both hoot with mirth while Will grunts into his pillow and politely removes my hand from his nether regions. Well, that’s that then. It’ll probably be Halloween before the next opportunity comes up. Perhaps I could wear Dracula fangs and a cape.

  I tune in as the boys resume their chat. ‘Think she really believes that?’ Saul asks.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon. She’s a bit … y’know …’

  A bit what? Prudish? A buttoned-up old hag? I try, fruitlessly, to steady my breathing in order to bring on the blissful release of sleep.

  ‘You know what those dolls are really for,’ Saul adds sagely.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ollie sniggers, ‘for men to have sex with ’cause they can’t get a real woman.’ They both peal with laughter until Rosie thumps her bedroom wall to shut them up.

  All is silent again. Then my son’s voice booms out, loudly and clearly through the wall: ‘You’d think my mum’d know that at her age. God, she’s naive.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Will’s hangover hovers over the house like a damp, rather rank-smelling flannel. ‘Feel like my liver’s about to give up,’ he moans, flipping through the Sunday papers at the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say briskly. ‘It was only a few beers.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  I consider this. ‘It is, actually. I mean, I had tons to drink too. More than normal, anyway, and I feel fine—’

  ‘Well,’ he says wearily, ‘I don’t, so please stop rubbing it in how amazingly full of joie de vivre you are.’

  Whoo, touchy-pants this morning. ‘Maybe you’re just out of practice,’ I suggest. ‘We should go out more often, Will. It was really fun last night. We don’t even have to take the kids. Rosie’s old enough to look after Ollie—’

  ‘You’d pay me, though?’ she asks, only partly joking as she strolls into the kitchen, flings open a cupboard and groans in disappointment. ‘Why’s there never anything to eat?’

  I laugh. ‘What are you talking about? The house is stuffed with food. There are tons of crisps—’

  ‘Crisps!’ she repeats witheringly. ‘It’s always crisps. Crisps, crisps, crisps …’

  ‘… and the freezer’s so full,’ Will cuts in, ‘I could hardly squeeze a little packet of lovage into it—’

  She frowns at him. ‘What’s lovage?’

  ‘A herb,’ he replies flatly.

  ‘You mean a weed?’ She is teasing him now, and, miraculously, he raises a small smile.

  ‘Technically, yes, but I think you’ll find it’s delicious.’

  ‘Why can’t we eat normal food?’ she asks him, then turns to me. ‘And why wouldn’t you pay me for doing a responsible job?’

  I blink a
t her. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean looking after Ollie so you and Dad could start going out again, and doing stuff and having a nice time together …’ I glance at Will. Has Rosie detected the malaise between us, or am I just being paranoid? I have to say, he doesn’t look thrilled at the idea of regular date nights with me.

  ‘Look, Rosie,’ I say carefully, ‘we’ve talked about this before – how Dad and I don’t really believe in paying you and Ollie for doing jobs, because before we know it you’ll be demanding 50p for washing a teaspoon or passing us the remote control—’

  ‘Nina gets paid,’ she insists. ‘She’s paid for everything she does.’

  I meant the teaspoon/remote control thing as a joke, but it’s fallen flat. ‘I doubt that, but anyway, you’ve told me she doesn’t get an allowance and that’s why she’s waitressing at weekends. And we do give you money, and part of the deal is that you’re generally helpful around the house.’

  With a despairing shake of her head, Rosie opens the fridge, extracts a bottle of chocolate milk and takes a generous swig. While I’m not a fan of bottle-slurping – I mean, we have glasses, and even neon-coloured straws if desired – I decide to let it go this time. I need to get out of here, away from Will, who is coughing feebly into a tissue now, and behaving as if death is imminent, and Rosie, who’s mumbling that there’s nothing she fancies to eat in the fridge either. Thank goodness Ollie and Saul have already been whisked off to the West End by Maria, Saul’s ever-obliging mum.

  ‘It’s a gorgeous day,’ I announce, grabbing my laptop from on top of the fridge. ‘I’m going to sit in the garden.’ I head out, closing the back door behind me, in the hope that that’ll deter Rosie and Will from following me, and install myself at our old, sun-bleached wooden table.

  I glance at our house as my laptop whirrs into life. For God’s sake – a few weak beers and Will’s acting as if he’s an urgent candidate for a liver transplant. And complaining that I’m exhibiting too much joie de vivre! Well, sorry if I’m not ill enough for him. Maybe he’d have been happier to see me spewing into the toilet. Sex thing aside, I’m starting to realise that Will behaves as if he isn’t especially fond of me anymore. I mean, he seems to find me irritating on a pretty regular basis. We don’t treat each other like lovers, or partners, or anything really – we’re just there. When I suggested not giving each other birthday presents last year, I hadn’t actually meant it. I suppose, pathetically, I’d been testing him to see how he’d react. The correct response would have been, ‘The thing is, darling, I’ve bought you something already’ – i.e., beautiful, fragile, utterly impractical lingerie – ‘and we’re going to dinner tonight.’ So I was a little taken aback when I came home from work to find two workmen on ladders, slapping mortar onto the front of our house.

  Oh, stuff Will and his hangover. I may stay out here for a very, very long time. I might not even come in tonight, but make myself a cosy little den in the shed to sleep in. If Sabrina and Tommy can manage to do it in theirs, without impaling themselves on a rake, then surely it’d be possible to make the space in ours to create a little nest.

  I squint at my laptop. The bright sunshine is making it impossible to read so I carry it down to the bottom of the garden and plonk myself on a paving slab in the shade of the shed. Inhaling a lungful of warm air, I type two words into Google:

  Fraser Johnson.

  There. I’ve actually done it. Admittedly, it’s not the first time. On several occasions over the years, I’ve done precisely this, and gawped at the figure – something like 9,230,000 results. Then, fearing that my laptop would start shrieking, ‘GOOGLING EX ALERT! GOOGLING EX!’ I’ve shut it down in a sweat.

  Not this time, though. Rosie’s questions about Fraser from last night are still ringing shrilly in my ears. Obviously, he’s on her mind. I need to start trying to track him down and at least find out if he’s alive.

  Still prickling from Will’s ill humour, I start scrolling through the results. I find Fraser Johnsons who are bakers, artists, investment bankers and undertakers. They are located in St Ives and Aberdeen and, seemingly, every place in between. There’s a Fraser Johnson making craft beers in Cumbria. Hmm. Bet he’d be able to handle a few drinks without spending the whole of the next day whimpering about his traumatised liver.

  I glance towards the rabbit run. Guinness is peering at me through the wire meshing. My skin prickles with unease, but I refuse to be freaked out by a staring bunny. I turn back to the screen, eyes lighting upon a Fraser Johnson who’s a plasterer in Lewisham: ideal for sorting out our frankly atrocious kitchen walls.

  Perhaps I should feel guilty, mentally setting myself up with all of these strangers, imaging myself being festooned with fine ales and beautiful paintings and even having the perfect coffin selected and set aside. But these are only random men. I don’t for one second imagine that any of them is the Fraser I loved, and with whom I assumed – idiotically – I’d be raising a child. It’s such a common name, that’s the problem. I could spend all day poring over thousands of Frasers and be none the wiser as to where he is, or what he’s doing now. He might not even be living in Britain. His family were loaded, and despite his ramshackle appearance on our trip, he was all set to be taken on by some investment company, via a friend of his dad’s. With his breezy confidence and seemingly no worries about how things might turn out, there was a sense even then that he was heading for a glittering future. Meanwhile, I was part-way through a marketing course with a grotty flat, a cranky flatmate and a couple of part-time waitressing jobs.

  I do a Google Images search. I know, this is really pushing things. It reveals a baffling array of males varying from a young, grinning boy in a Chelsea football strip to a formal portrait of an elderly man sitting behind a polished desk.

  ‘Working on a Sunday?’

  I flinch and look up. It’s Tricia, looming over the fence, her no-nonsense straw-coloured hair held back from her pink-cheeked face by means of a striped towelling headband.

  ‘Yep, just a few things to tie up,’ I reply, sensing my own cheeks glowing hot.

  ‘Looks like you’re burning!’ she observes cheerfully. ‘You should wear block, Charlotte. There’s nothing more ageing than the sun.’

  I smile tightly, trying to transmit the message: thank you for the beauty tip. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m hard at work on a crucial report … Her curranty eyes are fixed upon my screen. Although she can’t possibly see anything from where she’s standing, I quickly shut down the page. A burst of high-pitched yapping – for no reason that I can fathom – announces Nipper’s arrival in her garden. Nipper is a tiny, beige-coloured hound of no discernible breed – he looks like a purse with teeth. Where did they get him? Liza whispered recently. Accessorize?

  ‘Meant to ask,’ Tricia goes on, now scooping up Nipper into her arms, ‘were you disturbed by that awful racket last night?’

  I frown. ‘Um … I don’t think so?’

  She presses her lips together. ‘That party, I mean, over the road. Awful music blaring half the night. I was on the verge of calling the police …’

  ‘Oh, Tommy and Sabrina’s party. We were there, actually—’

  ‘You know them?’ she exclaims.

  ‘Not really. We’d only met them once before.’ I force a big, bright smile. ‘They’re really nice people.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I hope it’s not going to be a regular thing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine so, no …’ I shut down my laptop and stand up, making it clear that our neighbourly exchange is over.

  ‘Charlotte?’ Will has appeared at our back door, clutching the phone.

  ‘’Scuse me, Tricia, looks like I’m being summoned.’ I stride towards him.

  ‘It’s Mum,’ he hisses, thrusting the phone at me.

  I frown. ‘She wants to talk to me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he adds in a ridiculous stage whisper, ‘she wants to know what’s happening with this modelling thing.’

  I blink at him and t
ake the phone. ‘Hi, Gloria, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, just wondered if you’d thought over what I’d said?’

  ‘Er, what specifically?’ I ask, wandering into the kitchen to observe a scattering of bread crusts and juice sloppages on the table, presumably left by Rosie, to mark where she’s been.

  ‘About being extremely careful,’ Gloria says, ‘when dealing with photographers. I’m very concerned, Charlotte. It’s not a world I think Rosie is especially suited to.’

  Of course, she couldn’t have discussed this with Will, not with him still in recovery from last night – at two o’clock in the bloody afternoon. It irks me, too, this implication that I am perfectly happy to propel my daughter into a world of pervs and predators just to get her picture on the cover of a magazine. But I know Gloria takes a dim view of my parenting abilities. She ‘cried for three days’, she once let slip, on learning that her darling son had fallen in love with a hapless single mother when she’d always thought he’d end up with Emily Forrest who, while I was up to my elbows laundering bibs, was studying the oboe at the Royal College of Music.

  ‘Please don’t worry, Gloria,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s all in hand and we’ll be keeping a close eye on things. In fact, she’s doing her first test shoot tomorrow after school. The agency are keen for her to get some proper professional shots to build up her portfolio …’

  ‘It’s called a book, Mum,’ Rosie corrects me, lurking in the hallway.

  ‘She will be chaperoned, though?’ Gloria wants to know. ‘Because if you don’t have time, with your job and everything, I can always take—’

  ‘No, no, I’m leaving work early so I can go with her,’ I say, at which Rosie’s face falls.