As Good As It Gets? (17 page)

She laughs awkwardly. ‘Bit closer,’ I murmur, realising she’s flushed bright pink, and wishing now that I’d asked Sandra to sit next to him instead, because obviously, Dee is hugely uncomfortable. Maybe she’s worried about how Mike will react if he sees her on our website, cosying up to a handsome colleague. I keep snapping away, aiming to get the job done as quickly as possible, and deciding that I could appear on our site naked, draped over
all
the factory guys, and Will probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

Shoot over, I spend the next couple of hours in the office writing the accompanying blurb, then hit upon the idea of calling Will for ideas for picnic recipes. ‘Hi?’ he says curtly.

‘Erm, are you busy right now? It’s just, I’m writing a thing about picnics for the website and I’m a bit stuck for ideas.’

‘Right, er …’

‘Sorry, are you in the middle of something?’

He clears his throat. ‘No, no – it’s fine, it’s just, Sabrina popped by …’

‘Oh, what does she want?’ I didn’t mean that the way it probably sounded. Just that it seems odd, her dropping in when I’m not there. But then, why shouldn’t she? Will spends far too much time alone.

‘We’re just having coffee,’ he says.

‘Right. Great! That’s … really good. Well, er, I was going to ask if you could help me with some recipes but I’m sure I’ll think of something.’

‘No, it’s fine – I’ll call you back, okay?’ he says in an over-bright voice.

‘Yeah, sure, no hurry.’ Feeling a tad put out, and wondering if Sabrina’s wearing that pretty white broderie anglaise dress again, or perhaps her foxy leather trousers, I finish the call and start to edit my photos. I take care to choose the ones where Dee looks least uneasy – although she’s hardly a picture of relaxed, picnicky joy in any of them. Still, the site now looks pleasingly summery. I write some blurb about how we’re always larking about in the garden, and add a few competitions; all I need now are some recipes. Still no call back from Will, so I start searching online.

I find Stilton tarts and falafels with a spicy Moroccan dip, plus a bevy of interesting salads, which I tweak slightly so as not to copy them directly. I even dash off a few wonky coloured pencil drawings (my ‘charming illustrations’ as Rupert rather generously calls them) and scan them in. There. All done. It’s now two hours since I called Will and he’s obviously had far too many other pressing matters on his hands to find the time to phone me back.

Anyway, I tell myself as I drive home, I don’t need him to tell me how to make a bloody falafel.

*

In contrast, Sabrina is obviously
thrilled
by Will’s culinary expertise, as I discover when I find her still installed in our kitchen, swooning over his finds from his latest foraging trip. ‘Giant puffballs,’ she marvels.

‘Thanks,’ I say with a grin, ‘although this is meant to be a minimiser bra.’

She laughs huskily, looking especially radiant in a pale pink strappy top – it’s more of a hankie, really – and old, faded jeans which hug her tiny bottom. ‘I mean these mushrooms. Aren’t they amazing? Would you believe you can find them in London?’

‘I had no idea,’ I reply.

‘He’s going to sauté them in breadcrumbs as a starter,’ she enthuses in the manner of a cookery show presenter.

‘Sounds lovely. Very impressive.’ I drop my bag at my feet and tell myself there’s no reason to feel miffed by this cosy domestic scene, because they’re talking about
fungi,
for God’s sake. While Sabrina carefully wipes one with a piece of kitchen roll, Will ambles over and plants a kiss on my cheek.

‘Good day?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, busy,’ I say breezily as Sabrina places the clean mushroom on a large white plate and gazes at it reverentially.

She sighs loudly. ‘I wish
my
husband took an interest in food. There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows what he’s doing in the kitchen. Tommy can barely manage to rip open a bag of oven chips.’

I laugh politely, reminding myself that of course this is innocent, because for one thing the kids are here. Rosie wanders in from watching TV in the living room and flops down onto a kitchen chair. ‘Hi, love,’ I say, kissing the top of her head. ‘Did you see the magazine?’

She nods. ‘Yeah. They got my age wrong. They said I was fifteen.’

‘Yes, mine too, but they added three years on for me …’

‘I saw that too,’ Sabrina chuckles. ‘I’d never have had you down as a high-maintenance mum, Charlotte! But you both looked gorgeous …’

‘They did,’ Will says absent-mindedly, sautéing now and turning to add, ‘You will stay for dinner, Sabrina?’ I glance at him, taken aback by his sudden invitation. It’s unlike him to be so spontaneous. But then, don’t I often wish he’d be more sociable and loosen up a little?

‘If you’re sure,’ she replies. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘What about Tommy and Zach?’ I ask. ‘Would you like to ask them over too?’

‘Oh, Tommy’s away for a few days and Zach prefers to fend for himself …’ She turns to Rosie. ‘He asked me to mention that he’ll pick you up after dinner, is that okay?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, blushing.

I study her face. ‘Does this mean you’re hanging out together?’

‘Er, kind of,’ she mumbles as Ollie ambles in for dinner and gives me a fleeting hug.

‘That’s nice,’ I chirp, wondering how Will feels about this. We have seen the boy smoking
pot,
after all, but then, maybe it’s par for the course for a seventeen-year-old boy? I glance at Will, who looks a little taken aback himself by the Zach announcement.

‘What are these, Dad?’ Ollie asks, peering at the plate.

‘Mushrooms,’ Will replies.

‘They look like they’ve got skin disease,’ Rosie remarks.

‘No they don’t,’ Sabrina retorts. ‘They’re amazing. They’re nothing like the anaemic little mushrooms you get in cartons from the shops—’

‘The kind we like,’ Ollie quips, stuffing one into his mouth anyway, if only to please his dad.

The main event is baked salmon, and it’s so delicious – perfectly baked in foil with chilli and dill – that I’ve already forgiven Will for not phoning me back at work. I
must
stop being so sensitive. As for feeling iffy about Sabrina spending all afternoon installed in our kitchen – well, that was just a flash of juvenile ridiculousness on my part.

‘So are you and Zach planning to hang out here?’ I ask Rosie lightly, spearing a French bean.

‘Erm, no, we’re going to the cinema.’ Right on cue, our doorbell rings. Dinner barely touched, she throws down her cutlery and leaps up to answer it. ‘Let’s just go,’ she says quickly, her face clouding as I hurry through to the hall.

‘Hi, Zach, how are you?’ I ask.

‘Good, thanks.’ Taller than Rosie, he’s all gangly handsomeness with burnt toffee-coloured eyes and a mop of dark hair which he’s constantly flicking out of his face. She throws me a
don’t-you-dare-interrogate-him
look.

‘What film are you going to see?’ I ask pleasantly.

‘We’ll just see what’s on,’ Zach says with a shrug.

‘But shouldn’t you check first? You could book tickets online—’

‘Mum,’ Rosie cuts in, eyes wide, ‘we do know how to go to the cinema.’

‘Okay, okay …’ I laugh and step away. ‘So, um, are you going to finish your dinner first?’

She pulls a horrified face. ‘We’ve got to go
now
.’

‘Oh! Right. So, er, what time will you be back?’

‘It’s only seven,’ Sabrina chuckles, appearing at my side. ‘They’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Not planning to kidnap her, are you, Zach?’

‘Nah,’ he chuckles with a wry grin.

That’s not the point, I reflect as they leave; of course it’s fine for Rosie to date boys. It’s just … Sabrina’s spent all afternoon with Will, and now Rosie and Zach appear to be ‘going out’, if that’s not too decrepit a phrase … it’s starting to feel a bit much.

‘Isn’t it sweet,’ Sabrina says, back in our kitchen, ‘how well those two get on?’

I nod, trying to hide my disappointment that Rosie hadn’t even mentioned tonight’s date. But then, she has also appeared in a national magazine and barely uttered two sentences about it.

*

She’s in a chattier mood when she returns, unscathed, just after ten. ‘Well, that was awkward,’ she announces, squeezing in between Will and me on the sofa.

‘What was?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you have a good time?’

‘Yeah, we did – the movie was a bit crap, some action thing Zach wanted to see …’ She turns to me. ‘I mean you making such a fuss about us going out.’

‘I didn’t make a fuss,’ I protest. ‘All I said was—’

‘Zach couldn’t believe it,’ she adds with a smirk, ‘how protective you are.’

‘All I did was suggest you booked tickets. I hardly chaperoned you, Rosie.’

‘… And you know what’s funny? You’re all worried about me going out to the cinema, but Dad’s happy to collect mushrooms that could make our whole family die!’ She peals with derisive laughter.

‘Of course you can go to the cinema,’ I mutter, my head wound beginning to sting again. It seems to have become a barometer of my moods.

‘Hey, Mum.’ She touches my arm. ‘It’s okay, you know. Zach’s just a friend.’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I say sulkily, deciding she’s right: I probably
do
worry too much. So she’s made a new friend, and it looks as if Will has too – which is good for him, of course. I’d far rather see him being friendly and chatty and asking neighbours over for dinner spontaneously than furiously mowing our lawn.

But I’m still not completely delighted about walking in to find Sabrina fawning over his puffballs.

Chapter Seventeen

It drops next day. The bombshell, I mean, just as I’m about to set off for the Festival of Savoury Snacks.

There’s just Rosie and me in the kitchen, and I’m grinning like an idiot at my phone. Dee and Rupert have gone down early to Bournemouth to set up our stand at the exhibition centre, and Dee’s sent me a photo of the two of them posing proudly beside the world’s biggest crisp. It’ll take pride of place on our stand
and
gain a mention in the Guinness Book of Records, if anyone still cares about such a thing (Rosie was obsessed with it as a little girl; that’s what our rabbit is named after, and not ‘the alcoholic beverage’, as Tricia put it, assuming a not-entirely-approving face).

‘Rupert told us he was going to make the crisp,’ I witter away, even though I suspect Rosie’s not really listening, ‘but he can’t have fried it, at least not in one piece. You’d never find a potato big enough.’ I study it again. ‘I think he must’ve baked it. So really, it’s more of a giant Pringle …’

Rosie mutters something whilst delving into the schoolbag at her feet.

‘Yes, I think it’s definitely baked,’ I add.

‘Mum,’ she snaps, straightening up, ‘could you stop going on about the crisp? It’s not that interesting, okay?’

‘Oh, I just thought …’ Stung by her sharpness, I tail off and place my phone on the table. A few years ago, she’d have been thrilled by such an outstanding example of potato engineering. I’d probably have let her take a day off school so she could see it for real.

‘I wasn’t talking about crisps, Mum,’ she adds coldly.

‘Well, I couldn’t hear you, Rosie, because you were actually speaking into your bag, and your voice must’ve been absorbed by the sweaty old T-shirt and gym shorts you’ve been carting about for weeks …’ I head into the utility room and start unloading the washing machine, just to put some distance between us. I’d never imagined that the teenage stage would be quite like this. Sure, I had an idea that it was tricky, and that no one would want to come to the zoo with me anymore, or draw funny felt-tipped faces on boiled eggs – but this grumpy, sullen thing, and the see-saw moods? I’d assumed that was a cliché – a lazy sitcom view of teenhood. But now I see it’s just the way things are.

Back in the kitchen, I dump the laundry basket on the worktop. ‘So what
were
you talking about?’ I ask, in as pleasant a voice as I can muster.

‘I said, I want to meet my real dad.’

My heart seems to crash against my ribs. I lick my dry lips and grip the rim of the basket. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

She juts out her chin and nods.

‘Well, um … okay …’ Thank God Ollie’s getting ready for school upstairs and Will’s in the garden as usual, digging up spuds. ‘I, er, thought you’d want to at some point,’ I add, trying to read her expression. For some reason, it’s defiant.

‘Yeah. Well, I do.’ We look at each other awkwardly. In fact, it
is
okay – ish. Of course she should meet him, if that’s what she wants. She is entitled to, and I have never planned to stand in her way. However, I am also aware that it’s not as simple as Rosie meeting Fraser for a coffee, and her coming back and saying, ‘That was nice, I liked him.’ And then getting on with the rest of her life.

No, I’m fully aware that it’ll be …
monumental.

‘So how will we get in touch with him?’ she asks, her tone still frosty, as if it’s my fault he has never once tried to find us, or sent her a note or a card. I can sort of understand that a nineteen-year-old boy might have a sudden panic attack over the thought of caring for a tiny, nappy-wearing thing that spits milk and screams in the night. I’d had to accept that he’d taken fright and run away, and that we were better off without him than if he’d stayed around, being useless. Yet I’ve never been able to understand, as the years have passed, why Fraser has never been curious enough to want to enquire about his child, let alone get to know her. He was a smart young man. Even after I’d got married, he could have found some way to track us down.

‘I’ll think about it when I’m away, okay?’ I say carefully, as Ollie appears with his schoolbag slung low on his back. ‘Remember I’m staying over at Grandma and Grandpa’s tonight.’

‘Think about what?’ he asks.

‘Nothing, hon. Just find your shoes.’

‘You going to that food festival thing today?’ he wants to know.

‘Yes, darling. So I won’t see you till tomorrow …’

‘Oh, cool.’ Separation anxiety is a truly terrible thing.