As Good As It Gets? (21 page)

‘Yeah.’ She nods glumly.

‘At least it was a job,’ Will remarks, ‘and you’ve started earning … and it’s all experience isn’t it?’

Rosie emits a strangled gasp. ‘Dad, I’m going to be in a
knitting
magazine! What if people see?’ Good lord: one tiddly modelling job and she’s already developed a sort of
flounce
.

He shrugs. ‘Well, if you’re a model, then people are going to see your picture, aren’t they? It’s an occupational hazard, I’d have thought.’

‘Yeah, but wearing a big sweaty jumper with a stupid knitted belt? And
mittens
?’

‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Who’s going to see it? Who, out of all of your friends, actually knits?’

She sniffs loudly. ‘No one.’

‘There you go then,’ Will remarks. ‘You’re perfectly safe. Anyway, like we said from the start, if you feel remotely uncomfortable about it, then just stop. It’s totally your call.’

‘S’pose so,’ Rosie says reluctantly, flopping onto the chair next to Sabrina. ‘
Look
, though. Look what happened to me.’ She pulls up her T-shirt sleeve and shows Sabrina – not me, her own mother, who birthed her – her right armpit.

‘Oooh, that’s nasty,’ Sabrina sympathises.

‘A heat rash by the look of it,’ I suggest, peering at the mottled skin. ‘You need calamine lotion …’

‘Do we have any?’

‘No, but I can get some tomorrow—’

‘
We
have,’ Sabrina announces, leaping up. ‘Had to buy some for Tommy after he lay out in the garden last weekend, burnt himself to a cinder, the silly bugger.’ She laughs. ‘Too macho for sunscreen. I’ll just pop over and get it – oh, and before I forget, Rosie, would you like to come to Zach’s gig on Thursday night?’

‘Yeah, cool,’ she says, rash momentarily forgotten as Ollie wanders in with Saul in his wake, both clutching steaming cartons of chips despite having eaten earlier. Colossal appetites, the pair of them, yet each weighs about the same as a runner bean.

Sabrina darts off, returning with medical supplies and dabbing the lotion onto my daughter’s armpit while I watch, pretending to adopt a supervisory role. ‘That’s much better,’ Rosie says gratefully. ‘Thanks, Sabrina. It’s really cooled it down.’

‘Aw, you’re welcome,’ Sabrina says.

Will chuckles. ‘At least someone brings something useful into this house.’

‘What d’you mean, Dad?’ Rosie asks.

He smirks. ‘Mum’s brought home a load of reject crisps again, and you’d better watch out—’

‘Why?’

‘She’s planning to turn them into biscuits,’ he says, at which everyone hoots with laughter, including me, to show what a jolly good sport I am.

Chapter Twenty

While I might have failed on the calamine lotion front, I have to say I do put on an excellent end-of-term gathering. Something of a tradition – it’s always assumed we’ll host it, which I love – these events began as jelly-splattered affairs which Tricia and Gerald would observe, fearfully, over the fence (quite possibly giving silent thanks to the fact that they’d settled on raising Nipper rather than producing any human children of their own). These days, Will and I are expected to strew the garden with cushions, pile the table with good things to eat, then quietly melt away into the background, like impeccably-trained staff.

If fact, as I’m a little concerned that Will is beginning to feel like the kitchen serf around here, I’ve prepared today’s food and taken some time off work to give him a break. I’m sure my offspring will be
thrilled
to have me around at the start of the holidays. It’s a warm, hazy Wednesday afternoon. Liza has arrived to help out, and Ollie and Rosie’s friends have descended – including Zach, who’s clearly enjoying being the centre of attention. He is, admittedly, a very good-looking boy, in a rather brooding, malnourished kind of way. He makes the other boys present – perfectly average-sized urban kids – look extremely robust in comparison.

The arrival of a delicate blonde girl causes even more of a stir. ‘This is Delph,’ Rosie announces. ‘We worked together on that shoot …’

‘That awful shoot!’ Delph exclaims, scanning the garden and looking, it has to be said, mightily unimpressed by either the guests or surroundings, it’s impossible to tell. She is astonishingly pretty with golden hair which hangs in a silken sheet all the way down to her bum – the world’s teeniest bum, I’d wager, clad in denim cut-offs the size of a pencil case.

‘What was so bad about it?’ Zach asks.

‘It was
hell,
’ she retorts, at which Ollie – God, I love that boy to pieces – sidles over and says, ‘I thought you went to the seaside?’

‘Yeah?’ Delph rolls her eyes as if to say,
And who are you?

‘We had to wear mittens,’ Rosie tells Zach, looking less than comfortable about her new friend making such a fuss.

There’s a ripple of laughter. ‘So?’ Saul says.

‘So,’ Delph retorts, ‘it was hot! Would
you
like to wear mittens on the hottest day of the year?’

‘If I was paid, I would,’ Ollie replies with a shrug. ‘I’d wear a big woolly hat as well. I’d wear
anything
for money—’

‘Yeah, well,’ Delph retorts, linking Rosie’s arm and whisking her away from the riff-raff, ‘maybe next time
you
could do it. I’ll put a word in for you with my agency. I heard they were looking for annoying brats for Littlewoods’ schoolwear adverts …’

Blimey, that was unnecessary. I glance at Liza; after running back and forth with the food, we’re taking a breather on a rug at the bottom of the garden. ‘Not sure about Rosie’s new friend,’ I murmur.

‘Doesn’t seem her usual type,’ Liza agrees. We watch as Nina hovers around them, obviously feeling a little pushed aside in favour of the exotic newcomer.

‘Liza,’ I add, dropping my voice to a whisper, ‘something happened when I was at Mum and Dad’s …’

‘What?’ She frowns.

‘Rosie’s dad got in touch. Fraser, I mean …’

‘No! How?’

‘Through Dad. He managed to find his email address. Asked if I want to meet up sometime.’

‘You mean, casually? As if you’re old school friends or something?’

‘Sort of, yes. It was a bit odd actually. He said something about us being young and scared and making mistakes …’

She blows out air. ‘The mistake he made was fucking off when you needed him.’

I nod. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m not sure yet. Will didn’t take it too well, understandably. But Rosie asked about meeting him recently. It’s obviously playing on her mind. I haven’t even told Will about that …’ I cut off abruptly as he approaches with a plate of cookies and three beers.

‘Party’s a bit different this year,’ he observes with a wry smile, handing us a bottle of Corona each and reclining beside us.

I nod. ‘Remember when the highlight was the boys building that enormous den? Seems like only last summer …’

‘We’re not completely past it, though,’ he adds, offering Liza a cookie. ‘We’re going to a gig tomorrow night.’

‘You’re joking,’ Liza splutters.

‘Unfortunately not,’ he says with a grin.

‘It’s Zach’s band,’ I explain. ‘We’ve been asked along to boost the numbers.’

Will grimaces. ‘Can we possibly get out of it, d’you think?’

‘Don’t think so,’ I say, pleased that he’s not exactly overjoyed at the thought of more Sabrina-time. Although I do like her, I was also slightly relieved that she didn’t show up today. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to come?’ I ask Liza.

‘Sure, why not?’

‘Yeah, you’re always out seeing bands,’ Will adds. ‘You can give us tips on how to behave.’

‘Like, do we stage dive?’ I ask.

She laughs and bites into a biscuit. ‘Just try and look a bit rock ‘n’ roll, Will.’

‘Seriously?’ he exclaims with a trace of alarm.

‘No, Christ – I’m joking. Just relax and have a good time.’ She pauses, munching on her cookie. ‘Ooh, these are amazing, Will. Kind of salty-sweet. What’s in them?’

‘They’re all Charlotte’s work, actually,’ he admits.

‘See?’ I say, laughing. ‘They
are
good. They’re crisp cookies. Ready salted with raisins. Will thought I was out of my mind …’

I look at him and he smiles back – smiles
properly
, I mean. Fondly, the way he used to. My heart lifts; it’s all going to be fine, I tell myself, drinking in the scene in our garden. My culinary experiment worked. As I’ve never made cookies that people actually wanted to eat before, I take this to be a very good omen indeed. It means Fraser won’t contact me again, and Rosie will perform an about-turn and decide she doesn’t want to meet him after all.

Most important of all, it means we’re okay, me and Will. He is holding my hand now, my gorgeous husband, on this beautiful summer’s day.

*

It’s been so long since I’ve been to a gig that I wake up next morning slightly panicked about how it’ll be. Not the music, obviously: that’ll just
happen
. As long as I face the right direction, and look interested, it doesn’t matter whether I enjoy it or not. No, it’s the peripheral stuff that’s concerning: like, will the venue have a cloakroom or will I have to stand there for hours, clutching my jacket, like when I arrived late at Ollie’s school concert and all the seats had been taken? Ugh, the pitying looks I attracted all night, and the comments: ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Charlotte? Maybe someone could find you a
folding stool
?’ All of this hissed in the middle of Sophia Barton’s flute solo. I don’t want a repeat of that.

Also: clothes. I’d be no problem at all if we were going to see one of those beardy acoustic guys that Liza so enjoys. Hair loose, no make-up, jeans and a top – that’s all I’d need to fit in. Actually, maybe not. While a pared-down, folky look is fine if you’re willowy of frame, I’m not so sure it works for a rather buxom muncher of crisps.

Hair,
I decide. It requires urgent attention. I call Petra, my local hairdresser, and as luck would have it she can fit me in for a cut and colour at four this afternoon. While it is, admittedly, hardly Trevor Sorbie, I always enjoy going to Petra’s salon due to the fact that it’s comfy and unpretentious and there’s plenty of chit-chat: they’re the kind of conversations I don’t have anywhere else. Beyoncé, online dating, whether juicing is a good thing or just a different way of starving yourself: Petra is a mine of information on such matters and I am always quite happy to sit there, soaking it all in. Less enjoyable is the fact that Petra – who’s in her late twenties – always asks, ‘So what’s happening tonight?’ And I always feel obliged to put a spin on such scintillating activities as supervising Ollie’s homework or watching a DVD.

At least this time, I am actually doing something notable. ‘I’m going to a gig,’ I tell her.

And this, it turns out, is my big mistake – because Petra says, ‘Oh, right – what sort of music?’

‘Kind of indie rock, I think,’ I reply, and next thing she’s excitedly showing me a shade chart consisting of row upon row of snippets of synthetic hair stuck to a large white card.

‘Let’s do something different then,’ she suggests. ‘Something fresher, younger, to lift your look …’

‘Sure,’ I say, swept along by her enthusiasm.

‘A rich mahogany with deeper vegetable tones?’ I take it she doesn’t mean carrot, or any of the less popular, dreary-toned veg: parsnip or celeriac.

‘Sounds great,’ I say as Petra jabs at one of the hair swatches on the chart. It looks fine, it really does: a rich, glossy brown – what you’d call a proper brunette. As my head wound has finally healed, I can justify today’s extravagance as a present to celebrate my recovery. It’s only later, when I’m being blow-dried, that I discover what Petra meant by ‘vegetable tones’: purple. Well, purple-
ish.
Which I don’t point out, naturally, because I am the kind of person who never complains when coffee is served lukewarm, or my glass of wine has a lump of cork bobbing about in it. In fact I say, ‘Thanks’, then proceed to tip generously. The less satisfactory the thing, the more cash I dump on the table, then leave, feeling furious – not with the person responsible but myself, for being such a spineless twerp. How can I possibly encourage Rosie to grow into a strong, confident woman when I can’t even say what I think about my own hair?

‘Oh,
Mum
.’ Rosie is the first to witness my new look when I arrive home.

I blink at her. ‘Yes, love, I know.’

She steps towards me. ‘You’ve had it coloured.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Will it wash out?’

My heart drops. ‘No, of course it won’t. It’s a tint.’

‘So, um … how long will it last?’ Her gaze is fixed on the top of my head.

‘Until it grows out, I guess, or until I have it coloured again …’ I shrug. ‘Maybe I should go blonde. What colour d’you think it would go, on top of purple?
Mauve
?’

She splutters with laughter. ‘It’s actually not that bad. It just takes a bit of getting used to.’

‘Thanks. Anyway, it’ll probably tone down,’ I add, feeling more positive now at the thought of us all going for a night out together, in a big gang (apart from Ollie, who’s opting instead for a sleepover at Saul’s). I’m no sooner ready, dressed in a fitted shirt, black jeans and admittedly very
shiny
purplish hair than Liza’s arrived, announcing that my new shade is ‘fantastic – no, of course it’s not purple, you mad woman. It’s gorgeous!’ Then Will returns from the shops, still wearing a grubby old gardening T-shirt and scruffy jeans, with a rip at one knee: obviously, he’s in no great rush to get ready. ‘Oh!’ he exclaims, staring at my head. ‘Who did that?’

‘Um, my hairdresser, obviously. Petra. What d’you think?’

‘It’s, uhhh …’ He scratches at an ear. ‘
Different
.’

‘You mean different as in, have I lost my mind?’

‘No, of course not.’ He glances at Liza and shakes his head. ‘God, Charlotte, don’t be so paranoid. It’s just, um … sort of aubergine
.
Unusual. I kind of like it.’ I decide to interpret this as crazed enthusiasm.