As Good As It Gets? (24 page)

I know many years have passed. I understand that we both made decisions on the spur of the moment because we were so young and scared …

Tears are spilling onto my cheeks now. I rub them away with the back of my hand. All I can see is Will, pressing his face between that woman’s pointy tits, like a dog trying to snaffle a biscuit that’s slipped between the sofa cushions. What was he thinking? How drunk
is
he? I’ve been sloshed, yes. Very recently in fact. But I only paddled about in creosote and scared our neighbours.

I fully understand if you’d rather not be in touch again. I’d just like you to know that I have never forgotten you …

*

Before I can even consider what I’m doing, as if I have no control over my fingers at all, I type,

Hello Fraser,

Dad passed on your email. Yes, it’s me
–
I’m Charlotte Bristow now. Quite a surprise to put it mildly but good to hear from you all the same. Anyway, here I am.

Charlotte

Chapter Twenty-Two

Will is home. The dancing bear has returned from the woods, having caroused with She-Bear – she’s probably
blown on his porridge
– and is now making his way unsteadily to the kitchen. At least, I think he is. I am lying, ears pricked, in bed. It’s 2.07 a.m. and I haven’t slept at all. So what to do next?

Obvious options appear to be: 1. continue to lie here, pretending to be asleep and thus avoiding confrontation, possibly forever. Or, 2. storm downstairs and tell him precisely what I saw. No – can’t do that. I will
not
admit that, while he attempted to devour some woman’s cleavage, I was staring out through the window, sipping Ovaltine.

No, I shall just pretend I didn’t see a thing. I’ll carry on with my life, taking care of the kids and going to work; I shall be a model of dignity. On a positive note, at least none of the kids have woken up, despite him clattering about downstairs. It would be bad enough, Rosie and Ollie finding out – but we have a visitor here, who barely knows us. I could do without Delph finding out about Will’s erotic display and spreading it around the modelling world about what an embarrassment Rosie’s dad is. Things are tense enough around here as it is.

‘Uhhh …
’ There’s a groan from the stairs. Another sound comes: whimpering, like a small injured dog. I slip out of bed and creep towards the landing.

Will is lying in a heap on the stairs. His hair is askew, plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there’s a drink spillage on the front of his T-shirt. I observe the scene, wondering why I feel so different about my husband, who clearly needs urgent assistance, from when one of the children has hurt themselves or been upset for some reason. It
is
different, though. Kids need you. They might be unfeeling and selfish and make you crave strong drink, in huge quantities, but they don’t do it on purpose. Once, when I had to fill in a form at the doctors’ reception, I pulled out a tampon instead of a pen from my bag and tried to write with it. ‘That’s not a pen,’ Ollie yelled. ‘That’s one of them things ladies stick up their bums!’ Mortifying, yes, but he was only trying to
help.

Will flinches and moans again. God, I’m going to have to deal with this. ‘Will,’ I whisper, crouching beside him, ‘are you okay?’

‘Urrrr,
’ he mumbles.

‘You need to get up. You can’t sleep here. One of the kids’ll see …’

He hugs at the stair. ‘’S’all right. Did you email him then?’

‘What?’

‘Him. Fraser. Did you say he can see her?’ He fixes me with a glazed stare.

‘I did reply,’ I murmur, ‘but let’s not talk about that now—’

‘Why not? We need to, it’s important!’

‘
Shhhh
,’ I hiss at him, terrified that Rosie will overhear. ‘I know it is, but we’re not discussing it now, on the stairs, when you’re off your face. You must be kidding. Come to bed, Will. I’ll get you some water—’

‘I did something bad,’ he cuts in.

‘Yes, I know, I saw—’

‘No, you didn’t, you don’t know …’ What
is
he on about now? Maybe him smooching with that woman was just the warm-up, and he went off and did it with her in the downstairs loo or out in the garden or something. Or even in the shed! Which would be horrific, obviously … but right now, all I care about is shovelling him off to bed.

‘Come on, Will. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ He remains inert. ‘You’re going to wake everyone up,’ I hiss.

‘I’m sorry,’ he warbles. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Charlotte …’ Slowly, I manage to coax my now trembling husband up into a sitting position.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you,’ I whisper. ‘Now try to stand up …’

Obediently, he stands. His eyes look strange – unfocused and not quite there – and he’s sweating profusely. There’s been another spillage, I realise now, down the left leg of his trousers. It all adds up to a highly attractive package. Trying to contain my annoyance, I manage to guide him through to our bedroom and onto the edge of our bed, where he sits, head bowed, looking down at his shoes. ‘Will,’ I murmur, ‘how much did you drink?’

‘Not much. Just a bit.’

‘But you look completely out of it.’

He grimaces and flops back onto the bed. ‘I’m having a really bad time.’

‘What d’you mean? What have you
done
?’
I peer at his face, wondering if it will ever regain its normal, healthy hue.

‘Tommy
said it’d be fine, he still does it on special occasions—’

‘What,’ I snap, ‘shag strange women in downstairs bathrooms?’

He gawps at me, uncomprehending. ‘I didn’t …’

‘What did you do, then?’

‘I took an E.’

It takes a moment for this to sink in. ‘You took an
E
? For God’s sake, Will! What is this, 1988?’

‘No, but Tommy said—’

‘You’re a bit too old to succumb to peer pressure,’ I exclaim. ‘Do they do this regularly then, with Zach and his friends in the house?’

‘No, they’d all gone off to some other party—’ He stops abruptly and lurches off the bed, clattering to the bathroom where he retches loudly into the loo.

I scurry after him – he’s left the door wide open – and find him propped unsteadily against the washbasin. ‘Dad?’ Rosie is standing in the doorway now, her face stricken. ‘What’s happening? What’s wrong with him, Mum?’

Delph appears beside her in a tiny vest and pair of pink knickers. ‘Ew, God, has your dad just puked?’

‘It’s nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s fine, girls. Just go back to bed …’

Ollie’s door opens and he pads towards us, rubbing at an eye with his fist. ‘Is Dad sick? Has he caught what I’ve got?’

‘Go back to your rooms,’ I say firmly. ‘Come on, there’s nothing to see—’

‘Has he got a fever?’ Ollie wants to know. ‘Maybe you should take his temperature …’

Hmm, where could I possibly stick the thermometer …

‘Sorry,’ Will mutters. ‘Sorry, everyone. I’m fine. I’m just a bit, uh, tired …’ He glowers at me, as if
I’m
the one who’s guzzled class As and vomited, then he totters out of the bathroom and stumbles downstairs, mumbling, ‘Just leave me alone.’

With a shrug, Ollie shuffles off to bed. I look at Delph, then at Rosie, who are making no move to go anywhere. ‘
Mum?
’ Rosie mouths at me. ‘What the hell’s wrong with Dad?’

‘Is he pissed?’ Delph asks with a smirk.

‘No, he’s not pissed,’ I reply.

‘What is it then?’ Rosie demands.

I rearrange my face in the hope of conveying an expression of extreme calm. ‘I’m not sure, darling, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s probably just something he ate.’

*

We are driving. Or, rather, I am; Will is huddled in the passenger seat, his face a strange colour that I don’t know the name of. It’s a sort of peaky, greenish-grey, like something from a Farrow and Ball colour chart. Bone or Elephant’s Breath. I think Tricia might have chosen it for their back door. And it’s
fine
, for woodwork, but not so great for a face.

I don’t know where we’re going but we had to do
something
. We couldn’t stay in the house, with the kids gawping and firing questions and refusing to go back to bed – and on no account do I want Rosie and Ollie finding out that their father has been merrily chomping down ecstasy. The fuss they made, about me nibbling one measly little herbal bun … what would they make of this? All I could think of was to throw on some jeans, plus a sweater over my pyjama top, and explain that I was taking Dad out for ‘some air’. I bundled my dazed, frightened husband into the car and drove him away, as if he were a fretful baby who was refusing to go to sleep.

‘Where are we going?’ Will mutters.

‘I don’t know.’ I glance out to my right. An elderly man is leaning against a wheelie bin, smoking, and a young couple are wandering along arm in arm.

‘Are you taking me to hospital?’ he asks in a small voice.

‘No. Unless you think I need to? Are you saying you need your stomach pumped? Because I’m sure that could be arranged, Will—’

‘No thank you,’ he snaps. We slump into silence as he lowers the passenger window. Looks like he’s perking up a little. It was only an E, after all, which I presume to mean singular, so maybe it’s wearing off already. Let’s hope it doesn’t have any worrying side effects. While I don’t profess to be up-to-date on such matters – witness my ‘pot’ faux pas – I assume it was manufactured in someone’s kitchen in Britain rather than smuggled into the country stuffed up someone’s arse. But what if it was? What if it’s travelled through an entire digestive system? I stop at red lights and study Will’s face. He looks, whilst not the epitome of rude health, not quite on the brink of death either. ‘Maybe we should go home,’ he suggests flatly.

‘In a bit,’ I reply. ‘Let’s … oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing, Will. Look – that café’s open …’

‘Looks horrible.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not feeling too fussy right now. I’m not exactly insisting on a Michelin star. Let’s just go and have a cup of tea.’ Perhaps, I reflect as I park in front of the café, I’m just a tedious, Ovaltine-sipping middle-aged woman who needs to take a look at herself. He thinks: party time! Gimme drugs. I think: what I’d really love now is a nice hot beverage.

The all-night café has yellowing polystyrene ceiling tiles and smeary red Formica tables. At 3.17 a.m. it is devoid of any other customers. We are served by a man with a mop of black, oil-slicked hair and a strong whiff of cigarettes on his breath. ‘What d’you want?’ he asks.

A cup of tea and a divorce.
‘A pot of tea please.’

‘Right. And you?’ He darts a look at Will.

‘Just-a-glass-of-tap-water-thank-you.’

The man frowns. ‘That’s all?’

‘Yes thank you,’ Will says wearily.

‘It’s just, you can’t sit here for hours drinking tap water …’

I lean towards Will. ‘Maybe have something to eat. Something plain. It might settle your stomach …’ I grab the sticky laminated menu and quickly scan it: virtually everything is fried. What does Rupert say the word ‘fry’ conjures up? ‘Greasy, artery-clogging and frankly pretty horrid.’

‘How about tomatoes on toast?’ I suggest, as if Will is incapable of deciding for himself.

‘What kind of tomatoes are they?’ Will asks the man.

He peers at Will. ‘They’re
tomatoes.
’

‘Yes, but—’

‘They’re tomatoes,’ the man mutters, ‘out of a tin.’

‘Oh,’ Will says bleakly.

‘Sounds
great
,’ I say over-enthusiastically, feeling more and more like Will’s carer by the second, and turning back to him the instant the man has gone. ‘What kind did you think they’d be?’

Will shrugs and fiddles with the greasy pepper pot.

‘It was hardly likely to be some rare breed pedigree thing garnished with fresh basil.’

He blinks at me. ‘You don’t get breeds of tomatoes. They’re not cattle, Charlotte. You get
varieties
.’

‘Sorry,’ I say hotly. ‘Anyway …’ I clear my throat, grateful that café man has disappeared into the kitchen, ‘you said earlier that you did something bad …’

‘Uh?’

‘At Sabrina and Tommy’s. You said you did a bad thing and I assume it wasn’t drawing on the walls or pulling someone’s hair or—’

‘I told you,’ he hisses, leaning towards me, ‘I took that …
stuff
.’

‘Yes, and apart from that, I happened to look out and see you dancing.’ I am aware of blinking rapidly.

‘What?’

‘I mean, when I say dancing, you were actually clamped together with some woman, virtually having sex.’

Will looks aghast. ‘What are you on about?’

I inhale deeply as our drinks, and Will’s tomatoes on toast, are plonked down in front of us. There are splatters of pinkish juice all over the plate, suggesting that the tomatoes were thrown at the toast from a great height. ‘I
saw
you, Will,’ I add as the man marches off. ‘I know it sounds pathetic but I happened to glance out and there you were, doing this hot, sexy dance with a woman …’

‘I don’t do hot sexy dancing,’ he barks, causing the man to snigger from behind the counter.

‘No, I didn’t think so either but I saw it with my own eyes. It was hot, Will.
Steaming.
It’s a wonder you didn’t melt your trousers …’

He is staring at me. I know I should stop, and that the café man is standing there, smirking openly at us. But I can’t.

‘Leather doesn’t melt,’ Will mutters.

‘Was it Sabrina? Is that who you were dancing with?’

He shakes his head vehemently, like one of those velvety toy dogs you see in the backs of cars. ‘You think I fancy
Sabrina
?’

‘I have no idea, Will. Maybe you do!’

‘You’ve gone bloody insane,’ he declares.

I sip my weak tea. ‘She is very attractive. And it’s fine, if you
are
attracted to her. I mean, at least I’d know …’ I tail off.