As Good As It Gets? (34 page)

‘Will,’ I say carefully, as we march up the hill, ‘is this anything to do with the shed?’

He gives me a bewildered look.

‘Finding my shoes in there,’ I explain, ‘and assuming I was having a fling or something …’

He groans. ‘God, no. I applied way before that. Look, I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what I was thinking, accusing you …’ He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets.

‘You asked if I’d been in there with Fraser,’ I add, giving him a quick look.

‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, it was a mad thing to say. I think I just had a bit of … I don’t know … cabin fever.’

Hence applying for a job far, far away – to break out of that little cabin of ours. It still seems rather extreme. Most people, when they experience that hemmed-in feeling, go out and get drunk, or book a holiday or, in Sabrina’s case, donate blood. ‘So you don’t think I really did that.’

‘No! Christ, of course not.’

We walk in silence for a few moments. ‘Actually, Will … I
have
met Fraser.’

He stops and stares at me. ‘You met him? Where?’

‘In Caffè Nero in Covent Garden …’

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘No, and I’m sorry. I know I should have, but I didn’t. It’s just, you seemed so upset, the first time he emailed me …’

‘So it was
my
fault, was it?’

I go to touch his arm but he shrinks away. ‘I’m not saying that. It’s not anyone’s fault. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing—’

‘So when did you meet him?’ Will snaps.

‘On Monday, when you were at your mum’s getting the moss off her patio.’

He actually gasps at this. ‘Great! Just as well she had me building that bloody bird table as well, huh? To give you plenty of time?’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ I protest. ‘It was just something I felt I had to do.’ My cheeks are blazing, and a young mum and her little boy, with a purple kite tucked under his arm, give me a curious look as we march past.

‘Why’s that lady cross?’ the child pipes up.

‘Shush, darling. It’s none of our business …’

‘Why’s that man shouting about a bird table?’

I glance back. She is tugging him along by a hand. ‘Never mind, Lucas. Come on, if we don’t hurry up we’ll never get to fly this kite …’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the wind’ll all be gone, that’s why …’ Their voices fade.

‘It’s the deceit,’ Will mutters. ‘The fact that you snuck off and met him and didn’t say anything, before you went, or even afterwards …’

‘I know, and I’m sorry. I feel really crap about it, Will.’

‘I suppose this shows I’m doing the right thing, then,’ he growls.

‘What, by leaving? Is
that
what you’re doing? I still don’t understand. Is it really about the job, or something else? Would you be leaving anyway?’

‘I don’t
know
what I’m doing,’ he rages. ‘Look, why didn’t you just tell me before you went?’

Because I was scared, is the truth. Because of the eggshell thing, feeling as if I spend my entire life stepping carefully around you, as if the ground beneath my feet is incredibly fragile and pale, speckled blue …

‘I knew you’d be upset,’ I murmur. ‘It was really quick, and a bit awkward, to be honest—’ I break off as he turns away from me suddenly. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to the car.’ We stomp down the hill in silence. This is it, I decide: I’ve lost him. He’ll be offered this job, and meet a bevvy of beautiful girls, all dedicating themselves to the welfare of the creatures of the sea. They’ll have creamy, Celtic skin and in-depth knowledge of the behaviour of puffins. He’ll meet an elfin girl with one of those alluring Gaelic names, like Mhairi or Eilidh – the ones with h’s in confusing places which I’m never sure how to pronounce.

I climb into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. A tiny leaf is clinging to the top of Will’s head. Normally I’d pick it off, but he’s emitting powerful
don’t-touch-me
vibes.

‘The thing is, Will,’ I start, trying to order my thoughts, ‘it didn’t quite happen the way I thought it did. With Rosie, I mean. And Fraser.’

‘What d’you mean?’ he asks gruffly.

‘I mean, he didn’t just leave us. Well, he did, but not the way I thought he did.’ I clear my throat. ‘His mum told him I’d phoned to say I hadn’t gone through with the pregnancy, that I’d had an abortion—’

In an instant, his expression changes and the anger fades. His eyes focus on mine. ‘Christ, Charlotte.’

‘Yes, I know.’

He pauses, and for a moment, I think he’s going to reach for my hand, but instead, he rubs his eyes and sighs loudly. ‘So he never knew he had a child?’

I shake my head. ‘Even when he saw us in that magazine, he didn’t realise she was his.’

Will frowns. ‘Isn’t he very good at maths then? Or doesn’t he know how long the human gestation period is?’

I throw him a sharp look. ‘They got her age wrong in the interview, remember? They said she was fifteen so he assumed I’d got pregnant by someone else …’

‘Charming. So what now? I s’pose he’s going to be part of our family, is he?’

‘Will,
please.
We’ve always known she’d want to meet him at some point …’

‘Yeah, when
we
felt it was right. I always imagined we’d be in control of the situation, you know? So we could talk to her first, and decide if it was the right thing to try and track him down …’

‘It’s just the way it’s happened,’ I insist. ‘I know it’s not perfect, but then, nothing is.’

‘No, it certainly isn’t.’ He turns away, staring pointedly out of the side window, as I switch on the ignition and pull out.

As we drive home in silence I try to adjust to the possibility of my husband leaving me. To think, I’ve felt mildly rejected when he’s edged over to the far side of the bed. And now he wants to relocate as far away as humanly possible from me, whilst clinging on to the very northernmost tip of mainland Britain. Hell, why not go the whole hog and move to the Shetland Isles, or Iceland, or the North Pole? Sure, it’d be chilly, but with his two identical cashmere sweaters – presented by his mother and me on his birthday – and worn on top of each other, I’m sure he’d be perfectly cosy.

‘What shall we tell the kids?’ I ask finally, as we near our own street.

‘I think we should just be completely honest.’
Unlike you,
he adds silently
.

‘Fine, but how d’you think they’ll react?’

‘I think they’ll be okay,’ he says, blithely, as if we are about to break the news that we are choosing a new colour for our front door.

Zach and Ollie’s friends have gone, and we are greeted by evidence of extreme over-ordering from our local Indian. ‘Want some, Mum?’ Ollie asks, indicating the cartons of cold curry strewn over the coffee table in the living room. ‘There’s tons left. Look – we got Peshwari naan just for you …’

‘Thanks,’ I murmur, trying to look pleased.

‘Where did you go anyway?’ Rosie wants to know.

‘Uh, just out for a drive,’ Will says.

‘A drive,’ Ollie sniggers. ‘That’s such an old peopley thing to do. I mean, what’s the point?’

‘It’s enjoyable,’ I fib, because he’s right: there was no point at all. Will’s mind is made up and, even if he doesn’t get this job, he’s obviously decided to cast the net far and wide in his search for employment. Well, fine. To show Will how completely
fine
I am, I grab the untouched naan and rip off a huge piece.

‘Don’t understand why you like Peshwari,’ Ollie scoffs. ‘It’s sweet and almondy. It’s all wrong in a bread-type scenario.’

‘It’s delicious,’ I retort, although right now, with Will revving himself up to tell the kids about his plans, I don’t remotely feel like eating. My teeth sink into the spongy bread. Although I’m sure it
is
delicious, and that the Bombay Star hasn’t altered its recipe, right now it seems to have the taste and texture of an insole.

‘Want some more?’ Ollie asks, waggling the oily dough in my face.

‘No, hon, I’ve had enough.’ I glance at Will, who is finishing what’s left of the chicken korma (
he’s
not having any trouble eating, I note).

He clears his throat. ‘Erm, I’ve got a bit of news,’ he says, proceeding to tell them about zipping off to Inverness on Monday. Straight away, I realise that my anticipated awful, tearful scene isn’t going to happen because, rather cleverly, Will is presenting the possibility of this new job – ‘and it’s not definite, not at all,’ he keeps stressing, although of course it’s virtually in the bag – as a fantastic opportunity for boundless family fun.

‘Sounds great,’ Rosie marvels. ‘God, Dad – a director! That’s some promotion …’

‘I’d love to go there,’ Ollie adds.

‘Well, you can,’ Will enthuses, crunching a poppadom, ‘if I get the job …’ He is on the verge of leaving us. How can he keep on stuffing his face, forking great chunks of chicken into his gob like he hasn’t eaten for weeks? ‘It’s so wild and beautiful up there,’ he adds, biting into the last onion bhaji.

‘How d’you know?’ Ollie asks. ‘You said the first interview was on Skype.’

‘Yes,’ Will says, ‘but we had lots of holidays up there when I was a kid. I had an aunt up there, remember? Grandma Gloria’s sister who lived in Dornoch.’ Ah yes, I remember him describing Aunt Helen: tough, robust, her hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, in stark contrast to Gloria’s beauty contest glamour. Then he’s off again: enthusing over white sand beaches and turreted castles peeping out from dense pine forests, while I try to pick a bit of naan out of my right molar.

Maybe it
is
for the best, I decide. What kind of marriage is this, if all this planning has been going on and he hasn’t thought to involve me in any of it? I try to catch his eye as he talks. It’s as if I am not even in the room.

‘But if you get it,’ Rosie says, frowning, ‘when would we actually see you?’

‘I’d be home some weekends,’ Will says, still avoiding looking at me at all, ‘and you could come up, of course. It’s only a ninety-minute flight. You’ll be there before you’ve even finished your tub of Pringles …’

‘Are Pringles free on planes?’ asks Ollie, who can barely remember flying anywhere.

‘Er, I think so,’ Will replies. ‘Probably. Honestly, you’ll love it. It’s not just seals up there, you know. There are dolphins, porpoises, minke whales … even ospreys. D’you know what they’re like, Ollie?’

‘Yeah, they’re massive birds of prey.’

‘… with nests the size of rafts,’ Will surges on, ‘big enough for a grown man to float in …’

‘Cool!’ Ollie exclaims.

‘Could we fly on our own, Dad?’ Rosie asks. ‘Without Mum, I mean? I’m old enough …’ It feels as if that wretched piece of naan has lodged itself in my throat.

‘Sure,’ Will says. I get up from the sofa, stride through to the kitchen and open the fridge. Although I take out a bottle of fizzy water, wine is what I want. Wine, of any kind at all – at this point I’m not fussy – tipped hastily down my throat. Tragically, there doesn’t seem to be any. Why is this so? We always have a bottle or two hanging about. We should have another stash, hidden away:
emergency wine.

By the time I rejoin my family, they are busily planning many jaunts. These appear to involve independent travel and boat trips while, presumably, I am left at home to trundle back and forth to a crisp factory in Essex and conduct an endless, fruitless search for our lost rabbit. They don’t realise – and nor would I want them to – that Will’s thrilling adventure is actually his way of leaving me.

Unable to join in with the jolly conversation, I wander off to re-check Guinness’s sleeping quarters, then slope back into the kitchen, feeling all at sea here, in my own house: redundant, really.

‘
Can
we go, Dad?’ Ollie’s voice rings through the house. ‘Can I bring Saul as well?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Will replies.

I sit alone at the kitchen table, sipping my glass of water. In fact, I’d rather be here than squashed on the sofa with Will and the kids. I can’t bear to watch him being cheery, poppadom-crunching Dad when he’s on the brink of ending our marriage. I can hear it all, despite being in a different room – do they
always
talk so loudly? Will is on about basking sharks now; gentle creatures who glide through the sea, mouths wide open to allow billions of plankton to float in. It’s like a nature documentary without pictures.

A sea sponge,
that’s
the kind of sea creature I’ll be. What little factlet did Ollie tell me about them again? That they can’t be bothered to do it, even if they meet a really good-looking sea sponge, haha! Well, I reflect, glimpsing Tricia through our kitchen window, pegging out Gerald’s enormous Madras-checked underpants, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I’d just bob about, bothering no one. I wouldn’t even think about sex or love or being fancied; I’d just be
there.

Yep, that’s what I’ll be, I decide, grabbing my bag and slipping out quietly to the off-licence for wine.

They’re still chattering away in the living room when I come back. I don’t think anyone’s even noticed that I’ve been out. So I pour a big glass and take it upstairs, where I sprawl on our bed with my laptop and Google ‘distance London Inverness’.

559 miles, it says, which suggests that Will craves more than ‘a bit of space’.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I’m not sure how Will and I get through the period leading up to him stepping onto that plane, where the living is easy and the Pringles are free. Actually they’re not; they are £1.80, sour cream or paprika – not a Lobster Bisque to be had – from what EasyJet grandly term their in-flight ‘bistro’. I know this because I’ve checked.

This is the kind of person I have become: an obsessive checker of details, in between glaring at Will’s best suit which hangs, interview-ready and sheathed in clear plastic, on our wardrobe door. It’s very smart: charcoal, with a fine, paler stripe. I’ve rarely seen him wearing a suit at all, and am almost tempted to ask him to model it for me, just so I can hold in my head an image of a different Will – assured, professional, Director Will – in case I never get a chance to see him that way. But I suspect he’d think I was taking the piss, and I’m at pains to avoid any more bickering before he leaves.