As Good As It Gets? (37 page)

‘I have no idea,’ I reply. About anything, in fact, I want to add. My mind is an utter void.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I s’pose so.’ Silence hangs in the air between us. Perhaps the absence/fonder thing doesn’t apply to Will. ‘D’you want to speak to the kids?’ I ask.

‘Er, sure, if it’s not too late?’

‘I think I just heard Rosie. Hang on a sec.’ I get up and find her emerging from the bathroom. ‘Is it Dad?’ she asks, clearly delighted as I hand her the phone.

‘Yep.’ She takes it to her room and shuts the door. So that’s that, then: the end of my conversation with Will. Not that we had much to say to each other anyway. Rather than going to bed and listening to her chattering away, I perch on a chair at the small desk in the corner of our room – next to Will’s still untouched birthday turntable and speakers – and click on my laptop. As usual, my emails are all junk – except one.

Dear Charlotte,

Hi, me again. Can we spend some proper time together? I can’t stop thinking about everything we discussed. Would you spend a day with me? Or is that too much to ask?

Please get in touch.

Love,

Fraser x

A whole day? It would be tricky to arrange, and sneaking around isn’t my usual style: look where ‘only coffee’ got me. But then, Will isn’t here. He is over 500 miles away, and all he’d tell me about his interview is that it went ‘pretty well’. What the hell does that mean?

Hello, Fraser
, I start to type. Then I stop. My heart, too, seems to have juddered to a halt. Rosie is standing behind me. I didn’t even hear her come into my room. ‘Hi, love,’ I croak, swivelling to face her.

Her face is unreadable as she holds out my phone. ‘Here you go.’

‘That was pretty quick.’ I smile and take it from her.

‘Yeah, Dad’s a bit tired.’ She is making no move to go back to her room.

Her eyes flick to my screen. I look at her as she scans the lines. ‘Fraser?’ she says faintly. ‘Mum … are you emailing my real dad?’

Chapter Thirty-Six

‘He’s been in touch,’ I murmur. ‘He emailed Grandpa after seeing us in that magazine together.’

‘Oh my God, Mum!’ she gasps. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘Because …’ I sense my face glowing hot. ‘I wanted to talk it over with Dad first, so we could decide what to do.’

She drops heavily onto the edge of my bed, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed. I am poised for an outburst:
You should have told me straight away! Why d’you treat me like a child?
But it doesn’t come. She pushes a strand of hair out of her face and asks, in a quiet voice, ‘So what does Dad think?’

My cheeks burn. ‘Well, um … he’s not exactly delighted, love. You have to understand how weird this is for him.’

She nods. ‘Yeah, I can imagine. Poor Dad.’

I sit beside her and squeeze her hand. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure everything’ll work out.’ A white lie – so tiny it doesn’t count.

Rosie springs up again. ‘Mum, I can’t believe this! I’m going to meet Fraser! I am, aren’t I?’

‘Erm, well … yes.’ Of course she is. There’s no way around it now.

‘When?’ she demands, eyes shining. At this moment, I am so glad Will is up north with his minke whales.

I get up and hug her, then pull back and study her face. ‘Look, Rosie – I’ve already met him. We had coffee last week …’

‘Did you? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Well, erm … it felt important to see him, to check him out, before you met up with him. D’you understand that?’

She grimaces. ‘What, in case he was an axe-wielding maniac?’

I raise a small smile. ‘I suppose so. It
had
been a long time, you know …’

‘Did you talk about me?’

‘Yes, of course we did …’

‘Oh, Mum, I’m so excited!’

‘And I want to meet him again,’ I go on, trying to sound as if I know what I’m doing, and that I have everything under control, ‘because we still have stuff to talk about. And after that I think, yes, it’ll be fine for you to meet up …’

Of course it is. It’s also terrifying, but right now I’m relieved that she’s too full of excitement to even think about being angry at me for keeping all of this from her.

‘What was he like?’ she wants to know.

I pause. ‘Just the same, I guess. The same as I remembered. Older, obviously …’

‘Does he have any more kids? Do I have any half-brothers and sisters?’

‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’

She stares at me. ‘You didn’t even ask? What did you talk about, then?’

‘Quite a lot, actually …’

Her expression changes, and all the joy drains out of her face. ‘Does he want to see me though? I mean, he’s never tried to. Why would he want to get to know me now?’

I swallow hard, wondering how to explain the most important part. ‘The thing is, darling, he didn’t know he had a daughter.’

‘What? What d’you mean?’

‘I mean, he knew I was pregnant, and it seemed like he wanted to make it work – he was delighted, you know, about the pregnancy, about you …’

She frowns. ‘So what happened?’

‘Well, um … his mum wasn’t happy. She told him I’d called, and that I hadn’t gone through with the pregnancy and never wanted to see him again—’

‘So she lied?’ Rosie gasps.

‘Yes.’

‘She said you’d had an abortion? What a cow! Why did she do that?’

‘Because …’ I break off. ‘I don’t know. But he was young – only three years older than you are now …’

‘So what? What difference does that make?’

‘I guess she was being protective.’

‘Yeah, there’s being protective,’ she snaps, ‘like you and Dad insisting on coming to the agency with me, and interrogating me and Zach when we were only going to the cinema and—’

‘Listen,’ I cut in, ‘I never met her, so I have no idea what was going on in her head. But the fact is, he accepted what she said, and he didn’t try to see me after that. So maybe he
wasn’t
ready. And we were fine, me and you – we got on with our lives and then I met Dad …’

Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I miss Dad.’

‘So do I, sweetheart,’ I say, taking her hand again.

We sit back down in silence, side by side on the edge of my bed, then she kisses my cheek and says, ‘I’m going to bed, Mum.’

I look at her. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I am.’ She musters a smile, then makes her way to the door. ‘Will you tell Fraser,’ she adds, ‘that I’d like to meet him?’

‘Of course I will,’ I say.

Hearing her bedroom door close, I return to the email and type quickly:

Yes, I think we should spend some time together as we have a lot to discuss. When is good for you? Also, I’ve told Rosie I’ve seen you and she is keen to meet you at some point
–
would you be okay with that? But I think just you and I should talk first. I might be able to ask Rosie to look after her brother for the day. Where were you thinking of meeting?

Charlotte

He replies within seconds.

Hi Charlotte,

I’m not going to work this week. I can’t until I’ve seen you. Can I meet you tomorrow, or is that too short notice? I don’t want to pressurise you. Just say what you’d like to do
–
anything is fine with me. I did have an idea, though
–
would you like to have a day in Brighton with me? Or would that be too weird? I could pick you up somewhere that’s convenient …

A sudden movement makes me flinch away from the screen. At first I think I imagined it; but no – something definitely moved. There it goes again. The pile of charity shop clothes twitched. Mice, is my first thought. If this is what happens when Will goes up north for a week, what’ll we have on our hands if he’s based up there permanently? Rodent infestations. And while Gloria wouldn’t say it out loud, I know exactly what she’d be thinking:
Standards haven’t half slipped since Will left …

I step gingerly towards the heap of old T-shirts and sweaters. It’s not that I’m afraid of mice – at least, not the domesticated type, like Saul has, which seem to spend most of their time scuttling in and out of a toilet roll tube. Admittedly, I’m not crazy about the kind that sneak into houses and shoot out without warning, having gnawed through an electrical cable.

I edge closer, glimpsing Will’s black leather trousers, bundled up between some ratty old jeans. So he’s getting rid of them. In fact, they’re not
that
bad. Will was clearly as unsure as I was about going to Zach’s gig; while I was having my hair tinted aubergine, hoping it’d make me ‘blend in’ with young people, he was probably raking through his old clothes for something suitably youth-making.

I leap back as the clothes move again. What if it’s not mice, but rats? I can picture Tricia and Gerald’s appalled expressions as a van pulls up outside our house with VERMIN EXTERMINATION in huge letters on its side. Heart galloping now, I glance around the room for something to poke the pile with. I have to get the thing out, or
things
: maybe they’ve been breeding in there. All that sex going on – wild rompings, all night long, mere feet away from where I sleep.

I creep down to the kitchen, grab our floor brush and hurry back upstairs with it. Using the non-bristle end, I give the pile a sharp jab. ‘Come out!’ I address the pile in a wavery voice. Nothing. ‘Get
out
!’ I command, more firmly now, determined to show that I’m not a pathetic woman who falls to bits when her husband deserts her. The pile shudders again. Christ, it’s
alive
—

‘What is it?’ Ollie cries from the doorway. ‘What are you doing, Mum?’

‘Nothing, Ollie, just go back to bed—’

There’s a thudding of feet as Rosie hurries towards us. ‘Mum, what’s going on?’

‘Mum’s hitting the clothes with the brush!’ Ollie announces.

‘Why? What’s happening?’ She clasps a hand to her mouth.

‘I don’t know,’ I mutter. ‘Something moved …’ Casting the brush aside, I stride towards the pile, determined to show my children that their mother is made of stern stuff. I pull clothes off the pile – the old, worn-out sweaters and T-shirts and leather trousers – until they’re flung all over the floor, as if there’s been some frantic,
What on earth shall I wear?
crisis going on, until all that’s left where the charity pile was is a large, rather startled rabbit, eyeing us with surprise.

‘Guinness!’ Rosie yells. ‘He’s here!’ She scoops him up and cradles him in her arms.

‘He must be starving, Mum,’ Ollie says reproachfully. ‘What’s he been eating all this time?’

Gathering up Will’s clothes, I pause to inspect the leather trousers. They were in mint condition when he wore them. Now they’re punctured by small raggedy holes; evidence of Guinness’s feasting. I hold them up. ‘Look at this. He’s bitten right through the crotch.’

‘That’s disgusting!’ Rosie howls. ‘My God, Mum …’ She dissolves into laughter.

‘At least Dad can’t ever wear them again,’ Ollie splutters, when he’s finally capable of speech.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Fraser drives a gleaming black BMW that smells as if it rolled off the production line about an hour ago. There’s no fermenting fruit whiff, no crushed Ribena cartons scattered about my feet, no chewing gum wrappers or crisp packets stuffed into the ‘bin’ (i.e. door compartment). I glance at Fraser, who is driving with the smooth composure of someone who’d passed his test first time, and was bought a brand new car by his parents for his eighteenth birthday. As we leave the suburban sprawl behind us, it occurs to me that I still know virtually nothing about him as an adult man.

‘So it was no problem coming out today?’ he asks.

‘No – Rosie’s keeping an eye on Ollie.’

‘That was good of her. Is she generally pretty helpful, then?’

She’s his daughter, whom he’s never met, and he wants to know if she’s helpful? Don’t ask me that. Ask me if she’s smart or clever or funny or kind. Ask me what she’s
like.
He’s nervous, I think, and immaculately dressed: black jeans, plus a pale blue shirt that’s so perfectly pressed, I wonder if he has an ironing lady. ‘She can be, when she wants to be,’ I start, ‘but you know what teenagers are like …’

Does he, though? Probably not. Maybe he finds them annoying with their fondness for hanging about, music hissing tinnily from their headphones. ‘Depends what it is,’ I babble on. ‘She does help, if I ask – you know, about seventeen times. But we have a rabbit and the deal was, she’d look after him – I mean, not all by herself, she was only six when we got him – but now she’s more than capable of shovelling up a few pellets. I mean, they’re fine, they don’t even smell really …’

God, make me stop. It’s the first proper day I’ve spent with Fraser since 1996 and I’m describing Guinness’s poos.

‘I can imagine that’s irritating,’ Fraser offers, ‘but I have no experience of that kind of thing. I don’t have kids.’ He quickly corrects himself. ‘Any
other
kids, I mean …’

‘Are you married?’ I ask, giving him a quick look. He is actually incredibly youthful looking, I decide. I think he’s had a haircut since that coffee in Covent Garden. It looks expensive, even though it’s just a short, regular cut.

‘Was,’ he says. ‘Well, still am technically. We’re separated.’

I nod and gaze out of the window, wondering what Will would think if he could see me now, heading for Brighton in what he’d probably describe as a ‘wanker’s car’. Ours have always been old and temperamental, with piles of detritus stashed in the boot. Anyway, as Will has failed to reply to the message I left first thing this morning – ‘Just to see if there’s any news!’ I chirped, like a fond aunt – I haven’t felt obliged to update him on this latest development.