As Good As It Gets? (39 page)

‘Wow … so, um … will you all move north?’

‘No, no, that’s not the plan,’ I say firmly. ‘We’d stay in London – me and the kids, I mean …’

‘Oh, I’m so glad. Sorry. God, that sounds awful. It’s just …’ He pauses. ‘It feels like I’ve only just found you again.’ His words knock the breath out of me. Found
me
? Isn’t this supposed to be all about Rosie?

‘It’s sort of complicated,’ I mutter.

‘But … he wants to move away from you, and the kids?’

I’m primed to spout the line we’ll tell his mother and sister – and anyone else we don’t feel able to be honest with – if he gets the job:
He’s only accepting it because he hasn’t been able to find anything closer to home. It’s a great position, after all, and he’ll visit …
But Fraser isn’t Gloria, or my sister-in law. ‘He … he says we need a break, actually,’ I add, unable to stop myself.

‘You’re splitting up?’

‘Well, not officially …’ Fraser listens without interrupting as I explain how things have been lately: the angry-mowing and pill-gobbling and weeping on the stair carpet. He remains silent, sitting so close on this sun-faded bench that I can sense the warmth from him. I tell him about assaulting my husband with squirty salad cream, and how I mistook a blow-up doll for a real woman; I tell him everything, because it feels as if I can. Even though all of this makes me sound quite ridiculous, I can’t stop.

And then I do, abruptly. I study his face to figure out if he’s appalled, or thinking,
Shit, Charlotte’s completely deranged. Better make an excuse and get her back to London, pronto …
‘God, Charlotte,’ is all he says.

‘I know. It’s all been a bit … eventful.’

‘Yeah. Sounds like it. I thought things were pretty crazy with me and Elise and the Chihuahuas.’

A smile tweaks my lips. I think about telling him about Guinness, gnawing through the crotch of Will’s leather trousers, but then he might think, Jesus, she married a leather trouser man, and I don’t want Will to seem tragically middle-aged, the kind who wears his hair long to compensate for it thinning on top, because he’s not like that at all.

‘So,’ I say, turning to Fraser, ‘what about you and Rosie?’

‘Well, I’d love to see her of course. But I don’t want this whole thing to freak her out.’

‘It won’t,’ I say firmly, ‘and it’s not a thing – I mean,
you’re
not a thing. You’re her dad.’

He nods, as if momentarily overwhelmed by the fact. ‘So … what d’you think’s best?’

I consider this as we watch a runner powering effortlessly along the promenade, a black and white collie dog scampering beside him on its lead. They are keeping pace perfectly, both focused ahead as if they exercise together every day. What will Rosie make of Fraser? Will they connect in any way? Awful therapy-type speak, I know, but I’m not sure how else to put it. ‘Bond’ feels too strong, something built up over years of playing and drawing and building Lego together.

‘We should arrange for you to meet,’ I say.

‘Just the two of us? Or d’you think you should be there too?’

I picture Will and I shuffling into Face Models with Rosie.
Quite the family outing!
Laurie quipped.

‘No, I think it’d be better for her to see you by herself. I’ll come into town and meet up with her afterwards.’

Fraser smiles warmly. ‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?’

Of course I have,
I’m her mum.
Although all I say is, ‘Yes.’

*

We are driving home to London in the grown-up car. I don’t want to go back. I want to carry on talking, as we have been the whole journey. I want Fraser to get a picture of what Rosie is like. It feels strange, condensing her sixteen years into random anecdotes and descriptions, but I’m doing my best. I break off and text her.
All okay at home?

Yeah,
she replies,
Ollie being annoying but OK. How’s it going?

Good,
I text back,
will tell all,
knowing that that’s not entirely true. Of course I won’t tell her how wonderful it is just to be myself, without that treading-on-eggshells feeling, and how ridiculously happy I feel today: no longer middle-aged, Ovaltine-sipping Charlotte, heading for old-lady facial sproutings, but young and ridiculously free.

‘We’re pretty near my place,’ he adds as the traffic slows to a crawl. ‘We could stop off, get a takeaway. How does that sound?’

It sounds like heaven. And it’s something I
definitely
shouldn’t do. ‘I’m not sure,’ I murmur.

‘There’s a fantastic Indian at the end of my road,’ he adds. ‘Best in South London, apparently. I’ll drive you home straight afterwards …’

A quick curry together: what harm can it do? ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but I’d better not be too long. I don’t want to get back late.’

He smiles. ‘Great. I’ve really loved today, you know.’

‘Me too,’ I say truthfully, wondering how Will would react he if he could see me now, in this ‘wanker’s car’, and quickly banishing the thought.

Fraser’s place is one of those huge ground-floor flats I glance into sometimes and think,
Where’s all the clutter?
It’s calm and airy, with tall Victorian sash windows and a sense that everything has been carefully chosen, rather than grabbed in IKEA in a tearing hurry.

‘I’ll show you the garden,’ he says, letting us out through the back door, then disappearing back inside for a bottle of Chablis and another of sparkling water. Wine for me, water for him. He sets them down on a small wrought iron table. ‘Thanks,’ I say gratefully, fishing out my phone as it bleeps.

‘Rosie again,’ I tell Fraser. ‘It’s not like her to be so communicative.’

Ollie’s gone to Saul’s
, it reads.
They’re having big family barbecue. Can he stay the night? I said it was OK. I’m on my way to Delph’s. She says I can stay over. That OK?

I glance at Fraser, then back at my phone.
All fine,
I reply.

‘Everything all right?’ Fraser asks.

‘Yes, seems like they’ve got their social lives sorted for tonight. They’re both staying over with friends.’ He looks at me. Although I’ve only had a few sips of wine, I feel dizzy and light. Maybe it’s not the wine at all.

‘Charlotte …’ he starts hesitantly, ‘I … I don’t know how to be a dad.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes it does. What if she’s angry? How much does she know?’

I sip my wine. ‘I told her you didn’t know anything about her, that you didn’t even know I’d had the baby. And anyway, no one knows how to be a parent. I didn’t. Still don’t, really. There’s no rule book, unfortunately. I wish there was. I wish there was a whole booklet thing printed in seventeen languages like you get with a new camera …’ I pause. Actually, I don’t, because I have never read a single instruction manual in my entire life. ‘I get things wrong all the time,’ I add. ‘I annoy her, I get in her way, I badger her for information …’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I think you’re amazing.’

I laugh awkwardly. ‘I’m not, I’m—’

‘Yes, you are. You’re beautiful and clever and funny and—’

Then he stops, and his lips are on mine, and it’s the loveliest kiss I can remember. It feels as if the world has stopped.

We pull away, as if shocked by what we’ve just done. ‘God, Charlotte,’ he murmurs. ‘I hope that didn’t seem—’

‘No, it was … lovely,’ I say, my head swimming.

‘But you’re married. I know you’re having problems right now, but still …’ He breaks off and kisses me again, very gently. I pull away.

You’re right,
I’m married,
are the words that should be falling out of my mouth.
Will might be exploring those white sand beaches right now, but he is still my husband, so I absolutely shouldn’t be doing this …
I focus on the rectangular lawn and neat borders filled with small, well-behaved shrubs. While not quite as precision-planted as Tricia and Gerald’s garden, it still looks exceptionally well-tended. Maybe Fraser has a gardener as well as an ironing lady.

‘It’s okay,’ I say quietly. ‘I wanted to come here. I wasn’t ready to go home yet.’

Fraser takes my hand in his. ‘I loved you, you know. I couldn’t believe it when Mum said you’d called. It destroyed me, actually. Remember I was all set to go into banking? Well, I pissed around instead, working in a video store and doing odd jobs here and there for a couple of years, until my parents forced me to get my act together …’

I start to reply that I was pretty devastated too, when my phone pings again. It’s another text from Rosie:
OMG you should see Delph’s house it has a POOL!!!

I slip my phone back in my pocket.

‘Everything okay?’ Fraser asks.

‘Rosie’s new model friend has a pool,’ I explain. ‘Who on earth has a pool in London—’ I stop abruptly. My heart soars as the first man I ever loved kisses me again.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

We haven’t had time to get a takeaway. The Indian at the end of Fraser’s road might be the best in South London but we haven’t been there, or even phoned for a delivery because we’ve been kissing fervently, like teenagers who think they’ve just invented this incredibly thrilling act. In between the kissing there’s been a bit of talking and drinking of wine. At least,
I’ve
had two large glasses. Fraser hasn’t because the plan is still that he’ll drive me home tonight.

Both of us know that this won’t happen.

It’s not just coffee, there’s no ‘just’ about it. Everything I do here seems to be a massive deal. I go to the bathroom and think,
I am peeing in Fraser’s loo.
I wash my hands at his washbasin using his posh Molton Brown liquid soap. Back home, our bar soap in the bathroom somehow manages to be slimy on one side and all cracked and dried out on the other: ‘Our science experiment,’ as Ollie calls it.

There’s a wall cabinet with a mirrored door. I peer at my reflection; I should look terrible, awash with stress and remorse but I just look happy. There are no fresh facial sproutings, I am delighted to note. Even my geographical fissures seem to have melted away.

I could stay here tonight. I could do this. The kids are out for the night and Will is in Scotland, with whales.

I open the cabinet and peer inside. There are Neal’s Yard toiletries in their distinctive dark blue bottles, and some kind of shaving preparation in a circular wooden tub, like a mini Camembert.

And a packet of condoms. Condoms, in a little gold packet, like a fortune cookie! I haven’t encountered one since prehistoric times. It was probably made from animal hide, rhinoceros skin or something. I’ve had a coil, simple and functional like a very ordinary, old-fashioned kettle. When I first got it, Will joked that if I faced the right way it could probably pick up Radio Moscow.

No, no, no, I must
not
think of Will. Or, if I do, it must only be in negative terms, like him flinching at my touch, and sneering at salad cream. I close the cabinet door, and when I rejoin Fraser in the living room he has topped up my wine, and poured an enormous glass for himself, which means he’s not planning to drive me home after all.

His sofa is a huge expanse of pale grey, unsullied by spillages and scuff marks. While I’d never actually do this, I know for certain that if I lifted the seat cushions there’d be no broken Bic biros or crisp crumbs lurking underneath. ‘Come here,’ Fraser says softly, taking me in his arms and kissing me. I think of the condoms in the bathroom. My whole body swills with nerves and desire.

He breaks away. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ he says.

I look at him. Christ,
bed
– involving nudity and sex. Which bra do I have on again? The reasonably pretty black one, or the tragic off-white thing that was never the same after I washed it with my jeans? My phone buzzes in my bag, and I leap away to retrieve it, panicking as I always do when I’m away from the kids that something terrible has happened, even though it never has, and they’re not babies anymore.

It’s a text from Will. I feel sick, as if he can see me through my phone with my just-snogged face. There’s no written message, just a picture, which I click open, not realising at first that Fraser is peering over my shoulder, gaze fixed on the screen. ‘Sorry,’ he says, jolting back. ‘I just thought maybe something was wrong.’

I turn to him, frowning. ‘What, with the kids?’

‘Yeah.’ This is extremely confusing. Being Rosie’s biological father doesn’t mean it’s his place to worry about her, or Ollie for that matter. I focus on the picture on my phone.

‘What is it?’ Fraser asks.

‘It’s … a mushroom.’

He guffaws. ‘Oh, is
that
what it is? For a moment I thought it was a penis …’

I feel as if I can’t quite move my body properly, as if every movement is slow and awkward and must be carefully thought about. I sit there, looking at the screen. Will,
my
Will, is thinking about me. He has sent me a photo of a mushroom.

‘It’s a shaggy inkcap,’ I say quietly.

Fraser laughs again. ‘How d’you know? You’re full of surprises, Charlotte, but I’d never have thought of you as a mushroom collector. I mean I knew you
cultivated
them, you and Bev in that horrible flat, on the damp bathroom carpet …’

Very slowly, I place my phone on the low blonde wood coffee table in front of us. Did he get the condoms in for us, I wonder? How could he possibly have known I’d come back here?

‘I know its name,’ I say, ‘because they’re pretty rare and he’ll have been excited to find it.’

‘Who? Your son?’

He can’t even remember his name. ‘No, Will, my husband.’

Fraser smirks. ‘You’re married to a mushroom collector.’

It’s as if a switch has been flicked, and instead of feeling deliciously wanton I now feel very strongly that I don’t want to be here, and that I need to be back at home. I edge away from him on the sofa.

‘Honestly,’ he adds, grinning, ‘I was worried for a moment. I thought some pervert had sent you a picture of his dick.’

I breathe in and out, slowly and deeply like yoga types do. ‘Yes,
I s’pose they are a bit phallic. But I’d be worried if I ever encountered one looking like that. I mean, I’d probably suggest an urgent trip to the clinic …’