As Good As It Gets? (41 page)

‘That’s nonsense,’ I retort, glancing round for evidence of how wrong Laurie is. I point at our decommissioned cat-shaped biscuit barrel which Rosie stores her hair accessories in. ‘That’s homely.
I’m
homely, probably. Grandma Maggie and Grandpa Peter, they’re homely. Grandma Gloria … well, maybe not so much. But you’re only sixteen, Rosie. How can she possibly say—’

‘Anyway,’ she interrupts, ‘Laurie reckons I’d be better with another agency, one that specialise in those sort of girls – the homely kind. She’s got a friend who runs that kind of agency. “Her girls are always working!” she said …’

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,’ I suggest, putting an arm around her narrow shoulders.

‘You think I want to be in sofa adverts?’

I don’t answer that. Nina would be delighted to, I reflect, instead of doing all those extra shifts at the Harvester. We lapse into silence. Ollie has put the TV back on downstairs – it’s blaring at what Rosie calls ‘old people’s volume’ – and it sounds as if Gerald is giving his lawn one of its thrice-weekly mowings. Nipper, who takes issue with the mower, is yapping insistently.

‘It’s not what I thought, Mum,’ Rosie mumbles.

‘You mean modelling?’

She nods. ‘I thought I’d get to travel and stuff. Meet people, wear lovely clothes, be in magazines …’

‘You have been in one,’ I remind her.

‘Yeah, with you.’ She raises the tiniest smile.

‘Hmm. Sorry about that. I couldn’t stop myself, you know,
muscling in
…’

She lets out a small, hollow laugh. ‘That was the best part actually, that first shoot. Well, compared to standing there sweating like mad on a beach and getting a rash from the wool. I thought it’d be a bit more …’

‘Glamorous?’

‘Yeah.’ She shrugs again, as if shaking off the day’s disappointment. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘what happened with Fraser?’

Odd that she’s only just asking now. Perhaps the burning desire to meet him has cooled a little. Or maybe being described as ‘homely’ is of more immediate concern.

‘It was fine,’ I say, sensing my cheeks flush. ‘We got on well, and he wants to meet you, if you still do—’

‘Yeah, ’course I do! When?’

‘Soon. We’ll sort something out, okay? We’ll talk it over with Dad …’

‘But Dad’s in Scotland.’

I pause, wondering how she’ll react to my plan. ‘Yes, and we’re going up to see him – you, me and Ollie. That’s where we were when you came home. We’d been to Grandma Gloria’s to drop off Guinness …’

‘Are we going to fly?’ she asks, still thrilled by the possibility.

I shake my head. ‘We’ll have to drive, I’m afraid.’

‘So Dad gets to fly and we have to go in your smelly old car?’

‘Well, yes – it’s the only one I have at the moment.’

She nods, looking a little shamefaced. ‘All right.’

‘And we’re going to camp,’ I add.

‘Camp?’ she exclaims. ‘Oh, Mum, do I
have
to come?’

‘Yes, you do. You can bring a friend if you like. The tent’s huge, remember …’

‘You’re really selling it to me, Mum,’ she groans.

‘What about Nina? D’you think she’d like to come?’

Her face clouds. ‘Um, things are a bit weird at the moment …’

‘Delph then?’

‘You think Delph’d want to sleep in a stinky old tent?’

I sigh and get up from her bed, deciding not to get drawn into this. In my own bedroom I pluck Will’s leather trousers from the charity pile and take them through to show Rosie. ‘I thought we could take these with us to Scotland,’ I add.

‘Oh my God, Mum,’ she says, giggling. ‘Does he know what happened? Was he upset?’

‘No, he doesn’t know. I, er, haven’t had a chance to tell him.’ I pause, wondering
why
he hasn’t been in contact: I’d have appreciated a call, seeing as I’ve just lost my job, and it’s so unlike him not to keep in touch with the kids. No response to my text, either, when I joked about being impressed by the size of his inkcap. Am I doing the right thing by dragging Rosie and Ollie all the way to Scotland with a leaky old tent? Christ, I hope this won’t blow up in my face.

‘Can’t we stay in hotels?’ Rosie asks hopefully.

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, no. Look, love, things are tricky at the moment. I’ve been made redundant from Archie’s.’

‘No!’ she gasps. ‘God, Mum. What are you going to do?’

I muster a big smile. ‘I’ll find something else, don’t worry. But in the meantime, we’ll have to be pretty careful. Anyway, camping’s fun …’

‘Sure it is,’ she says with a wry smile.

‘And we’re leaving early tomorrow,’ I add, ‘so could you pack a bag tonight?’

*

It’s midnight by the time I’ve gathered my own clothes together, and unearthed our camping stove, sleeping bags and roll-out mats from the cupboard under the stairs. The tent isn’t there, though. Must be in the attic, requiring me to lug the ladder upstairs and clamber in through the hatch on the landing, whilst trying not to disturb the kids.

I click on the light, scanning the travel cots and car seats and Ollie’s old activity arch with all the Winnie the Pooh characters dangling off it, thickly furred with dust. There are boxes of books, a long-deceased Amstrad computer and our fake Christmas tree, used only once since Gloria remarked, ‘Pity you didn’t get a real one!’ and which was regarded as substandard by the children ever since. That was the Christmas when she also announced that it was a shame we hadn’t had the children christened. ‘Does that mean I don’t have a name?’ bleated Ollie, who was only four at the time.

I prowl around in the gloom of the single bare bulb, picking up long-forgotten books – I have no idea why we’ve kept them all – and a clear plastic sack of fairy story cassettes which both Rosie and Ollie insisted on listening to over and over in bed every night.

Dust catches in my throat as I spot a shiny silver biscuit tin sitting beside our tent. It’s full of photos from a pre-digital age that seem to mainly depict our early family holidays. I crouch down, flipping through them, realising how much younger Will and I looked then. In one photo – I’m not sure where it was taken – the four of us are on a beach. I’m wearing a bikini and Will’s in trunks. This was before the kids started making vomiting noises on glimpsing us in our swimwear. We looked pretty good, I think. Will is deeply tanned and looks as if he’s casually flopped an arm around my shoulders. We must have asked a stranger to take it. In another, obviously taken on the same day, we are all smiley and happy with our arms wrapped around each other in the dunes. Tears prick my eyes.

I flick through more photos, stopping when I find the only one I kept of Fraser and me; I lied when I told Rosie I didn’t have any. I was scared of upsetting Will by showing it to her, and I suppose I’ve pretended it sort of melted away in the attic. My hair is very long, with what looks like a self-cut fringe, and he looks extremely handsome with his messy fair hair and bright, white smile. We are standing on a footbridge spanning a canal in Amsterdam – another picture taken by an obliging passerby.

I place the rest of the photos back in the tin, except this one. Then, being as quiet as I can, I carry it – plus our enormous, unwieldy tent in its nylon sack – down the ladder and deposit it on the landing. I climb back up to replace the hatch, then prop the ladder against the landing wall and go down to the kitchen.

There, I take out our kitchen scissors and cut up the photo of the young, smiley couple in love. I don’t need it anymore. Rosie doesn’t need to see it either because soon, she will meet him for real.

Chapter Forty-One

We set off just before 6 a.m. and arrive at our campsite, tucked behind a dramatic sweep of Northumberland coast, just after lunch. Cranky from being confined in the car for so long, Rosie and Ollie grudgingly help to pitch our tent; in fact, it’s Ollie who barks instructions, while I wrestle with poles and acres of rustling nylon. ‘Delph’s going to Italy on Monday,’ Rosie reminds me. She has assumed a flat expression as if I have dragged her to a B&Q car park.

Thankfully, though, the grey sky clears, the sun peeps out, and to my surprise, Rosie pulls off her sandals and heads for the sea to paddle. She’s soon joined by Ollie. I watch from the dunes with my bare toes tucked in the soft, warm sand as they mess about in the shallows, the way they used to. It’s already starting to feel like a family holiday. The only difference is, Will isn’t here.

After drying off, we head into the village in search of fish and chips. There’s a pretty Norman church, an old-fashioned sweet shop and a proper butchers, manned by a jovial-looking chap in a navy and white striped apron. It’s all very pleasing –
homely
, in fact. A cluster of elderly ladies are chatting outside a bakery. I have yet to spot anyone under the age of fifty here. The place has a sleepy, amiable air, plucked straight from a children’s storybook; several passersby have already said hello, and commented on the beautiful afternoon.

We buy fish and chips to eat back at the campsite. ‘I was thinking, Mum,’ Rosie says, crunching batter, ‘I need a job. A proper one, I mean – not going to castings and having someone pretending to look at your book and flipping through it in about two seconds …’

‘You’re going to look for a summer job, then?’

‘Yeah. As soon as we get back.’

‘Maybe Nina could put in a word for you?’ I suggest.

I expect her to scoff at my crappy idea. ‘Yeah. I feel kind of bad, actually. I haven’t seen much of her lately—’

‘If you get a job at the Harvester,’ Ollie interrupts, ‘does that mean we’d all get a discount at the salad cart?’

‘You always say cart,’ Rosie sniggers. ‘It’s salad
bar
.’

‘Salad cart makes it sound like it’s for hooved beasts,’ I remark, which makes the two of them giggle.

This is all right, I decide. It’s not Florida; in fact I’m not sure Sally would even class it as a proper holiday. I just hope Will doesn’t mind us descending on him tomorrow. Since the mushroom picture there’s been no communication from him. I’d thought the shaggy inkcap was a sort of peace offering, but it looks like I read too much into it. This would suggest that he really does want a clean break, i.e., possibly one that goes on and on forever and is actually more commonly known as
divorce.

Bloody hell. I can’t even bear to think about that. But right now, although I’m pretty sure he’ll be delighted to see the kids, I’m not at all certain he’ll feel quite the same way about me.

*

As a trio, we are more effective at disassembling a tent than erecting one, and after a pretty restless night we are on our way to Scotland before any other campers have emerged from their tents. The atmosphere as we drive north is cheerful and jokey, especially after a stop-off for breakfast. They can’t wait to see their dad, I realise, with a sharp pang. They’ve missed him, perhaps more than they’ve even realised.

The second campsite I’ve booked is more of a wild and windy affair, without a shop or any facilities, apart from a bleak-looking shower block, a mile or so from the charity’s headquarters. Once our tent has been pitched, we go for a walk along the rugged coastline. I try Will’s mobile as the kids dawdle behind, but it goes to voicemail. ‘Hi, Will,’ I start, ‘it’s me. Just wondered how things are going …’ Friendly auntie again. ‘I, er … well, I have a bit of a surprise,’ I add, ‘so could you call me please?’ Then I ring off.

‘Mum, look!’ Ollie yells. ‘Look over there. Seals!’

I turn and stare. ‘Wow,’ I exclaim, amazed at how inert they seem, flumped on the mottled rocks. Slowly, one of them rouses itself and flops into the sea.

‘They’re, like, so lazy,’ he chuckles.

‘They’re amazing,’ Rosie marvels, taking pictures with her phone.

We stand and watch them for ages. I can see why Will was lured up here, but the thought of him settling here, without us, makes me feel as if my heart could burst.

‘I’m starving, Mum,’ Ollie announces as we head back to camp.

‘There’s a shop in the village,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s go and fetch supplies.’

‘I’ll stay here,’ Rosie says, ducking into the tent. ‘I’m
exhausted
after that walk.’

‘She’s so feeble,’ Ollie sniggers as we set off to buy rolls, sausages and a newspaper from the village store. In a sleepy café, I buy takeaway hot chocolates for the kids and a large, strong coffee for me. ‘When are we gonna see Dad?’ Ollie wants to know as we step back outside.

‘Soon. Today, I hope.’

‘Does he know we’re here yet?’

‘Er, no. I haven’t been able to get hold of him, love.’

‘Where’s he staying?’ Ollie wants to know.

‘At a B&B,’ I reply, ‘somewhere in the village. It’s called Glen something. Glenholm, I think …’

‘Let’s find it!’ he says gleefully.

I frown. ‘I’d rather speak to him first, rather than just turning up—’

‘C’mon, Mum,’ he argues. ‘He’ll be dead pleased.’ I look at my son, who’s clearly desperate to see his dad. And
of course, we should try to track him down: why are we here, if not to see him? We peer at every house all the way back, and finally we spot Glenholm guest house: an immaculate pebble-dashed modern bungalow, with an enormous lilac bush in the front garden.

My stomach clenches. Maybe we shouldn’t have come after all. I could have taken the kids camping to France instead. After all, there’s no hurry to get back to London, now I no longer have a job to go to. I sip my coffee, burning my lip.

‘Mum,
’ Ollie’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘Why aren’t you listening? I said, I’ve got an idea. Instead of knocking, let’s go back to the campsite and fetch his leather trousers and leave them here on the doorstep as a joke.’

‘That would just be weird,’ I chuckle. ‘That’d freak him out. He’d think he had some creepy, crotch-eating stalker …’

‘Go on, let’s do it! It’d be so funny. Let’s get them …’ I love him for this, his boyish enthusiasm, but I’m still not sure it’s the smartest idea.

However, back at the campsite Rosie agrees that it’s an excellent plan and, after we’ve cooked a late lunch on our camping stove, she proceeds to wrap the trousers in the newspaper I haven’t even read yet. ‘This is mad,’ Rosie giggles. ‘He’s gonna totally freak out.’