As Good As It Gets?

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘He’s doing his own thing,’ his mother explains with a resigned smile.

  ‘Meaning sod all, basically,’ Tommy chortles. ‘He’s studying at the college of fuck-all, then possibly graduating to the university of sitting-on-his-arse. Bloody exhausting, isn’t it, Zach?’

  We laugh again, and Zach gazes at us as if we’re a collection of random strangers waiting for a bus. ‘Well,’ Will says, growing impatient now, ‘if there’s anything you need …’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ Sabrina says warmly.

  ‘There is something,’ Tommy adds. ‘Don’t suppose you know if there are any good cycling trails around here? Trail biking, I mean.’

  I pause for Will to answer this time, thinking that perhaps he might like to contribute, seeing as he’s the one who zooms around parks and marshlands on his foraging expeditions. But he just stands there, mute, as if Tommy had enquired about some obscure local facility – an accordion supplier, perhaps, or a breeder of guinea pigs. ‘Er, you cycle a lot, don’t you?’ I prompt Will, widening my eyes.

  ‘Um, yeah, just round and about really,’ he says vaguely. Oh, for Christ’s sake. I know he’s eager to get away, but he doesn’t have to be so uncommunicative. It’s like having another teenager in tow.

  ‘Would you say the marshes are the best place?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah.’ Will nods. ‘Depends what you’re looking for really …’

  ‘Well, I guess we’d better let you get on.’ I smile brightly, realising I’m trying to compensate for Will’s standoffishness, and feel decidedly out of sorts as we troop back to our house.

  ‘Did you have to do that?’ Will hisses as we cross the road.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Interrogate the boy …’

  I gawp at him as we reach our house. ‘I didn’t interrogate him. I just asked a few questions. At least I was interested. It’s better than being rude, like you were, pretending you couldn’t quite remember what a bicycle is …’

  Will emits a gasp of irritation.

  ‘Charlotte! Just a minute …’ I turn to see Sabrina, her ravishing hair shining like copper as she hurries towards us. ‘Sorry,’ she adds, ‘I should’ve said. We’re having a few friends around for a barbecue next Saturday. A sort of christen-the-house thing. It’d be great if you and your family could come … we’d love to meet you all properly.’

  Clearly, she wasn’t appalled by me ‘interrogating’ her son. ‘That’s kind of you,’ I reply. ‘We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Will?’

  ‘Uh … yeah,’ he says, in an overly bright voice, unable to disguise the fact that he’d rather clean our tiling grout than fraternise with the new neighbours.

  *

  Will’s mood has lifted by the time we’re all installed in our favourite local Malaysian restaurant for his birthday dinner (well, it’s everyone’s favourite apart from Ollie’s – he nagged to go to the Harvester and is beyond thrilled that Rosie’s best friend Nina started working there recently). ‘You should have heard Mum, grilling the poor boy,’ Will chuckles.

  ‘I only asked a few polite questions,’ I correct him, not minding a bit of light ribbing as long as we have a fun evening out.

  Will laughs, tucking into fiery prawns. ‘You didn’t ask questions. You fired them at him like a machine gun. He was virtually ducking for cover.’ He shields his head with his hands and grins at Ollie. ‘She wanted to know all about his future career plans, what he intends to do with the rest of his life …’

  Rosie sniggers. ‘Yeah. You were out there for ages, Mum. And they were obviously dead busy …’

  ‘… And the boy—’ Will starts.

  ‘Zach,’ I cut in. ‘His name’s Zach.’

  ‘… he was smoking in front of his parents,’ Will goes on, ‘and it wasn’t just a roll-up either.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ I ask.

  ‘What was it then?’ Ollie demands, eyes wide.

  ‘D’you mean it was pot?’ I blurt out, at which Rosie snorts with laughter.

  ‘Pot? Who calls it pot?’

  Everyone is sniggering now as the waiter clears our table. ‘Mum does, obviously,’ Will says with a grin. ‘She thinks it’s still 1972.’

  ‘I wasn’t even born in 1972, Will. And what am I meant to call it?’

  ‘Pot!’ Ollie mimics me. ‘Look, we’re having a groovy night out! Would anyone like some pot?’

  The waiter glances back and smirks.

  ‘Hash, then?’ I suggest with a shrug. ‘Ganja? Whacky baccy? Assassin of youth?’

  Ollie and Rosie convulse with laughter. ‘Where d’you hear that?’ she exclaims.

  ‘In a film,’ I reply, in mock indignation, to which Ollie enquires – of course, I should have sensed the question hurtling towards me, like the thundering rock in Raiders of the Lost Ark – ‘Have you ever smoked pot, Mum?’

  I sip my wine while formulating an appropriate response. Outright lying doesn’t feel right – but then, do my children need a full inventory of every misdemeanour from my distant past? Anyway, as far as they’re concerned I was never a young person. I was born a middle-aged woman forever stuffing sweaty pants into the washing machine and moaning about the loo being left unflushed. ‘I, uh … had a nibble of a space cake once,’ I say, hoping that’ll satisfy them.

  ‘What’s a space cake?’ Ollie asks eagerly.

  ‘It’s a little bun with, er, stuff baked into it.’

  ‘Like pot?’ Rosie giggles.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say in a small, regretful voice. ‘I thought it was an ordinary cake actually.’

  ‘Like from Starbucks?’ Will smirks.

  ‘Yes. A sort of … herbal muffin.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Ollie teases. ‘You knew it was drugs, Mum. You wanted that cake, I can tell …’

  ‘She only had a little nibble,’ Will adds, his mouth twitching with mirth.

  ‘Where did you have it?’ Rosie asks. ‘At a party?’

  I pour myself a glass of sparkling water to prove how pure I am now, and not the type to consume suspect bakery goods of any description. ‘Yes,’ I reply simply, ‘it was at a party.’ In fact it was Fraser, Rosie’s real father, who I’d sampled space cakes with – in Amsterdam, unsurprisingly, on our Inter-railing trip. It had become ‘our’ trip by chance. I’d planned to travel with Angie, a school friend, and when she’d contracted glandular fever I’d decided to go on my own. En route to Paris I’d met Fraser, whose refined features and floppy fair hair suggested a privileged upbringing involving rugby and cricket and an expensive education. Certainly, he had enough cash in the seemingly bottomless pockets of his khaki shorts to spend four months drifting around Europe, stopping off to see various wealthy friends, whereas I’d only been able to scrape together enough for three weeks. From then on we’d travelled together, and by the time we rolled up at an Amsterdam hostel, we were in love.

  ‘What was it like?’ Ollie wants to know, making my heart jolt. Oh my God, it was heaven. Lying in Vondelpark with him kissing crumbs from my lips, and not knowing if it was the druggy cake making my head swirl, or the beautiful blond boy who looked like one of those carved marble angels you see in cathedrals …

  ‘Mum?’ Ollie prompts me.

  ‘Er, yes?’ I nearly knock over my glass of water.

  ‘What did it taste of?’

  I take a fortifying glug of wine. ‘It was horrible,’ I fib. ‘The most disgusting thing I ever ate. It made me very, very sick, and if either of you are ever offered anything like that, just say no.’

  Rosie grins. ‘They actually call it weed these days, Mum. Weed or spliff or cheese.’

  ‘Cheese?’ I repeat, feeling decrepit. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, you hear people saying they’re gonna score some cheese …’

  I splutter involuntarily. ‘Who are these people?’

  She shrugs. ‘Just people.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what they mean, though?’ I ask.

  ‘They could just be going to
buy a Camembert,’ Will offers, sending the kids into hysterics again.

  I smile and squeeze his hand under the table. If only it could always be like this, with Will being funny and sweet, like he used to be, before redundancy and angry-mowing and refusing to talk to me about anything important. Yet the fact that our marriage is hardly sparkly these days isn’t all his fault; it’s mine too. Occasionally, when Liza mentions a date she’s been on, I can’t help sensing a twinge of envy. Life can feel terribly grown up sometimes, when I come home to a barely communicative husband, then get on with the business of shovelling Guinness’s droppings out of his hutch (Rosie refuses to involve herself in his toileting. What kind of vet will she make, if she can’t bring herself to deal with a few innocuous pebble-like poos?).

  Sometimes, I tell myself, this is just how adult life is, and I should stop mourning the loss of spontaneity and passion and accept how things are. The way Will flinches when I touch him in bed, as if jabbed with a red hot toasting fork with a smouldering marshmallow on the end … at our age it’s just normal, isn’t it? Everyone looks back at their younger selves occasionally, and feels all dreamy and wistful. Then they give themselves a mental slap and get on with hoiking a mass of gunky hair out of the shower drain and book in the car for its MOT.

  ‘Good birthday, sweetheart?’ I ask, my hand still wrapped around his.

  Will smiles warmly. ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  ‘So, am I forgiven interrogating our new neighbours?’

  ‘Guess so.’ He squeezes my hand back.

  ‘What did you think of Sabrina? Isn’t she beautiful?’

  ‘Hmm, s’pose so,’ he says with a shrug.

  ‘Come on,’ I tease him. ‘What about that stunning red hair? And her body! So slim and fit-looking. D’you think she’s a dancer?’

  Will looks genuinely baffled. ‘I’ve no idea. Why d’you say that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – she has that lean, sinewy vibe about her, a bit like Liza …’ I pause. ‘Maybe she’s something to do with the music business? Or a make-up artist?’

  Rosie chuckles. ‘Why d’you do this, Mum?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Take such a massive interest in other people’s lives.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I retort. ‘I’m just interested. So, are we all going to their party next Saturday?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ Will says with a shrug. ‘We won’t know anyone, will we?’

  ‘But we could get to know them,’ I point out.

  ‘Will there be anyone my age?’ Ollie wants to know.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I say briskly, ‘but anyway, I’m looking forward to it, and I’d appreciate it if you could all be positive because I’d really like us to all go as a family.’ I cough and sip my wine. In fact, I’m not that desperate myself. I’m out of practice when it comes to strangers’ parties; what to wear, what to say, how to be … I can’t recall the last time Will and I went to a social event where we didn’t know practically everyone. In fact, the last party I went to was my work Christmas do – seven months ago. The factory guys tore into the cheap fizz, and Frank, a strapping six-footer with a deep Spanish accent, remarked, ‘You’re very attractive, Charlotte … for your age.’

  ‘I s’pose,’ Will says, draining his glass, ‘it’d be pretty rude of us not to go.’

  ‘I might be busy,’ Rosie announces, perusing the dessert menu.

  ‘Actually,’ I say firmly, ‘you won’t be, hon. It’s only one night and it’s not too much to ask.’

  Sniggering again, Ollie leans towards Rosie and Will. ‘You know why Mum really wants to go? She thinks they might have herbal buns.’

  Chapter Six

  My mother-in-law calls at 8.07 on Wednesday morning, perfectly timed to coincide with the kids grabbing breakfast and my frenzied hunt for Ollie’s elusive trainers. ‘Hello, Gloria, how are you?’ I say, indicating to Will who’s calling. I’m-not-here, he mouths, accompanied by vigorous hand waving as if trying to actually rub himself out.

  ‘Is Will there?’ No pleasantries; no, how lovely it was to see us all on Saturday. Perhaps she’s still feeling prickly about us rekindling the memory of the Sorrington Bugle sleazebag.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve found the perfect job for him. Can you put him on?’

  I stare at Will.

  No! Will mouths. I’ll call her later … ‘He’s, erm, out on his bike at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘At this time?’

  ‘Yes, he likes to get out early if he’s … foraging. That way he gets the best stuff.’

  ‘Really? Does it run out, then, like at a jumble sale?’ She emits a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Well, never mind that. There’s a job here in the paper and it sounds ideal for Will …’

  ‘Thanks, Gloria, but I really think he’s fine, you know? I don’t want to keep bombarding him with suggestions …’

  ‘… They offer full training and excellent prospects,’ she witters on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I was worried when I saw him on Saturday. He seemed a little … flat.’

  ‘No, he’s fine, really – he’s great. So, um, what kind of job is it, just out of interest?’

  ‘Traffic warden. Sounds like there’s a shortage and, let’s face it, they’re always needed—’

  ‘Gloria,’ I cut in, catching Will’s eye, ‘I’m not sure he’d want to be a traffic warden.’

  Will splutters his coffee.

  ‘Is that him, is he back?’

  ‘No, no, that’s Ollie,’ I say quickly, wondering at which point she’ll tire of being his personal career advisor: when he does find paid work, presumably. Another reason for him to ramp up the job hunt …

  ‘I think he should at least consider it,’ Gloria says, sounding put out.

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ I say, having difficulty maintaining a serious voice with Will miming throat-cutting motions across the kitchen. ‘Sorry, Gloria, but I really need to get off to work …’ I finish the call and kiss Ollie goodbye as he rushes off to meet his friend Saul, then head upstairs to find Rosie. Normally, she doesn’t need any chivvying to get ready for school. ‘Hon,’ I say, finding her hunched over her laptop on her bed. ‘You should be gone by now. It’s really late …’

  ‘Yeah-in-a-minute,’ she murmurs, eyes fixed on the screen. I can sense her mentally shooing me away.

  ‘What are you looking at? Is it a homework thing?’

  ‘No, it’s a fashion site …’

  ‘At twenty past eight? Come on, Rosie—’

  ‘I need to study this stuff,’ she mutters.

  ‘You mean you’re studying fashion? Is this for art or something?’

  Ignoring me, she leans closer to the laptop. I peer over her shoulder. Models with haunted eyes and matted, dirty-looking hair are wearing baggy beige shifts in a setting which looks, to my untrained, un-fashiony eye, like a derelict psychiatric hospital. There are rusting iron beds, a sinister-looking trolley and, lurking in a corner, a concerned-looking man with Clark Kent spectacles and a clipboard. I glance at Rosie’s open notepad, in which she has written: Key trends. Unstructured nudes in pale plaster hues …

  ‘What’s an unstructured nude?’ I ask.

  ‘Um, I don’t really know,’ she admits.

  ‘It sounds a bit worrying,’ I add with a smile.

  Rosie sniffs and writes: Washed-out colour palette. ‘Wow,’ I mutter. ‘The fashion industry must be populated by geniuses if this is what we’ve got to look forward to. Looks more like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest …’

  ‘Huh?’ She turns to me.

  ‘Classic film with Jack Nicholson set in a psychiatric hospital. Brilliant, but not really known for the outfits. I mean, it’s not Breakfast at Tiffany’s …’ I break off, realising I’ve lost her. ‘Why are you looking at this stuff anyway?’

  ‘For the thing after school.’

  Ah, the agency meeting. ‘You don’t have to swot, you know. They�
��re not going to quiz you about hem lengths and trouser shapes …’

  She pushes away a frond of dark hair that’s escaped from her sensible ponytail. While Rosie enjoys rummaging through the rails in Top Shop, she’s never been remotely interested in cutting-edge trends. She errs towards the casual: jeans, baggy sweaters and pretty embellished tops. ‘Look,’ she says, sighing, ‘I’ll feel better if I’m prepared, okay? You’re always telling me that.’

  ‘Yes, for an English or history exam. This is different …’ I glance at her dressing table, on which she appears to have tipped out every item of make-up she owns. Not that there’s much; she only tends to wear it for a night out. ‘Remember they want you to look natural,’ I add.

  ‘Yes, Mum, I know. Why are you and Dad coming anyway? I mean, I’m not going to get lost, you know. And it’s not a family outing. It’s not like we’re going to Madame Tussaud’s …’

  ‘We’re coming, Rosie, and that’s that. No need to be so snappy.’

  With another dramatic sigh she shuts her laptop. ‘Sorry. I’m just a bit nervous, Mum …’

  ‘Hey,’ I say, pulling her in for a hug, ‘it’ll be fine. And it’s no big deal, is it? It’s just—’

  ‘A chat,’ she chips in, mustering a big, brave smile, before grabbing her jacket and scampering off.

  Back downstairs, I give Will a hasty kiss goodbye as I, too, should have set off by now. As I step out into the bright sunshine, I thank my lucky stars – not for the first time – that I have a job to go to.

  I enjoy my drive to work, despite the strange whiff in my car – fermenting apple cores, laced with stale biscuits – which I think is a hangover from when the kids were little, and couldn’t cope with a ten-minute journey without a huge array of snacks, and which never seems to fade, no matter how vigorously I go at it with the hoover. In fact, driving is blissful compared to dealing with Gloria’s well-meaning natterings, and ogling ‘pale plaster’ tabards, which reminds me that our kitchen desperately needs a lick of paint. We went for bare plaster walls, seduced by pictures in a magazine where it seemed to evoke a sort of faded beauty, like a Toast catalogue. In fact, it just looks like we couldn’t be bothered to finish the room. We can’t afford decorators, and I’m holding off suggesting that Will does it, in case it further delays his return to the world of paid employment.