As Good As It Gets?

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘A few times, yes,’ I reply in an airy tone.

  A small pause. ‘Mum must’ve got to your letters first.’

  I inhale deeply and start the engine. ‘I need to go, Fraser. I don’t want to discuss this on the phone.’

  ‘Please, can’t we talk? When can I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Charlotte. Does Rosie know anything about me?’

  ‘Yes, of course she does. Well, a bit. She doesn’t know anything about your life, and neither do I—’

  ‘But I want you to,’ he cuts in. ‘I feel terrible, you know. I haven’t been able to sleep since I saw you. I’ve taken time off work. God knows what Rosie thinks of me …’

  I cringe every time he mentions her name. He’s not her dad. Will is. Fraser Johnson has never dabbed Savlon onto a bleeding knee or cheered her up with a packet of neon-bright Haribos after a jab at the doctor’s. He never had to acquaint himself with the machine that turned stinky nappies into bricks – which were never, as promised, ‘odourless’ – or stripped a child’s bed at 4.30 a.m. after she’d puked all over the sheets. At least, I don’t imagine he has. As he’s never mentioned kids, I assume he doesn’t have any. He’s breezed through life, ‘dividing his time’ between London and Cheshire, while I divided my time between the swings in the park and my cluttered kitchen.

  ‘Can I see Rosie?’ he asks.

  No, no, no. This isn’t the way we’d planned it. We were going to handle this calmly, Will and I, and talk it over when the time was right. ‘Maybe,’ I say warily. ‘I’ll have to discuss it with her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we’re ready, Fraser,’ I say, abruptly finishing the call and pulling off the forecourt – without looking properly, and causing a driver of a gleaming red Porsche to toot irritably. It’s okay, I tell myself, trying to steady my breathing as I drive home. I’ll tell Will straight away – or at least, as soon as we can talk in private. That’s the thing with teens. It’s not the sex thing that’s tricky, as Sabrina believes. It’s having a private adult conversation, without Ollie or Rosie barging in and demanding to know what we’re talking about. As if we’re that fascinating! I mean, often it’s just Will musing over whether he needs a haircut, or me reminding him to buy a present for Gloria’s birthday.

  By the time I pull up in our street, I have it all planned out: what I’ll say, and where I’ll say it. We’ll sit in the garden. It’s a warm, muggy evening; the air feels heavy and damp. We’ll need wine to refresh us.

  I step into the house and find Will in the kitchen. ‘Hi,’ I say, kissing his cheek, which he merely allows as if I am a distant cousin.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask brightly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Dinner smells delicious; after all this time, I am still always hugely impressed when he manages to do something terribly clever with marinades. Any fancy flavourings I add to food seem to evaporate in the oven. I have the incredible knack of turning the most thrilling-sounding Jamie Oliver dish into a joyless school dinner.

  Something catches my eye as Will checks the oven. Curiously, my stained canvas shoes are sitting neatly paired up on the table, as if on display. Beside them rests Ollie’s shiny silver torch, now pieced back together, as good as new. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You found my shoes.’ I smile, trying to convey how pleased I am to be reunited with my Converse rip-offs (Primark, £6.99).

  ‘Yes, they were in the shed.’ Will gives me a significant look.

  ‘And Ollie’s torch! He’ll be so pleased.’

  ‘That was in the shed too. Your shoes were sitting on the workbench and the torch was broken on the floor. I fixed it, though—’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say, my heart rattling alarmingly.

  ‘Charlotte … what were you doing in there? These shoes are covered in creosote and someone had tried, very badly, to mop it all up. I nearly fell over the empty tin. What was going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. Will throws me a quizzical look. ‘Well, um,’ I add, feeling my cheeks blazing, ‘this is a bit embarrassing. Remember that night, when I had drinks with Liza and Sabrina and I told you I’d bashed my head against the door?’

  He nods, frowning. This is all wrong. He doesn’t look like the man I was planning to have a lovely evening with, sipping chilled white wine in the garden, while I told him about Fraser – which, of course, he’d be hugely understanding about. He looks like a teacher who’s pretty annoyed because someone hid a slice of salami inside a history textbook.

  ‘Er, that’s not quite what happened,’ I mutter.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Rosie and Ollie are both playing music in their rooms. Two different tracks mingle confusingly, which would annoy me normally, but now I’m relieved they’re otherwise engaged.

  ‘I was sort of … exploring it,’ I explain.

  ‘Exploring it? What is there to explore? There’s hardly anything in it. What were you doing in there?’

  ‘Oh, there are loads of things,’ I rattle on. ‘I was amazed at how much stuff you’d managed to pack into it. All those tins and tubs … blood and bone fertiliser! And hormone rooting powder! It all sounds a bit … lewd, doesn’t it?’ I laugh awkwardly, aware that, once upon a time, I’d have told him immediately what I’d been up to. While he might have teased me for being a raving lunatic, we’d have sniggered about it and possibly even done it in there, in a ‘why the hell not?’ sort of way. We did that kind of thing, back in the stone age.

  Will is studying me as if he’s not quite sure who I am. ‘But you never go in the shed.’

  ‘That’s because it’s your domain, darling,’ I say, touching his arm. He flinches as if I’d poked him with a fish.

  He shakes his head. ‘I just don’t get it. The shoes, the torch, the creosote …’

  ‘Well, er,’ I start, sensing my cheeks sizzling even hotter, ‘I was kind of thinking, maybe it might be nice to, er, try something a bit different. And I thought … you know. It might be quite fun.’

  A wasp drifts in through the open window. He bats it away. ‘What d’you mean, different?’

  ‘You know. Just … different.’

  He still looks confused. What does he think I’m talking about? Switching our online shop from Tesco to Asda? Or trying the Berries & Cherries Dorset Cereal instead of the nutty kind we usually have? This is ridiculous. Why can’t I just spit it out? Will has seen me naked millions of times, in all kinds of ungainly positions. He’s watched me push a baby out of my vagina, for goodness’ sake.

  ‘I mean for a sort of sex thing,’ I murmur, my cheeks radiating a fierce heat.

  His brows shoot up. ‘A sex thing? What, in the shed?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it might be fun.’ I laugh self-deprecatingly. He continues to study me with an icy glare.

  ‘You mean … you think our sex life’s boring?’

  ‘No! Of course I don’t. It’s lovely. It’s just that … you know.’ Will blinks at me. This is excruciating. ‘We don’t do it very often these days,’ I say, all in a rush, ‘and I was starting to worry and I thought—’

  Will frowns. ‘It hasn’t been that long.’

  ‘It has, Will. I mean, the last time was Mother’s Day …’

  ‘D’you make a note of this kind of thing? D’you keep a log?’

  ‘No,’ I protest, ‘of course not—’ I take his hand but he pulls it away.

  ‘D’you have a file on this?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just, these things tend to lodge in my head. You know – special occasion sex. And I’m not blaming you—’

  ‘Well, thanks!’ he blusters.

  ‘… I’m saying it’s not your fault at all. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just us, the way things are. And I’d started to think, maybe we could … vary things, so I was investigating the shed as a possible location …’ My top lip is sprouting sweat, I can feel it glistening there.

  ‘You want to do it in our shed,’ he says, holding my
gaze.

  ‘Well, no actually,’ I say, lapsing into a jokey tone, ‘that’s what’s funny because I had to conclude, after my extensive research, that its potential as a potentially erotic location is limited.’ I laugh, loudly and alone.

  ‘You must think I’m an idiot,’ Will says.

  ‘No, of course I don’t—’

  ‘You’ve been in there, and you knocked the creosote over—’

  ‘Well deduced!’ I say with a ridiculous grin. ‘That’s exactly what happened …’

  ‘—Because,’ he hisses, flinging the back door open and stomping out to the garden, ‘you were messing about in there with another man.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For a moment, I just stand there. He can’t think that. He can’t really believe it. He has too much time to think and brood, that’s all, being stuck at home for so long. I find him sitting on the bench, glaring at our shed, as if my imaginary lover might still be cowering in there, terrified to come out. ‘Will,’ I say tentatively, perching beside him, ‘you don’t really believe that, do you?’ He shrinks away, as if I reek of something unpleasant.

  ‘What else am I supposed to think?’

  ‘I told you! I know it sounds mad, but I was only prowling about to assess it, to see if—’

  ‘You’re obviously lying,’ he interrupts. ‘You’re bright red, and it’s all so convoluted—’

  ‘Yes,’ I cut in, ‘because I know how stupid it sounds and what a bloody ridiculous thing it was to do.’ I stare down at the ground. Here we are, in our beautiful garden as planned, although the glasses of chilled white wine are absent. As is any mention of Fraser, obviously. It’s not the right time. When will it ever be the right time?

  ‘It was a bit,’ Will mutters.

  ‘Okay, but it’s a bit of a jump to assume I’m having a fling, isn’t it? D’you honestly think I’d do that?’ I picture myself, just an hour ago, talking to Fraser in the Carpet Land car park. ‘I know it sounds mad,’ I add, ‘but, honestly, Will – I’ve told you what I was doing. That’s exactly what happened—’

  ‘Oh, right, when you banged your head against the door …’

  ‘Actually, the creosote can fell on my head.’

  He slides his gaze towards me. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mutter. ‘It has a really sharp edge. It could have been a lot worse …’

  He observes me, failing to show any sympathy. ‘So you lied about that, then.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ We fall into silence.

  ‘You’ve been weird lately,’ he ventures finally.

  I nod. ‘I know. It’s just, something’s—’ I break off as Gerald strides out into his garden.

  ‘Lovely evening,’ he says brightly.

  Will nods. ‘Yes it is,’ I reply. I watch as our neighbour bobs down, then reappears clutching a green plastic sieve. He gives it a little shake.

  ‘Only way to get the stones out,’ he says with a grin.

  I’m aware that weeding should be done – and mowing, obviously – but sieving the soil? Is this a thing? ‘You’re very dedicated, Gerald,’ I remark.

  ‘Yes, well, I do what I can. Any luck with jobs yet, Will? Anything in the offing?’

  I glance at Will. ‘Erm, I’m looking into a few things,’ he replies.

  Gerald nods, wiping a lick of sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. ‘Very competitive these days and of course, you’re not getting any younger …’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Will smiles tightly.

  ‘… I mean, if there are two candidates, one in their forties and one of twenty-eight, no prizes for guessing who they’ll go for …’

  ‘Yep, I’m aware of that,’ Will cuts in. I glance at him. A vein seems to be throbbing in his neck.

  Gerald jiggles his sieve. ‘It’s unfair, of course. Discriminatory really. I mean, look at you, Will, with decades of life experience and, er—’ He tails off, as if unable to think of any more admirable qualities my husband might possess. ‘Glad I’m not in your shoes,’ he adds. ‘I don’t envy you one bit. Tricia and I are lucky in that our jobs are secure and the mortgage is paid off …’

  ‘You are lucky,’ Will agrees. Smug fucker, I sense him adding silently.

  Gerald picks a bit of gravel out of the sieve and examines it before tossing it aside. ‘Had any more intruders in your garden? We’ve been worried, since we heard all that screaming—’

  ‘No, nothing,’ I say quickly, jumping up and scuttling towards the house, as if I might have suddenly remembered a pan of milk simmering on the hob.

  Will follows, and there’s a distinct air of grumpiness as we prepare dinner together. Although he is virtually silent as we eat, Ollie’s chattiness masks any awkwardness. ‘When are you gonna get more modelling jobs, Rosie?’ he enquires.

  ‘Dunno,’ she replies.

  ‘Are you working for those mitten people again?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She rolls her eyes and adds, turning to me, ‘Another wool company want to see me, Mum. Laurie says I should go. She reckons I’m great for the knitting market. What does that even mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I say. ‘But it’s all work, isn’t it? And experience?’

  She drops her knife onto her plate. ‘What d’you think, Dad?’

  Will frowns. ‘Does it really matter whether you’re working for a fashion magazine or a knitting company? I’d have thought it was all pretty similar—’

  ‘Of course it’s not similar!’ she cries shrilly. ‘Delph says you have to be really careful when you start out, or you’ll be branded as one of those naff girls, a catalogue girl—’

  Bloody Delph …

  ‘But she modelled mittens,’ Ollie reminds her.

  ‘Yeah, by mistake, idiot …’

  I look at my daughter, wishing now that I’d whisked her out of Forever 21 before Laurie could press that card into my hand. We should have listened to Gloria’s warnings about the foil dress poking and never let her do it. She seems so defensive these days, and unusually intolerant of her little brother. I’d never have imagined that mittens could be viewed as so controversial. Christ, it seems like only last week that she owned a pair: Fairisle pattern, lovingly knitted by my mum. Rosie had cried, I recall, when she’d left one on the bus.

  ‘I’d rather have gloves,’ Ollie muses. ‘I mean, why would anyone choose to wear something that stops them using each finger individually?’

  ‘Can we stop discussing mittens?’ she barks. They batter back and forth, sniping and snapping until Ollie stomps off to his room, and Rosie heads out to meet Zach to go to the movies again. This time, we let her go with no prior quizzing. If she’s old enough for the knitting market, then she is perfectly capable of trotting off to the cinema with a boy.

  I watch Will as he carefully waters his tomato plants on the kitchen shelf. Does he really think I’d sneak into our shed with another man? The very idea is so ludicrous I can’t even bring myself to be angry with him. I start to sort laundry, replaying Dee’s confession today: snogging in the spud store. Not very Archie Towers-type behaviour, admittedly – but still, it was just a blip. On the other hand, my meet-up and phone conversation with Fraser are starting to seem like a huge deal. It no longer feels like ‘only coffee’. There’s no only about it. What the hell am I playing at?

  Will is in the utility room now, gathering tools to fix a bit of loose fence that Tricia has been grumbling about. The toy garage pops into my mind, with its working lift. Rosie had always preferred her collection of vehicles to the curly-haired doll Grandma Gloria had given her, and was delighted when Will had presented it to her. ‘Thank you, Daddy!’ she cried, throwing her arms around him. He had always been Daddy, right from the start. Although – naturally – I’d introduced him as Will, she never seemed to consider the possibility of calling him by name.

  A lump forms in my throat as he emerges clutching a hammer and a box of nails. ‘What?’ he says simply, studying my face.

  ‘Will,’ I s
tart, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘I knew there was. What is it?’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ I murmur. ‘It’s … it’s Fraser.’

  His face darkens. ‘Has he contacted you again?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, he has. We’ve, um, emailed a few times …’

  ‘That’s who you were with in the shed!’

  I stare at Will. His eyes are narrowed, his cheeks flushed. So that’s what he thinks – that I invited my ex round for a quickie in the shed, knocking down a can of creosote in our excitement … for God’s sake. I can’t tell him about the coffee in Caffè Nero – not now, when he’s being so irrational.

  ‘Of course I wasn’t,’ I say firmly. ‘That’s just ridiculous. God, Will, how did it get like this between us?’

  ‘Like what?’ he counters.

  ‘Like … you know. This. I really don’t want to list all the incidents which illustrate how we haven’t been getting along …’

  ‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘do tell me. Tell me everything you’re unhappy about.’

  I swallow hard. ‘Okay – the night you gobbled a load of drugs …’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you were charming that night, weren’t you? Reading the riot act in that café—’

  ‘I’ve never read you the riot act,’ I exclaim. ‘I was pissed off, yes, when I saw you dancing with that woman at Sabrina’s—’

  ‘And then you squirted me with salad cream. That was mature! How d’you think that made me feel?’

  ‘I don’t know how you feel about anything,’ I shoot back, ‘because you never tell me.’

  Tears fuzz my vision as I turn away. Sodding salad cream. Will he still be bringing that up when we’re in our eighties? No, because he’ll have left me by then and I’ll be a batty old woman, unable to forgive myself for wrecking my marriage over a secret coffee with my ex.

  Will dumps the hammer and nails on the kitchen table and clicks on his laptop. Maybe he’s about to Google ‘quickie divorce’. I try to gauge his expression as his laptop rouses itself, creakily; it’s a rickety old machine, ‘steam-powered’, he reckons. In fact, he merely opens his Facebook page. Considering the terse exchange we’ve just had, this is rather insulting. But then, who am I to judge? Of course he’s hurt and upset, and I can’t imagine how he’d feel if he knew how my heart leaps every time I glimpse Fraser’s name in my inbox.