by Fiona Gibson
Assuming our conversation is over, I busy myself by pairing up Rosie’s socks. Not my favourite job usually, but the repetitive task is at least helping to bring down my heart rate to a normal-ish level. I dart a quick look at the laptop again. Still Facebook. Not Will’s page, I realise now, but Sabrina’s: so they’re Facebook friends. That’s fine – of course it is. And I’d be friends with her too, if I was on it. Will is scrolling down her timeline. I glance casually over his shoulder, in a way that I hope seems companionable, rather than prying. There are pictures of Zach and his band, plus various pierced and pallid members of the audience at Down Below. I turn away and sort Will and Ollie’s pants into two tidy piles.
When I glance back, there’s a gallery of wedding dresses on the screen, modelled by one of the younger women – blonde and bronzed, with prominent collarbones – from Sabrina and Tommy’s housewarming party. In another shot, Tommy is blowing a kiss at the camera and waving a bottle of beer. There’s a moody close-up of Zach, strumming a guitar, looking every inch the indie boy pin-up.
Then more of the gig we went to. I know it’s that night because Sabrina is wearing her plunging black dress and leather jacket. I spot Liza in a couple of shots; they must have been taken back at Sabrina and Tommy’s place, after I’d gone to collect Ollie.
There’s one of Will, looking a bit pissed but happy, wearing a squiffy grin. Enjoying himself, obviously, while I was sipping my Ovaltine and having poisonous thoughts. And there’s one of him and a woman in a fierce embrace.
My heart seems to stop. ‘Sabrina’s just put these up,’ Will says flatly.
‘Oh, um … right! They look really fun.’
He glances at me, then indicates the screen. ‘Is that the person you were talking about when you mentioned hot, steamy dancing?’
I study the picture he’s pointing at. It’s not a real woman – I can see that now. The camera flash has bounced off her pink, shiny face and her little red mouth is an ‘o’ of surprise. ‘Er … yes, I think it is.’
It’s Chloe, Tommy’s pretend girlfriend. I squirted salad cream at my husband for dancing with a blow-up doll.
Chapter Thirty
Thursday morning, and I’m still in the dog house. At least, I assume I am. My plan was to get up super-early and make Will a lavish cooked breakfast – full English with black pudding, his favourite – but he was off on his bike before I’d even got the frying pan out.
I can’t get over the fact that I ranted at him for smooching with what was effectively a lilo, with tits and a face. Although I’ve apologised a thousand times, he’s obviously still miffed about it. Still, today isn’t all bad. It’s Rosie’s big shoot, for the billboards for the new shopping mall. I hope Will comes back in time to wish her luck. Maybe then, when she’s set off, we can talk things over in a calm, rational way. Although he hasn’t mentioned Fraser again, I’m aware that we urgently need to clear the air.
Ollie appears, still in PJs, and starts plundering the kitchen for cereal, groaning when he opens the crisp cupboard and a packet tumbles out. Some are probably out of date by now. ‘Nothing worse than a stale crisp,’ Rupert announced during a meeting, to which I wanted to reply, ‘Actually lots of things are worse: war, or losing all your loved ones in a house fire.’ But I just agreed that an ageing crisp is a truly terrible thing.
Ollie sighs loudly. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s gone out on his bike, love.’
‘This early? Why?’
‘No idea,’ I say, dropping two slices of bread into the toaster and adding, ‘I hope he’s back soon, though. It’s Rosie’s big shoot today and I need to leave for work.’
‘I’m fine here by myself,’ he says airily.
‘I know you are, Ollie, for a little while. But not all day.’ Hmm. Could Will be planning to stay out for hours, just to make things difficult?
‘Mum!’ Rosie strides into the kitchen, still in her dressing gown with her hair unwashed and roughly pulled back into a wonky ponytail. ‘I can’t find Guinness. Have you seen him?’
‘He’ll be in there, love,’ I say, indicating the utility room.
‘He’s not. I’ve already checked. The door was left open last night—’
‘Not the back door?’ I exclaim.
‘No, the utility room. Didn’t you make sure it was shut before you went to bed?’
I start scanning the kitchen, checking under the cooker and fridge. ‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘I can’t remember—’
‘Why not?’ she cries. Because my marriage was falling apart, that’s why. Because I was so humiliated over that stupid blow-up doll that I omitted to perform my nightly duties of turning off a billion lights and securing Guinness in the utility room for the night.
‘I’m not the only person who’s capable of shutting a door around here,’ I mutter, continuing to hunt for our pet. ‘There are four of us and everyone’s able-bodied. In fact, I’ve been meaning to say, how about involving yourselves in poo-collecting duties once in a while?’ Rosie and Ollie give me blank looks. ‘I mean,’ I rant on, unable to stop myself, ‘I accepted it when you were little – that you couldn’t be expected to scoop out poo from his hutch, and that was fine. But you’re not little now, and he’s pretty much moved in with us, and if you’re going to let him hop all over the house, dropping his, er … droppings everywhere, you’re going to have to—’
‘We could make him a nappy,’ Ollie interrupts with a smirk. ‘A sort of mini bunny Pamper.’
‘I’m serious,’ I say, trying to calm my voice. ‘I mean, I’ve dealt with every single pellet that’s dropped out of his bum for nearly ten years now. How long do rabbits live?’
‘You want him to die?’ Rosie gasps.
‘No, of course not!’
Ollie sighs loudly. ‘He might be dead already if someone left the front door open. He could’ve been run over, or maybe a cat’s got him—’
‘Oh God,’ Rosie shrieks. While she and Ollie check the bedrooms, I search behind sofas and bookshelves and a great pile of muddy trainers by the back door. What makes us think that pet ownership is beneficial to children? Oh, they’ll learn to care about something other than themselves, we reason. They’ll develop empathy and practical skills. They’ll have someone to talk to and confide in when they start to view us – their doting, ever-obliging parents – as hideous wreckers of fun. We never consider that, when things go wrong, it’s completely traumatic for everyone.
Ollie’s voice drifts down from the landing. ‘Maybe he’s escaped to the wilds?’
‘What d’you mean, the wilds?’ Rosie retorts. ‘This is London. There aren’t any wilds.’
‘Yes, there are,’ he argues. ‘What about where Dad found those puffballs? Where was that again?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Rosie stomps downstairs with Ollie in pursuit.
I study her anguished face. ‘He’ll turn up,’ I try to reassure her. ‘He’s probably squished himself into some tiny space and he’ll come out when he’s hungry.’
‘Well, I’m not going anywhere until he’s found.’
‘But what about your shoot?’
She shakes her head firmly. ‘I’m not doing it. I’m not going. How could I possibly concentrate on modelling clothes with Guinness missing?’
‘But you’re booked, Rosie!’ I exclaim. ‘You can’t just not go—’
‘It’s probably best that you don’t,’ Ollie observes, ‘’cause your face is all blotchy and red … imagine that blown up twenty feet high.’
‘Shut up,’ she roars.
‘No one would shop there,’ he adds sagely. ‘So, as an advertising campaign, it would fail.’
The front door opens and Will wheels in his bike. ‘Everything okay?’ he asks vaguely.
‘No,’ I mutter. ‘Guinness is missing. I – well, someone – must have left the utility door open last night. He could be anywhere in the house. Sorry, Will, but I really need to go. I’m running late as it is …’
‘And Rosie’s saying she won’t do this job today until he’s found …’ I glance at her. This is so unlike Rosie. She used to feel bad about being late for a birthday, and now she’s planning to let everyone down: the photographer, the client and God knows who else will be waiting for her, at colossal expense. Still, it’s her call. ‘This’ll look really bad for you,’ I add, snatching my bag from a chair. ‘I know you’re upset, but they chose you, Rosie. You’re the girl they want. What’ll they do when you just don’t show?’
She shrugs. ‘Get someone else, I guess.’
‘At such short notice?’
‘Mum, I’m not going—’
‘Okay,’ Will snaps. ‘Deal with it then, Ro. Call Laurie and explain why.’
‘I can’t do that! I’m useless at lying. She’ll know right away …’ She turns to me. ‘Mum, will you phone? Say I’m ill?’
‘Oh, so I’m really good at lying, am I?’ I sense my cheeks flaring pink. ‘No, that’s not fair. If you’re not going to show up, you’ll have to take responsibility for it yourself.’
‘Please, Mum! Please. I’ll never ask for anything ever again …’
I look at her – her bottom lip is trembling, like a little child’s – and sense Will assessing the scene. He’s waiting, observing, to see if I’ll crumble. I feel like a teacher delivering a lesson under the steady gaze of an Ofsted inspector.
‘All right,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Never mind about me needing to get to work. I’ll call her. What d’you want me to say?’
‘I don’t know. Anything!’
Incredibly helpful. Perhaps to lessen my humiliation, Will at least strides out of the kitchen. I grab my phone and call Laurie’s mobile. It’s only modelling, I tell myself as I wait for her to pick up. Only a girl having her photo taken for a massive poster campaign, to advertise a sparkling new mall that’s cost billions of pounds. But hey, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. Nobody’s died – well, a small furred mammal might have, or been savaged by that snappy little purse with teeth next door, but let’s not even think about that …
‘This can’t be happening,’ Lauren barks when I explain the situation. ‘Does she realise how important this is? How crucial to her career? It’ll propel her onto a whole new level—’
‘I realise that,’ I cut in, glaring at Rosie, who’s picking little pieces from the soft interior of a home-baked loaf on the worktop, and morosely posting them into her mouth. ‘But she really isn’t well enough. I’m so sorry.’
‘Is it a stomach thing? Because if it is, I’m sure it’ll settle if she has a glass of water and something to eat, something plain, a bit of toast …’
‘No, it’s not a stomach thing.’
‘What is it then? Tell me I’m not hearing this—’
‘It’s a sort of … all-over thing.’
Laurie groans. ‘If she has a fever, as long as she looks okay, then just tell her to pull herself together—’
Oh, how very caring! We nurture our girls, Laurie said, the day we first met her, when what she actually meant was, As long as they’re capable of standing up and moving their faces a bit, we don’t give a shit if they’re running a temperature of 102 degrees … Of course, Rosie is in fact in fine physical health. She has now successfully hollowed out an entire cob loaf.
‘She can’t get out of bed,’ I tell Laurie. ‘I’m sorry but there’s no way she can work today.’
‘Look, if it’s boyfriend trouble—’
‘It’s not boyfriend trouble.’
‘Period pain? They drive me mad, these girls, at the mercy of their menstrual cycles. I keep telling them, “Darlings, pop an ibuprofen and get on with it …”’
‘It’s not period pain either. Ibuprofen won’t do any good at all.’
Laurie tuts. ‘Well, as her agent I’m saying she must work today …’
‘And as her mum,’ I cut in, startled at how determined I sound, ‘I’m saying she can’t. Look, I know this is terribly inconvenient—’
‘Inconvenient? Understatement of the year!’ With that, the call ends. I glare at Rosie who has now resumed checking the kitchen again for her elusive pet.
‘Well, that was horrible,’ I announce.
She grimaces. ‘What d’you think’ll happen?’
I shrug. ‘I’ve no idea, but she didn’t sound impressed. I’m not sure she believed me, actually. Maybe she thinks you’ve just had an attack of nerves …’
‘No,’ she insists as Will reappears, ‘you were great. Totally convincing.’ She turns to him. ‘Mum’s a brilliant liar!’
‘Oh.’ He throws me a blank look. ‘Well, that’s great. Really glad to hear it.’
‘It’s good to know I’m useful for something,’ I witter, feeling actually sick, ‘but I really have to go to work now …’ I kiss Will on the cheek, then turn to kiss Rosie.
‘You really are the best mum in the world,’ she says, throwing her arms around me and burying her hot, sticky face in my hair.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rupert is still not his usual buoyant self. There’s been no missive this week, no perky email peppered with exclamation marks and jolly emoticons. Any conversations we’ve had have been snatched and, when I try to update him on upcoming press coverage – with Archie’s products featuring in several highly-prized food magazines – he appears to be barely listening. ‘Everything okay, Rupert?’ I ask as he dithers around, picking up the small framed picture of Rosie and Ollie from my desk and squinting at it, as if he’s not entirely sure what it is, before setting it back in its place.
‘Er, just quite a bit on at the moment,’ he replies.
‘Anything Dee and I can help with?’ I catch her eye across our office. Although I’m still feeling pretty rattled about covering for Rosie this morning, I’m trying to maintain a calm and professional air.
‘No,’ he says, ‘everything’s fine … sort of.’ He musters a stoical smile. ‘Well, better get on.’ Dee and I look at each other as he lollops away, aware that our amiable boss is actually not fine at all.
‘Weird,’ she says.
‘Something’s going on,’ I remark, simultaneously texting Will: Any bunny sighting?
Nope, pings back his reply.
‘So how are … things anyway?’ I ask Dee. ‘At home, I mean …’
She pushes back her fair hair and traps it into a ponytail with her hand. ‘God, I don’t know, Charlotte. I don’t know what to do. I’m avoiding Frank at the moment … and I think Mike knows something’s wrong,’ she adds.
‘You mean, he knows about Frank?’
‘No – I mean there’s nothing to know, not really. But he’s aware that things are different …’ She tails off, then adds, ‘I feel so bad – not because of Frank, not really, but seeing Mike trying so hard, suggesting things I might like, that we could do together …’
‘Like what?’ I ask.
‘Well, we always have a KFC on a Friday night, it’s a thing we do – the Bargain Bucket. It’s his favourite. And the other night, I must’ve seemed preoccupied because he kept saying, “Dee, are you okay? Are you fed up? D’you want to do something different this weekend?” And I said, “Yeah,” thinking, let’s do something, that’ll help – and you know what he suggested?’
I shake my head. Her eyes are shining with sadness or frustration, I’m not sure which. ‘He said, “Let’s not have the Bargain Bucket this week, let’s have something else – we’ll have the Ultimate Dips Box instead.”’ She laughs mirthlessly. I am momentarily lost for words. Will would rather saw off his own foot than have a KFC.
‘It’s just his way of showing he cares,’ I suggest.
Dee nods. ‘You’re right, and you know, I do love him, but I’ve stopped thinking of him in a … you know. That way.’ She lets her hair drop.
‘You mean, you feel like flatmates?’ I venture.
‘Yes, exactly. He’s like my best friend who I happen to live with, a
nd have a laugh with, and get all cosy with on a Friday night, which is lovely, you know – I mean, that’s what you do, isn’t it? You and Will. You’re great together – rock-solid, even after all these years. You’re happy to stay in and just be together …’
I’m aware of a twisting sensation in my stomach. ‘Erm, yes, mostly …’
‘So why can’t I be content with what I have? I mean, it’s what I thought I wanted – the nice sofa and cushions and box sets and takeaway and all that.’ She studies my face. ‘You have all that and you’re happy.’
‘Yes,’ I say, prickling with unease, ‘but we’re way older than you, and we have a family, so of course we’re not out partying all the time.’ An image of Will, weeping on the stairs after chomping those pills, flickers into my mind. ‘Maybe it’s all happened too quickly,’ I add. ‘I mean, moving in with Mike, the whole domestic thing …’
‘You were only twenty-two when you had Rosie,’ she reminds me, as if I represent the blueprint of how things should be.
‘Yes, but that wasn’t planned, remember? There’s no way I’d have thought, right, never mind that I’ve nearly finished my course, and have a job offer already, working in the publicity department at the British Museum – because I’m going to be a mum. And, because I can’t imagine how I could afford full-time childcare, I’m going to turn down that job and sit at home in a tiny flat with a baby instead.’ I catch myself. ‘I don’t mean that I’ve ever regretted having Rosie.’
‘I know you haven’t,’ Dee says. I watch as she gets up from her desk to make coffee, ignoring a call on her mobile. What a remarkable front she puts on, pretending to love planning meals for Mike, and poring over cake tins and rose-patterned tablecloths. I know we’re all supposed to find solace in cooking and baking these days, but – crisp cookie triumph aside – I don’t seem to be able to train myself to enjoy such pursuits. As previously noted, my cooking is the type offered in school canteens and at the lower end of the scale of old people’s homes. Will roasts a chicken and it’s a thing of wonder: succulent, with irresistible golden, crispy skin. Mine is a perfectly serviceable, plain old bird, eaten but unremarked upon. And what has Will done, I muse, as Dee starts tapping at her keyboard, since he’s been out of work? He’s tried to raise our standards on the domestic front – not just to make himself feel useful, but because he knows it’s not an area I’m particularly fond of. He is simply doing his best.