As Good As It Gets?

by Fiona Gibson

  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 …’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sniggers, edging towards me and wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

  I look down at the pale grey fluffy rug. I am no longer picturing myself throwing off my clothes and landing in a passionate tumble on Fraser’s bed. I am imagining Will roaming about in the Scottish countryside and spotting that mushroom, and carefully picking it. He was excited about his find and wanted to share it with me.

  This means he no longer thinks of me as a condiment-squirting maniac. It also means I have to see him. I stand up, pushing back my dishevelled hair. ‘Fraser,’ I say, meeting his quizzical gaze, ‘would you mind calling me a cab?’

  Chapter Forty

  I am woken by rain battering at my bedroom window. As Rosie has yet to return from Delph’s, I haven’t been able to fill her in on my day out with Fraser. Not that I plan to tell her everything. Just that he’s a decent man, who cares about her very much, and that we both agree that it would be good for them to get to know each other. We were both a bit sheepish and embarrassed as I left last night, apologising unnecessarily and parting with a slightly awkward hug. ‘We just got a bit carried away,’ Fraser said with a rueful smile, and I decided then that I do like him, and that I’m happy for Rosie to have him in her life. However, I’m not wildly impressed that he can’t tell the difference between a shaggy inkcap and a human penis.

  A couple of hours later she appears with Delph in tow, both of them giggling and muttering unintelligibly, as if communicating in some mysterious language spoken only by young, beautiful people with modelling contracts. They fail to acknowledge Ollie as he strides in, full of all the great things that have been happening at Saul’s house – ‘He’s got his own TV now! Everyone has. Can I have one?’

  ‘We can maybe think about it for Christmas,’ I say vaguely, but Ollie isn’t listening. He is watching the girls as they slather thick slices of bread with jam.

  ‘We normally have home-made bread,’ he announces, ‘but Dad’s away and Mum can’t make it so we’ve just got the normal stuff …’

  ‘I don’t think Delph needs to know that, Ollie,’ Rosie retorts, breaking off to take a call on her mobile. She frowns and mutters before tossing her phone onto the table. ‘That was Laurie,’ she adds.

  ‘Oh, d’you have a casting?’ I ask. ‘Or a job?’

  She shrugs. ‘Dunno. She just said could I pop into the agency.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I suppose next time you’re in town …’

  ‘She said today,’ Rosie adds, ‘if it’s convenient.’

  ‘You need a better agency,’ Delph declares. ‘They’re not pushing you enough, Ro. I’m booked all next week. I’m off to Tuscany with Vogue …’

  Rosie musters a bright smile. ‘Yeah, well, maybe she wants to talk about the direction she wants me to go in or something.’ Actually, I think, the direction I’d suggest is the one you seemed to be following before modelling, before Delph, when you read a book now and again instead of flicking listlessly through fashion magazines, and deigned to have the occasional pleasant conversation with me.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I say ineffectually.

  ‘Yeah, well, I might as well go now.’

  ‘I’ll come into town with you,’ Delph announces. ‘I’m getting a rose-petal facial at two o’clock. Have you ever had one?’

  ‘Er, no,’ Rosie says, as if she’s considered it but hasn’t got around to it yet.

  ‘Oh, you should!’ Delph asserts. ‘They lay these pink petals all over your face and the goodness – y’know, the essence of flowers – seeps into your skin and then they exfoliate it all off.’

  ‘Skin does that naturally anyway,’ Ollie retorts. ‘It falls off all the time. There are flakes of it all over this house.’

  Delph winces. ‘Well, that’s charming.’ With that, the girls gather themselves together and swish off in a cloud of heady perfume. Perfectly timed, I must say, for the first step of my plan.

  *

  ‘Right,’ I tell Ollie, ‘we’re going on a trip.’

  ‘What kind of trip?’ he asks, all excited.

  ‘We’re going camping.’

  ‘Great!’ Thankfully, Ollie still regards sleeping in our leaky old tent as a fantastic treat. ‘Where are we going?’ he wants to know.

  ‘Well, the plan is, the first night we’ll stay in Northumberland, that’s in the north-east of—’

  ‘I know where Northumberland is,’ he retorts.

  ‘And then,’ I continue, ‘we’ll carry on up to Scotland—’

  ‘To see Dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cool, what did he say? Is he looking forward to seeing us?’

  I hesitate, wondering how to put this. ‘He doesn’t know, sweetheart. I want it to be a surprise …’

  ‘He’s been gone for three days now. He hasn’t phoned for ages! We haven’t even told him about finding Guinness.’

  ‘I know, darling,’ I say briskly, ‘but his mind’ll be full of this job and he’s probably getting to know the area …’

  ‘If he’s that busy,’ Ollie says, looking wary now, ‘d’you think he’ll want us just turning up?’

  I smile at my boy, who’s turning browner by the day. ‘Of course he will,’ I say firmly, hoping to God that I’m right. ‘So, can you get some clothes together? Enough for three or four days?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, scampering off. I have yet to tell Ollie and Rosie about being made redundant from Archie’s; I don’t want to spring it upon them yet, until we know what’s happening with Will’s job. However, this is why we are driving and camping, rather than flying and staying in a hotel. It’s a budget trip, which I’m hoping they will view as an adventure.

  I call Gloria to ask if she’ll look after Guinness. ‘I’ll bring him over,’ I explain. ‘You won’t need to do anything apart from feed him …’

  ‘I suppose that’s okay,’ she replies warily, as if our small furred mammal is prone to launching vicious attacks.

  The presence of a giant, navy blue people carrier outside Gloria’s pebble-dashed home signals the presence of Sally, Will’s younger sister. Despite living in the Cotswolds – a mere couple of hours away – she and her family deign to visit Gloria around three times a year.

  ‘You’re looking so well,’ Sally exclaims, attempting to hug me while I grip Guinness’s open-topped box. ‘Oh, isn’t he cute? I do admire you, Charlotte, letting the kids have pets. I won’t allow it. The
smell! Ew!’ She wrinkles her nose, then quickly corrects herself, as if remembering that she owns several ponies. ‘Not that this little chap smells at all.’ She sniffs the air above him. ‘Mm, all I can smell is hay, actually. Lovely and sweet and countryish.’ Gloria emerges from the kitchen and quickly peers into Guinness’s box, then teeters back as if he were an unexploded bomb. I leave our pet in the porch as we all head into the chintzy living room.

  ‘You’re growing into such a handsome man,’ Sally gushes, giving Ollie’s hair an enthusiastic ruffle. ‘And where’s Rosie today? And my dashing big brother?’

  ‘Will’s away for an interview,’ I start, deciding not to go into the whole story.

  ‘An interview?’ Gloria repeats. ‘Thank heavens for that!’ She turns to her daughter. ‘I’ve told you, Sally, how worried I’ve been about Will, stuck at home, tied to the kitchen …’

  ‘… And Rosie’s gone into town,’ I cut in. ‘Her model agency have asked to see her.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mum’s filled us in on all of that,’ Sally remarks as Ollie and I say our hellos to Marty, Sally’s husband who, in his brown cardigan and slacks, almost merges with Gloria’s chocolate velour sofa. Also present is Bruno, their scowling seven-year-old son, who is, according to Sally’s previous reports, in the top one percentile of something or other, although I’m not quite sure what that means.

  ‘Hi Bruno, how’s things?’ I look down at the small, chubby-cheeked boy who is sprawled belly-down on his grandma’s cream rug, prodding at his iPad.

  ‘All right,’ he replies dully, picking at his ear and failing to shift his gaze from the screen.

  ‘What’s that you’re playing, Bruno?’ Ollie asks gamely, for which I could hug him.

  ‘Just a thing,’ he replies.

  ‘Oh,’ Ollie says with a smirk. ‘It looks good.’

  ‘It’s only for one player,’ Bruno snaps, gathering himself up from the floor and relocating to a shadowy corner behind the sofa.

  Sally beams in an isn’t he adorable? sort of way. ‘So, about Rosie modelling,’ she says, motioning for us to sit with Marty on the sofa. ‘D’you feel okay about it? I mean, thrusting her into the public eye with the dangers of horrible predatory photographers and all that?’ Although she’s still smiling, rather manically, a little furrow has appeared between her meticulously pencilled brows. I’m itching to remind Sally that her own mother paraded about in nothing more than heels, a sash and swimsuit at beauty contests, but Gloria’s hovering about, and I don’t want to bring up that thing about the poky-fingered Sorrington Bugle man.