As Good As It Gets?

As we drive home, I try to imagine her dad’s reaction to today’s encounter. Will’s handsome, strong-jawed face shimmers into my mind, and it’s not awash with delight. He’s very protective, and I know he regards the fashion industry as a load of fluff and nonsense. Rosie’s too smart for all that, he’ll decide. He was pretty taken aback when she started to fill the bathroom with a baffling array of skincare and hair products. ‘She’s just a normal teenage girl,’ I explained.

Plus, while he may have been persuadable at one time, Will has become rather grumpy of late. I can guess why; he is stressed about our precarious finances. Until January, he was employed by Greenspace Heritage, a charity which protects wildlife and its habitats within the M25. Unfortunately, the new Director’s views were at odds with Will’s. While my husband felt it was all about encouraging the public to enjoy London’s hidden wildernesses – i.e., to get messy and have fun – the boss believed they should focus on negotiating corporate deals to bring in huge injections of cash. And so Will was ‘let go’ from the job he’d loved, and which had consumed him for the past decade.

‘Something’ll come up,’ he keeps saying, which is having the opposite effect of reassuring me. I’ve become conscious of treading carefully around him – of picking my moment before asking anything even faintly controversial. For instance, while I know he’s applying for jobs, are any interviews likely to happen in the near future – i.e., at some point this year? I can’t help worrying that his redundancy pay-off must have all but run out by now. ‘There’s enough in the joint account isn’t there?’ he asked tersely, last time I raised it. Yes, there was, just about – thanks to my full-time job. However, we both know I don’t earn enough to keep the four of us long-term.

In fact, occasionally I wonder if it’s not Will’s redundancy, but something far scarier that’s driving us apart: that, quite simply, he’s stopped fancying me. I caught him glancing at me the other night as I undressed for bed, and he didn’t look as if he were about to explode with desire. By the time I’d pulled off my bra – a sturdy black number capable of hoisting two porpoises to safety from an oil-slicked sea – he was already feigning sleep.

I lay awake for ages, studying the back of his head. Do we still love each other? I wondered, not for the first time. Or are we only together for the kids, or because we’re too old or scared to break up and start all over again? It’s not that I expect full-on passion all the time, not when we’ve been married for thirteen years. But, more and more often these days, I find myself wondering, is this as good as it gets?

I glance at Rosie as we make our slow journey home through the outer reaches of East London. ‘You do remember it’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow?’ I prompt her.

‘God, yes.’ She pulls a horrified face.

‘You haven’t bought him anything?’

‘Sorry, Mum. I was going to today, but after we’d met Laurie it went right out of my mind …’ First whiff of modelling stardom and she forgets her dad’s birthday. Not good.

‘Could you make him a card, at least?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ she replies, pausing before adding, ‘D’you think they’ll take me on?’

So she really wants to do this. ‘Let’s see what happens. Maybe it’s best not to get too excited about it.’

‘Why not?’ she exclaims. ‘It is exciting, Mum! Why are you being so negative?’

‘I’m not, Rosie. We just need to think about what it might mean for you. And of course,’ I add, trying to sound as if it’s no big deal at all, ‘we’ll have to talk it over with Dad.’

Chapter Two

We arrive home to find Ollie, who’s eleven, poring over his laptop at the kitchen table. ‘This is so cool, Mum,’ he announces without shifting his gaze from the screen.

‘Lovely. Anyway, hello, hon. Had a good afternoon?’

‘You didn’t even look!’ I glance over his shoulder – he’s studying a rather professional-looking microscope, with numerous levers and knobs – then stash the bags containing Will’s presents out of sight in the cupboard under the stairs.

Ollie shares his dad’s passion for science and nature – triggered, I suspect, by the sweetly entitled ‘field trips’ Will used to take the kids on, from which they’d return all excited and mud-splattered and present me with larvae and bugs. Sometimes he’d take them off camping for a couple of days. While Ollie still ventures out with him occasionally, Rosie hasn’t pulled on her waders for several years now. Maybe, I reflect, Will feels redundant in more ways than one.

I wave at him through the kitchen window. He grins from our back garden – his arms are laden with bits of shrub – and motions that he won’t be a minute. ‘I’d love this for my birthday,’ Ollie muses, still peering at the screen.

‘We’ll see, love. But it’s not until December and Dad’s is tomorrow, okay? So it’s slightly more urgent. Hope you’ve remembered.’

‘Oh! Yeah, yeah,’ he says blithely as Will strides in, dispenses a quick kiss on my cheek and says, ‘I’ll just get cleaned up. Did you have a good time at the shops?’ Without waiting for an answer he bounds upstairs.

Rosie, who’d wandered off to see her rabbit, emerges from the utility room with him snuggled in her arms. Sixteen she may be, and the proud owner of a Babyliss hot brush, yet she still adores her pet. Guinness is getting on a bit now, and Rosie insisted we took him to the vet (I suspect she wanted an excuse to nosy about at the surgery) for a bunny MOT. Being unable to find anything wrong with him, the vet suggested that perhaps he shouldn’t spend all his time outdoors, for which he charged a £45 consultation fee. And so Guinness now ‘divides his time’ between a luxury hutch and adjoining run in the garden, and a large hay-filled box in our utility room.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Rosie asks, stroking back Guinness’s ears.

‘Having a shower,’ I reply. ‘He’s been gardening all day.’

‘Can’t wait to tell him!’ Her eyes are shining, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

‘Tell him what?’ Ollie mutters, zooming in for a closer look at the microscope.

‘I was scouted today.’

‘What?’ Ollie turns to face her. ‘By a model agency, you mean?’ Christ, even he is familiar with the term.

‘Yeah,’ Rosie says with a grin.

‘Like, they reckon you could be on the cover of magazines and stuff?’

‘Yes, Ollie.’

‘You, with your funny little sticky-up nose?’ He jumps up from his seat and mimics a supermodel strut across the kitchen. With a gasp of irritation, and with Guinness still clutched to her chest, Rosie stomps up to her room.

‘What’s up with her?’ Ollie asks.

‘Oh, she’s just excited and thinks you’re not taking it seriously.’

He pushes back choppy dark hair from his grey-blue eyes. ‘But Rosie’s not interested in modelling. It’s a crap job, Mum. They’re a load of bitchy anorexics—’

‘You can’t say that,’ I retort, still amazed that he has any awareness of the business at all. ‘You don’t know anything about it. Neither do I …’

‘Who’s a bitchy anorexic?’ Will strolls into the kitchen, all fresh and smelling delicious from his shower.

‘No one,’ I say quickly.

‘Dad, look at this,’ Ollie pipes up, beckoning him over to the laptop. Will peers at the microscope.

‘Yeah, that looks great. That’s pretty serious kit.’

‘… It’s got incident and transmitted illumination,’ Ollie explains, ‘and look how powerful that eyepiece is …’

I watch them, flipping from one image to the next, whilst attempting to communicate silently to Ollie that he mustn’t blurt out anything about Rosie being scouted today. That modelling thing, I urge him, please do not speak of it until I can be sure that Dad’s in the right sort of mood. In fact, I’m pretty certain he’ll view modelling as completely wrong and ridiculous for his beloved Rosie. Whenever I explain to anyone that Will isn’t her biological dad – she was eighteen months old when we met – I quickly point out that he is her dad in every other possible way. He’s been a brilliant father to her. Some women go for charm or money or incredible prowess in bed. I realised I’d fallen madly in love with Will Bristow when he appeared at my flat with the wooden toy garage he’d built for Rosie, complete with an actual working lift, for her collection of toy cars.

‘I know she’s not old enough for it really,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I had some wood kicking about and got a bit carried away …’ Sure, my heart had already been flipped by his wide, bright smile, his deep blue eyes and lean, delicious body. But it was that lift, that you wound up and down with a tiny handle, which made me realise that this kind, rather shy man, who cared about plants and the dwindling red squirrel population, could quite possibly be the love of my life.

Will glances up from the laptop. ‘What were you saying about bitchy anorexics?’

‘Oh, nothing, hon. We’ll talk about it later.’ I throw Ollie a don’t-say-anything look, then delve into a carrier bag and thrust him a present – the mini silver Maglite torch he’s been after.

‘Aw, great! Thanks, Mum!’

I smile, watching him admire its powerful beam. He is less enthusiastic about his other gift, and merely flings it over a chair. ‘Ollie,’ I prompt him, ‘could you admire your new sweatshirt, please? It’s for school. You said you needed one and I actually went into Hollister for that, because Maria said they do the nicest ones for boys and you complained that the last ones were thin and cheap-looking.’ I blink at him, awaiting gratitude. ‘I could have just gone to BHS,’ I add.

‘Uh-huh,’ he mutters.

‘D’you realise it’s completely dark in Hollister?’ I continue. ‘It’s like venturing down towards the earth’s core. They should issue miners’ helmets with lamps on for us ordinary people who don’t have special night vision …’

Ollie smirks. ‘It’s meant to be dark, Mum.’

‘Yes, I realise that. If I’d bought your torch before I went in, then I wouldn’t have been stumbling about, treading on people’s feet. Also, I can’t believe the looks policy they have in there. I mean, all the staff look like models …’ Damn, the M-word pops out before I can stop it.

Ollie turns to Will. ‘Guess what, Dad …’

Please, do not speak of it …

‘What?’ Will asks.

‘Rosie’s gonna be a model!’

Oh, bloody hell …

Will frowns at me. ‘Huh? What’s going on?’

I grab his hand and smile broadly. ‘Nothing, darling. Nothing’s going on. Well, not much. Come and show me what you’ve been doing in the garden and I’ll tell you all about it.’

It worries me, as we step out into the warm July afternoon, this occasional tendency I have of addressing Will as if he were about eight years old. It started after his redundancy, and I’m only trying to be supportive and kind. However, I fear it can come out sounding as if I might try to check his hair for a nit infestation, or arrange his pizza toppings to make a face.

Will seems more relaxed as we sit side by side on our worn wooden bench in the late afternoon sunshine. We bought this place – a redbrick terrace in dire need of an upgrade – when Ollie was a toddler, figuring that two children with limitless energy really needed a lawn to run about on. What we’d failed to realise was that if you own a garden, you actually have to garden it. But we’d had our hands full with the children and our jobs, and the previous owners’ immaculate borders soon ran amok, much to the consternation of Gerald and Tricia next door.

‘It’s fine,’ I’d say, whenever one of them peered over the fence and asked what our ‘plans’ for it were. ‘You don’t want precious plants with kids running about. We far prefer it like this.’ I talked as if it were an actual lifestyle choice, and not sheer neglect, that had made our garden that way. It grew even more jungly – with Tricia making the occasional barbed comment that we might ‘get someone in to, you know, give you a hand’ – until Will found himself with acres of time to tackle it. And when he’s not gardening, he’s out on his bike, foraging for wild food in the leafy pockets of East London; we’ve had elderflower, sorrel and armfuls of watercress. He’s turned into quite the hunter-gatherer, and it suits him. He looks like the kind of man who, should you find yourself trapped on a mountain in a freak storm, would be capable of knocking up a sturdy shelter from a couple of sticks and a bread wrapper and cook a hearty meal out of some lichen.

‘So,’ Will says now, shielding his eyes from the sun, ‘what’s this about modelling?’

‘Oh, a woman from an agency spotted Rosie in Forever 21 and said she has potential. It’s not a big deal …’

‘Forever 21?’ Such places don’t feature on Will’s radar.

‘Clothes shop the size of Belgium. I wouldn’t recommend going in without a ration pack and some kind of paper trail to help you find your way back out …’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I hope you told her where to get off.’

I look at him, momentarily lost for words. ‘Of course I didn’t. D’you honestly think I’d speak to anyone like that?’

Will shrugs. ‘What did you tell her then?’

‘I didn’t tell her anything. It’s not as if she was offering Rosie an actual job or a contract or however they do it. I mean, she wasn’t about to drag her off by her hair and throw her onto a catwalk …’ He flares his nostrils, a relatively new habit of his. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘I said we’d think it over.’

‘What is there to think about?’ Will asks. ‘You know what the modelling world’s like …’

‘No, I don’t,’ I say firmly, ‘and neither do you.’

He turns to me, eyes guarded. ‘Well, I can imagine. Half a tomato a day, hoovering up a ton of coke—’

‘What?’ I splutter. ‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so. And what about photographers preying on young girls?’

Deep breath. Keep calm. Focus on the blue haze of cornflowers. ‘Well, yes, I s’pose that does happen occasionally …’

‘And you’d be okay with that, would you?’

‘Of course I wouldn’t. God. What a thing to say, Will!’ I glare at him, knowing he’s only acting this way because he’s concerned, and wants the best for Rosie. However, he wasn’t snippy like this when he had barely a moment to himself, often working evenings and weekends if Greenspace required it. And, whilst I’m hugely impressed that he’s learnt how to make food shoot up from the earth, I also worry that he’s become a little … anchorless. ‘Face is a proper agency,’ I add huffily. ‘The woman gave me her card.’

‘Oh, her card! She couldn’t have faked that then.’

‘You’re suggesting she prints up bogus cards to lure girls to her office?’

Will shrugs again. ‘Maybe.’

I clamp my back teeth together and fix my gaze on our unlovely shed which is huddled, slowly sagging and rotting, at the bottom of the garden. ‘Look,’ I say carefully, ‘this obviously means a lot to Rosie. You should have seen her – she was thrilled to bits. I’m not madly keen on the idea either, but I think it’s only fair to let her visit the agency so we can find out what it’s all about.’ Will slides his gaze towards me. ‘It’s just a chat,’ I add. ‘I know you’re being protective, but surely you realise I’d never say yes if I thought she was going to be exploited in any way …’

Will digs a trainer toe into the gravel path. ‘Sorry. You’re right. I’m just being a jerk.’

I link my arm through his. His arms are lightly tanned, his skin warm to the touch. ‘No, you’re not. You’re her dad and you love her and just want to keep her safe.’

He musters a smile. ‘Wonder what Mum’ll have to say?’

‘God, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Gloria, my mother-in-law, was a beauty queen in the 70s and she’s coming round later for dinner. I can’t decide whether her input will be helpful; she’s never seemed especially keen to discuss her glamorous past. But maybe, as it concerns Rosie, she’ll be happy to offer advice.

Then it hits me: my friend Liza’s daughter, Scarlett, appeared in a couple of catalogues before going to university. Liza will have a more up-to-date view of modelling than Gloria does and, more importantly, she’s brilliant company and gets along with everyone. I call her to invite her to dinner and, thankfully, she sounds delighted to come. Diluting the mother-in-law effect, I think it’s called.

Chapter Three

Gloria’s golden hair – it’s actually gold, rather than merely blonde – is set in stiff waves, as if piped on top of her head. She has a neat, narrow nose and large, carefully made-up pale blue eyes, involving several toning shades of iridescent shadow. The overall effect is of refined beauty, although, if small children were around, you’d be worried that they might cut themselves on her cheekbones. ‘Hello, Gloria,’ I say, kissing her powdered cheek. ‘You look lovely.’

‘You too,’ she says briskly. ‘That’s a very pretty dress.’ Reed thin and wearing a peach blouse and immaculate navy blue trouser suit, she eyes my pistachio Ghost dress. I still love it, despite it being of a similar vintage to Guinness, who’s reappeared, still being cradled by Rosie as she greets her grandma. I reassure myself that a girl who still adores her bunny is unlikely to have her head turned by a load of coke-hoovering fashion types.

I also note that Will appears to have acquired a new jumper at some point during his trip to collect Gloria, which is odd. Even stranger, it’s identical to the one I bought for his birthday.

‘Present from Mum,’ he says, giving me a wink. ‘She wanted to make sure it fitted.’

‘Doesn’t it suit him?’ she observes.

‘Er, yes, it really does,’ I reply, trying to keep down a smirk. ‘You have lovely taste, Gloria.’

She smiles and eagerly snatches the glass of wine he offers her. ‘Now you mustn’t keep topping me up, Will.’ Enthusiastic sip. ‘I’m not supposed to be drinking, you know. My nutritionist …’ Massive gulp. ‘Mmm, it does smell good in here …’

‘All Will’s work,’ I explain. ‘He’s doing roast chicken and all these clever things with vegetables. Me and Rosie have been out shopping …’

‘… Spending your money, Will?’ she titters, a comment so clearly ill-chosen it causes sweat to spring from my armpits. ‘Oh, I know you work hard, Charlotte,’ she adds, ‘at that … place.’ You’d think, by the accompanying curl of her lip, that she means a sauna or lapdancing club. In fact it’s a crisp factory in Essex. A posh crisp factory, I might add, offering fancy varieties such as crushed pink peppercorn and the alarming-sounding lobster bisque. It’s all very upmarket. In fact we don’t even call them crisps but hand-cooked potato chips. But they’re still basically fried potatoes, and my job is to market them. I am a flogger of fat-drenched Maris Pipers coming in at around 1025 calories per family pack, and Gloria, whose diet appears to consist mainly of Chilean sauvignon and the occasional olive, cannot bring herself to speak of it.

‘So how is the job-hunting going, Will?’ she asks, turning to her son.

‘Really well, thanks,’ Will replies, peering through the oven’s glass door.

‘Any interviews yet?’

I see his jaw tighten as he straightens up. Now I realise why he invited Gloria over this evening instead of tomorrow. While he’s always been happy to take care of her – especially since his father died four years ago – he couldn’t face being grilled about his future career plans on his actual birthday. ‘I’m sure something’ll come up soon,’ he replies firmly as Ollie and I set the kitchen table and Rosie returns Guinness to the utility room.

‘Have you thought about the police force?’ Gloria asks, glugging more wine.

Will grimaces. ‘It’s not quite my area of expertise, Mum.’

‘I know that,’ she concedes, ‘but they have excellent training and pension schemes …’

‘Isn’t Dad a bit old to be a cop?’ Ollie asks.

‘Thanks, Ollie,’ Will chuckles, giving me a look.

‘Well, I’m sure they do a mature entry scheme,’ she goes on, clearly an expert in such matters. ‘Or what about the prison service?’

‘Dad can’t work in a prison!’ Rosie exclaims with a loud guffaw.

Gloria frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ Rosie smirks. ‘I just … can’t imagine it.’

‘Working with a load of murderers,’ Ollie adds, eyes widening. ‘That’d be interesting, wouldn’t it, Dad?’

‘Fascinating,’ Will agrees, turning his attention to a saucepan of gravy on the hob.

‘But what if he was attacked?’ Rosie asks. ‘Can you imagine Dad managing to fight someone off?’ Both she and Ollie peal with laughter.

‘Well, er, I’d imagine that’s not necessary,’ Gloria says curtly.

‘He’d be scared witless,’ Ollie adds.

‘Thanks, everyone,’ Will cuts in, pushing back his dark hair with an oven-gloved hand. ‘I do appreciate all your career advice but don’t worry, I actually have everything under control …’ Really? I’d love to believe it’s true. He brightens as Liza arrives, greeting us with a bottle of wine and hugs all round – even Gloria, as if she’s an old friend – and having the miraculous effect of instantly lightening the atmosphere. Fair and pretty with a slim, boyish body, Liza looks a decade younger than her fifty-two years. She never bothers with make-up beyond a lick of mascara. Her lilac embroidered top and skinny jeans were probably thrown on, but she looks radiant and lovely. Liza calls herself a ‘slasher’; i.e., Spanish-teacher-slash-yoga-instructor-slash-wholefood-store-employee. Her life is full and varied and she seems to thrive on it. I start to relax as we catch up on each other’s news; unlike Gloria, Liza knows to avoid quizzing Will directly about his job hunt.

‘So, how are you, Rosie?’ she asks as Will and I bring a myriad of dishes to the table.

Rosie grins, taking the seat next to her. ‘I got scouted today. A woman from an agency thought I could be a model.’

‘Wow!’ Liza looks impressed. ‘Are you going to do it?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ she exclaims.

‘Well, um, we still need to talk about that,’ I say quickly.

‘I was the same,’ Liza remarks, smiling her thanks as Will fills her wine glass. ‘Freaked out when Scarlett first mentioned it. Remember she entered that competition without telling me? And then only went and won?’

I laugh. ‘But you knew she could look after herself …’

‘… And so can Rosie.’ She turns to my daughter. ‘You’ll be fine, honey. You’ll be an amazing model …’

‘It’s not a fait accompli, Liza,’ Will remarks.

‘Oh, Dad.’ Rosie rolls her eyes. ‘You did some modelling, didn’t you, Grandma? Weren’t you in pageants or something when you were young?’

Gloria purses her lips. ‘That’s the American term. We called them beauty contests and yes, I did take part in a few …’

‘You’re beautiful, Gloria,’ Liza says truthfully. ‘I can imagine you all glammed up.’

‘Wasn’t it fun?’ Rosie asks. Gloria pauses to tip the rest of her wine down her throat, seemingly without making any swallowing motion at all.

‘No,’ she says finally, ‘it certainly wasn’t.’

We all stare at her. ‘Why not?’ Ollie asks.

‘Was it horribly pressurised?’ Will enquires gently. ‘I can imagine it was a very competitive world.’

She emits a little cough, as if preparing to make an important announcement. ‘No, it wasn’t that. I was very successful actually. I was Miss Foil Wrap in 1972 …’ To avoid an attack of the giggles, I focus hard on the deliciousness of Will’s glazed carrots.

‘What’s foil wrap?’ Ollie wants to know.

‘You know, foil,’ I explain, ‘like you wrap a chicken in.’

Confused, Ollie peers at her. ‘Why did they have a “Miss Foil Wrap”?’

‘I was a brand ambassador,’ Gloria says grandly. ‘For the sashing ceremony I wore a dress entirely made of foil.’

‘Wow,’ Rosie breathes. ‘Bet that was amazing.’