As Good As It Gets? (12 page)

‘Look, Rosie,’ I say carefully, ‘we’ve talked about this before – how Dad and I don’t really believe in paying you and Ollie for doing jobs, because before we know it you’ll be demanding 50p for washing a teaspoon or passing us the remote control—’

‘Nina gets paid,’ she insists. ‘She’s paid for everything she does.’

I meant the teaspoon/remote control thing as a joke, but it’s fallen flat. ‘I doubt that, but anyway, you’ve told me she doesn’t get an allowance and that’s why she’s waitressing at weekends. And we
do
give you money, and part of the deal is that you’re generally helpful around the house.’

With a despairing shake of her head, Rosie opens the fridge, extracts a bottle of chocolate milk and takes a generous swig. While I’m not a fan of bottle-slurping – I mean, we have glasses, and even neon-coloured straws if desired – I decide to let it go this time. I need to get out of here, away from Will, who is coughing feebly into a tissue now, and behaving as if death is imminent, and Rosie, who’s mumbling that there’s nothing she fancies to eat in the fridge either. Thank goodness Ollie and Saul have already been whisked off to the West End by Maria, Saul’s ever-obliging mum.

‘It’s a gorgeous day,’ I announce, grabbing my laptop from on top of the fridge. ‘I’m going to sit in the garden.’ I head out, closing the back door behind me, in the hope that that’ll deter Rosie and Will from following me, and install myself at our old, sun-bleached wooden table.

I glance at our house as my laptop whirrs into life. For God’s sake – a few weak beers and Will’s acting as if he’s an urgent candidate for a liver transplant. And complaining that I’m exhibiting too much joie de vivre! Well, sorry if I’m not
ill
enough for him. Maybe he’d have been happier to see me spewing into the toilet. Sex thing aside, I’m starting to realise that Will behaves as if he isn’t especially fond of me anymore. I mean, he seems to find me irritating on a pretty regular basis. We don’t treat each other like lovers, or partners, or anything really – we’re just
there.
When I suggested not giving each other birthday presents last year, I hadn’t actually meant it. I suppose, pathetically, I’d been testing him to see how he’d react. The correct response would have been, ‘The thing is, darling, I’ve bought you something already’ – i.e., beautiful, fragile, utterly impractical lingerie – ‘and we’re going to dinner tonight.’ So I was a little taken aback when I came home from work to find two workmen on ladders, slapping mortar onto the front of our house.

Oh, stuff Will and his hangover. I may stay out here for a very, very long time. I might not even come in tonight, but make myself a cosy little den in the shed to sleep in. If Sabrina and Tommy can manage to do it in theirs, without impaling themselves on a rake, then surely it’d be possible to make the space in ours to create a little nest.

I squint at my laptop. The bright sunshine is making it impossible to read so I carry it down to the bottom of the garden and plonk myself on a paving slab in the shade of the shed. Inhaling a lungful of warm air, I type two words into Google:

Fraser Johnson.

There. I’ve actually done it. Admittedly, it’s not the first time. On several occasions over the years, I’ve done precisely this, and gawped at the figure – something like 9,230,000 results. Then, fearing that my laptop would start shrieking, ‘GOOGLING EX ALERT! GOOGLING EX!’ I’ve shut it down in a sweat.

Not this time, though. Rosie’s questions about Fraser from last night are still ringing shrilly in my ears. Obviously, he’s on her mind. I need to start trying to track him down and at least find out if he’s alive.

Still prickling from Will’s ill humour, I start scrolling through the results. I find Fraser Johnsons who are bakers, artists, investment bankers and undertakers. They are located in St Ives and Aberdeen and, seemingly, every place in between. There’s a Fraser Johnson making craft beers in Cumbria. Hmm. Bet he’d be able to handle a few drinks without spending the whole of the next day whimpering about his traumatised liver.

I glance towards the rabbit run. Guinness is peering at me through the wire meshing. My skin prickles with unease, but I refuse to be freaked out by a staring bunny. I turn back to the screen, eyes lighting upon a Fraser Johnson who’s a plasterer in Lewisham: ideal for sorting out our frankly atrocious kitchen walls.

Perhaps I should feel guilty, mentally setting myself up with all of these strangers, imaging myself being festooned with fine ales and beautiful paintings and even having the perfect coffin selected and set aside. But these are only random men. I don’t for one second imagine that any of them is the Fraser I loved, and with whom I assumed – idiotically – I’d be raising a child. It’s such a common name, that’s the problem. I could spend all day poring over thousands of Frasers and be none the wiser as to where he is, or what he’s doing now. He might not even be living in Britain. His family were loaded, and despite his ramshackle appearance on our trip, he was all set to be taken on by some investment company, via a friend of his dad’s. With his breezy confidence and seemingly no worries about how things might turn out, there was a sense even then that he was heading for a glittering future. Meanwhile, I was part-way through a marketing course with a grotty flat, a cranky flatmate and a couple of part-time waitressing jobs.

I do a Google Images search. I know, this is really pushing things. It reveals a baffling array of males varying from a young, grinning boy in a Chelsea football strip to a formal portrait of an elderly man sitting behind a polished desk.

‘Working on a Sunday?’

I flinch and look up. It’s Tricia, looming over the fence, her no-nonsense straw-coloured hair held back from her pink-cheeked face by means of a striped towelling headband.

‘Yep, just a few things to tie up,’ I reply, sensing my own cheeks glowing hot.

‘Looks like you’re burning!’ she observes cheerfully. ‘You should wear block, Charlotte. There’s nothing more ageing than the sun.’

I smile tightly, trying to transmit the message:
thank you for the beauty tip. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m hard at work on a crucial report …
Her curranty eyes are fixed upon my screen. Although she can’t possibly see anything from where she’s standing, I quickly shut down the page. A burst of high-pitched yapping – for no reason that I can fathom – announces Nipper’s arrival in her garden. Nipper is a tiny, beige-coloured hound of no discernible breed – he looks like a purse with teeth.
Where did they get him?
Liza whispered recently.
Accessorize?

‘Meant to ask,’ Tricia goes on, now scooping up Nipper into her arms, ‘were you disturbed by that awful racket last night?’

I frown. ‘Um … I don’t think so?’

She presses her lips together. ‘That party, I mean, over the road. Awful music blaring half the night. I was on the verge of calling the police …’

‘Oh, Tommy and Sabrina’s party. We were there, actually—’

‘You know them?’ she exclaims.

‘Not really. We’d only met them once before.’ I force a big, bright smile. ‘They’re really nice people.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope it’s not going to be a regular thing.’

‘I wouldn’t imagine so, no …’ I shut down my laptop and stand up, making it clear that our neighbourly exchange is over.

‘Charlotte?’ Will has appeared at our back door, clutching the phone.

‘’Scuse me, Tricia, looks like I’m being summoned.’ I stride towards him.

‘It’s Mum,’ he hisses, thrusting the phone at me.

I frown. ‘She wants to talk to
me
?’

‘Yeah,’ he adds in a ridiculous stage whisper, ‘she wants to know what’s happening with this modelling thing.’

I blink at him and take the phone. ‘Hi, Gloria, how are you?’

‘Fine, just wondered if you’d thought over what I’d said?’

‘Er, what specifically?’ I ask, wandering into the kitchen to observe a scattering of bread crusts and juice sloppages on the table, presumably left by Rosie, to mark where she’s been.

‘About being extremely careful,’ Gloria says, ‘when dealing with photographers. I’m very concerned, Charlotte. It’s not a world I think Rosie is especially suited to.’

Of course, she couldn’t have discussed this with Will, not with him still in recovery from last night – at two o’clock in the bloody afternoon. It irks me, too, this implication that I am perfectly happy to propel my daughter into a world of pervs and predators just to get her picture on the cover of a magazine. But I know Gloria takes a dim view of my parenting abilities. She ‘cried for three days’, she once let slip, on learning that her darling son had fallen in love with a hapless single mother when she’d always thought he’d end up with Emily Forrest who, while I was up to my elbows laundering bibs, was studying the oboe at the Royal College of Music.

‘Please don’t worry, Gloria,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s all in hand and we’ll be keeping a close eye on things. In fact, she’s doing her first test shoot tomorrow after school. The agency are keen for her to get some proper professional shots to build up her portfolio …’

‘It’s called a
book
, Mum,’ Rosie corrects me, lurking in the hallway.

‘She will be chaperoned, though?’ Gloria wants to know. ‘Because if you don’t have time, with your
job
and everything, I can always take—’

‘No, no, I’m leaving work early so I can go with her,’ I say, at which Rosie’s face falls.

‘Mum,’ she hisses, ‘there’s no need …’

‘Yes there is
,’ I mouth at her, adding, ‘It’s fine, Gloria. I know you’re concerned, but honestly, there’s nothing to worry about at all.’

Chapter Twelve

Rosie is perched on a high chrome stool in a brightly-lit alcove, having her make-up applied by a girl called Boo. Despite it being rather stuffy in the photographer’s studio, Boo has topped off her black linen shift dress with a sort of Peruvian hat with hanging-down ear flaps in hairy brown wool. She must be boiling in that, I muse, then realise how silly I’m being for worrying about a young girl’s sweaty scalp. This is
fashion
, I remind myself. Comfort doesn’t come into it. Bet the photographer – an unshaven, rather irritated-looking man called Parker – like the posh pens – doesn’t nurture such thoughts. And nor will his stocky, ginger-cropped assistant, who’s been introduced to me merely as ‘my assistant’. Perhaps Parker doesn’t feel he’s important enough to warrant a name.

‘So it’s your first shoot, Rosie?’ Boo says pleasantly, while I leaf through the copy of
Vogue
that was lying on the low table in the studio. I have myself installed in the furthest corner of the room, on a rather grimy tan leather sofa, so as to be as unobtrusive as possible.

‘Yes,’ Rosie replies. ‘I don’t really know what to expect …’

‘Oh, you’ll be fine. Parker’s great. You’re so lucky to be working with him.’

‘Yes, I know, Laurie said he’s amazing …’ Already, after just a few brief phone chats with her booker, Rosie has adopted a slight model-agency inflection. Am
aaaa
zing …

‘You mean Laurie at Face?’ Boo asks.

‘Yeah, she scouted me—’

‘Oh-my-God, you’re so lucky! D’you
realise
how lucky you are?’

Rosie chuckles. ‘Um, guess so.’

‘She’s the best!’ Boo shrieks. ‘She, like, owns the industry!’ As they fall into companionable chatter, I can’t help feeling impressed at how relaxed Rosie seems in this unfamiliar environment. The hairdryer is switched on and, feeling pretty redundant, I continue flicking through the magazine.

‘Looks like we’ve got Cassandra for Friday’s shoot,’ Parker tells his assistant. Models, I’ve realised, rarely have surnames.

‘She’s a great girl, amazing attitude,’ the assistant remarks approvingly. Also: they are not women but
girls
.

‘She’s got that androgynous sexy insouciance thing going on,’ Parker drawls, opening a small fridge and extracting beers for the assistant and himself. I sip my tap water from a glass with a brownish lipstick smear on it, realising that I’ll never understand this world, not when I look at a picture of a swimsuit – a ‘simple one-piece’ at that – and wonder what kind of maniac would pay £795 for it. I mean the cossie (and I do know that no one in such circles says
cossie
) is plain black with a thin white belt and a tiny gold buckle. For that kind of money, I’d expect a flashing fairylight neckline and a sticky-out skirt bit, with martinis perched upon it.

Having expertly appraised the fashion pages, I check my watch. Rosie has been having her hair and make-up done for three quarters of an hour. I stifle a yawn. Of course, I didn’t expect anyone to talk to me, or for Parker to be eager to know about the inner workings of a premium crisp company in Essex. In fact, Rosie’s right, in that I probably shouldn’t have come at all. Parker’s studio is on the top floor of an old, weather-beaten warehouse near Old Street; she would have been capable of finding it by herself. ‘You do realise there’ll be nothing for you to do,’ she pointed out on the Tube journey here. I joked that there might be a box of jigsaws and colouring-in books.

When she emerges from the alcove, it’s all I can do not to gasp. She is
breathtakingly
lovely: made up, certainly, but so skilfully you can barely detect Boo’s handiwork at all. My daughter has been sort of smoothed over, her eyes and lips subtly enhanced and her cheekbones defined with expert brushwork. She is wearing the dark skinny jeans she arrived in, but has swapped her checked shirt for a simple white vest.

‘Lovely!’ Parker says approvingly. ‘You look beautiful, darling. Now, all I need you to do is stand in front of the background so we can test the lights. And don’t worry, there’s no need to pose as such. Just be yourself. It’s all about a nice, relaxed feel …’

I stare from the sofa, transfixed. I know Rosie would prefer me not to watch, and that I should still be forensically examining
Vogue
, but I can’t help myself. The background is a roll of pale grey paper, and Rosie looks a little unsure as she stands in front of it. ‘Just relax your face and part your lips a little,’ Parker says encouragingly. ‘That’s it. That’s gorgeous.’