As Good As It Gets? (26 page)

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ollie hauling himself out of the pool. He sees me and Liza and waves. ‘How lovely that he still acknowledges you in public,’ she says with a smile.

‘Yes, I know. He’s a great boy.’

She turns to me with a look that tells me a difficult question is coming. ‘So, if you do arrange to meet Fraser, will you tell Will?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes, but
after
I’ve met him, I think. There’s no point in a big drama now – and anyway, we’re hardly on the best of terms …’

‘Well, if you’re sure you feel okay about that.’

I drain my cup, watching an exhausted-looking woman chasing two excitable young children who make straight for the vending machine. They proceed to shake it, as if that’ll make all the Galaxy bars tumble out. ‘I’m not sure about anything, Liza,’ I say. ‘It just feels like something I have to do.’

*

Will appears to be on best behaviour when I arrive home with the boys. ‘Sorry about last night,’ he says as we start to prepare dinner together. I notice that he has left a small pause, into which I am perhaps supposed to insert,
And I’m sorry too, for being so immature as to squirt you with 70s condiment. It was wrong and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself.
But I don’t. Anyway, a call from Rosie’s agency quickly dispels any lingering hint of tension.

‘I’ve got a casting on Monday,’ she announces. ‘It’s a massive job. I can’t believe it!’

‘That’s fantastic,’ I say, hugging her. ‘What’s it for?’

‘Billboards. An ad campaign for that new mall they’re building, the one that’s going to be bigger than Bluewater …’ I beam at her, delighted to see my daughter looking so radiant and happy.

‘Well done, darling,’ Will says, clearly not grasping its significance.

‘I probably won’t get it,’ she adds, trying to rein in her excitement, ‘but Laurie said they’re really keen to see me. Oh, and those knitting people wanted me again, for another pattern book or something, but I said I’m not doing that.’

I frown at her. ‘You turned down a job? Are you sure that was okay?’

‘Yeah. Delph said it wouldn’t do my profile any good …’ How bizarre, to hear my daughter talking of having a
profile.
She brightens again. ‘Anyway, I really want this other one. The billboard thing, I mean. Laurie thinks I’m their kind of girl …’ Her face bursts into a huge smile.

‘Well, that’s that, then,’ I exclaim. ‘Sounds like you’ll get the job!’ We dissolve into whoops of excitement, Will’s saucy dancing and Fraser’s emails disappearing from my mind, at least for now.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The house is all quiet early on Saturday morning as I curl up on the sofa and compose an email.

Hi Fraser,

Thanks for your email. Yes, I think meeting for coffee would be a good idea as, obviously, we have things to discuss. Are you still in Manchester? I’m in East London. Are you down here often? Let me know what works for you.

Charlotte

Hi Charlotte,
comes the speedy reply.

Lovely to hear from you again. I’m so glad you want to meet. As I’ve mentioned before, I have wanted to get in touch with you for years now, and seeing the magazine was the trigger I needed.

I divide my time between Cheshire and London these days. I’ve been working in the City the past few years and I have a flat in Battersea. Anyway, I’d love to know more about your life now, and your family and what you’re doing … but I guess you’ll tell me if and when you feel ready.

Also, I want you to know I don’t blame you one bit.

Yours,

Fraser x

I frown at his last sentence. Blame me for what? For getting pregnant after we’d only known each other for a few short months? This implies I
stole
his sperm and impregnated myself, and that the poor mite had nothing to do with it. Or does he mean me scoffing that space cake? I
love
cake, always have, and didn’t imagine anything involving eggs, flour and butter – innocently baked – would result in me sliding off a chair in a café and lying on the floor laughing. Has he decided to forgive me for that?

Another email pings in:
I know this is a long shot but I have some time off next week … is there any chance we could meet up then? Or would that be completely out of the question?

It’s wrong, I know it is. But I need to see him.

Okay,
I type,
how about Caffe Nero in Long Acre on Monday, 2 p.m.?

Good choice, I decide. Huge, busy and impersonal.

Perfect, he replies, see you then. Fx

Business concluded, I have a rather stilted breakfast with Will – the kids have yet to emerge from their rooms – then head out to the local shops. I can’t be around Will right now. I know it’s terrible, arranging to meet Fraser in secret when I took time off to hang out with my family and be useful at home. I wouldn’t feel quite as guilt-ridden if I didn’t experience a whoosh of excitement whenever an email from Fraser pops in. Although he irritates me slightly – what with ‘dividing his time’ between two homes, the posh knob – my heart still leaps every time he gets in touch. I wish I could treat his emails in the same way as the relentless INCREASE GIRTH AND LENGTH NOW!! spam which floods my inbox daily. But I can’t.

I
have
to see Fraser. I need to know why he cut off contact so abruptly, and why he just stopped wanting me. And I’m kidding myself by pretending it’s all for Rosie. Perhaps – despite insisting that I don’t care, that I
despise
him, actually – the truth is that I’ve never truly got over the miserable, spineless rat-bag deserter after all.

I stroll past our local, rather uninspired shops, and walk for another twenty minutes or so to the villagey area with its fancy boutiques and artisan bakers. There’s a homewares shop which seems to sell little more than antique cut-glass perfume bottles and brocade cushions. There are galleries, shockingly pricey boutiques and fancy delicatessens. I buy a sourdough loaf with the density of sandstone, and an apple tart in a flat white box from a new French patisserie.

Greengrocer’s next. Here, I carefully avoid choosing anything which Will is capable of growing at home: lettuce, for instance. That’s the effect my correspondence with Fraser is having on me. It’s making me paranoid about the tiniest things. For instance, if I bought, say, some rocket, would Will glower at it and remark, ‘But we have plenty in our garden … or aren’t my leaves good enough for you?’

God, it’s exhausting. Who’d have thought salad could be controversial? If I could only rattle off a quick email to Fraser saying BUGGER OFF OUT OF MY LIFE, then at least I wouldn’t feel so bad, even though I haven’t really done anything –
yet.
Whereas my husband, as I keep reminding myself, gobbled mind-altering chemicals and made a complete spectacle of himself with a mystery female in full view of our street.

I glance down at a wicker basket laden with mangoes. At least I’m on safe ground with fruit, because Will doesn’t grow any yet, apart from plums, which are yet to appear. In fact, being in close proximity to so much over-priced produce is making me feel a little more wholesome. It occurs to me, as I fondle various prime specimens, that that’s precisely what I am actually doing here: i.e., not buying mangoes because anyone particularly likes them (disappointing flesh-to-stone ratio) but because it’s the kind of thing good mothers/wives do. They take their mangoes home and cut them up and everyone sits around slurping them in the garden. That would impress Tricia – to see all of us enjoying the sunshine, whilst snacking on exotic fruit.

Yep, that’s what we’ll do. Mangoes are far more pleasing than reject crisps. Starting to make my way home, I decide to try to make amends with Will as soon as I get back. As he’s kindly pointed out, I am perfectly capable of making an arse of myself too; witness my drunken head gash. Feeling more positive now, I stop off to buy a bottle of Chablis for us to enjoy in the garden later. I shall present these fine offerings to him as peacemaking gifts. Maybe a relaxed evening together will help to thaw things between us. Yet, as I stride along with my expensive provisions, I still feel like a very bad person indeed.

I have asked Fraser to meet me for coffee behind Will’s back. Glancing down into my bag, I’m wondering now if Will even likes sourdough. Didn’t he comment once that it was ‘heavy’? Then I see it, parked on the gravelled forecourt outside the church: a white van, with
Donate Blood Here
on its side.
That’s
what I could do. That would cancel out the guilt, more effectively than any amount of produce from Roots ‘n’ Fruits.

I stop and watch people drifting in and out of the church. It might be my imagination, but they look like good people. They save human lives, after all. As I make my way towards the entrance, it occurs to me that, if they drain off some of my bad blood – the guilt-tinged blood that’s currently bubbling through my veins – then my body will replace it with nice clean fresh stuff. And perhaps, miraculously, the new blood my body produces will stop me wanting to see Fraser quite so much.

There’s a small queue at the booking-in desk. ‘Have you donated blood before?’ the woman asks.

‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘but a long time ago.’ I give her my details and she checks the screen and finds me. I’m given a form, and perch on a plastic chair at the end of the row while I fill it in. A young woman with a swingy blonde bob takes me into a little booth where she pricks my thumb with a hand-held machine. She studies the digital display. ‘Ah, sorry,’ she says, ‘your haemoglobin’s too low.’ She smiles reassuringly. ‘Your iron level – it’s nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid you can’t donate blood today.’

For some reason, even though I know I’m being silly – it could probably be rectified by scoffing a pile of spinach which, as luck would have it, Will grows in abundance – I am hugely disappointed by this news. Everywhere I look, posters are pinned up saying DONATE BLOOD TODAY AND SAVE A LIFE. I want to donate mine, but no one wants it. And it’s not really about iron. I know this. It’s because I am a terrible person who’s planning to sneak off and meet her ex.

I glance around the hall where row upon row of people are lying on beds, having their lovely iron-rich blood drained out of them. At one end of the room a cluster of people are sipping tea, tucking into chocolate biscuits and having a jolly chat. There are bursts of laughter. It looks an outing in itself.

‘Charlotte! Whoo-hoo!’

I scan the hall. ‘Over here!’ I arrange my face into a smile as Sabrina strides towards me, chomping away on a Wagon Wheel.

‘Hi, Sabrina. I was just leaving actually—’

‘Oh, we can walk home together if you’re heading back. God, don’t you
love
Wagon Wheels? I’d forgotten how good they are!’

‘Actually,’ I tell her, ‘I haven’t been able to give blood. There wasn’t enough iron in it, apparently.’

‘Aw, aren’t they fussy these days?’ she asks as we step outside.

‘Seems like it,’ I say, wondering if Sabrina took ecstasy the other night too. If so, it seems a little unfair that a whole armful of blood has been drained out of her when mine hasn’t had a sniff of an illegal drug since that measly little muffin in 1996.

‘So how come you’re not at work?’ she asks as we make our way home.

‘I’ve taken some time off, seeing as it’s the start of the holidays.’

She smiles. ‘Quite right too. Bet Will’s pleased …’

‘Yes, he seems to be. Um … Sabrina? Can I ask you something about the other night? After Zach’s gig, I mean?’

She nods. ‘Sure.’

I’m not about to lower myself to admitting that I stood there, sipping my malted drink while my husband flailed about with another woman. Maybe it
was
Sabrina. I no longer care. Bet they were all off their faces and hardly remember anything anyway. Liza was right – even if it was her, it didn’t mean anything. But I do need to know how Will came to mistake a Thursday night in an ordinary East London terraced house for a rave in a field –
twenty-five years ago.
I hadn’t even realised people still took ecstasy. According to Rosie, these days it’s all about smoking ‘cheese’.

I glance at Sabrina who seems perfectly bright and perky, even with depleted blood. ‘It’s just, Will was pretty out of it when he came home that night,’ I venture.

She glances at me. ‘Oh, God. Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it. But he seemed like he needed to let his hair down, you know?’

Yep, what he
really
needed was a pill that would make him cuddle the stairs and cry like a little baby.

‘A mate of Tommy’s brought them,’ she adds. ‘We don’t indulge. Well, not often. You can’t at our age, can you?’

‘Er, no,’ I say, as if Will and I are faced with a similar dilemma on a regular basis.

‘Anyway,’ she adds breezily, ‘as long as he was okay …’

‘Well, no, he was sick actually.’

‘God, really? Poor Will!’

‘He’s recovered now,’ I add quickly.

She smiles. ‘Well, at least he had fun. I wish you’d been able to stay. We saw quite a different side to him, y’know. He’s a scream.’ He is indeed. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ she adds as we reach our street.

‘Sure,’ I say, deciding the wine can wait. Maybe Sabrina will shed some more light on what was going on with Will the other night.

‘I think Rosie’s at our place, hanging out with Zach …’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’
What are they doing?
I want to ask. Will, I notice, seems to have relinquished his role as Highly Protective Dad. This shift in attitude appears to have coincided with his new-found love of leather trousers and dirty dancing. Not to worry, though, because it’s all cheery smiles as Sabrina lets us in, and we find Rosie and Zach in the kitchen, drinking tea and munching toast. The scene could not appear more innocent if a game of Ludo were set out on the table. ‘Hey, Mum,’ Rosie says with a big smile.