As Good As It Gets? (30 page)

However, it appears all’s not well at Archie Towers either. Dee seems distracted as she runs through everything that’s happened during my time off. ‘Rupert’s been weird,’ she says, tension flickering in her eyes.

‘In what way?’

‘Kind of distracted and grumpy. Maybe he was missing you.’ She emits a small, mirthless snigger.

‘Doubt it,’ I say, pouring our coffees, and startled by her gloomy expression when I place hers on her desk. ‘Has it been that bad?’ I ask. ‘Has he had a go at you?’

‘No, no, it’s not that. In fact, um … can I tell you something? It’s actually nothing to do with Rupert at all …’

‘What is it, then? Are you okay?’ I pull up a chair beside her. ‘Dee?’ I prompt her.

She exhales. ‘
Please
don’t say anything. Oh God, Charlotte, I have to tell someone …’

‘You can tell me,’ I say gently, adding, to lighten the mood, ‘Don’t say you’ve been going around saying fry instead of cook.’

Dee musters a small smile. ‘I wish it
was
that. It’s … here, let me show you.’ She opens her desk drawer and extracts an envelope which has already been ripped open. She pulls out a postcard and hands it to me.

It depicts two teddy bears in wellies, kissing. The curly writing above the picture reads
I love you beary, beary much
. ‘That’s, er, sweet,’ I say. ‘Is it from Mike?’

Dee shakes her ahead. ‘No, it was on my desk this morning when I came in.’

‘Who put it there? D’you have any idea?’

She flushes cherry-pink and nods. ‘Not Rupert?’ I gasp.

‘God, no! Read the other side …’

I flip the card over and read, in rather jittery biro writing:
You are so lovely, Dee. Frank xxx

‘Frank? You mean
fryer
Frank?’

‘Yeah,’ she mutters.

‘He snuck up here and put this on your desk?’

She nods.

‘
Frank
put it there?’ I almost laugh as I picture the big, handsome Spanish man, all dark eyes and five o’clock shadow in his fat-splattered Archie’s apron, Silk Cut dangling from his mouth. I’d never have had him down for a teddy bear card sort of man. Not a
beary-beary-much
type at all.

‘Yep,’ Dee says grimly.

I look at her. ‘So … does he have a thing about you or something? What is this – a sort of non-Valentine’s day Valentine?’

Dee turns even redder. I’ve noticed this about blondes: when they blush, there’s no hiding it. ‘Sort of,’ she replies as it begins to make sense: her uncomfortable squirming when I was setting up my picnic scene, and how tricky it was to choose pictures in which she didn’t look completely mortified.

‘Are you having a … a
thing
with Frank?’ I gasp.

She bites her lip. ‘No, no, not at all …’

‘Are you sure? Because the card seems so—’

‘It’s nothing,’ she cuts in, ‘well, nothing much. God, I don’t know. We get along, he’s lovely, we’re friends …’

‘Yes, I know you are,’ I say.

‘… And there was this thing, last week, when you were off …’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘Well, er … we had a bit of a sort of, um … kiss sort-of-thing.’ I am amazed by this. Dee, who always seems so thrilled to be making a home with Mike.

‘Where did you kiss?’ I whisper, aware of Jen chatting to someone in the shop downstairs. Sounds like we actually have customers.

‘On the mouth,’ she whispers back.

‘No, I meant where, um,
geographically
—’

‘Oh! In the spud store.’

‘The spud store?’ I splutter involuntarily. ‘But it’s so … dark in there. And it smells kind of earthy …’ Actually, maybe it has that sort of shed-like appeal …

‘I know,’ she says sheepishly, fiddling with her hair.

‘What are you going to do?’ I ask, desperate to know more: Rosie was right when she said I take an unnatural interest in other people’s lives.

‘Oh God, I don’t know. He’s gorgeous. Very sexy. I never planned it, you know. We were just having a smoke and then we found ourselves in there …’ Like the way I
found myself
replying to Fraser and then arranging to meet, and keeping the whole thing secret … how horribly easy it is to tumble into doing all kinds of illicit stuff, without actually intending to. ‘You think I’m awful,’ she bleats.

‘No, of course I don’t.’

‘But it’s so deceitful! I live with Mike, and I love him, and we’re
really
happy …’

‘Dee,’ I say, hearing Rupert arriving downstairs, ‘don’t beat yourself up about it. It was only a kiss.’

‘You don’t think it counts? As cheating, I mean?’

‘No, it absolutely doesn’t.’ As if I have the faintest idea about anything.

‘What would
you
do, if you’d done something – I don’t know, kissed someone, or had a fling … would you tell Will?’

Making my way to my own desk, I try to formulate a sensible reply. ‘I haven’t a clue. I guess it’d depend on the situation …’

‘The difference is,’ she declares, ‘you’d never do anything so stupid. I feel like such an idiot, Charlotte. I mean, what was I
thinking
?’

I muster what I hope is a big, reassuring smile. ‘It was only a kiss, Dee,’ I repeat, deciding that now’s not the time to tell her the spud store has CCTV.

*

How amazing, I reflect on the drive home, that she thinks I’ve got it all sorted. I suppose, to Dee, I must give the impression of being a proper grown-up. When you look at the facts, I guess I am; married with two children, one of whom has already earned an eye-popping day rate for looking pretty – albeit in scratchy mittens – but everyone has to start somewhere. When I was Dee’s age I’d have assumed a thirty-eight-year-old woman would have life pretty sussed. I used to think that, by that stage, I’d have a fantastic relationship with a lovely, intelligent, funny and sexy man (that didn’t seem like too much to ask).

Will is all of those things. Okay, the sense of humour has waned a little, but anyone’s would, if everyone kept asking about the job situation, and whether they’d ‘heard anything yet’.

My mobile rings. Expecting it to be Will, asking me to pick up something from Tesco Metro, I pull over onto the forecourt of a shabby carpet warehouse. It’s stopped ringing by the time I’ve parked, and it’s not Will. I call the number.

‘Charlotte?’ the man says, and of course it’s him. My heart starts pounding. I wish it wouldn’t do that. I should be able to control my own internal organs.

‘Hello, Fraser,’ I croak.

‘I, er … I hope it’s not a bad time …’

I fix my gaze on the rows of rolled-up carpets piled up haphazardly in the window of the store. ‘No, it’s okay.’

He clears his throat. ‘I had to call you. I can’t stop thinking about everything …’

Neither can I,
I think, although right now all I want is to go home and pour myself a big glass of wine and sit chatting with Will in the evening sun, like we did over our sourdough and mango picnic. I want to do normal, regular things, like Tricia and Gerald next door. Well, maybe not quite like them. But
our
sort of normal: that’s what I need in my life right now.

‘Me too,’ I tell Fraser. ‘It’s on my mind the whole time.’

‘It’s like … everything’s changed,’ he adds.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I can’t believe she did that. My mum, I mean—’

‘Fraser,’ I cut in, ‘did you ever receive any letters from me? After your mum said I’d made that call?’

‘Er … no?’ He phrases it as a question. ‘Did you write?’

Of course I did, idiot. That’s what people did in those days. We wrote crazy letters on Basildon Bond notepaper
–
outpourings of love, then anger, and sometimes we even cried on the letters, thinking, good, I’ve made it all wet! That’ll make the paper all wrinkly and he’ll realise how devastated I am! THAT’LL SHOW HIM.

‘A few times, yes,’ I reply in an airy tone.

A small pause. ‘Mum must’ve got to your letters first.’

I inhale deeply and start the engine. ‘I need to go, Fraser. I don’t want to discuss this on the phone.’

‘Please, can’t we talk? When can I see you again?’

‘I don’t know—’

‘I
need
to talk to you, Charlotte. Does Rosie know anything about me?’

‘Yes, of course she does. Well, a bit. She doesn’t know anything about your life, and neither do I—’

‘But I want you to,’ he cuts in. ‘I feel terrible, you know. I haven’t been able to sleep since I saw you. I’ve taken time off work. God knows what Rosie thinks of me …’

I cringe every time he mentions her name.
He’s
not her dad. Will is. Fraser Johnson has never dabbed Savlon onto a bleeding knee or cheered her up with a packet of neon-bright Haribos after a jab at the doctor’s. He never had to acquaint himself with the machine that turned stinky nappies into bricks – which were never, as promised, ‘odourless’ – or stripped a child’s bed at 4.30 a.m. after she’d puked all over the sheets. At least, I don’t imagine he has. As he’s never mentioned kids, I assume he doesn’t have any. He’s breezed through life, ‘dividing his time’ between London and Cheshire, while I divided my time between the swings in the park and my cluttered kitchen.

‘Can I see Rosie?’ he asks.

No, no, no.
This isn’t the way we’d planned it. We were going to handle this calmly, Will and I, and talk it over when the time was right. ‘Maybe,’ I say warily. ‘I’ll have to discuss it with her.’

‘When?’

‘When we’re ready, Fraser,’ I say, abruptly finishing the call and pulling off the forecourt – without looking properly, and causing a driver of a gleaming red Porsche to toot irritably.
It’s okay,
I tell myself, trying to steady my breathing as I drive home. I’ll tell Will straight away – or at least, as soon as we can talk in private. That’s the thing with teens. It’s not the sex thing that’s tricky, as Sabrina believes. It’s having a private adult conversation, without Ollie or Rosie barging in and demanding to know what we’re talking about. As if we’re that fascinating! I mean, often it’s just Will musing over whether he needs a haircut, or me reminding him to buy a present for Gloria’s birthday.

By the time I pull up in our street, I have it all planned out: what I’ll say, and where I’ll say it. We’ll sit in the garden. It’s a warm, muggy evening; the air feels heavy and damp. We’ll need wine to refresh us.

I step into the house and find Will in the kitchen. ‘Hi,’ I say, kissing his cheek, which he merely allows as if I am a distant cousin.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask brightly.

‘Yeah.’ Dinner smells delicious; after all this time, I am still always hugely impressed when he manages to do something terribly clever with marinades. Any fancy flavourings I add to food seem to evaporate in the oven. I have the incredible knack of turning the most thrilling-sounding Jamie Oliver dish into a joyless school dinner.

Something catches my eye as Will checks the oven. Curiously, my stained canvas shoes are sitting neatly paired up on the table, as if on display. Beside them rests Ollie’s shiny silver torch, now pieced back together, as good as new. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You found my shoes.’ I smile, trying to convey how pleased I am to be reunited with my Converse rip-offs (Primark, £6.99).

‘Yes, they were in the shed.’ Will gives me a significant look.

‘And Ollie’s torch! He’ll be so pleased.’

‘That was in the shed too. Your shoes were sitting on the workbench and the torch was broken on the floor. I fixed it, though—’

‘That’s good,’ I say, my heart rattling alarmingly.

‘Charlotte … what were you doing in there? These shoes are covered in creosote and someone had tried, very badly, to mop it all up. I nearly fell over the empty tin. What was going on?’

‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. Will throws me a quizzical look. ‘Well, um,’ I add, feeling my cheeks blazing, ‘this is a bit embarrassing. Remember that night, when I had drinks with Liza and Sabrina and I told you I’d bashed my head against the door?’

He nods, frowning. This is all wrong. He doesn’t look like the man I was planning to have a lovely evening with, sipping chilled white wine in the garden, while I told him about Fraser – which, of course, he’d be hugely understanding about. He looks like a teacher who’s pretty annoyed because someone hid a slice of salami inside a history textbook.

‘Er, that’s not
quite
what happened,’ I mutter.

‘What are you talking about?’ Rosie and Ollie are both playing music in their rooms. Two different tracks mingle confusingly, which would annoy me normally, but now I’m relieved they’re otherwise engaged.

‘I was sort of … exploring it,’ I explain.

‘Exploring it? What is there to explore? There’s hardly anything in it. What were you
doing
in there?’

‘Oh, there are loads of things,’ I rattle on. ‘I was amazed at how much stuff you’d managed to pack into it. All those tins and tubs … blood and bone fertiliser! And hormone rooting powder! It all sounds a bit … lewd, doesn’t it?’ I laugh awkwardly, aware that, once upon a time, I’d have told him immediately what I’d been up to. While he might have teased me for being a raving lunatic, we’d have sniggered about it and possibly even done it in there, in a ‘why the hell not?’ sort of way. We did that kind of thing, back in the stone age.

Will is studying me as if he’s not quite sure who I am. ‘But you
never
go in the shed.’

‘That’s because it’s your domain, darling,’ I say, touching his arm. He flinches as if I’d poked him with a fish.

He shakes his head. ‘I just don’t get it. The shoes, the torch, the creosote …’

‘Well, er,’ I start, sensing my cheeks sizzling even hotter, ‘I was kind of thinking, maybe it might be nice to, er, try something a bit different. And I thought … you know. It might be quite fun.’

A wasp drifts in through the open window. He bats it away. ‘What d’you mean, different?’

‘You know. Just …
different
.’

He still looks confused. What does he
think
I’m talking about? Switching our online shop from Tesco to Asda? Or trying the Berries & Cherries Dorset Cereal instead of the nutty kind we usually have? This is ridiculous. Why can’t I just spit it out? Will has seen me naked millions of times, in all kinds of ungainly positions. He’s watched me push a baby out of my vagina, for goodness’ sake.