As Good As It Gets? (31 page)

‘I mean for a sort of sex thing,’ I murmur, my cheeks radiating a fierce heat.

His brows shoot up. ‘A sex thing? What, in the shed?’

‘Yes, I thought it might be fun.’ I laugh self-deprecatingly. He continues to study me with an icy glare.

‘You mean … you think our sex life’s boring?’

‘No! Of course I don’t. It’s lovely. It’s just that … you know.’ Will blinks at me. This is
excruciating.
‘We don’t do it very often these days,’ I say, all in a rush, ‘and I was starting to worry and I thought—’

Will frowns. ‘It hasn’t been
that
long.’

‘It has, Will. I mean, the last time was Mother’s Day …’

‘D’you make a note of this kind of thing? D’you keep a log?’

‘No,’ I protest, ‘of course not—’ I take his hand but he pulls it away.

‘D’you have a
file
on this?’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s just, these things tend to lodge in my head. You know – special occasion sex. And I’m not blaming you—’

‘Well, thanks!’ he blusters.

‘… I’m saying it’s not your fault at all. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just us, the way things are. And I’d started to think, maybe we could …
vary
things, so I was investigating the shed as a possible location …’ My top lip is sprouting sweat, I can feel it glistening there.

‘You want to do it in our shed,’ he says, holding my gaze.

‘Well, no actually,’ I say, lapsing into a jokey tone, ‘that’s what’s funny because I had to conclude, after my
extensive
research, that its potential as a potentially erotic location is limited.’ I laugh, loudly and alone.

‘You must think I’m an idiot,’ Will says.

‘No, of course I don’t—’

‘You’ve been in there, and you knocked the creosote over—’

‘Well deduced!’ I say with a ridiculous grin. ‘That’s exactly what happened …’

‘—Because,’ he hisses, flinging the back door open and stomping out to the garden, ‘you were messing about in there
with
another man
.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

For a moment, I just stand there. He can’t think that. He can’t really believe it. He has too much time to think and brood, that’s all, being stuck at home for so long. I find him sitting on the bench, glaring at our shed, as if my imaginary lover might still be cowering in there, terrified to come out. ‘Will,’ I say tentatively, perching beside him, ‘you don’t really believe that, do you?’ He shrinks away, as if I reek of something unpleasant.

‘What else am I supposed to think?’

‘I told you! I know it sounds mad, but I was only prowling about to assess it, to see if—’

‘You’re obviously lying,’ he interrupts. ‘You’re bright red, and it’s all so convoluted—’

‘Yes,’ I cut in, ‘because I know how stupid it sounds and what a bloody ridiculous thing it was to do.’ I stare down at the ground. Here we are, in our beautiful garden as planned, although the glasses of chilled white wine are absent. As is any mention of Fraser, obviously. It’s not the right time. When will it
ever
be the right time?

‘It was a bit,’ Will mutters.

‘Okay, but it’s a bit of a jump to assume I’m having a fling, isn’t it? D’you honestly think I’d do that?’ I picture myself, just an hour ago, talking to Fraser in the Carpet Land car park. ‘I know it sounds mad,’ I add, ‘but, honestly, Will – I’ve told you what I was doing. That’s
exactly
what happened—’

‘Oh, right, when you banged your head against the door …’

‘Actually, the creosote can fell on my head.’

He slides his gaze towards me. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ I mutter. ‘It has a really sharp edge. It could have been a lot worse …’

He observes me, failing to show any sympathy. ‘So you lied about that, then.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ We fall into silence.

‘You’ve been weird lately,’ he ventures finally.

I nod. ‘I know. It’s just, something’s—’ I break off as Gerald strides out into his garden.

‘Lovely evening,’ he says brightly.

Will nods. ‘Yes it is,’ I reply. I watch as our neighbour bobs down, then reappears clutching a green plastic sieve. He gives it a little shake.

‘Only way to get the stones out,’ he says with a grin.

I’m aware that weeding should be done – and mowing, obviously – but sieving the soil? Is this a thing? ‘You’re very dedicated, Gerald,’ I remark.

‘Yes, well, I do what I can. Any luck with jobs yet, Will? Anything in the offing?’

I glance at Will. ‘Erm, I’m looking into a few things,’ he replies.

Gerald nods, wiping a lick of sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. ‘Very competitive these days and of course, you’re not getting any younger …’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Will smiles tightly.

‘… I mean, if there are two candidates, one in their forties and one of twenty-eight, no prizes for guessing who they’ll go for …’

‘Yep, I’m aware of that,’ Will cuts in. I glance at him. A vein seems to be throbbing in his neck.

Gerald jiggles his sieve. ‘It’s unfair, of course. Discriminatory really. I mean, look at you, Will, with decades of life experience and, er—’ He tails off, as if unable to think of any more admirable qualities my husband might possess. ‘Glad I’m not in your shoes,’ he adds. ‘I don’t envy you one bit. Tricia and I are lucky in that our jobs are secure and the mortgage is paid off …’

‘You are lucky,’ Will agrees.
Smug fucker,
I sense him adding silently.

Gerald picks a bit of gravel out of the sieve and examines it before tossing it aside. ‘Had any more intruders in your garden? We’ve been worried, since we heard all that screaming—’

‘No, nothing,’ I say quickly, jumping up and scuttling towards the house, as if I might have suddenly remembered a pan of milk simmering on the hob.

Will follows, and there’s a distinct air of grumpiness as we prepare dinner together. Although he is virtually silent as we eat, Ollie’s chattiness masks any awkwardness. ‘When are you gonna get more modelling jobs, Rosie?’ he enquires.

‘Dunno,’ she replies.

‘Are you working for those mitten people again?’

‘No, I’m not.’ She rolls her eyes and adds, turning to me, ‘Another wool company want to see me, Mum. Laurie says I should go. She reckons I’m great for the knitting market. What does that even
mean
?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I say. ‘But it’s all work, isn’t it? And experience?’

She drops her knife onto her plate. ‘What d’you think, Dad?’

Will frowns. ‘Does it really matter whether you’re working for a fashion magazine or a knitting company? I’d have thought it was all pretty similar—’

‘Of course it’s not similar!’ she cries shrilly. ‘Delph says you have to be really careful when you start out, or you’ll be branded as one of those naff girls, a catalogue girl—’

Bloody Delph …

‘But
she
modelled mittens,’ Ollie reminds her.

‘Yeah, by mistake, idiot …’

I look at my daughter, wishing now that I’d whisked her out of Forever 21 before Laurie could press that card into my hand. We should have listened to Gloria’s warnings about the foil dress poking and never let her do it. She seems so defensive these days, and unusually intolerant of her little brother. I’d never have imagined that mittens could be viewed as so controversial. Christ, it seems like only last week that she owned a pair: Fairisle pattern, lovingly knitted by my mum. Rosie had cried, I recall, when she’d left one on the bus.

‘I’d rather have gloves,’ Ollie muses. ‘I mean, why would anyone choose to wear something that stops them using each finger individually?’

‘Can we stop discussing mittens?’ she barks. They batter back and forth, sniping and snapping until Ollie stomps off to his room, and Rosie heads out to meet Zach to go to the movies again. This time, we let her go with no prior quizzing. If she’s old enough for the knitting market, then she is perfectly capable of trotting off to the cinema with a boy.

I watch Will as he carefully waters his tomato plants on the kitchen shelf. Does he really think I’d sneak into our shed with another man? The very idea is so ludicrous I can’t even bring myself to be angry with him. I start to sort laundry, replaying Dee’s confession today: s
nogging in the spud store.
Not very Archie Towers-type behaviour, admittedly – but still, it was just a blip. On the other hand, my meet-up and phone conversation with Fraser are starting to seem like a huge deal. It no longer feels like ‘only coffee’. There’s no
only
about it. What the hell am I playing at?

Will is in the utility room now, gathering tools to fix a bit of loose fence that Tricia has been grumbling about. The toy garage pops into my mind, with its working lift. Rosie had always preferred her collection of vehicles to the curly-haired doll Grandma Gloria had given her, and was delighted when Will had presented it to her. ‘Thank you, Daddy!’ she cried, throwing her arms around him. He had always been Daddy, right from the start. Although – naturally – I’d introduced him as Will, she never seemed to consider the possibility of calling him by name.

A lump forms in my throat as he emerges clutching a hammer and a box of nails. ‘What?’ he says simply, studying my face.

‘Will,’ I start, ‘there’s something I have to tell you.’

‘I
knew
there was. What is it?’

‘It’s not what you think,’ I murmur. ‘It’s … it’s Fraser.’

His face darkens. ‘Has he contacted you again?’

I nod. ‘Yes, he has. We’ve, um, emailed a few times …’

‘That’s who you were with in the shed!’

I stare at Will. His eyes are narrowed, his cheeks flushed. So that’s what he thinks – that I invited my ex round for a quickie in the shed, knocking down a can of creosote in our excitement … for God’s sake. I can’t tell him about the coffee in Caffè Nero – not now, when he’s being so irrational.

‘Of course I wasn’t,’ I say firmly. ‘That’s just ridiculous. God, Will, how did it get like this between us?’

‘Like what?’ he counters.

‘Like …
you
know. This. I really don’t want to list all the incidents which illustrate how we haven’t been getting along …’

‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘do tell me. Tell me everything you’re unhappy about.’

I swallow hard. ‘Okay – the night you gobbled a load of drugs …’

‘Oh, yeah, you were charming that night, weren’t you? Reading the riot act in that café—’

‘I’ve
never
read you the riot act,’ I exclaim. ‘I was pissed off, yes, when I saw you dancing with that woman at Sabrina’s—’

‘And then you squirted me with salad cream. That was mature! How d’you think that made me feel?’

‘I don’t know how you feel about
anything
,’ I shoot back, ‘because you never tell me.’

Tears fuzz my vision as I turn away. Sodding salad cream. Will he still be bringing that up when we’re in our eighties? No, because he’ll have left me by then and I’ll be a batty old woman, unable to forgive myself for wrecking my marriage over a secret coffee with my ex.

Will dumps the hammer and nails on the kitchen table and clicks on his laptop. Maybe he’s about to Google ‘quickie divorce’. I try to gauge his expression as his laptop rouses itself, creakily; it’s a rickety old machine, ‘steam-powered’, he reckons. In fact, he merely opens his Facebook page. Considering the terse exchange we’ve just had, this is rather insulting. But then, who am I to judge? Of course he’s hurt and upset, and I can’t imagine how he’d feel if he knew how my heart leaps every time I glimpse Fraser’s name in my inbox.

Assuming our conversation is over, I busy myself by pairing up Rosie’s socks. Not my favourite job usually, but the repetitive task is at least helping to bring down my heart rate to a normal-ish level. I dart a quick look at the laptop again. Still Facebook. Not Will’s page, I realise now, but Sabrina’s: so they’re Facebook friends. That’s fine – of course it is. And I’d be friends with her too, if I was on it. Will is scrolling down her timeline. I glance casually over his shoulder, in a way that I hope seems companionable, rather than prying. There are pictures of Zach and his band, plus various pierced and pallid members of the audience at Down Below. I turn away and sort Will and Ollie’s pants into two tidy piles.

When I glance back, there’s a gallery of wedding dresses on the screen, modelled by one of the younger women – blonde and bronzed, with prominent collarbones – from Sabrina and Tommy’s housewarming party. In another shot, Tommy is blowing a kiss at the camera and waving a bottle of beer. There’s a moody close-up of Zach, strumming a guitar, looking every inch the indie boy pin-up.

Then more of the gig we went to. I know it’s that night because Sabrina is wearing her plunging black dress and leather jacket. I spot Liza in a couple of shots; they must have been taken back at Sabrina and Tommy’s place, after I’d gone to collect Ollie.

There’s one of Will, looking a bit pissed but happy, wearing a squiffy grin. Enjoying himself, obviously, while I was sipping my Ovaltine and having poisonous thoughts. And there’s one of him and a woman in a fierce embrace.

My heart seems to stop. ‘Sabrina’s just put these up,’ Will says flatly.

‘Oh, um … right! They look really fun.’

He glances at me, then indicates the screen. ‘Is that the person you were talking about when you mentioned hot, steamy dancing?’

I study the picture he’s pointing at. It’s not a real woman – I can see that now. The camera flash has bounced off her pink, shiny face and her little red mouth is an ‘o’ of surprise. ‘Er … yes, I think it is.’

It’s Chloe, Tommy’s pretend girlfriend. I squirted salad cream at my husband for dancing with a blow-up doll.

Chapter Thirty

Thursday morning, and I’m still in the dog house. At least, I assume I am. My plan was to get up super-early and make Will a lavish cooked breakfast – full English with black pudding, his favourite – but he was off on his bike before I’d even got the frying pan out.

I can’t get over the fact that I ranted at him for smooching with what was effectively a lilo, with tits and a face. Although I’ve apologised a thousand times, he’s obviously still miffed about it. Still, today isn’t all bad. It’s Rosie’s big shoot, for the billboards for the new shopping mall. I hope Will comes back in time to wish her luck. Maybe then, when she’s set off, we can talk things over in a calm, rational way. Although he hasn’t mentioned Fraser again, I’m aware that we urgently need to clear the air.