As Good As It Gets?. Fiona Gibson

brightly. ‘Priorities and all that. No point in having lovely smooth pores if your house falls down.’

      Having instructed Ollie to create an artistic masterpiece, I find Will in the kitchen and give him a hug. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, stepping away.

      ‘Sure.’ He’s still retaining a trace of the grumpiness he’d displayed while mowing, and I sense my patience fraying. Birthdays didn’t used to involve frenetic mowing at dawn. In fact, practical tasks of any nature would be banned for the day. There’d be cheap champagne at breakfast, plus smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and lots and lots of kisses. Sex, too, once the kids had been dispatched to school. We’d had a tradition of always taking the day off on our birthdays.

      ‘Feel okay about turning forty-one?’ I ask brightly.

      ‘’Course I do,’ Will says, adding, ‘you look lovely today.’

      ‘Thanks. So do you.’ It’s true; his light tan brings out the azure of his eyes, and his strong, lean legs and taut stomach and bottom all add up to a physique a man of thirty would envy.

      He smiles wryly. ‘Reckon gardening leave suits me, then?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I really do.’ And, tempting though it is to ask, ‘Any news, though? About interviews, I mean?’, I force myself not to, because at forty-one he is surely capable of sorting out his own life. Anyway, I reflect, calling the kids downstairs and gathering everyone together in the living room, perhaps I was wrong about the angry-mowing. Maybe he was just feeling energetic.

      He seems genuinely delighted with the kids’ hastily-drawn cards and my pile of presents. ‘This is too much,’ he exclaims, examining the turntable and speakers which I hauled around that godforsaken mall. ‘Thank you, darling.’ He examines the fragrance and soft blue sweater. ‘But … isn’t this the one Mum gave me?’

      ‘I bought you an identical one,’ I say, laughing. ‘Gloria and I obviously have the same taste.’

      He grins and kisses the top of my head. ‘Bloody hell. That’s worrying.’

      Ollie and Rosie edge away at the sight of us expressing affection, as if the next step may be some enthusiastic snogging (unlikely). ‘Look, Mum,’ Rosie remarks, poised at the front window, ‘people are moving in over the road.’ I join her to watch several powerful-looking men unloading furniture from a removal van. There’s a woman, too – skinny and bird-like in tight black jeans and a faded denim jacket, with a torrent of wavy auburn hair cascading down her back. A tall, rangy teenage boy appears to be watching the proceedings with interest, without offering to help.

      Actually, I decide, this family looks interesting. Our corner of East London has a villagey feel; well-scrubbed women march around in Breton tops and boot-cut jeans, ferrying photogenic children to and from numerous activities. Some local mums fill their entire lives with bake sales and ensuring our little community runs precisely as it should. While I’m happy here, occasionally I find our neighbourhood a little too well behaved. The one time I took Ollie to a music workshop as a toddler, I was politely asked by a statuesque blonde to ‘please remove that beaker he’s holding – we don’t want other children seeing it’. It was only Ribena, not Scotch.

      Now the woman and removal men are all standing around and chatting in the bright sunshine. ‘Shall we go out and say hi?’ I suggest.

      ‘No,’ Will exclaims, followed by a derisive laugh. ‘God, Charlotte.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Mum, no!’ Rosie cries. ‘You can’t just march over there. You don’t know them.’

      ‘I wouldn’t march. I’d just walk normally …’

      ‘What would you say?’ she demands.

      I smirk. ‘How about, “Hello”? I find that’s usually a good way to start things off.’ Outside, the woman tosses back her head and laughs long and hard at something one of the men has said.

      ‘Mum’s so nosy,’ Ollie sniggers to his dad.

      ‘Yeah, she’s turned into a curtain-twitcher,’ Will agrees, which prickles me; we’re all standing here, peering out, after all.

      ‘Well,’ I announce, ‘I’m going out to welcome them. C’mon, Will, let’s be neighbourly.’

      ‘You can’t!’ Rosie cries. But I’m already making for the door, with Rosie shouting, ‘Dad, stop her!’ and actually grabbing at my arm, as if I were naked and about to ruin her young life.

       Chapter Five

      The woman and boy are chatting companionably at their front door. As we approach, I realise her trousers aren’t in fact jeans, but black leather. How very racy.

      ‘This is a bit embarrassing,’ Will mutters.

      ‘No it’s not. It’s just a nice thing to do,’ I whisper back, rearranging my face into a wide smile. ‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘We live across the road. Just thought we’d come over and say hi.’

      ‘Oh, hi,’ the woman says, seeming genuinely pleased. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

      ‘I’m Charlotte and this is my husband Will …’

      ‘I’m Sabrina,’ the woman says, ‘and my husband …’ She turns to the open front door and yells: ‘Tommy? Come outside! Our new neighbours are here …’

      A tall, broad-chested man in a faded black Rolling Stones T-shirt and jeans a tad on the tight side emerges and greets us warmly. While Sabrina is tiny and astonishingly pretty – early forties at a guess – Tommy is a hulking bear of a man, perhaps heading for fifty, with clippered greying hair and a bone-crushing handshake. ‘Great to meet you both. Lovely area this is.’ He has the kind of deep, gravelly voice that’s perfect for relating dirty jokes.

      ‘It really is,’ I agree, glancing at the boy who’s now perched on the low front wall, lighting a roll-up. ‘That’s our son Zach,’ Sabrina adds with an eye roll. ‘Helping enormously as you can tell.’

      We all laugh, and I can’t help being transfixed by the way he’s puffing nonchalantly in full view of his parents. He can’t be much older than Rosie. Will would have a heart attack if he ever saw her with a ciggie in her mouth. ‘D’you have to smoke that out here?’ Tommy growls, which Zach chooses to ignore.

      ‘Er, are you going to be starting at Harrington High, Zach?’ I ask him.

      He shakes his head. ‘Nah.’

      ‘Oh, are you going to St Jude’s?’

      Another head shake, causing his mop of black hair to flop into his dark, guarded eyes. ‘I’m not at school.’

      ‘He left last year,’ Sabrina explains. ‘Wants to pursue music …’

      ‘Are you going to music college?’ I ask, sensing Will shooting me a sharp look.

      ‘He’s doing his own thing,’ his mother explains with a resigned smile.

      ‘Meaning sod all, basically,’ Tommy chortles. ‘He’s studying at the college of fuck-all, then possibly graduating to the university of sitting-on-his-arse. Bloody exhausting, isn’t it, Zach?’

      We laugh again, and Zach gazes at us as if we’re a collection of random strangers waiting for a bus. ‘Well,’ Will says, growing impatient now, ‘if there’s anything you need …’

      ‘Great, thanks,’ Sabrina says warmly.

      ‘There is something,’ Tommy adds. ‘Don’t suppose you know if there are any good cycling trails around here? Trail biking, I mean.’

      I