As Good As It Gets?. Fiona Gibson

a twinge of envy. Life can feel terribly grown up sometimes, when I come home to a barely communicative husband, then get on with the business of shovelling Guinness’s droppings out of his hutch (Rosie refuses to involve herself in his toileting. What kind of vet will she make, if she can’t bring herself to deal with a few innocuous pebble-like poos?).

      Sometimes, I tell myself, this is just how adult life is, and I should stop mourning the loss of spontaneity and passion and accept how things are. The way Will flinches when I touch him in bed, as if jabbed with a red hot toasting fork with a smouldering marshmallow on the end … at our age it’s just normal, isn’t it? Everyone looks back at their younger selves occasionally, and feels all dreamy and wistful. Then they give themselves a mental slap and get on with hoiking a mass of gunky hair out of the shower drain and book in the car for its MOT.

      ‘Good birthday, sweetheart?’ I ask, my hand still wrapped around his.

      Will smiles warmly. ‘Lovely, thanks.’

      ‘So, am I forgiven interrogating our new neighbours?’

      ‘Guess so.’ He squeezes my hand back.

      ‘What did you think of Sabrina? Isn’t she beautiful?’

      ‘Hmm, s’pose so,’ he says with a shrug.

      ‘Come on,’ I tease him. ‘What about that stunning red hair? And her body! So slim and fit-looking. D’you think she’s a dancer?’

      Will looks genuinely baffled. ‘I’ve no idea. Why d’you say that?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know – she has that lean, sinewy vibe about her, a bit like Liza …’ I pause. ‘Maybe she’s something to do with the music business? Or a make-up artist?’

      Rosie chuckles. ‘Why d’you do this, Mum?’

      ‘Do what?’

      ‘Take such a massive interest in other people’s lives.’

      ‘I don’t,’ I retort. ‘I’m just interested. So, are we all going to their party next Saturday?’

      ‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ Will says with a shrug. ‘We won’t know anyone, will we?’

      ‘But we could get to know them,’ I point out.

      ‘Will there be anyone my age?’ Ollie wants to know.

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ I say briskly, ‘but anyway, I’m looking forward to it, and I’d appreciate it if you could all be positive because I’d really like us to all go as a family.’ I cough and sip my wine. In fact, I’m not that desperate myself. I’m out of practice when it comes to strangers’ parties; what to wear, what to say, how to be … I can’t recall the last time Will and I went to a social event where we didn’t know practically everyone. In fact, the last party I went to was my work Christmas do – seven months ago. The factory guys tore into the cheap fizz, and Frank, a strapping six-footer with a deep Spanish accent, remarked, ‘You’re very attractive, Charlotte … for your age.’

      ‘I s’pose,’ Will says, draining his glass, ‘it’d be pretty rude of us not to go.’

      ‘I might be busy,’ Rosie announces, perusing the dessert menu.

      ‘Actually,’ I say firmly, ‘you won’t be, hon. It’s only one night and it’s not too much to ask.’

      Sniggering again, Ollie leans towards Rosie and Will. ‘You know why Mum really wants to go? She thinks they might have herbal buns.’

       Chapter Six

      My mother-in-law calls at 8.07 on Wednesday morning, perfectly timed to coincide with the kids grabbing breakfast and my frenzied hunt for Ollie’s elusive trainers. ‘Hello, Gloria, how are you?’ I say, indicating to Will who’s calling. I’m-not-here, he mouths, accompanied by vigorous hand waving as if trying to actually rub himself out.

      ‘Is Will there?’ No pleasantries; no, how lovely it was to see us all on Saturday. Perhaps she’s still feeling prickly about us rekindling the memory of the Sorrington Bugle sleazebag.

      ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask. ‘Has something happened?’

      ‘Yes, I’ve found the perfect job for him. Can you put him on?’

      I stare at Will.

      No! Will mouths. I’ll call her later … ‘He’s, erm, out on his bike at the moment, I’m afraid.’

      ‘At this time?’

      ‘Yes, he likes to get out early if he’s … foraging. That way he gets the best stuff.’

      ‘Really? Does it run out, then, like at a jumble sale?’ She emits a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Well, never mind that. There’s a job here in the paper and it sounds ideal for Will …’

      ‘Thanks, Gloria, but I really think he’s fine, you know? I don’t want to keep bombarding him with suggestions …’

      ‘… They offer full training and excellent prospects,’ she witters on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I was worried when I saw him on Saturday. He seemed a little … flat.’

      ‘No, he’s fine, really – he’s great. So, um, what kind of job is it, just out of interest?’

      ‘Traffic warden. Sounds like there’s a shortage and, let’s face it, they’re always needed—’

      ‘Gloria,’ I cut in, catching Will’s eye, ‘I’m not sure he’d want to be a traffic warden.’

      Will splutters his coffee.

      ‘Is that him, is he back?’

      ‘No, no, that’s Ollie,’ I say quickly, wondering at which point she’ll tire of being his personal career advisor: when he does find paid work, presumably. Another reason for him to ramp up the job hunt …

      ‘I think he should at least consider it,’ Gloria says, sounding put out.

      ‘I’m sure he will,’ I say, having difficulty maintaining a serious voice with Will miming throat-cutting motions across the kitchen. ‘Sorry, Gloria, but I really need to get off to work …’ I finish the call and kiss Ollie goodbye as he rushes off to meet his friend Saul, then head upstairs to find Rosie. Normally, she doesn’t need any chivvying to get ready for school. ‘Hon,’ I say, finding her hunched over her laptop on her bed. ‘You should be gone by now. It’s really late …’

      ‘Yeah-in-a-minute,’ she murmurs, eyes fixed on the screen. I can sense her mentally shooing me away.

      ‘What are you looking at? Is it a homework thing?’

      ‘No, it’s a fashion site …’

      ‘At twenty past eight? Come on, Rosie—’

      ‘I need to study this stuff,’ she mutters.

      ‘You mean you’re studying fashion? Is this for art or something?’

      Ignoring me, she leans closer to the laptop. I peer over her shoulder. Models with haunted eyes and matted, dirty-looking hair are wearing baggy beige shifts in a setting which looks, to my untrained, un-fashiony eye, like a derelict psychiatric hospital. There are rusting iron beds, a sinister-looking trolley and, lurking in a corner, a concerned-looking man with Clark Kent spectacles and a clipboard. I glance at Rosie’s open notepad, in which she has written: Key trends. Unstructured nudes in pale plaster hues …

      ‘What’s an unstructured nude?’ I ask.

      ‘Um, I don’t really know,’ she admits.

      ‘It sounds a bit worrying,’ I add with a smile.

      Rosie sniffs and writes: