Читать книгу As Good As It Gets? - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 16

Will, Ollie and Saul return laden with enough delicious offerings for everyone. There are lamb and chicken kebabs with a minty marinade, a huge bowl of spicy slaw and an impressive array of salads. Guests gather around the barbecue, entranced by the mouth-watering aromas (or perhaps my hot husband). ‘Christ,’ Tommy marvels, slapping Will on the back, ‘this is a bit better than a jumbo packet of Iceland sausages.’

It’s truly impressive, and I watch from the sidelines as everyone fusses around Will and hands him drinks. I know I’ve tended to focus on his rather prickly, defensive side these past few months. In contrast, everyone here seems to appreciate what a brilliant all-round human being he is. Of course, they’re not hovering around him, tentatively asking how the job search is going. They haven’t over-ridden his decision that Rosie shouldn’t have gone to the model agency. Without intending to, I seem to have been stressing him out lately – cranking up his grumpiness – whereas everyone here is just raving about his spectacular cooking. I feel proud, actually. Proud that my husband has saved the day and appears to be mingling happily.

Music pounds from the kitchen, guests start dancing on the lawn and I find myself installed, a little fuzzy myself, next to Sabrina on a rickety wrought iron bench. ‘So how long have you two been together?’ she asks.

‘Fifteen years,’ I reply, to which she darts a quick glance at Rosie, who’s laughing at something Zach has said. ‘Will isn’t Rosie’s real dad,’ I add.

‘Oh, right! I just assumed—’

‘I mean, I hate that term. Of course he is. But she was a toddler when I met him.’

Sabrina smiles. ‘She looks like Will, though …’

‘Yes, I know. Everyone says that.’

She pauses. ‘So, er … d’you have any contact with—’

‘Her real father?’ I shake my head. ‘No, not since before she was born.’

‘Really? God!’

We break off to thank Will for platefuls of barbecued deliciousness, and wait until he’s resumed his position as head chef before continuing. ‘I met him when we were Inter-railing,’ I add, ‘and he’s never even seen her.’

‘Bastard,’ Sabrina splutters.

I shrug. ‘You know, I don’t really feel like that. Not anymore. He obviously couldn’t cope with the idea of being a dad. At least, he put on a great show pretending he could, but then …’ I nibble a chicken skewer before adding, in a brisker tone, ‘He just disappeared when I was pregnant. There was a terse letter from his mother, warning me off, then nothing.’ And of course, I haven’t thought about him at all …

Sabrina frowns, processing this. ‘But that’s outrageous, Charlotte. What an absolute dick …’

‘I know, and of course, I did try to get in touch. I tried calling his parents’ place, where he lived, but they’d changed the number and any letters were sent back to me. Anyway, my parents stepped in, and were fantastic – and then I met Will and it’s all worked out.’ I beam brightly to show how precisely fantastic everything is.

‘You mean he’s never even contributed?’ Sabrina checks herself. ‘Sorry, Charlotte, that’s so nosy of me. Tell me to shut the hell up …’

I smile, enjoying her lack of restraint. She is fun and refreshingly honest, and I think – I hope – we’ll be friends. ‘It’s fine, honestly. There was a cheque from his mum, but …’ I tail off as a bunch of men burst out through the back door, hooting with laughter and carrying a life-sized blow-up doll. She is a vision in marshmallow-pink plastic with a mass of bouncy red hair, rather lethal-looking pointy breasts and a circular, red-lipped mouth. ‘Who invited her?’ I exclaim, laughing.

Sabrina cackles. ‘Oh, that’s Chloe. Friend of Tommy’s gave her to him for Christmas.’ I catch Will’s startled expression and laugh even harder. ‘Classy, huh?’ she adds. ‘She always makes an appearance at parties.’

Ollie and Saul appear at my side. ‘What’s that?’ Saul asks, eyes agog.

‘It’s, er, a sort of doll.’

‘A doll?’ He guffaws and nudges Ollie.

I glance at Sabrina, who’s in hysterics now, with her blow-dry mussed up and her lipstick worn off, bar the pencilled outline. ‘It’s Tommy’s,’ I explain as Chloe is paraded past us, as if about to be given her birthday bumps. Even Will is creasing up with laughter now.

‘But what’s it for?’ Ollie wants to know.

‘It’s, er, a sort of pretend girlfriend,’ Sabrina replies, trying to keep a straight face.

Saul looks incredulous. ‘What does he do with her?’

She smirks and takes a big swig of wine.

‘What’s she for, Mum?’ Ollie demands.

‘Er, they probably sit and watch TV together,’ I explain, noticing Saul nudging Ollie, then the two of them dissolving in laughter – my cue, I think, to whisk the kids off home. It’s gone eleven; amazingly, none of the neighbours have complained about the thumping music.

‘We’re heading back,’ I tell Will, finding him chatting away to Tommy, ‘but you stay as long as you like.’

‘Hey,’ Tommy chuckles, ‘you’ve got a late pass, mate,’ which isn’t what I meant at all, but never mind. At least he’s enjoying himself, which sparks a tiny flicker of optimism that he’ll soon put his special foraging gloves into retirement and rejoin the human race. A job, and colleagues, and the odd rowdy night out – that’s what he needs, urgently. Then we’ll start to have fun again, like in the old days. This party has proved that Will can shake off his grumpiness and be charming and lovely, like he used to be.

Wrapping a matey arm around Will’s shoulders, Tommy hands him a beer. Will grins, clearly enjoying being made so welcome and having his barbecuing skills praised to the hilt. And my heart does a little skip, forcing the trials of late into the background: my lovely, hot Will, whom women joke about ‘borrowing’. Does it matter that we haven’t done it since Mother’s Day? It’s normal, I think. All couples’ sex lives fall into a pattern eventually, and ours now seems to happen quarterly, like a VAT return.

Even so, as I hug Sabrina goodbye I make a supreme effort not to even glance at her shed.

*

Tired and yawning, the boys shuffle straight off to Ollie’s room, leaving Rosie and me in the kitchen. How lovely, I think: some mum – daughter time. Who cares that it’s almost midnight? No school or work tomorrow. ‘You seemed to be getting on well with Zach,’ I say lightly, clicking on the kettle for tea.

‘Yeah, he’s all right.’ She perches on the edge of the worktop, swinging her almost endless, denim-clad legs. Her feet are bare and pretty, her nails painted duck-egg blue. ‘We were just talking,’ she adds.

‘I wasn’t suggesting anything else, love.’

Her face softens. ‘He’s nice. Interesting. We had a laugh.’

I try to arrange my features into a casual expression. What I’d love to do now is ask her about boys, and if there’s anyone around whom she likes at the moment. But it doesn’t feel right to quiz her. I’d always imagined we’d have one of those lovely, discuss-anything mother/daughter relationships – boys, sex, the whole caboodle – but it hasn’t quite happened that way. Whenever I’ve tried, tentatively, to touch upon sensitive matters, she’s shuffled uncomfortably as if I’m a PSE teacher about to thrust a wad of embarrassing leaflets at her. It’s so hard to know how to be with her these days. I know she doesn’t want me checking her homework, or running her a bath, or doing any of those motherly things I used to do for her – yet she’s not quite grown-up either. She seems incapable of fixing herself breakfast without leaving a scattering of Frosties in her wake, and I’ve found her prodding nervously at the washing machine buttons as if the appliance might blow up in her face.

She jumps down from the worktop. ‘Think I’ll get some sleep, Mum.’

‘What about your tea? Want to take it up with you?’ I fish out the teabag and add a generous slosh of milk, plus two sugars, just the way she likes it.

‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m pretty tired.’ She allows me to hug her, then pulls back and meets my gaze. ‘That was a bit weird for me, you know,’ she murmurs.