As Good As It Gets?. Fiona Gibson
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he says, ‘I hope you told her where to get off.’
I look at him, momentarily lost for words. ‘Of course I didn’t. D’you honestly think I’d speak to anyone like that?’
Will shrugs. ‘What did you tell her then?’
‘I didn’t tell her anything. It’s not as if she was offering Rosie an actual job or a contract or however they do it. I mean, she wasn’t about to drag her off by her hair and throw her onto a catwalk …’ He flares his nostrils, a relatively new habit of his. ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘I said we’d think it over.’
‘What is there to think about?’ Will asks. ‘You know what the modelling world’s like …’
‘No, I don’t,’ I say firmly, ‘and neither do you.’
He turns to me, eyes guarded. ‘Well, I can imagine. Half a tomato a day, hoovering up a ton of coke—’
‘What?’ I splutter. ‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so. And what about photographers preying on young girls?’
Deep breath. Keep calm. Focus on the blue haze of cornflowers. ‘Well, yes, I s’pose that does happen occasionally …’
‘And you’d be okay with that, would you?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t. God. What a thing to say, Will!’ I glare at him, knowing he’s only acting this way because he’s concerned, and wants the best for Rosie. However, he wasn’t snippy like this when he had barely a moment to himself, often working evenings and weekends if Greenspace required it. And, whilst I’m hugely impressed that he’s learnt how to make food shoot up from the earth, I also worry that he’s become a little … anchorless. ‘Face is a proper agency,’ I add huffily. ‘The woman gave me her card.’
‘Oh, her card! She couldn’t have faked that then.’
‘You’re suggesting she prints up bogus cards to lure girls to her office?’
Will shrugs again. ‘Maybe.’
I clamp my back teeth together and fix my gaze on our unlovely shed which is huddled, slowly sagging and rotting, at the bottom of the garden. ‘Look,’ I say carefully, ‘this obviously means a lot to Rosie. You should have seen her – she was thrilled to bits. I’m not madly keen on the idea either, but I think it’s only fair to let her visit the agency so we can find out what it’s all about.’ Will slides his gaze towards me. ‘It’s just a chat,’ I add. ‘I know you’re being protective, but surely you realise I’d never say yes if I thought she was going to be exploited in any way …’
Will digs a trainer toe into the gravel path. ‘Sorry. You’re right. I’m just being a jerk.’
I link my arm through his. His arms are lightly tanned, his skin warm to the touch. ‘No, you’re not. You’re her dad and you love her and just want to keep her safe.’
He musters a smile. ‘Wonder what Mum’ll have to say?’
‘God, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Gloria, my mother-in-law, was a beauty queen in the 70s and she’s coming round later for dinner. I can’t decide whether her input will be helpful; she’s never seemed especially keen to discuss her glamorous past. But maybe, as it concerns Rosie, she’ll be happy to offer advice.
Then it hits me: my friend Liza’s daughter, Scarlett, appeared in a couple of catalogues before going to university. Liza will have a more up-to-date view of modelling than Gloria does and, more importantly, she’s brilliant company and gets along with everyone. I call her to invite her to dinner and, thankfully, she sounds delighted to come. Diluting the mother-in-law effect, I think it’s called.
Gloria’s golden hair – it’s actually gold, rather than merely blonde – is set in stiff waves, as if piped on top of her head. She has a neat, narrow nose and large, carefully made-up pale blue eyes, involving several toning shades of iridescent shadow. The overall effect is of refined beauty, although, if small children were around, you’d be worried that they might cut themselves on her cheekbones. ‘Hello, Gloria,’ I say, kissing her powdered cheek. ‘You look lovely.’
‘You too,’ she says briskly. ‘That’s a very pretty dress.’ Reed thin and wearing a peach blouse and immaculate navy blue trouser suit, she eyes my pistachio Ghost dress. I still love it, despite it being of a similar vintage to Guinness, who’s reappeared, still being cradled by Rosie as she greets her grandma. I reassure myself that a girl who still adores her bunny is unlikely to have her head turned by a load of coke-hoovering fashion types.
I also note that Will appears to have acquired a new jumper at some point during his trip to collect Gloria, which is odd. Even stranger, it’s identical to the one I bought for his birthday.
‘Present from Mum,’ he says, giving me a wink. ‘She wanted to make sure it fitted.’
‘Doesn’t it suit him?’ she observes.
‘Er, yes, it really does,’ I reply, trying to keep down a smirk. ‘You have lovely taste, Gloria.’
She smiles and eagerly snatches the glass of wine he offers her. ‘Now you mustn’t keep topping me up, Will.’ Enthusiastic sip. ‘I’m not supposed to be drinking, you know. My nutritionist …’ Massive gulp. ‘Mmm, it does smell good in here …’
‘All Will’s work,’ I explain. ‘He’s doing roast chicken and all these clever things with vegetables. Me and Rosie have been out shopping …’
‘… Spending your money, Will?’ she titters, a comment so clearly ill-chosen it causes sweat to spring from my armpits. ‘Oh, I know you work hard, Charlotte,’ she adds, ‘at that … place.’ You’d think, by the accompanying curl of her lip, that she means a sauna or lapdancing club. In fact it’s a crisp factory in Essex. A posh crisp factory, I might add, offering fancy varieties such as crushed pink peppercorn and the alarming-sounding lobster bisque. It’s all very upmarket. In fact we don’t even call them crisps but hand-cooked potato chips. But they’re still basically fried potatoes, and my job is to market them. I am a flogger of fat-drenched Maris Pipers coming in at around 1025 calories per family pack, and Gloria, whose diet appears to consist mainly of Chilean sauvignon and the occasional olive, cannot bring herself to speak of it.
‘So how is the job-hunting going, Will?’ she asks, turning to her son.
‘Really well, thanks,’ Will replies, peering through the oven’s glass door.
‘Any interviews yet?’
I see his jaw tighten as he straightens up. Now I realise why he invited Gloria over this evening instead of tomorrow. While he’s always been happy to take care of her – especially since his father died four years ago – he couldn’t face being grilled about his future career plans on his actual birthday. ‘I’m sure something’ll come up soon,’ he replies firmly as Ollie and I set the kitchen table and Rosie returns Guinness to the utility room.
‘Have you thought about the police force?’ Gloria asks, glugging more wine.
Will grimaces. ‘It’s not quite my area of expertise, Mum.’
‘I know that,’ she concedes, ‘but they have excellent training and pension schemes …’
‘Isn’t Dad a bit old to be a cop?’ Ollie asks.
‘Thanks, Ollie,’ Will chuckles, giving me a look.
‘Well, I’m sure they do a mature entry scheme,’ she goes on, clearly an expert in such matters. ‘Or what about the prison service?’
‘Dad can’t