Fiona Gibson - As Good As It Gets?

I glance at Will in alarm. Poor Gloria. She’s clearly harboured an unspeakable secret all these years. Maybe that’s what’s caused her to develop a rather critical edge.

‘Mum,’ Will says, ‘you needn’t talk about it. We don’t want to stir up horrible memories for you.’

She peers down at her lap. ‘It’s okay. If Rosie’s even considering modelling, then I think she should know about this …’

‘What did the man do?’ Ollie asks eagerly, tilting his head.

‘He … poked me.’

Oh, Christ. Does that mean what I think it means? Now I’m slugging my wine, Gloria-style.

‘Where?’ Rosie asks, aghast.

‘In the car park in front of everybody.’

‘With his Sorrington Bugle ?’ Ollie blurts out, crumpling with laughter.

‘Ollie!’ I bark at him. ‘It’s not funny, you know, being poked—’

‘I mean where in the body , Grandma,’ Rosie explains as I top up the adults’ glasses with wine, except for Will’s, as he’s driving his mother home to East Finchley later. I catch him eyeing the wine bottle greedily.

‘In the bottom, darling,’ Gloria replies, mouthing the word bottom in the way that people say tumour.

‘Were you still wearing the aluminium dress?’ Ollie asks.

‘Yes, that’s right—’

‘Did he make a hole in it with his finger?’

‘Ollie, that’s enough , thank you,’ Will says firmly. ‘I think we’ve heard all we need to about the dress.’

‘So, um … is that why you gave up, Grandma?’ Rosie asks, clearly having difficulty keeping a straight face.

‘Well, no,’ Gloria replies. ‘I became a Mum. Will was my priority and of course, my figure was never the same after that …’

Will catches my eye. Sorry, he mouths, making me smile.

‘So now you know what can happen in the modelling world,’ Gloria adds. ‘It’s not safe, Rosie. There are people out there who’ll want to take advantage of a beautiful young girl like you.’

Rosie turns to me with a stricken face.

‘Of course, Gloria,’ Liza starts, ‘no one should think it’s acceptable to behave in that way …’

‘I agree,’ Will cuts in, ‘so, obviously, Rosie shouldn’t get involved.’

‘What?’ she gasps. ‘You mean we can’t even go to the agency?’

‘Well,’ he starts, ‘I don’t think it’s—’

‘Dad, that’s not fair! Please! ’

He frowns, catching my eye in a silent plea for me to back him up.

‘Horrible little man,’ Gloria mutters. ‘I always remember he wore a banana yellow tie—’

‘I can’t believe this,’ Rosie cries. ‘No one cares what I think. You’re all discussing this as if it was nothing to do with me at all!’

‘Rosie,’ I say quickly, ‘we’ll talk about this later, okay?’

‘Dad’s saying no,’ she wails, ‘because of something that happened, like, fifty years ago!’

‘Forty-three actually,’ Gloria murmurs, placing her cutlery neatly on her plate.

Rosie doesn’t appear to have heard her. ‘For God’s sake, Dad. Things are different now …’

‘Yeah,’ Ollie cuts in. ‘ Everyone was a perv in the seventies. It was on the news, they’ve got this thing called Operation Yew Tree where they’re rounding them all up—’

‘Good God,’ Will mutters as we clear the table together and he sets down the chocolate cake he made earlier. While it’s normally one of my favourite things, right now I’m not sure I can stomach a crumb. What on earth made me think it would be helpful to chat to Gloria about modelling?

‘This looks amazing,’ Liza enthuses, darting me a quick look. I glance at Rosie, whose eyes are brimming with tears.

‘Mum,’ she mutters, glaring at Will’s cake as if he’d scraped it up off the pavement, ‘tell Dad how nice Laurie was.’

I look at both of them, trapped in the middle as I so often seem to be these days. They adore each other, but recently, during their frequent spats, I’ve noticed Will stepping carefully around Rosie as if she were made of the finest porcelain. And I’ve begun to suspect that there’s something else she wants to add, but doesn’t quite dare: You’re not my real dad so you can’t tell me what to do.

‘The seventies were well weird,’ Ollie continues cheerfully. ‘Everyone wore massive flares and there was this programme on telly with these little pink creatures on another planet. We saw it at the TV museum. They didn’t even speak …’

‘ The Clangers ,’ I mutter.

‘All paedos,’ Ollie observes.

‘ The Clangers weren’t paedos,’ I retort. ‘They were innocent little knitted mice …’

Liza turns to Gloria. ‘Er, I don’t mean to belittle your experience, and I’m sure it was traumatic …’ Gloria nods. ‘… But my daughter Scarlett did some modelling too, before she went to Bristol. She had a fantastic time and saved all her earnings and she’s paying her own way through university. It’s meant she hasn’t had to take out a loan.’

Rosie’s eyes widen. ‘Wasn’t she in some catalogues?’

Liza nods. ‘Yes. Boden, mostly—’

‘Boden?’ I repeat. ‘I didn’t know that.’ Liza has always played down Scarlett’s foray into modelling. It had been over very quickly, as far as I could gather; now I suspect she just didn’t want to seem boastful.

Liza nods proudly. ‘She still does the occasional job, but only in holiday time and it doesn’t get in the way of her studies at all.’ She smiles at Gloria. ‘She’s studying English and Philosophy …’

‘I’m not saying it’s all bad,’ Gloria says reluctantly.

‘And the beauty of it is,’ Liza continues, ‘all her friends have bar jobs or are waitressing, and Scarlett hasn’t had to do any of that.’

A hush fills our over-heated kitchen. ‘I could pay my own way through vet school,’ Rosie remarks.

‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘it sounds like Scarlett’s had a really good experience.’

Liza nods. ‘Yes, she has. D’you want to see some of her pictures?’ She laughs. ‘Sorry, I’m such an embarrassing mum. She’d hate me for this …’

‘Go on,’ I urge her, ‘I’d love to see.’ She fetches her phone from her bag and we all cluster round it. The pictures are from a Boden shoot; sunny and smiley with Scarlett’s corn-coloured hair blowing across her freckled face.

‘She looks amazing,’ Rosie exclaims.

‘Well, I think so,’ Liza says with a grin.

She scrolls through pictures of Scarlett scampering through the dunes and balancing, with arms outstretched, on a fallen-down tree. ‘Aren’t they great?’ I enthuse, shooting a quick look at Will.

He nods, seeing as I do that Scarlett is wearing the least provocative items of clothing known to womankind: a polo neck sweater. Jolly spotty wellies. A duffel coat, for goodness’ sake. Could anything be more wholesome? ‘So it’s really been okay?’ Will asks her. ‘I mean, nothing awful’s happened?’

‘Of course not,’ Liza replies. ‘If it had, I’d have put a stop to it. Anyway, it’s not as if she was a timid thirteen-year-old. She was eighteen when she started …’

‘Rosie’s only sixteen,’ I remind her.

‘Yes, Mum,’ Rosie groans, ‘and in Viking times I’d have at least seven children by now.’

‘God forbid,’ Will splutters, and even Gloria emits a wry chuckle.

I catch her eye as she prods at her cake with a fork. ‘Look, I do understand what you’re saying, Gloria, about the foil dress poking. And I know you’re only concerned. But from what Liza’s said about Scarlett’s experience … well, maybe we shouldn’t just dismiss it.’