his beloved Golden Retriever.
I start to update Rupert on our plans for the snacks festival in Bournemouth, which Dee and I are pulling together. Competitions, goodie bags and live cookery demonstrations: Rupert greets our every suggestion with his customary enthusiasm. ‘Sounds excellent!’ he booms as we wrap things up. ‘Anyway, I know you’re heading off early today so I’ll let you get on … sounds like an amazing opportunity for Rosie.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He strides to the window and peers out, as if surveying his kingdom. Rupert and his wife Marcelle have four daughters with flowing blonde manes, like thoroughbred ponies; I have no idea how they manage to hold everything together. ‘Rupert,’ I say hesitantly, ‘what would you do if one of your girls wanted to be a model?’
He turns and shrugs. ‘I’m fine about whatever they want to do, as long as it makes them happy. How d’you feel about it?’
I consider this. ‘You know, I think it’s actually okay. It could be a good experience for her, doing the shoots, maybe a bit of travel …’
‘You don’t sound completely convinced,’ Dee remarks.
‘Well, no. Of course there’s the worry about the pressure to be super-skinny – having a thigh gap and all that … I mean, what’s that all about?’
‘Horrible,’ Dee agrees with a shudder.
I sip my coffee. ‘I don’t think it’s an especially healthy thing – the whole business, I mean – and she’s not madly confident. She pretends she is, but it’s just an act, really. And she still seems so young—’
‘But if it doesn’t work out,’ Rupert cuts in, ‘she can just stop, can’t she?’
I nod, hoping it’s that simple. Giving me a reassuring pat on the arm, he snatches his trilling mobile from his pocket and lollops back downstairs. Dee and I spend the rest of the day finalising plans for the festival and, despite my doubts, I’m starting to feel pretty excited for Rosie as I head downstairs and through the shop, where baskets of new crisp varieties have been set out for testing. Always a dangerous time for me, this, and my favourite work skirt is already feeling a little pinchy on the waist. ‘Go on, try these,’ Freya urges me from behind the counter.
‘What are they?’ I ask, hand hovering as I try to resist the urge to snatch one.
‘Mature Cheddar and vintage ale.’
‘Hmm. Doesn’t seem quite right, eating beer.’ I pop one into my mouth; scrumptious, I decide, heading out to my car, although if truth be known you can’t beat good old salt and vinegar. My phone rings as I start the ignition. ‘Where are you?’ Will barks.
‘Just setting off. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time—’
‘It’s just, you need to have a word with Rosie right now.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Will sighs. ‘She came home from school and hid in her room for ages and next thing she’s bloody plastered in make-up …’
‘Oh God, she really doesn’t need—’
‘And when I mentioned it,’ he interrupts, ‘I mean, I only said, “You’re wearing quite a lot of make-up, Ro”, she started crying and now her eyes are all red and puffy and she said she can’t possibly go. Can you please have a word with your daughter?’
Ah, my daughter now. Technically accurate, but he never says that. ‘She’s just sensitive,’ I start, ‘and pretty nervous, I think. I’ll have a word when I get home.’
‘You need to,’ he declares. ‘I can’t handle this, Charlotte. I don’t know what to say to her.’
And he thinks I do? ‘All right,’ I mutter as Frank from the factory saunters past, slugging a can of Coke. ‘Listen,’ I add, ‘I can’t do anything sitting here, can I? Try to calm her down and, whatever you do, don’t criticise her. In fact don’t comment on her appearance at all.’
‘What should I say then?’
‘Nothing. Just talk about … nothing. The weather or something.’
‘Oh, that’ll help. That’ll sound really natural. As you know, Rosie and I often have long discussions about cold fronts and cloud formations …’
For crying out loud. ‘Don’t say anything then,’ I snap, watching Frank stop and light up an extremely un-Archie’s cigarette. A moment later, Dee comes out too and he offers her one from his packet. The sight of them chatting and laughing in the sunshine makes me feel extremely old and tired.
‘Okay then,’ Will says. ‘I won’t say another word to her. I’ll be mute.’
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ I growl, pulling out of the car park and hoping my husband’s mood has improved by the time I get home. After all, we’re going on a family outing.
*
‘How is she now?’ I ask Will, tossing my jacket over a kitchen chair.
He shrugs. ‘I did what you said. I haven’t attempted further communications.’ Why is he speaking like this, as if English isn’t his mother tongue?
‘I’ll talk to her.’ I brush past him and march up to her room. She’s had permission to leave school early today; Ollie will head over to his friend Saul’s after school. ‘Rosie, are you okay?’ I call through her bedroom door.
‘Yup.’ She sounds deflated.
‘It’s just, we’re supposed to be at the agency at four. Are you getting ready?’
Silence.
‘Rosie, d’you think we could possibly have a conversation that’s not through a two-inch-thick door?’
There’s a shuffling noise, then the door opens slowly. Will was right: inexpertly applied foundation cakes her lovely face. She’s applied smudgy black eyeliner and a ton of red lipstick. Her cheeks bear swirls of violent pink blusher, like scorch marks, and her eyes are bloodshot from crying. ‘Oh, darling.’ I bite my lip. ‘You look a bit upset.’
‘I am upset,’ she snivels. ‘You know what Dad said? “What’ve you done to your face?” How d’you think that made me feel?’
Um, he had a point. ‘What he meant was—’ I start.
‘He’s always criticising me,’ she exclaims, which is patently untrue, ‘and on a day like this which is so important to me. Look at the state of me, Mum!’ As if Will had strapped her to a stool in the middle of Debenhams and proceeded to pile on the slap like an over-zealous Benefit counter girl.
‘Dad just wants what’s best for you,’ I say firmly. ‘But if it’s going to be a huge drama then maybe we should cancel this meeting …’
‘No!’ she wails. ‘I don’t want that, Mum. Please.’
At a long-ago yoga class, I remember Liza telling us all about breathing
