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.’
Liza nods. ‘It really improved her confidence and she met some lovely people. Honestly, it’s been an amazing opportunity for her …’
I smile and turn to Will. ‘I think the final decision should actually rest with Rosie … don’t you, darling?’
‘Dad, please,’ Rosie blurts out. ‘I can look after myself. I’m not an idiot …’
He frowns at me. ‘But I thought we said—’
‘We didn’t say anything,’ I cut in, ‘because we haven’t actually found out what it might entail. How about I call the agency on Monday? We can at least all go in for a chat.’
‘You mean all of us,’ Rosie asks, aghast, ‘like a family outing?’
I nod firmly. ‘Absolutely. Well, Ollie could go to a friend’s …’
Will stares. ‘You mean me? You’re saying I’ve got to come too?’
‘Yes. You obviously have concerns so I think it’s important that you’re there, don’t you?’
‘Er, I don’t think …’
‘You’re coming, Will,’ I say, surprising myself with my bossiness.
He gives me a look as if he’s about to protest, then busies himself by fetching more wine from the fridge.
‘Why, Mum?’ Rosie cries. ‘This’ll be so embarrassing!’
‘Because
