‘Look what Mike bought yesterday,’ Dee enthuses, during a break in calls, beckoning me over to look at her phone. She has photographed a chrome standard lamp with a hot orange shade – that’s how proud of it she is.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say.
‘Isn’t it? And we’re choosing rugs on Saturday …’ She has just moved into a tiny, impossibly cute cottage with her handsome builder boyfriend who sent possibly the world’s biggest bouquet of red roses to our office on her birthday.
‘So how is it?’ I ask. ‘Living together, I mean?’
‘Oh, it’s great. I love it that we’re together more, you know? And it didn’t make sense to keep two places going.’
‘No, I understand that …’ I glance at Dee. Her hair is pale blonde, straightened and shiny as glass, and her elfin features are defined with a flick of liquid liner and a touch of lip gloss. She seems so young for cosy, rug-choosing domesticity.
‘So, um … what d’you and Mike do in the evenings?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Well, we do dinner – okay, I do dinner – and then we watch a box set.’
‘But you do go out sometimes?’ I realise I probably seem overly fascinated by her lifestyle: the habits and behaviour of a young person. It’s just … she seems so content. Why can’t I be like that, all excited by John Lewis home fragrances?
‘Occasionally,’ Dee replies, ‘but to be honest, we’d rather get the house finished than waste our money in pubs and restaurants.’
Hmm. Perhaps it’s because my freedom was curtailed so abruptly – by having a baby at twenty-two – that I can’t help feeling youth is something to be cherished and clung on to for dear life.
‘Anyway,’ Dee says, ‘isn’t it Rosie’s big day today? With the model agency, I mean?’
‘Yes, we’re due there at four.’ The sound of tuneless whistling announces Rupert’s arrival as he bounds upstairs to our office.
‘What’s this about modelling?’ He beams at us – his ‘girls’, which in my case is stretching things a bit – and rakes back a mop of curly dark hair.
‘Rosie was scouted on Saturday,’ I explain. ‘We were out shopping and a woman from an agency came up to us. She seems keen to take Rosie on.’
He feigns a crestfallen face. ‘Only Rosie? What about you? I’d have thought they’d have snapped you up!’
‘Don’t think so, Rupert,’ I reply, laughing, ‘unless they have a special division for people to model stair lifts, or those easy-care slacks you get in the Sunday supplements.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he blusters, grinning fondly and perching on the edge of my desk. In his faded checked shirt and scruffy jumbo cords, he’s actually impossible to dislike. Not bad looking either, although not my type; mid-forties, glinting grey eyes and long, skinny legs, which lend him an endearing foal-like quality. Archie’s is his baby. Realising his own name – Rupert Plunkett-Knowles – was perhaps a little too fancy for something as earthy as crisps (even posh crisps), he named the company after 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