Will agrees, turning his attention to a saucepan of gravy on the hob.
‘But what if he was attacked?’ Rosie asks. ‘Can you imagine Dad managing to fight someone off?’ Both she and Ollie peal with laughter.
‘Well, er, I’d imagine that’s not necessary,’ Gloria says curtly.
‘He’d be scared witless,’ Ollie adds.
‘Thanks, everyone,’ Will cuts in, pushing back his dark hair with an oven-gloved hand. ‘I do appreciate all your career advice but don’t worry, I actually have everything under control …’ Really? I’d love to believe it’s true. He brightens as Liza arrives, greeting us with a bottle of wine and hugs all round – even Gloria, as if she’s an old friend – and having the miraculous effect of instantly lightening the atmosphere. Fair and pretty with a slim, boyish body, Liza looks a decade younger than her fifty-two years. She never bothers with make-up beyond a lick of mascara. Her lilac embroidered top and skinny jeans were probably thrown on, but she looks radiant and lovely. Liza calls herself a ‘slasher’; i.e., Spanish-teacher-slash-yoga-instructor-slash-wholefood-store-employee. Her life is full and varied and she seems to thrive on it. I start to relax as we catch up on each other’s news; unlike Gloria, Liza knows to avoid quizzing Will directly about his job hunt.
‘So, how are you, Rosie?’ she asks as Will and I bring a myriad of dishes to the table.
Rosie grins, taking the seat next to her. ‘I got scouted today. A woman from an agency thought I could be a model.’
‘Wow!’ Liza looks impressed. ‘Are you going to do it?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ she exclaims.
‘Well, um, we still need to talk about that,’ I say quickly.
‘I was the same,’ Liza remarks, smiling her thanks as Will fills her wine glass. ‘Freaked out when Scarlett first mentioned it. Remember she entered that competition without telling me? And then only went and won?’
I laugh. ‘But you knew she could look after herself …’
‘… And so can Rosie.’ She turns to my daughter. ‘You’ll be fine, honey. You’ll be an amazing model …’
‘It’s not a fait accompli, Liza,’ Will remarks.
‘Oh, Dad.’ Rosie rolls her eyes. ‘You did some modelling, didn’t you, Grandma? Weren’t you in pageants or something when you were young?’
Gloria purses her lips. ‘That’s the American term. We called them beauty contests and yes, I did take part in a few …’
‘You’re beautiful, Gloria,’ Liza says truthfully. ‘I can imagine you all glammed up.’
‘Wasn’t it fun?’ Rosie asks. Gloria pauses to tip the rest of her wine down her throat, seemingly without making any swallowing motion at all.
‘No,’ she says finally, ‘it certainly wasn’t.’
We all stare at her. ‘Why not?’ Ollie asks.
‘Was it horribly pressurised?’ Will enquires gently. ‘I can imagine it was a very competitive world.’
She emits a little cough, as if preparing to make an important announcement. ‘No, it wasn’t that. I was very successful actually. I was Miss Foil Wrap in 1972 …’ To avoid an attack of the giggles, I focus hard on the deliciousness of Will’s glazed carrots.
‘What’s foil wrap?’ Ollie wants to know.
‘You know, foil,’ I explain, ‘like you wrap a chicken in.’
Confused, Ollie peers at her. ‘Why did they have a “Miss Foil Wrap”?’
‘I was a brand ambassador,’ Gloria says grandly. ‘For the sashing ceremony I wore a dress entirely made of foil.’
‘Wow,’ Rosie breathes. ‘Bet that was amazing.’
‘Very futuristic,’ Will says with a grin, but Gloria’s face has clouded. Maybe she thinks he’s taking the piss. She has that effect: of making those around her feel intensely uncomfortable, without actually doing very much. I note that, while the rest of us have been tucking into Will’s delicious roast dinner, she has consumed a sliver of chicken roughly the size of a fingernail clipping.
‘Actually,’ she says, ‘it wasn’t. An unfortunate incident happened, but I don’t want to talk about it in front of the children.’ Now, of course, we’re all agog.
‘We’re not children,’ Rosie points out gently. ‘I’m sixteen, Grandma. I’m not shockable, honest …’
Gloria shakes her head and pushes away her plate.
‘Did the foil rip?’ Ollie asks. ‘Did everyone see your—’
‘Ollie,’ I say sharply, although I’m as keen as he is to hear the story. ‘Just leave it, love. I don’t think Grandma wants to—’
‘I mean,’ he goes on, mouth crammed with roast potato, ‘foil’s just thin aluminium. We did the properties of metals at school. I s’pose it’s good for a dress, though, ’cause it doesn’t rust …’
Will clears his throat. ‘I think we can move on from the foil now, Ollie.’
‘No,’ Gloria says tersely, ‘it’s quite all right. I will tell you what happened, but only because I hope it’ll serve as a warning to Rosie.’
A rapt silence descends, interrupted only by the rustle of Guinness shuffling about in his box. ‘Grandma …?’ Rosie prompts her.
Gloria twiddles her empty glass. ‘I was accosted.’
‘You mean during a contest?’ I gasp, wishing now that we’d never brought this up.
‘No, at a photo call,’ Gloria explains. ‘All the local papers were there. Everyone. It was a major event. All the reporters wanted to talk to me. And there was a nasty little man from the Sorrington Bugle …’
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