What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  It was the best kind of English summer’s day – blue sky with puffs of cloud chased across it by a light wind. Sitting in the pub garden at a table in the shade of a whispering beech tree with a bowl of soup, a chunk of crusty bread and a glass of lager, the world seemed a better place. Inevitably, the conversation moved immediately to Bea’s own life. As usual, her mother could be relied upon to put her mind to good use when listening to Bea, helping her to get matters into some sort of perspective.

  Although she was of the generation of middle-class wives whose pregnancy had put an end to their ambition and who had stayed at home to bring up their children, Adele was an intelligent woman, whose husband had trusted her good sense when he had had to make his own business decisions. She had known exactly how his bank functioned, who worked there and what they did or didn’t contribute and how he was able to manipulate them to his success. As a result, she had developed a pragmatic stance from which to view life. So, as far as she could see, whatever happened at Coldharbour, there was nothing Bea could do to influence events. If she wanted to keep her job, or until she had decided whether or not she did, she should put her head down and work hard, adopting the stance that Adam Palmer expected: tough, go-getting. When she’d won his confidence, she’d be in a position to make a choice. As for Ben, had Bea ever seen a monosyllabic twenty-two-year-old who spent all day in front of the TV? Of course not. The boy would grow out of it, just like all the others. Bea had a nasty feeling that there were plenty of twenty-two-year-olds who never had.

  Later, as Adele was laughing at the story of her daughter’s latest dating fiasco, Bea’s phone rang.

  ‘Bea, it’s Kate. You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake tell me, then.’

  ‘It’s Ellen. She’s got herself a man!’

  For a moment Bea was thrown. ‘Ellen? Hang on a minute.’ She held up one finger and gestured to her mother that she wouldn’t be long.

  Adele nodded, quite content to watch what was going on at the tables around her while she waited for Bea to finish.

  ‘Yes, Ellen. Your old university friend who’s been single since her husband died. That Ellen.’ Bea could hear Kate’s excitement. ‘I went to the gallery this morning and she told me. He’s one of her customers!’

  ‘You have got to be joking. After all this time? Who is he? When did she meet him?’ Bea was ashamed to admit to herself that, instead of sharing Kate’s evident pleasure, she was piqued by the idea that, after years of apparent indifference to the opposite sex, Ellen had beaten her to it. Somehow the natural order of things seemed to have been skewed.

  ‘They just met and he’s moved in with her already. Well, at least until the kids get back.’

  ‘What?’ For once Bea was speechless.

  ‘It’s true. He’s not even forty. And she wants us to meet him. I said I’d tell you to expect a call from her.’

  Moved in with her? That couldn’t be right. Ellen would never do anything so hasty. Although she had made some canny snap decisions over the artists she took on at the gallery, outside her work life this was a woman for whom ‘dithering’ was a watchword. But what appeared to be indecision was really circumspection. And Kate didn’t make mistakes. She listened, absorbed what she was told and considered her next course of action. She wouldn’t have told Bea any of this unless she was absolutely sure it was true.

  Bea ended the conversation more abruptly than she meant to. She couldn’t share Kate’s pleasure in the news, not just yet. She needed time to take it in, get over her own feelings of what felt horribly close to envy. She was ashamed of herself. What an unpleasant person she must be, if she couldn’t share in a friend’s happiness without thinking of herself first.

  But why didn’t Ellen tell me? Bea wondered. We’ve been friends for almost thirty years, seen each other through so much, and yet she told Kate. Kate, to whom Bea had only introduced Ellen about ten years ago when Kate and Paul had moved to London from Manchester. Bea disliked the insidious needle of resentment that pricked her when she was reminded of the strong relationship between her two friends. But it was true that, having introduced them because she thought they’d get on, there were times when she felt the odd one out, such was the bond that had developed between them.

  ‘What is it, darling? I’ve lost you.’ Adele’s voice brought her back to the present.

  ‘That was Kate telling me that Ellen’s got herself a man at last.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful. She’s been lonely for so long.’

  ‘Lonely?’ That wasn’t the way Bea saw her friend at all. ‘What makes you say that? She’s had the kids, and Simon’s family have always supported her, as well as Kate and me. She’s always said she didn’t want anyone else.’

  ‘Bea, dear, try to be a little more understanding. Of course lots of people have loved her and looked after her. But that’s not the same as being in love, is it? It’s not the same as having someone special to share things with, someone to provide a buffer against the world outside, someone who makes you feel safe and loved. Your father did all those things for me – all those things that I know you’re looking for yourself, although you’d never put it that way.’ Adele reached across to grasp Bea’s hand while Bea looked away, suddenly self-conscious – her mother knew her far too well.

  She wasn’t in the mood to discuss the truth of her own feelings so briskly changed the subject, making her mother laugh as she regaled her with the story of the date who had come to pick her up in his van. When she’d opened the door, the first thing she saw was a made-up double mattress in the back. All she’d let him see of her was her back as she beat a hasty retreat into her house.

  By the time Bea and her mother left the pub, everything was back on an even keel and they headed into the nearby town to buy something for supper and to stock up Adele’s fridge for another week.

  Chapter 6

  When Bea had cut off their conversation so abruptly, Kate had understood exactly what was going on in her friend’s mind. Bea’s emotions were so transparent. But why couldn’t she just accept that Kate and Ellen’s friendship was inevitably different from the relationships Bea had with either one of them? And, more importantly, that it didn’t matter. They were old, close friends who shouldn’t be divided just because of Bea’s irrational jealousy.

  She picked up the newspaper that Paul had left spread across the kitchen table and took it outside to the patio. She sat down and began to leaf through the pages while working out which jobs to do the next day. She knew that if she didn’t take the secateurs to the garden soon, the whole place would be a jungle. The white wisteria, while beautiful in flower, grew so vigorously that it was threatening to overwhelm the pergola and the apple tree beside it. The summer storms during the week meant that the weeds were pushing their way through her carefully planted borders and the shrubs seemed to have taken on a life of their own as they sprouted towards the sun, spreading sideways, fighting for space.

  As she considered what to tackle first, she was interrupted by a sudden shout from inside where Paul, in khaki shorts, T-shirt and sandals – he’d got the message about not wearing socks with them at long last – was jumping up and down, sucking the index finger of his right hand.

  ‘What’s happened?’ She got up. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I cut my finger on a bloody tin,’ he muttered. ‘Where are the plasters?’

  As he moved across to the sink, Kate could see the large chrome Brabantia bin on its side, rubbish spilling across a sheet of newspaper on the floor with a green plastic bucket nearby. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, as she opened a cupboard to get out the first-aid box, then passed him a small box of plasters.

  ‘I’m going through the rubbish – obviously.’ Paul was running his finger under the tap, the water streaming scarlet. ‘Perhaps you should have a look at this. Stitches or septicaemia – I don’t know which would be worse.’

  Years of experience of being married to one of the world’s great
hypochondriacs had taught Kate to ignore all remarks relating to his well-being. They were invariably exaggerated. It had always struck her as odd that a man with such an impressive City profile should be such a wuss behind his front door.

  ‘Have you lost something?’

  ‘No! Don’t put that there.’ Paul’s attention turned from his injury as he grabbed the handful of orange peel she was about to return to the bin and tossed it into the bucket instead. ‘The fruit and veg go in the bucket, the paper in the plastic box and everything that can’t be recycled goes in the bin. How many times do I have to remind everyone?’

  She stared, astonished, as he continued to rummage through the mess picking out potato peelings, teabags and leftovers from supper the night before.

  ‘I’m the only one in this house who takes recycling seriously,’ he added.

  ‘I hope you’re not saying I don’t? Sometimes I forget, that’s all. It’s going to get mixed up once it’s in the rubbish van anyway.’

  ‘Kate, you haven’t a clue what happens in the van – or at the recycling centre, come to that. I’m just trying to do my bit – well, our bit.’ He separated out some pieces of egg shell.

  ‘Isn’t this a bit extreme? The odd bit of potato or orange peel in the wrong place isn’t going to bring the world grinding to a halt.’

  ‘If everybody talked like that . . .’

  ‘Pinch me, please.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pinch me. I want to be absolutely certain that we’re really having this conversation.’

  She knelt down and began to help him sort out the rubbish, unable to stop a snort that turned into a stifled giggle. ‘Look at us!’ Within seconds, they were sitting side by side on the floor, laughing together like old times.

  ‘Are you going into the surgery today?’ Paul recovered himself enough to ask, satisfied that everything was in the right place.

  ‘I haven’t decided. It’s such a lovely day but I suppose I ought to get on top of my referrals. Why?’

  ‘In that case, I’ll go down to the fishmonger’s and get the stuff for that bouillabaisse I’ve wanted to try for ages. I’ve started making some panna cotta too.’

  Kate smiled. ‘Sounds good.’ She considered her husband as he went over to pull out a recipe book. He was still so much the man she had fallen in love with so many years earlier. ‘Will Jack be in?’

  ‘God knows. You know what he’s like. Saturday night? I doubt it.’

  As if on cue, the sound of the bathroom door prefaced the sound of footsteps heading downstairs.

  ‘Morning, Marge.’ Jack hugged his mother. ‘Anything for breakfast?’

  Kate squeezed him back, feeling a great rush of affection towards the tousled twenty-two-year-old who towered above her. She leaned against his Chelsea strip, inhaling his sandal-wood aftershave, yet again struck by the speed with which all her children had grown up and saddened by the thought that it wouldn’t be long before they’d all gone. Jack was the last to fly the nest. ‘Try the fridge. Are you going to be in tonight?’

  ‘In? What, here? No way. I’m off to the Chelsea match and then I’m meeting some mates. There’s a party in Chiswick somewhere.’

  ‘So it’s just us, then.’ Paul pulled out a used envelope and began writing his shopping list.

  ‘Again.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that. We haven’t had a night in together for ages.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum. Chill out. The old man’ll cook something great and you can open one of those posh bottles of wine you insist on keeping under lock and key.’

  ‘Only because I know they’re not safe when you and your mates are around and we’re not.’

  ‘Just because we finished off that crate of Château-something-or-other when you were away. How was I meant to know it was so special?’

  ‘My point exactly.’ She put her arm around Paul’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s a lovely idea. Let’s do it.’

  Fifteen minutes later, she was on her own with a valuable half-hour in which to do nothing. Paul had gone off armed with carrier-bags and Jack had left for Stamford Bridge, having rejected the contents of the fridge in favour of a sausage sarnie on the way. As she resettled herself on the garden bench with a coffee and the paper, her thoughts returned to Ellen. She had been glowing from the inside out this morning, giddy with happiness. Whoever this man was, he must be a good thing if he could bring about a change like that so suddenly. Kate could still remember what it felt like, the intensity of that first flush of love – the sense of there being no one but Paul in the world, that nothing else mattered – as if it was yesterday not thirty-odd years ago.

  Paul had been such a maverick then, always the life and soul, unpredictable, fun. Their children would never believe how different he was from the man they knew today. She remembered the party where they’d met, the usual student thing: crowded, loud and with plenty of drink in the kitchen. She had been sitting in a corner where it was quieter, less smoky, huddled in conversation with a couple of other medics from St Mary’s when Paul had come towards them. As soon as she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. Quite literally. She knew she wasn’t alone in fancying him, but the difference had been that, incredibly, he felt the same about her. They went home together that night and that was that. For thirty-one years their rock-solid relationship had been the envy of their friends. But the sensations she knew Ellen must be experiencing had faded long ago.

  Kate sighed and stretched out her legs on the bench, leaning back with her face angled to the sun and thinking about her marriage. If anything, it was like a favourite old coat: over the years, patches of fabric had grown thin, one or two rips had been stitched up so you almost couldn’t see them – but you always knew they were there. Yet, despite its increasing shapelessness and the signs of general wear-and-tear, it still felt more comfortable than any new coat ever would. It was ‘her’. She shut her eyes, pleased with the analogy, and felt the sun warm her cheeks. Perhaps she and Paul had come to take one another a bit too much for granted over the years but tonight would be a chance to patch one of those thinning areas. Seeing Ellen had made her realise she’d like to recapture a bit of that old pizzazz and she wanted to believe Paul would too.

  *

  ‘Darling, I can’t find the corkscrew,’ Kate yelled from the kitchen.

  ‘It’s up here. Come and sit down.’

  She was surprised that Paul hadn’t commented on her contribution to the evening, however minimal it had been. She was used to him being more appreciative. When she’d got in, relieved to be temporarily back on top of the endless practice admin that came with her job, the scent of the Mediterranean had stolen up the stairs to greet her. Paul was absorbed in his cooking and, to her relief, refused all offers of help. Instead she went into the dining room and laid the table with the Victorian lace cloth, got out the silver, replaced the candle stubs with new, then went into the garden to snip three Belle Isis roses, their pale flesh-pink petals in full bloom. Putting them in a vase, she inhaled their myrrh-like scent, then placed them in the centre of the table. She heard the bang of the oven door, then a muttered curse, and guessed she still had time to whizz upstairs and change into a simple dusky lilac linen dress, brush her hair and even dab on a lick of lipstick before adding a quick spritz of cologne.

  Paul had docked his iPod to send a piano concerto she didn’t recognise rippling round the dining room. She dimmed the lights and lit the candles, pleased with what she saw. The scene was set for seduction.

  Paul came in carrying two plates. ‘I’ve messed up the panna cotta. Not thinking.’

  ‘That’s not like you.’ He normally got the results he wanted by adapting any recipe as he needed to. ‘But this looks delicious.’ The bouillabaisse, the garlicky croûtons and rouille breathed the South of France into the room. She watched him pull the cork on a chilled bottle of Montrachet and pour the pale, straw-coloured wine into their glasses. She lifted hers to clink with his. ‘To us.’

  As
Paul smiled back, she noticed the slight bags under his eyes. He looked tired. Immediately she reproached herself once more for not paying him enough attention over the last months. With the children grown-up, it was too easy to give the time that she used to devote to them to her work. Apart from that, throwing herself into the practice and all it involved meant her mind was constantly occupied, giving her little time to dwell on how much she missed her two oldest. Now that she was a partner, and had upped her number of sessions a week, she didn’t get home till nine most nights, too exhausted to do anything more than eat, doze in front of the news and go to bed. As she began to eat, she thought again about how little she knew of what really went on in Paul’s world, any more than he really did of what went on at the surgery. They met at the beginning and the end of the day, caught up with all the jobs they didn’t have time for at weekends, exchanging snippets of news as they passed each other – and so the months disappeared. An idea struck her.

  ‘We should think about going to see Sam. We deserve a holiday.’

  ‘Yes, we do. But Africa?’

  ‘Well, it’s going to be hard to see him anywhere else.’

  ‘I can’t possibly. Not now.’ Panic crossed his face before he looked down at his bowl.

  ‘No, of course not. But we can make plans.’ If she pressed enough, she might be able to persuade him. Dreaming up and organising the trip of a lifetime might be just the thing to bring them together again. And combined with seeing their faraway son – what could be better?

  ‘I’m sorry, but now isn’t the moment.’ He picked up his fork and took a last mouthful.