by Fanny Blake
‘Why not?’ Why wouldn’t he explain what was causing his withdrawal from her?
‘It’s been a heavy week.’ Paul finished his meal and put his head into his hands. ‘There’s no escaping the fact that we’re going to have to make more cuts.’
‘But I thought you’d been through that.’
‘We have. But our turnover’s still down and we’ve got to cut our overheads even further if we want to stay in business.’
‘But you’ll be all right, won’t you?’ Perhaps that was what was worrying him.
‘Oh, I’ll be all right. But there are plenty of people who won’t and it won’t be easy for them to get another job in this climate. I had a young guy in the office this morning, crying, pleading with me to reassure him that he’ll keep his job and I couldn’t.’ He sounded so despairing, but Kate knew she had nothing to say that would help him. The chasm that was opening between them was already too wide for her to reach across.
The mood of the evening had changed.
‘I’m sorry, Katie. You’re right, I’m still knackered. Another early night and I’ll be fine. Coming?’
‘Actually I think I’ll stay down here and clear up. I’ve got a few things that I want to get done.’ She began to gather up the plates and glasses.
‘Well, OK. If you insist.’ He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Good night.’
Despite her earlier resolve, Kate recognised that tonight was not for romancing. The moment had gone. Pottering about in the kitchen, she relaxed in the heavy peace that descended on the house at this time of night, only ever interrupted by the odd passing car, distant police siren or the sharp, high-pitched bark of a fox. With everything put away, she made herself a cup of tea and switched on her laptop, clicking on her latest emails. At last there was one from Sam. She opened it with a happy sense of anti cipation and relief.
Hey Mum
How are you guys? Can only get online when one of the boys takes me into town. That’s why the long silence. Although I’ve only been in Ghana for a few weeks, I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to be properly homesick. Coming here has been one of the best things I have ever done. After a week of acclimatisation and getting to know one another and making sure we had all the supplies we’d need, the five of us were driven to this tiny village where we’re now all living (photos to follow – have lost the lead!). I’m talking mud huts in a compound – the real deal. The villagers took to us straight away and have made us feel almost at home. I suppose they would, given we’ve come to help them build and run the school. Kev, our team leader, is dead keen that we should be helping the villagers help themselves. Enabling them by teaching them the processes rather than doing all the work ourselves. I hadn’t thought of that before but, of course, when we eventually leave, the whole point is that the project should be able to continue running without us. We haven’t actually started building yet because we’re waiting for more wood to be brought in, but in the meantime I spend hours playing football with the kids – not much of a strain! – and have even been taken hunting with the men of the village. When I’m not doing that we’re trying to work out the beginnings of a sponsorship scheme so that kids from other villages will be able to come here too . . .
As she read on, Kate couldn’t help feeling envious. What Sam was describing was as remote and intriguing to her as the photographs she saw in the pages of National Geographic, which they kept in the practice waiting room. She and Paul had always talked about how one day they would travel together but somehow they’d never got further than Europe. Early in their marriage, Kate had been happy at the centre of her new family, pitying her friends who were missing out on the joys of family life but were able to holiday where and when they wanted. But perhaps it was she who had missed out. In the end all her friends had caught her up: careers were chosen and babies were born but without the sacrifice of those early years of freedom.
She pulled down a favourite old photo from a shelf in the corner. There were the three of them, Megan, Sam and Jack, sitting in a blue plastic paddling pool in the garden. How could she and Paul have produced three such contrasting children? Smiling out at her were nine-year-old Megan, fly-away brown curls, blue eyes under fine wide-apart brows, a tip-tilted nose and a gentle mouth; Sam, at seven, with blond curls, freckles, eyes already with that faraway look despite the broad smile at the photographer, which revealed a front tooth chipped when he had fallen out of a tree; and Jack, four years younger, with short darker hair, a determined chin and a slight frown. The photo gave away exactly the people they would become: Megan married to Ned and working in the drama department of the BBC in Bristol; Sam, out of easy contact, adventuring in Africa; Jack, confident, charismatic and too soon out of university to have found his way.
Suddenly there was an almighty crash from outside, followed by the sound of something being dragged along the street. She jumped to her feet and ran upstairs into the living room where she pulled aside the curtain. There, in the middle of the road, a mangy brown fox was tearing through the contents of their food recycling bin. So much for Paul’s care in sorting out the rubbish. The animal had dragged the bin out of their front garden, forced it open, strewn everything across the road and was now sniffing round, scoffing the best bits. A sharp bark heralded the arrival of a second, which slunk between two cars further up the street, then loped towards its mate, eyes gleaming under the street light. Kate shuddered. Sitting on the back of the sofa, she knocked hard on the window to drive them away. For a moment they stopped, looked up. One stared straight at her, defiant, before going back to its feast.
The curtains drawn and lights switched off, she went upstairs to tell Paul but he was flat out, sound asleep, one arm flung across the bed, gently snoring. With a small sigh, she got herself ready for bed and slipped in beside him.
Chapter 7
‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’ Oliver came through the kitchen door, looking relaxed in his blue cashmere sweater, his hands behind his back. ‘Close your eyes.’
Oh, God. A present. Ellen knew she should have bought him the picture.
‘Hold out your hands.’
Apprehensive, unused to being given anything un expected, apart from the children’s half-baked efforts from art classes, Ellen put out a hand. She felt something, a bag, being hung over her arm. Then two more. ‘But I haven’t got anything for you.’ The part of her that had hesitated over buying the picture said that presents were reciprocal, to be given on special occasions; otherwise they were an unnecessary indulgence. Not even Simon had surprised her with something as spontaneous as this.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She felt his hand lightly on the small of her back, aware that if he moved it a centimetre lower, it would be lying right on the roll of fat pushed up by the too-tight waistband of her skirt. He didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, to care. ‘Right. Now you can open them.’
She moved away from his hand, opening her eyes to see three bags hanging off her arm, a small one from La Perla and two large ones boasting names she had never heard of. She became uncomfortably aware of her greying, almost elastic-free Marks & Spencer underwear that had absorbed the colours from everything else in the wash over the last couple of years, of her once comfortable skirt that had seen better days, and her loose disguise-it-all cotton shirt from the same period. Out of the tissue paper came a confection (there was no other word for it) of copper-coloured lace. At least he hadn’t gone for a G-string, she saw with relief, as she separated a pair of flounced lace briefs in cotton tulle from a bra that frothed with more lace than she had ever seen on one garment. ‘Oh, God! They’re . . . well . . . beautiful.’ (And totally unsuitable.) ‘Thank you.’ (Please don’t make me try them on now.)
‘There’s more. Look again.’ Oliver had sat down and was wearing a strange expression that Ellen didn’t recognise. For a split second, it was as if the spontaneous, generous man she loved had disappeared, to be replaced by someone far more cool and calculating. Disconcerted, she looked away, rea
ching into the bag again, this time to find a white (more my colour) push-up (oh, no, I don’t want to show off my wrinkled cleavage) bra with matching briefs.
‘Now look in the other bags.’ The Oliver she loved was back – caring and attentive. Uncertain what she should say, Ellen sat down without a word and continued to unpack. After five minutes, she was surrounded by his purchases – an elegant lime-green belted button-through linen dress, a floral silk skirt that hugged the hips, then flared in panels from just below to be paired with a simple grey T-shirt, and a second dress in lined smoky pink cotton lawn that was low cut and fitted at the top (too fitted), empire line (will at least hide my stomach) and sleeveless (has he not noticed my flabby upper arms?). Despite her reservations about their suitability, there was no denying that he had great taste.
‘They’re beautiful. I would never have bought them for myself.’ Ellen was dreading the moment she was going to have to go upstairs and try them on, confident that she would look utterly ridiculous out of the comfort zone of her normal don’t-notice-me-I’d-put-a-bag-over-my-head-if-I-could look. ‘You’ve even got my size right.’
‘I know you wouldn’t. When did you last buy yourself something?’ His question didn’t need an answer. They both knew it must be months, if not as much as a year ago. ‘But it’s important that you look good at the gallery,’ he went on. ‘In charge.’ What was he saying? That she normally didn’t?
‘What’s wrong with the way I look now?’ Ellen’s voice sounded muffled as she began to fold the wrapping paper, returning it to the right bags ready for when she would secretly sneak the garments back to their shops. To her horror, she could feel her lower lip begin to quiver and her eyes sting.
‘Nothing, darling, nothing at all. But just try them on to see. Please. For me.’ She couldn’t resist the appeal she saw in his eyes.
Oliver was pouring two glasses of chilled Sancerre when, half an hour later, she came back downstairs in the lime linen, having tried on the lot and been almost pleasantly surprised by what she saw. Having those moments alone had given her a chance to steady herself. Turning back and forth in front of the mirror, she could see that somehow he’d chosen lines that actually flattered her far from perfect body, taking attention away from the worst bits. Even her upper arms looked better than she remembered them. Was it a fluke that he’d done so well or did he have a good eye? And she had to admit that the touch of silk underwear gave her a frisson that didn’t come with M&S cotton.
She’d picked up the photo of Simon she kept by her bed, wondering if he’d understand. He looked back at her: a confident man with a high forehead, thick dark eyebrows and a nose that had been knocked out of shape in a childhood bicycle accident. His eyes were kind, his chin strong and his mouth tilted up at the corners. He wasn’t a man to turn heads but he had been a dependable, kind and loving one. He would never have thought to buy her clothes. That wasn’t what their relationship was like. She had known that and hadn’t wanted it any different. Her priorities had been him and their children, not the irrelevance of the way she, or indeed he, had looked. But things had changed. She wasn’t the same woman she had been when he was alive. How could she be?
‘You look gorgeous,’ said Oliver, giving her a glass. ‘Let me see. Mmm. I thought that green would suit your skin. I was right.’ Despite her discomfort at being so closely scrutinised, Ellen was surprised to find herself simultaneously melting under his attention. Nobody had ever treated her like this. Even though she had only known Oliver for a short time, she realised he was already pushing her towards a reassessment of her relationship with Simon. She was beginning to see that there were perhaps sides to it that hadn’t been quite as perfect as she had previously believed. Not that Simon hadn’t adored her, but he was a man of few words and by nature not particularly demonstrative. A pat on the back or a slap on her bum was the most appreciative she remembered him being. And presents, other than on her birthday or at Christmas? Never.
‘Now, tell me one thing.’ Oliver took a couple of steps towards the french windows and looked out down the carefully planned and planted garden to the small greenhouse where Ellen had spent so many happy hours sowing her flower seeds, pricking out seedlings and potting them on. ‘I am right in thinking that the gallery is closed on Monday, aren’t I?’
‘Yes. Why?’ Just the two of them alone together. She’d like nothing more.
‘I’ve booked you a hair appointment. No, wait . . . Let me finish. And they’ll give you a facial and a manicure at the same time. I just thought you should have a day all to yourself, being pampered.’
‘Oliver, stop. I can’t possibly accept all this. It’s too much.’ She knew his generosity was well meant but, instead of adding to her confidence, paradoxically she felt the little she had gained over the past weeks with him ebbing away. ‘Besides, I like my hair the way it is.’
‘I know you do. But I want you to feel even better about yourself. I was just walking past that salon on the high street and I thought you’d like it. That’s all.’ The smile left his face and he began to snap his left thumbnail with the nail on his middle finger. ‘I can easily cancel the whole thing, if that’s what you want.’
Ellen had always thought of the beauty business as an excuse for absurd self-indulgence, something for women with more money than sense. Although Bea’s and Kate’s battle waged against the onslaught of time had always amused her, she had no wish to join them. Shouldn’t women accept the inexorable march of time, and age the way nature intended? She was used to a quick trim with Angie at the small hairdresser’s on the corner, with the result that style and chic had eluded her for years. But she was happy with that. Overcoming her discomfort and accepting Oliver’s present gracefully would be hard, but she could see he was going to be so disappointed if she didn’t. Weakened by his forlorn expression, she waved her hands. ‘No, no. I’d love to go. It’ll be a real treat. I haven’t done anything like that for years. Thank you.’
‘Right. Well, that’s agreed, then. The other thing I wanted . . .’
Before he had finished his sentence, Ellen had picked up the empty bags and was halfway up the stairs with them, crying, ‘Back in a minute. Let me show you the skirt . . .’ She stuffed the bags into the bottom of the wardrobe, just in case she changed her mind and needed to return anything, and sat on the bed to take a few deep breaths. No more! This generosity was overwhelming. Since Simon’s death she’d had to get used to being in control of her own life, but since Oliver had visited the gallery, her world was spinning off its axis and she couldn’t right it. She had been swept into this unlooked-for relationship with a man she didn’t know yet felt as if she’d known for ever. She was besieged by unfamiliar feelings that thrilled yet threw her off kilter.
Close by the photo of Simon, there was another of him with Emma and Matt on the last family holiday they’d had together in Cornwall. The four of them together on a family picnic at an isolated cove not far from Towan beach, a favourite spot that the summer tourists to the Cornish Roseland rarely discovered. The children were due to come home in just over a couple of weeks. What were they going to think of all this? She had wondered whether she should ask Oliver to move out until she’d told them, but she didn’t want him to go. Their relationship had given her a new recklessness that had overthrown almost everything she’d held close. At the same time she was frightened by what was happening to her, not knowing how to pull things back under her control but at the same time not wanting to. She felt as if she had climbed aboard a giant switchback, increasingly petrified as it neared the top of each peak, her stomach rising into her mouth as it tipped over into the descent, screaming to get off yet wanting the excitement never to end.
She looked beside the radiator where she always left her shoes, never having got round to organising a shoe rack in the wardrobe. To her surprise, the jumble that she had left this morning had been transformed into a neat row of six matching pairs. She opened her underwear drawer in the hope of finding tights she
could wear with the floral skirt. As she pulled out a pair, a cascade of red confetti flew up and fluttered to the floor. Startled, she bent down and scooped up the pieces only to see that each one was shaped like a heart.
Suddenly she felt an unfamiliar sense of relaxation. How wonderful that this adoring and adorable man had come into her life and wanted to look after her. However in control of things she had appeared, there had always been an ever-present underlying fear that everything was about to fly apart. If he would do something as special as buy her clothes, tidy her shoes without being asked, and add a sprinkle of romance to her drawers (she smiled at the pun), what else might he be capable of?
She slipped the skirt over her head, then the T-shirt, pulled on the tights and one of the four pairs of heels she owned and almost skipped back downstairs.
Chapter 8
As her alarm cut through the clouds of sleep, Bea swam up towards consciousness and reached across the bed, congratulating herself on having remembered to change the sheets the previous morning. Not that she’d known what was going to happen then, of course. Anticipating the moment her hand would come into contact with a body of the male persuasion, she stretched out further, moving her arm up and down. Nobody. Suddenly awake, she opened her eyes. Definitely nobody. He must be in the shower. Or making them tea, perhaps. She curled round in the warmth of the duvet, luxuriating until he reappeared, piecing together for herself the previous day.
This time Let’s Have Lunch had got it right. As soon as she had seen him walking towards her across the airy, mini-malist Asian-fusion restaurant, she had known. A confident stride, a well-cut suit, brown eyes with a twinkle, a full head of hair, without a recessive gene in evidence, and, most important, an easy smile. If she half shut her eyes, there was definitely enough of a resemblance to Gabriel Byrne to make him extremely attractive. The second morning from hell since the arrival of Adam Palmer at Coldharbour Press had dimmed at the prospect of lunch in the company of Tony Castle.
