What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  By the evening, Ellen had been out in the dinghy without capsizing it, helped with supper and caught up with snippets of what Emma and Matt had been doing over the last weeks. She was helping with the washing-up when Mary said, ‘Darling, you didn’t eat much at supper. Are you all right?’

  ‘Just because I normally eat like a horse, I know. No, I’m trying to lose a few pounds. Oliver’s persuaded me it would be a good thing.’ His name slipped out without her thinking and there it lay between them, large and glaringly obvious. Her prayers that Mary wouldn’t notice went unanswered.

  ‘Who? I don’t remember hearing that name before, do I?’ She put a plate back in the sink and stopped to scrutinise Ellen. ‘I knew there was something different about you, apart from the new hair, of course.’ Two and two made four with no effort at all.

  ‘You’re such a beady old thing,’ Ellen protested. ‘OK. Hands up. I was going to tell you but I was waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘Seems like you’ve just found it.’ Mary put a hand on Ellen’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been expecting this for years. Can’t think why it took so long. Anyway, I couldn’t have wished for a lovelier daughter-in-law.’

  As they washed and dried, Ellen poured out the whole story, grateful that they were having the conversation at a moment when they didn’t need to look each other in the eye – exactly as she’d engineer an awkward conversation with Matt or Emma. She told Mary everything, feeling only a smidgeon of guilt when she omitted to include the minor detail of the rent payment. When she’d finished there was a short silence while Mary peeled off her rubber gloves.

  ‘It all sounds a bit of a whirlwind.’ She hesitated over her choice of words, obviously not wanting to give the impression that she disapproved. ‘Are you sure you know him well enough to make such a commitment so soon?’

  ‘I know more every day. And the more I know, the more I like.’ Ellen brushed aside any potential objections, as she’d promised Oliver she would. If she let a chink of doubt appear in her armour, Mary would pounce, then worry away until it was much larger. ‘I know you’re concerned for Matt and Em, but so am I. I won’t do anything to hurt them. Promise.’

  ‘What are you promising?’ Matt stuck his head round the door. ‘Hurry up. I want to beat you at Scrabble.’

  ‘Why? Has the TV broken?’ Matt was usually impossible to prise away from the screen.

  ‘Ha ha! No, but Em and Lucy are watching some stupid film. What were you promising?’ Like his grandmother, Matt had a nose for what he wasn’t meant to know. There was no point in trying to fudge because he’d just go on until he’d succeeded in worming a satisfactory reply out of her.

  ‘I was just promising that you’d like a new friend of mine.’

  ‘Why? Who is she?’

  ‘She’s a he. And he supports Arsenal.’ At least, she was sure he could be persuaded to, in the interest of good relations.

  ‘A he!’ Matt yelled, as if a male friend was the last thing he’d expect his mother to have.

  ‘Yes. He liked the paintings in the gallery and we’ve made friends. You’ll like him.’

  ‘He’s not a boyfriend, is he?’ The disgusted emphasis put on the word ‘boyfriend’ was enough to warn Ellen not to say more. As was Mary’s sharp elbow in the ribs.

  ‘No, no. Don’t be silly.’ Time to change the subject. ‘Come on, then. Scrabble it is. But you know I’m unbeatable.’

  The challenge was enough to put everything else right out of Matt’s head. ‘No, you’re not,’ he objected. ‘I won at least the last two times.’

  That’s boys for you, thought Ellen and she clenched her fist Andy Murray-style. ‘OK, then. Bring it on.’

  ‘You won’t beat me, you know. Let battle commence.’ With the gauntlet thrown, he dashed down the corridor to the living room, Ellen in hot pursuit.

  *

  By the end of the week, Ellen was exhausted and ready for home. She’d played all the games in the toy cupboard with varying degrees of success – Scattergories, Monopoly, Articulate, The Nasty Horse Racing Game and Cribbage – all old favourites that were brought out every year. She’d walked the cliff path, straining up the steep bits, legs aching, but relishing the open spaces, the wind in her face and the time alone. She’d played tennis (badly), golf (even worse), been out in the dinghy, and even been persuaded to catch fresh mackerel for a barbecue supper. She’d visited her two artists: one had already been snapped up by a gallery in Bristol but the other was interested in her proposals. They’d been through the work he had in his studio, selecting the best of the figurative oils that had so readily captured her imagination with their clever use of space and composition, and their suggestions of half-told stories. They agreed he would paint another four over the following few months so there would be enough for a coherent exhibition in the back room of the gallery next spring.

  Most importantly, she had had time to catch up with her children and re-forge her relationships with them – if not always in exactly the way she would have liked. Matt was still the boy she had waved off on the train at the beginning of the holiday. He remained a child of wild enthusiasms, with the charm of his father and a love of physical activity, cleaving to the band of male cousins and their friends as if he’d never been away from them. Seeing the gusto with which he joined in with everything they did, however challenging for a boy of thirteen, always made her smile. She knew his older cousins would watch out for him whatever they got up to. However, there was something about Emma that had changed during her three weeks away. Watching her with the others, Ellen could see how she hung on the words of Josh, a blond surfie who’d become a regular in the house. Whether or not he was the ‘boyfriend’ Matt had mentioned was unclear, but the lingering glances she had given him from under her eyelashes whenever he spoke, the alacrity with which she followed him about, made it obvious that she might not object if such a relationship were suggested.

  Whenever Ellen tried to talk to her about Josh, Emma had avoided the conversation by either having something else to do or somewhere to rush off to. In fact, she spent as little time with her mother as she could, as if embarrassed by her presence. There was no doubt she was growing up fast, thought Ellen, wistfully. She wondered how Kate had coped with Megan at the same stage. Although Josh seemed nice enough, Ellen could see that his evident lack of reciprocal interest meant Emma might get hurt. All Ellen wanted to do was to help cushion the blow. This new lack of communication between them also meant that she didn’t have a chance to talk to her daughter about Oliver either but, after a few days of being there, it hadn’t seemed appropriate. Mary’s measured reaction had confirmed the need to be more circumspect about him. As she relaxed into the holiday, enjoying not having to worry about her appearance and letting the diet slide for the week, she decided to wait until they returned to London. Better not to rock the boat just yet.

  Chapter 14

  Ellen jumped off the Truro–London train, hefting her case down the steps to the platform. Joining the slew of people who were rushing towards the barrier, she craned her neck to see Oliver. The last time they’d talked, he’d said he couldn’t bear to be apart from her any longer than he had to so he’d be waiting for her at the barrier.

  She knew Oliver was hurt she hadn’t spoken to the children about him. He interpreted her silence as a lack of commitment to him. However hard she tried, she couldn’t get him to understand the situation from Emma and Matt’s point of view, which to her was what mattered.

  ‘If you loved me as much as I do you, you wouldn’t be able to resist telling them about me,’ he complained. Or ‘If you were as proud of me as I am of you, you would be bursting to tell them.’ And then, ‘If you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, you wouldn’t hesitate.’

  Hearing him say those things, she had wavered again. But she had found necessary strength in being with Simon’s family. Despite her intentions, she’d been so busy that there was little time to dwell on Oliver. But once she was on the t
rain home, she’d realised how much she was looking forward to seeing him again. They had spoken every day while she was away and every day she had struggled to explain how she was trying to sort out the confusion in her head, but he just didn’t get it. He didn’t understand why she had veered from their original plan. But being sucked into family life again, seeing fifteen-year-old Emma’s new vulnerability, Ellen’s priorities had shifted back to where they’d been for the last ten years. The familiar realities of Cornwall meant their seven-week affair had taken on the strange insubstantiality of a dream. If she didn’t know better, she could almost believe she had imagined the whole thing. Every night, lying with her eyes shut, she had tried to conjure Oliver’s face onto the back of her lids, but she could never hold it there. No sooner had she pieced his features together than they floated apart again. The intensity of their passion was just as elusive. She could remember what they had done together but it was more like an out-of-body experience, watching herself having the hottest sex of her life but without being able to call up the emotions that went with it. Without the reality of his presence, she had slipped back into her perennial role of daughter-in-law and mother, where she always came second.

  Suddenly there he was. Ellen’s heart did a somersault. He pushed his way through the crowd to her and almost swept her off her feet, so big was the bear hug, so intense the kiss. ‘God! I’ve been longing to do that.’ His smile was broad. ‘I can’t wait to get you home. The car’s this way.’ He took her case and led her out of the station. ‘So, was it a success?’ The words tumbled from his mouth with the excitement of seeing her again.

  She tucked her arm into his, happy to be able to touch him again. ‘Terrific. The kids are on great form, having the usual brilliant time with their cousins. They were glad to see the back of me for another week!’

  ‘I’m sure they weren’t.’

  ‘Not really. But they were definitely pleased not to be coming back to London just yet. I wish you could have come with me.’

  ‘But there was something I wanted to do here. I had the idea a few weeks ago and your being away gave me the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me what it was?’ He had been peculiarly mysterious about what he’d been doing in her absence. She hoped he was about to surprise her with news of a job.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  During the journey home, she regaled him with descriptions of the artists she had met, where they lived and the pieces she’d seen. Uncle Sidney had rarely expanded his existing stable of artists except by recommendation but she had soon developed a nose for the sort of pictures that the gallery could sell and believed that by widening their roster they would attract new customers. Oliver didn’t offer much conversation in return but listened, occasionally asking the odd question, his hand on her knee whenever he could put it there safely.

  Her stories were only interrupted by his swearing whenever a light changed against them or thudding his fist on the steering-wheel when another driver got in his way. Ellen pretended not to notice these squalls of unnecessary temper and just carried on talking.

  When they arrived home, Oliver switched off the engine and turned to her, taking her face in both hands and kissing her deeply.

  ‘Let’s go in.’ Ellen reached for the door handle.

  ‘Hang on a minute! There’s something I need to tell you.’

  She stopped and looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s your birthday next week, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know it is. We talked about going to the theatre. Why? Have you got tickets for something?’

  ‘No.’ He looked as if he was about to burst with excitement. ‘But I have got you a surprise.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ll be dying with curiosity for the next four days.’

  ‘No, you won’t. Let’s go in. I just wanted to . . . well, warn you.’

  ‘OK. Consider me warned.’ Ellen got out of the car and ran up the steps. ‘I love coming home. More than ever now that you’re here. And we’ve got one whole week to ourselves.’ She turned and put her key in the lock, immediately feeling guilty for taking pleasure in her children’s absence.

  ‘Hang on. Let me go first.’ He edged past her. ‘Let me take your bag upstairs. Then, while you freshen up, I’ll go down and crack open the bottle of champagne.’

  Having washed and changed from her jeans into her loose navy silk trousers and a beaded pink Indian kurtee that he had once said he liked, she came down the stairs into the kitchen. A slice of evening sunshine came through the side window, lighting the darkened room. Oliver gave her a chilled glass of champagne before leading her to the kitchen table.

  ‘Mmm. What a welcome. Why don’t we go out into the garden? It’s a beautiful evening.’ Ellen went over to the french windows. ‘Why have you got the curtains drawn, anyway?’ As she reached out to pull them back, Oliver grabbed her arm, making her spill some champagne. ‘Ouch. Careful.’

  ‘Wait a minute, darling.’ He pulled her back to the chair, and pushed her down on it. ‘Before we do, have a sip, then close your eyes.’

  ‘What? You are funny but OK.’ She did as she was told and heard the curtains being pulled back.

  ‘Keep your eyes shut.’ Oliver came to stand behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. He took a breath. ‘OK. You can open them now.’

  As she looked out to the garden, her eyes widened and she gripped the sides of her chair.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ She could hear the note of pride in his voice. ‘Happy early birthday, darling.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Oliver. What have you done?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ Ellen could hear the click of his thumb-nail against another.

  ‘I . . . well . . . I . . .’ Words failed her.

  ‘It’s specially purpose-built so that you can use it as a studio. You said that you always wanted one of your own and now you’ve got one.’

  ‘But the garden . . .’

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess, I know. They had to work so fast to get it finished on time. But there’s nothing that can’t be tidied up. We can do it together.’

  ‘A mess . . . yes.’ Ellen’s voice faded.

  Outside, her beloved garden that had seen her through her bereavement, providing so much pleasure and comfort over the following ten years, had been destroyed. The small lawn had been trampled over, and no heed given to her precious plants on which she had lavished so much time and attention. Two planks lay on the grass, their ends crushing the scented French lavender. The central bed and the two borders were devastated, the hellebores bent and crushed, her precious shrubs knocked about, her favourite lilac with a broken branch. And at the end, just hiding the greenhouse, stood an enormous new garden shed, painted a deep Scandinavian red. Facing the house were two glass doors through which she could see a skylight illuminating an easel inside.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ Oliver’s voice came from somewhere miles away. ‘The glass is special Pilkington double-glazed so you’ll be warm in there, even in the dead of winter. Perhaps I should have asked you. But I was so sure you would.’

  Ellen felt as if she had been plunged into a pool of water that was closing over her head. A rushing noise filled her ears as she struggled for breath. Her garden! How could he not have understood how important every plant out there was for her? He had watched her pottering about outside in the evening, dead-heading, straightening wayward stems, picking posies for the dining-table or the bedroom. He had sat beside her in bed while she planned the changes she would make for the new year, experimenting with new planting schemes, outlining a different shape for a flowerbed. He knew how long she spent poring over her plant books, her pencil poised over the graph paper on which she sketched her ideas. She remembered talking about the possibility of putting a tool shed on that bit of hard standing, but she had dismissed the idea in favour of a pergola. The space she had earmarked for it had disappeared under the footprint of his present.

 
; ‘It’s such a shock.’ Ellen was desperately searching for something positive to say. After all, his motives had only been the very best. She had sometimes talked about having nowhere to paint but never would she have envisaged a studio at the expense of her garden. She stood up, walked over to the french windows and stared out.

  Oliver put his arm round her waist. ‘I know. The garden. I didn’t imagine it would take such a battering or that the studio would look so big. I was stupid not to see that.’

  She twisted to face him, wishing the extra four or five pounds that had effortlessly slid on while she was away would disappear instead of organising themselves exactly where his hand lay. ‘But how could you afford it?’ The words came out before she could stop them.

  ‘I maxed out my last credit card and made up the difference by selling Starship the day you left for Cornwall. I looked through your customer index and phoned that collector, Dan Frost.’ He smiled, pleased with his own ingenuity. ‘He was thrilled to have the opportunity to buy another Caroline Fowler and gave me a very good price for it.’

  ‘You sold Starship?’ she repeated. How could he have sold the picture that had brought them together – and go through her confidential papers to do so? She backed away from him, her arms crossed over her chest as if she was protecting herself.

  ‘But you don’t mind, do you?’ He seemed surprised by her reaction. ‘Didn’t you give it to me? And I made sure I found it a good home.’