What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  ‘Ah, so all is not one hundred per cent in the Garden of Eden, then?’ Bea couldn’t resist.

  ‘Bea . . .’ warned Kate. ‘I’d better get the pie.’ She was anxious to move the conversation on to a less controversial tack. After all these years, the last thing she wanted to do was throw cold water on Ellen’s contentment. They still hadn’t met Oliver, so were hardly in a position to judge him.

  ‘Well, if Kate envies me, I envy you actually,’ Bea volunteered suddenly, looking at Ellen, who had ignored her previous remark. ‘Apart from the clothes thing, of course – that’s a bit too controlling for me. But he’s obviously mad about you.’

  ‘You will find someone, Bea. Probably when you’re least expecting it.’

  ‘That should be about now, then!’ She and Ellen went over to the table and sat down while Kate wrestled the pie out of the oven. ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Ellen’s right, you know.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe. But look at me! I’m beset by a hormonal teenager who, as far as I know, has as much chance of becoming a nuclear physicist as he does a mass murderer; an overbearing boss; a Mr Bean type in the City whom I’ve met for one drink; and some knob who left a calling card that took me to the clap clinic. And he left fake contact details with the agency so I can’t even have the pleasure of passing on the good news. Bloody marvellous.’

  Just then Kate reached the table. ‘Put like that, I see what you mean. And who’d want to compete with them? Mind out! This is hot!’ Her voice rose to a shriek as the tea-towel she was using as an oven glove slipped. The pie-dish pressed against the heel of her right hand. She tried to get it to the table in time. But, in agony, she let go a moment too soon, just before the dish was fully on the table. In horrified silence they watched as the pie arced over and down, the dish shattering into smithereens and the pie splattering across the pristine limestone-tiled floor.

  The three women stared at it. Kate was the first to break the silence. ‘Paul’s favourite dish. He’ll kill me!’

  A clearing of Bea’s throat was followed by a stifled cough from Ellen. Kate looked up to see that the two of them were trying to contain their laughter.

  ‘God, look at us. It’s not exactly Sex and the City, is it?’ As Bea choked the words out, she couldn’t control herself any longer and, with an explosive snort, she cracked up completely. At that, Ellen followed suit, leaving Kate to join in as she held her hand under the cold tap. They laughed together till the tears rolled down their faces.

  At last, when the only sounds to be heard were a few muffled whimpers from Bea, and Ellen was wiping her eyes with a bit of kitchen roll, Kate spoke: ‘Fish and chips, anyone?’

  *

  A couple of hours later, Kate was alone again in the kitchen. The fish pie was in the bin, the fish-and-chips papers had been recycled and the plates and glasses were in the machine. Paul was still not back. Bea had left with Ellen half an hour earlier, prompted by a call from Oliver wondering where Ellen was. He couldn’t be blamed, Kate supposed. He wasn’t to know that the evenings they spent together always ran on into the night. There was always so much to catch up on, now more than ever, and none of them ever wanted their time together to be over. Oh, well. Possessiveness wasn’t such a bad thing, she supposed. Better than not being wanted at all. Poor old Bea. If only she and Paul could magic up a single friend for her. She checked the clock. Half past midnight. It was unlike Paul to be as late as this.

  She wasn’t tired so made herself a cup of peppermint tea and took it up to the living room. She’d wait for Paul. She collapsed into the familiar comfort of their old sofa, currently reupholstered in an off-white calico (something she could never have chosen until Sam and Megan had left home) and scattered with the rose-print cushions she’d found at a brocante during the same holiday that Paul had bought the pie-dish. What a good weekend that had been. Was there this unfamiliar distance between them back then? She didn’t think so. Something had definitely happened that had stopped them communicating in their old familiar way.

  Or someone? Her sudden gasp caught her by surprise. The thought was as unwelcome as it was shocking. As she tried to shake it off, it only tightened its hold. Could history be repeating itself? Yet again she dismissed the idea. Now part of the warp and weft of their marriage, his affair was an incident they’d weathered and he’d promised there wouldn’t be another. Surely this was one of the occasional downturns to be expected in a long-term partnership. But she didn’t find the thought all that reassuring.

  She put down her tea and stood up to look at herself in the large mirror over the fireplace. Stuck about with invitations and cards from the children, her reflection stared back, showing a thoughtful face only slightly lined and framed by fine dark hair. She could never be as open as Bea or Ellen in discussing her relationship with Paul: it wasn’t something she wanted to air with them or with anybody, not in any detail at least. No, this was something she was going to have to work out alone.

  She crossed to the assorted family photos ranged on the top of the console table and picked up their wedding picture, so old it was beginning to fade. There they stood, radiant and full of hope for the future. So much of that hope had been fulfilled, she thought. An abrupt miaow announced the arrival of Mouse, the grey stray that had adopted them about ten years earlier. Sam had found the bedraggled young cat in the bushes at the end of the garden. He had tempted him out with a saucer of milk and a bit of cold chicken, and ever since Mouse had been Sam’s most devoted fan. He hopped up beside Kate now, rubbing against her hand and clawing at her trousers.

  ‘Mouse! Stop it!’ She lifted him up and laid him on her lap, stroking him until his rumbling purr filled the silence. ‘There, you silly old thing. Where do you think Paul’s got to?’

  She picked up her book on Africa. Reading about someone else’s experiences travelling through Ghana and other countries brought her a little closer to Sam and helped her understand something of the country where he was. She found her place, although she wasn’t in the mood to read tonight. What would Paul say when she told him Ellen had invited them for lunch? Would he be as interested in meeting Oliver as she and Bea were? Probably. He liked Kate’s friends and was pleased to see them when he did but wasn’t as involved with their lives as Kate was. As far as he was concerned, they were a part of her life that was separate from him. However, even his interest had been piqued by the arrival of Oliver. Wait till he heard about the shed. He was cynical, like Bea, and curious about who Oliver was and where he had come from.

  ‘I’m learning about him every day,’ Ellen had protested, when cross-questioned earlier in the evening. ‘He’s lived in France, somewhere in Centre, for the last two or three years and doesn’t like talking about what went on there. He says it’s still too painful. Something to do with the woman he lived with. But I’m happy with that. I’d rather not know. Anyway, he’ll tell me when he’s ready.’

  ‘But, Ellen, you’ve got to ask him,’ Bea insisted. ‘God almighty, woman! You’ve got him practically living in your house, and your children will be home in a couple of days. Suppose he turns out to be – I don’t know – a paedophile or something?’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Ellen was outraged. ‘If there was something like that, I’d know. Why can’t you just take him as the loving, generous man I know he is? You’re my closest friends, for God’s sake. I just want you to be pleased for me. You’ll see when you meet him.’

  And then she had invited them to a family lunch. Bea had looked slightly ashamed of her suggestion, apologised and accepted. As had Kate.

  Kate ran her fingers up and down Mouse’s soft belly, making him stretch out his legs in pleasure. If Ellen was prepared to accept Oliver at face value, shouldn’t they? As Ellen’s friends, it was up to them to support her in whatever life choices she made. Who were they to question her judgement? Or should they, as her friends, be looking out for her when she was head over heels, possibly blind to anything that would spoil things
? Kate knew Bea would take the latter view but for once she disagreed. She wanted Ellen to be happy. She wanted that for all of them. She sighed and began to read about the elephants of Knysna.

  Outside, the gate banged, and Paul’s key turned in the lock. She stood up to greet him, tipping an indignant Mouse onto the floor. At last. Late he might be but this was her chance to start making things better between them.

  Chapter 16

  As they pulled up outside the house, Matt leaned forward, pulling against his seatbelt and blocking the window. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Where?’ Ellen didn’t look up as she rummaged in her bag for her purse.

  ‘There’s a man standing on the doorstep, waving.’

  Despite Oliver’s attempts to persuade her, she had refused to let him come with her to Paddington to meet Emma and Matt and had asked for a couple of days alone in which the kids could settle back home. Reluctantly, he had agreed to be introduced into the household by degrees, without any fanfare. At the same time, Ellen enjoyed the thought of stealing out for secret rendezvous in the flat, keeping him a delicious secret for a little while longer, preserving the family’s status quo. Deceit might be bad but it was surely better than telling the children too soon. She was at last confident in her control of the situation and relieved she had found the right way at last. That was what her friends and family would want.

  But despite all they’d agreed, here he was.

  ‘So, who is he, Mum?’ Emma emerged from the gloom she’d been in ever since she’d set foot in the taxi. She had spent the entire journey home staring bleary-eyed out of the window. Ellen thought she’d caught her wiping away a tear but felt it better not to say anything. If Josh the surfie was the problem, nothing she could say would make a difference. The summer was over, they had to come home and Emma had to learn to live with disappointments thrown up by life, however painful. When they had time alone, she would try to console her.

  ‘Have you been having something done to the house?’ Emma looked anxious that her instructions to leave her garish Indian/hippie-themed bedroom might have been ignored and that she was going to find the tasteful lilac or gardenia walls that Ellen sometimes threatened.

  ‘No. He’s a friend, that’s all. Come on, get out.’

  ‘Not the one you told me about?’

  Ellen cursed the sharpness of Matt’s memory.

  ‘Not the boyfriend?’ He brought all the scorn of a thirteen-year-old to the last word.

  ‘Boyfriend!’ Emma was immediately all attention. ‘You never said anything, Mum.’

  ‘He’s not a boyfriend. Oliver’s just someone I met while you were away.’ She struggled to pocket her change, before bending over to pick up the two cases, leaving the kids to their backpacks. ‘You’ll like him.’

  Doubt was writ very large indeed on Emma’s face. But she said nothing.

  Torn between her fury at Oliver’s turning up, her desire to tear down the path and fling her arms round him, and her anxiety as to the best way to introduce him, Ellen stood by the gate, a case in either hand. She breathed deeply, trying to control the sudden thumping of her heart. Instead, Oliver took the initiative and came towards them. He looked relaxed in his cream chinos and a dark blue open-necked shirt. She saw him as if for the first time, taking in his aquiline features, the startling blue eyes and dark flop of hair. His familiar slightly uneven smile gave a sharp nudge to all the emotions that she’d thought she had under control, sending them skittering through her. If she took a step towards him, she felt her legs would give way. As if he understood, he turned to the kids, giving her time to gather herself.

  ‘Hello. You must be Matt and Em. Your mum’s told me all about you. Good holiday?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Emma’s voice was tight with dislike.

  ‘I thought you might all be starving after such a long journey, so I’ve brought some supper over.’

  They looked at him in surprise, unsure what to say. Why on earth would a stranger bring them supper? Ellen could almost hear the cogs turning.

  ‘How lovely. What a kind thought.’ Under the close scrutiny of her children, she chose her words with care, not wanting to expose her cartwheeling heart. Matt could probably be deflected but Emma would pick up on the slightest clue. As they led the way to the front door, she lagged behind with Oliver. She fought back the urge to put her arms round him. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed instead.

  ‘I couldn’t wait for two days.’ As he touched her hand, her stomach flipped. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And after everything I said.’ A look of such abject disappointment crossed his face that she weakened. ‘Well, no, not really. Oh, I don’t know. You’re impossible.’ Whatever she said, it was too late. He was there and she was going to have to deal with it in the best way she could.

  They’d reached the front door. Emma was already inside and had shot upstairs to check her room. Oliver leaned down to pick up his bag of shopping.

  ‘What have you got there?’ A sure way to Matt’s heart was through his stomach.

  ‘Only spaghetti carbonara.’

  ‘Nice one! How did you know I liked it?’

  ‘Your mum told me, of course. I’ve brought a salad as well.’ He winked at Ellen. ‘And I tell you what, Matt, England are playing tonight and my TV’s broken. I wondered if I could watch with you. Only if you’re watching, of course.’

  ‘Oliver, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’ His brand new TV couldn’t possibly be broken. How dare he try to win over her kids without consulting her on the method first? ‘Shouldn’t you get back home? We’ll have to unpack and get ready for school.’

  ‘Come on, Ellen.’ His voice was like the smoothest honey, impossible to resist.

  ‘Yes, come on, Mum. We don’t need much at the start of term anyway.’ Matt’s eyes were shining with excitement at the idea of being able to watch the match. Normally Emma shouted him down if he dared even suggest such a thing.

  Ellen was torn. She wanted Oliver to stay but she wanted him to go. At the same time she felt a guilty sense of relief steal over her. For ten years she’d been running this household, having responsibility for every decision, smoothing out every disagreement. Being able to share some of the daily grind suddenly seemed almost unbearably attractive. Despite all her anxieties, he had got Matt onside within minutes. Perhaps, with a little extra effort, he could work the same magic with the more resistant Emma. Why shouldn’t she indulge him? What harm could it possibly do? She led the way downstairs to the kitchen. ‘OK, I give in. Em and I can always do something else or watch TV in my bedroom, I suppose. Just this once,’ she added, to stamp on any impression that this might be a precedent for things to come.

  ‘Yes!’ yelled Matt, his fist punching the air. ‘I’ll go and tell Em.’ He shot upstairs before Ellen could stop him.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she groaned. ‘Wait for the fireworks.’

  Oliver slipped an arm around her waist.

  ‘They’ll be down in a moment,’ she said. ‘You really shouldn’t have come, you know.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ He looked at her, before just brushing her lips with his.

  She was glad he realised how inappropriate it would be to do more.

  ‘I’m going to make sure it all works out. Trust me. Let me get on with the cooking while you help them unpack.’

  Lugging the cases up the stairs, she could hear raised voices from Emma’s room. Unable to make out exactly what was being said, she decided to leave them to it, dumping the cases on the landing before she retreated to the safety of her own room. Sinking onto the bed, she fell backwards into its embrace. She automatically turned her head towards her bedside table. For the last ten years she had gone to sleep and woken up beside Simon. He had remained a constant in her life even though he hadn’t been here to share things. Somehow she’d always drawn support from seeing him there, as if he was guiding her. Before she had a chance to think further, there was a shout, a slammed d
oor and the sound of Matt laughing.

  ‘Well, we are and you can’t stop us,’ he shouted, above the noise of his footsteps clumping down the stairs.

  With a sigh, Ellen got to her feet. Peeling off her jeans, she once again cursed the weight she’d put on during her week away as she squeezed herself into a green stripy skirt that Oliver liked, leaving the top inch of her zip undone and crossing her fingers that it would stay put, then rummaged for her long cream top in the cupboard. Slipping her feet into her most comfortable flip-flops, running her fingers through her hair, she emerged for the fray. As she passed Emma’s room, she noticed the door was ajar.

  ‘Mum!’

  Unable to gauge the tone, imperious or upset, she pushed the door open, careful not to bring down the red-and-yellow sari fabric threaded with gold that was draped over the entrance. Inside, Emma had thrown herself face down on the gaudy Indian bedspread embroidered with tiny mirrors that twinkled in the light. In her left hand lay Lolly, a once yellow now grubby and almost threadbare pig that had gone everywhere with her until about five years ago when he had been relegated to pride of place on the mantel-piece. Ellen watched her daughter’s thumb working back and forth over the scrap of ribbon round Lolly’s neck, just as she had when she was a toddler needing comfort. She tiptoed in, taking a detour round the colourful spiky star lampshade, which was at exactly the right height to poke her in the eye, and sat on the bed.

  ‘Em. What’s up?’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Her daughter twisted round to face her, propping herself up on an elbow. She’d obviously been crying.

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Ellen was alarmed by how angry she looked. ‘He’s just a friend making us supper. That’s all.’

  ‘I don’t want him here.’

  ‘Why ever not? Nothing’s changed, you know.’

  ‘It has.’ Emma threw herself on to her side and curled into a ball.

  Ellen sighed and reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair back from her face. Neither of them spoke. But deep down, Ellen knew that Emma was right. Something had changed in both of them this summer. They had taken an irreversible step in a new direction, she towards a new life with Oliver, and Emma towards adulthood.