What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

She groaned. ‘Why did she have to phone?’

  ‘You could have said no, but you didn’t. Go on, get outta here.’ He let her go and the magic was broken.

  *

  Later that night, lying on her back alone in the dark, eyes turned to the ceiling where a feeble sliver of light cut across from the gap at the top of the curtains, Ellen let her thoughts circle at random. How many nights had she lain like this since Simon’s death, concerned that she wasn’t being a good enough parent, worrying about Matt and Emma’s schoolwork, their friendships, their fallings out and, more than anything, the lack of a father in their lives? But now she’d introduced the possibility of one, things were worse rather than better. Perhaps she’d left it too late.

  Having photos of Simon by her bed had always helped calm her when she couldn’t see a way out of even the simplest problem. Sometimes, in the small hours, she had found that talking aloud to him had a therapeutic effect and helped her work out her worries. Despite Oliver’s presence in her life, she couldn’t give up on her original soul-mate, not just like that. Not after so many years. She could just make out the shape of the frame nearest her, but the photo inside was imprinted on her memory: Towan beach where a proud Matt knelt with Ellen beside the fortress they’d made in the sand while Emma tried to wrestle her sunhat from Simon’s head.

  Emma had been such an open, cheerful child until Simon’s death. Matt had been too young but Emma quickly understood that her father was never coming back. She had sobbed herself to sleep in Ellen’s bed night after night. Then, as she got used to his absence, she began to hold a part of herself in reserve as if afraid to trust anyone completely. If her father could let her down by disappearing without warning, then anyone could. Was that what was eating away at her now? Even all these years later, was fear of losing her mother fuelling her resentment of Oliver? If only Ellen could think of a way to reassure her, to show her that wasn’t going to happen. But on the journey home tonight, when she’d tried her damnedest to get her back onside, Emma had clammed up. No doubt she was preoccupied by the argument she’d had with Freya – but was that the real reason? And why the hell was she fighting with Freya anyway? They were inseparable and never rowed.

  The thoughts buzzed and swarmed in her head. Oliver had proved himself so good with Matt, why hadn’t his charm worked with Emma? Ellen blamed herself for not being able to find some common ground where they could meet and get on. The antagonism that existed between them had to be her responsibility so she had to resolve it. Perhaps if she had handled everything differently from the beginning they wouldn’t be in this mess. The blame lay with her for falling in love, the one thing she’d sworn she’d never do.

  But was she really in love? What did that mean? Any neat answer eluded her. She had loved Simon, she was sure. Yet the feelings she remembered having for him were quite different from those Oliver aroused. What she felt now was an intense sharpening of her senses when they were close, a sense of incompleteness and a constant deep-seated longing that made it difficult to concentrate when they were apart. But she missed the total trust she had shared with Simon and their acceptance of one another for the people they were. He had loved her despite, or perhaps because of, her failings, just as she had him. He wasn’t interested in what she looked like or what she wore. He had never judged her appearance. He hadn’t minded when she’d put on weight after the babies. ‘More of you to get hold of,’ he’d joked. If she’d had a second piece of cake, he’d have one too without comment. He certainly wasn’t worried if the house wasn’t quite as tidy as it might be. He had never suggested she should try to change herself to please him.

  All he had wanted was a life companion who would share the ups, and to whom he could turn during the downs. What pleased her was what pleased him. The fireworks in the bedroom may not have been the full-on pyrotechnics Oliver provided but neither had they been a total failure. What she remembered more than anything was the way they talked and laughed, always happy in each other’s company. But then he had been diagnosed with advanced-stage pancreatic cancer. He had died within three short months of being told, three months that were overtaken by his treatment, then his swift but brave decline. No time to do any of the things they’d planned to do together, not enough to say all the things that were left to be said. Perhaps if he’d lived, things between them would have changed, but that was something she’d never know.

  A taxi chugged to a halt outside and she heard the door slam, the voices and laughter of the young married couple across the road, the click of their gate and their front door jamming before it shut with a bang.

  What was confusing her was the difference she found in her relationship with Oliver. There was so much about him that she adored – his eyes, his laugh, his consideration and love for her, his willingness to take her children under his wing. She was drawn by his impulsiveness, his desire to please and surprise her in so many different ways. When she thought about the way he’d sold Starship to raise the money for her studio, she smiled. Her initial reactions of dismay and anger had vanished as she accepted his gesture for what it was: a spur-of-the-moment loving act. She didn’t doubt that he loved her and already understood some of her own self-doubt. He was trying to help her become more confident, but by encouraging her to make the most of herself, he sometimes succeeded only in making her feel she wasn’t quite good enough. She wasn’t sure he’d understand, even if she could begin to explain.

  She loved the way he tried to introduce some order into her life but sometimes she worried he seemed not to know when to stop. When she’d searched for the company accounts, she’d been unable to find them. She remembered moving them from her home office, a.k.a. the dining-table, to make space for lunch but they had vanished from the end of the worktop where she could have sworn she’d left them. After a half-hour search she found them on the bookshelf, neatly squared off between a couple of cookery books. Perhaps not the most meticulous of housekeepers and certainly the most disorganised of accountants, she nonetheless employed some method in her arrangement of her papers, a method based on the fact that she could always remember – well, almost always – in which random pile of loose papers she’d left any particular item, based on its position relative to the other piles. He had completely messed that up by clearing them away. Before she could do any work at all, she would have to reorder the whole lot.

  Alone in the dark, her thoughts kept spinning round her head. Had she made a mistake in introducing Oliver to the children too soon? She turned on her side, staring towards her photo of Simon. But not even he could help her now. She resolved to quell any doubt and make things work out. She longed to talk all this over with Bea or Kate but that would be the wrong thing to do. She didn’t want them to think she had even one second thought. Friendship was a funny old thing. None of them was always quite as open and honest with the others as they professed to be. They’d never lie but they were occasionally guilty of sins of omission, like the times when she hadn’t confessed Oliver had bought her the underwear or that he’d sold the picture to raise enough to buy the studio. She was sure the others did the same. She worried what they might think – she shouldn’t but she did. And Bea could be so quick to criticise. No. Voicing her fears would make them assume an importance they didn’t really have. She had to keep shtum. She had to sort out her jumbled thoughts and work out a strategy that would include Emma and make her see what a good and kind man Oliver really was.

  Overhead the thrum of a police helicopter grew louder as it circled over the area. A siren wailed in the distance. She shut her eyes, turned on her side and drew up her knees.

  One of her last waking thoughts was that love had to be about give and take. Working towards accepting the aspects of Oliver’s personality that occasionally niggled would be the battle half won. All she was experiencing were teething troubles that would disappear as they grew to know each other better. This was to be expected after such a speedy romance. She had found a man who loved her. She had come too far down the
line to think about going back now.

  Chapter 21

  By summer, the two-storey seventeenth-century farmhouse would be hidden under Virginia creeper. Now the honeyed Cotswold stone could be seen through the leafless vines that reached up the façade and over the slate roof to the big chimneys at either end. Smoke drifted into the featureless grey autumn sky. Lights glowed in welcome from the two large bay windows on either side of the stepped porch to the front door. Bea carried her overnight bag into the reception area, looking into the beamed hotel bar on the right in the hope she might see a colleague. No one she recognised sat in the chairs arranged round low wood tables, so she turned to the desk in the oak-panelled lobby and checked in, then followed instructions to the second floor where she would find her bedroom.

  Everything was tastefully neutral: pale cream walls and ivory bedspread, beige upholstery on the small sofa at the foot of the cream-fringed four-poster. The only splash of colour came from the patterned rug and the delicate sprigs of flowers on the cream swags of curtain. Outside she could see the conference centre and spa, attached to the main building by a covered walkway through the garden. Could Coldharbour afford this? Not your problem, enjoy it, came the swift reply.

  She made herself a cup of tea and unpacked, putting away her things in the Georgian mahogany chest of drawers and a wardrobe so discreet she almost missed it. She had spent what felt like hours packing and repacking as she had debated which clothes to bring. She knew Amanda would be looking her sharpest, so the big question was, should she attempt to compete? Not, when it came to it, that she had much of a choice. When she delved into her wardrobe, attempting to flush out the ideal outfit that would make her feel her best and Amanda feel her worst, there was nothing. Not that her wardrobe was bare – very far from it – but none of the snappier outfits that might have had the desired effect fitted quite as they once had. She couldn’t bring herself to throw them out so they hung there, waiting for the day when she’d be able to wear them again: a triumph of optimism over experience. In the end she had decided to go for simple but elegant, with a bit of layering in the hope that she could outwit any incipient hot flush by taking something off. In other words, she would look herself and to hell with Amanda.

  Bea’s professional life had improved immeasurably over the last couple of weeks. She was feeling particularly bullish after winning her colleagues around to supporting her acquisition of Bare Bones, her American novel. They had all admired the quality of the writing and also, like her, saw its commercial potential. The auction had dragged on over two weeks as the agent went backwards and forwards among the competing publishers, driving the price up. As it rose, Bea had begun to wobble, knowing that at fifty, sixty, seventy thousand pounds, it was no longer the sure-fire boost to the budget she had intended. But Adam had held his nerve. ‘Let’s try to close the others out by making one last bid that’ll frighten them off.’

  When Bea had still hesitated, he had been firm. ‘If you’re making a mistake, it’s not the ten thousand you’re adding to our bid now, it’s the seventy-five thousand you’ve already got on the table.’

  She wasn’t altogether sure whether that made her feel better or worse. ‘I’m not making a mistake.’

  ‘Then raise the stakes!’

  So that was what she had done and the strategy had worked. Their competitors had folded, and yesterday the deal had closed at eighty-five thousand: Coldharbour would be the British publisher. There hadn’t been such an excited buzz in the company for months. No one had expressed a moment’s doubt, apart from Bea, and, if she was honest, her anxiety was only about whether the book would justify the money she paid for it, not about its quality. She thought she had seen Amanda purse her lips at the level of the advance but she said nothing. That alone was enough to strengthen Bea’s resolve. She would have to make it work.

  Adam had invited the directors to stay two nights at the hotel so that they could bond over dinner on the first night and present a united front when the troops arrived next morning. Preparing herself for the evening, Bea decided on a long bath, using all the Molton Brown freebies lined up in the bathroom. Afterwards she relaxed on her bed in the hotel’s soft white towelling robe and slippers, TV on, tea and a half-eaten piece of shortbread that she’d failed to resist at her side. She was woken by the shrill sound of the phone.

  ‘Bea? Adam here. You OK to meet in the bar in about twenty minutes?’

  ‘Of course. I was just reading. I’ll be right down.’

  She looked at the bedside clock. Shit! She must have dozed off. She leaped off the bed and pulled from the wardrobe a pair of Caroline Charles black crêpe satin trousers (expensive but worth every single penny) and a deep purple silk blouse (inexpensive but looked good) with a smoky green pashmina. Standing in front of the mirror, she pulled in her stomach but draped the pashmina to hide it anyway, just in case. Mmm, passable. In the bathroom, she laid out her tools for the usual repair job. First she leaned in and, with the slightest pressure of her hands, pushed her jawline up and back towards her ears. That small movement took about ten years off her. She sighed. But face-lifts were expensive and even the so-called noninvasive treatments weren’t always the answer. She pictured the flat, frozen forehead of her crime author Beth Raymond, and the repetitive tic at the corner of her otherwise motionless top lip – as if her face was rebelling against the grip of the Botox. No. Every wrinkle tells a story; they just need careful managing. Especially the ones emerging around the corners of her mouth. Dabbing Touche Éclat under her eyes, she watched the blue shadows recede. A lashing of Mac concealer put into check the tiny patches of hyper-pigmentation (yes, she knew it was sun damage by any other name but that one made it sound as if she were less responsible) and the most delicate wrinkles so that all she needed was a dab of colour on her cheeks to emphasise her cheekbones and a slash of lipstick. As she applied the first coat of mascara, the phone rang again breaking into her concentration so she smudged black on her eyelid.

  ‘Bea, it’s Kate. Something weird’s happened.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Listen, can we meet over the weekend?’

  ‘Of course. Sunday? But why?’

  ‘I’ll just be a minute . . . Sorry, Bea. I’m still at the surgery and Pete wants to talk to me. Come to ours at about three, OK? I’ll tell you then.’ And she was gone.

  Preoccupied with removing the mascara, Bea wondered what on earth Kate could have been talking about. She began to speculate what might have happened to one of the children or at Kate’s work, but had to push her thoughts aside. The evening beckoned. She looked at the finished result, with and without her specs. Better without (a plus for the short-sightedness that came with age) but not bad with, and five minutes to spare. She made her way downstairs to the bar, choosing the staircase over the lift. As she rounded the turn above the ground floor she caught sight of Amanda heading into the bar ahead of her. Predictably she was looking trim and glamorous in a little black dress, red shoes with those fuck-me heels again and a tightly fitting red jacket. Bea gathered the pashmina round her. Why was it that she couldn’t ‘eat sensibly’ for longer than three or four days without succumbing to temptation just as the slimmer her was emerging? On the other hand, she reasoned, as she crossed the foyer to the bar, where she saw inviting little bowls of peanuts and olives on every table, life was too damn short. Adam was ordering drinks for everyone as they came in. Despite the glares from other guests, Amanda had commandeered a couple of tables surrounded by enough comfy chairs to seat them. One by one they settled themselves and the evening began.

  *

  The following morning Bea woke early, regretting the delicious syllabub dessert and the cheese that she could still feel sitting in her stomach along with the brandy that Adam had insisted she had as a nightcap. Right, she said to herself, for the umpteenth time in her life. Today was the day she would start a sensible regime – with exercise. Eat less, exercise more. Simple as that. And this time for
good, she promised herself. The first thing she would do in the spirit of endeavour was visit the spa for a swim. She hadn’t known what made her put her swimsuit into her case, but now she was glad she had. Most important was to get down there before any of the rest of the team did. Much as she liked most of her colleagues, she didn’t particularly want to get sporty with them. She donned her cozzy, and a twirl in front of the mirror was enough to convince her that she wasn’t too much of an embarrassment, despite gravity’s attempts to discredit her. Wrapped in her robe, she headed downstairs, full of resolve.

  The spa was in a converted stone barn with a high vaulted wooden ceiling. By the entrance, a small gym boasted an exercise bike, a couple of cross-trainers, a multi-gym, a stacked set of weights and a couple of pearlised exercise balls. Bea turned her back on them to see what the treatment room had to offer despite the large ‘CLOSED’ notice on the door. In the short pool an elderly woman was breast-stroking up and down, up and down, her head held regally above the water level, little wisps of grey hair emerging from her pink rubber cap. Beside her a young man was slowly but more professionally doing the crawl, water streaming from his mouth each time he raised his goggled face. On the wall, above one end of the pool, a large clock ticked away the minutes. Bea took a cushioned wicker recliner and watched them for a moment. Now she was here the whole exercise idea had lost most of its appeal. She was sure she could smell the fresh croissants and coffee for breakfast in the other building. As the young man drew near, she could make out several distinct spots on his back, even from where she sat. This was crazy. She wouldn’t want to share her bathwater with these people. Why was she even thinking about joining them?

  As she debated the alternative merits of a warm bath, the door from the changing area swung open and in walked Adam in a pair of checked swimming shorts. He dived straight in without apparently noticing her and swam swiftly to overtake the swimmers at the opposite end of the pool. She had noticed him, however, unable to avoid taking in his slim hips (nice arse), broad shoulders (but not too broad), lean tanned torso (well-defined pecs and more than a mere suspicion of a washboard) with its sprinkling of dark hair and his long muscled legs. Her original idea of huffing and puffing her way through the water now seemed quite out of the question. She reasoned that it wouldn’t make that much difference to her body anyway, although entering the pool might make a difference to her relationship with her boss, and not necessarily in a good way. No, she would beat a hasty exit while the going was good.