What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  They were on safe territory here. ‘Whatever you recommend.’ She extricated her hand so that she could pick up her last bit of toast.

  ‘Perhaps we should wait and see what the weather’s like. The forecast isn’t great but we should be able to get out for a bit.’ He put his plate on the floor, then straightened up and made a sudden lunge for her. She swiftly swallowed her toast, then gave herself up to him, wanting to enjoy whatever he had to offer. This was, after all, one of the reasons they had come. His tentative kisses grew more insistent as she lay back, trying to ignore the spring that threatened to work its way through to her spine. He smelt of lemons and cedar and his skin was soft against hers. She felt his tongue against her lips, promising and not too pushy, but when she opened her mouth in response she was appalled to find herself locked into the fast cycle of a washing-machine, his tongue everywhere, their teeth clashing. She pulled back for a moment, wiped her mouth as subtly as she could and took a sip of her wine. ‘Let’s take it slowly.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ He looked so anxious that her heart went out to him.

  ‘Of course not. I’m just a bit rusty, that’s all. Just need a bit of Dutch courage.’ She leaned forward and decided to take back the initiative with one or two gentle hints as to what might float her boat.

  Next morning, the veil that Bea would have preferred to draw over the rest of the evening kept snagging on incidents that refused to be forgotten. For a start, just as things were hotting up, techniques improving with use, they’d had to call a halt because Mark remembered he’d forgotten to make the bed. He sprinted down the path to the car where the laundered sheets were chilling on the back seat. By the time they’d turned the corners and replaced the blankets in the glacial atmosphere of the bedroom, all desire had frozen. Undressing each other would take too long so they hurled their clothes onto the floor and leaped between the icy sheets, grabbing each other for warmth. Minutes later, Bea was out of bed searching in her bag for socks before her feet got frostbite. Later again, Mark remembered he’d forgotten to put up the fireguard and was worried they’d burn the place down. Then he couldn’t find the condoms in his wallet and, with a flailing arm, Bea knocked her glass of wine over the bedside table. Eventually came the crowning memory of her consoling him when he had, as he put it, ‘severe hydraulic failure’.

  ‘Plenty of men can’t get it up the first time,’ she soothed, uncertain that there was even a grain of truth in what she’d said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve known several.’

  ‘Really?’

  Even in the dim glow of the bedside light, she could see he was somewhat taken aback.

  ‘Well, not all of them with me, of course. I just read it somewhere.’ She didn’t want him to think he’d ended up, after all, with a complete ball-breaker. She was only making it up to reassure him. ‘I’m happy just lying here with you. Honestly.’

  So that was what they’d done, talking and sipping wine until they could talk and sip no more. And now she was paying the price.

  After such an inauspicious start, her heart sank at the thought of the weekend ahead. The weather was clearly going to be grim and they would be imprisoned in this basic cottage, trying to have sex or not trying at all. Oh, God. She groaned.

  ‘What is it?’ As he turned towards her, drowsy, shifting the balance of the mattress, she slid back down into the middle of the bed and his arms. She felt too fragile to resist, despite her desire to avoid a repeat performance. Sleepily, slowly, they embraced as she came to realise that the malfunction of the previous night had quite definitely been rectified. Relaxed by sleep, the cautious fumblings she’d rather not remember had been transformed into something approaching a technique. Despite her nagging headache, she let herself go with the flow only to be pleasantly surprised. Quick maybe, but spontaneous, sexy and definitely with the promise of greater things to come. As the weekend took a turn for the better, the veil that she’d been trying to draw over the last evening slipped into place.

  He ran her a bath and, while she tried to find the courage to abandon the warmth of the water, he knocked up breakfast: bacon and eggs, toast and cafetière coffee. Dressed in leggings, trousers, thermal vest, a T-shirt, two jumpers and the fingerless gloves, Bea began to feel she was getting to grips with this living-in-the-country lark. ‘It’s not the weather that’s the problem, it’s the clothes you wear’: that was what Adele used to say in the days before they’d got central heating.

  With the curtains open, she could see that they had arrived at a pretty brick-and-flint cottage surrounded by a rudimentary garden with a couple of flowerbeds on either side of the path between the front door and the gate. Beyond the garden there were fields to right and left with not another house in sight.

  ‘By this evening, the old place should be quite snug,’ Mark said, a trifle on the optimistic side, Bea felt. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk, find a pub for lunch and then see where we go from there? The mist’ll probably lift by lunchtime.’

  Parking in Queen Anne’s Drive by Holkham Hall, they passed several optimistic birders armed with high-powered binoculars. Mark pointed out to her some black-headed gulls, Brent geese and a sparrow hawk but nothing more exotic. They took the sandy path at Holkham Bay through the silent pinewoods, eerie in the mist, emerging onto the dunes towards Burnham Overy Staithe. Clambering through the marram grass down to the beach, they walked along the wet sand, kicking at stones and knots of seaweed, picking up pieces of sculpted driftwood, puzzling over the mysterious presence of a large red fire extinguisher, talking all the while. When Mark took her hand, Bea didn’t object. From Gun Hill, they crossed back over the dunes and turned down beside the creek, taking the raised path across the wide expanse of marsh. As Mark had predicted, the mist had begun to lift so they could just make out the windmill, its black body capped white, its sails still, beyond the neat brick and clapboard buildings of the village. As they approached, the faint jingling of halyards carried across the mud flats towards them. A short walk took them to the coast road and the Hero, a gastropub where they ate a good lunch, Bea surprised by how comfortable she felt.

  Afterwards they set off again, walking quickly, aware that they hadn’t long before dark. Their path took them inland towards Holkham Hall, through its landscaped estate, past the lake and the Hall itself, then following the drive through a herd of deer back to where they’d parked.

  ‘God, I’m exhausted.’ Bea collapsed into the car, feeling as if her legs and back were fused in a long line of pain.

  ‘Was that too far for you?’ Mark looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry. I love that walk because it packs in so much that’s great about this part of Norfolk – beach, woods, marshes, countryside and the formal grounds of the Hall. I wanted you to see it all.’

  ‘It was just a tiny bit longer than I’m used to, that’s all.’ Only about five miles longer, she thought, as she unlaced her shoes, rejoicing in the overwhelming feeling of release that spread through her feet and up her legs. She might never be able to move again.

  ‘Come here.’ Sitting in the encroaching darkness, Mark pulled her towards him.

  Then again, perhaps she would.

  *

  Back at the cottage, now warmed through as he’d promised, Bea realised how much she wanted the weekend to go on. The promise of dinner in Wells, a bed stuffed with hot-water bottles and a jigsaw if the weather didn’t improve the next day was all she needed. Stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man she was beginning to like rather more than she’d expected, she felt that London was part of some other life. When Mark went out to get more logs, she settled herself by the fire only to discover that she couldn’t concentrate on the proof of an over-hyped American novel she hadn’t been able to stop herself packing just in case she had a free moment.

  The previous week at Coldharbour had whizzed by. Not for months, even years, could she remember feeling so positive about her work. She’d rediscovered some of the enthusiasm she�
�d thought she’d lost for ever. Adam’s way of working was a refreshing change from the way things had been run in the past. He had brought a new energy into the office, not that she trusted him. Once the initial shake-up was over, he’d gone out of his way to encourage and refocus everyone who’d stayed. Not a man who managed from behind a closed door, he spent a good amount of time walking around, getting to know everyone and talking to them about what they were doing.

  After an initial flurry of resentment at what was seen as distrust of their working methods and concern that he was just looking for a way to get rid of them, most people had settled down to appreciate his direct involvement and the trouble he was taking. Despite his alarming reputation, he was a dynamic leader who, for all the market problems, still believed in editorial integrity and leadership. He liked people who played their hunches and gave them the scope they needed. He wanted the back-up of sales projections but would support his staff when he saw belief and commitment, just as he had when Bea had bought Bare Bones. By the same token, she didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d show no mercy at the first slip-up.

  The fly in the ointment was Amanda. She’d shown her colours at the away-day so Bea knew exactly what she was up against. Already she’d heard from a number of agents that Amanda was presenting herself as senior to Bea, as well as implying that any decisions about the publishing programme had to be sanctioned by her. In other words, they would be best advised to submit material and any concerns straight to Amanda, cutting out Bea altogether. But two could play at that game. Without making a fuss, Bea had assured the same people that nothing had changed. She was sure they would remain loyal to her.

  The latch on the front door rattled and she heard Mark’s shout. Reluctant to leave the fireside, she tore herself away to find him on the front step laden with a boxful of logs.

  ‘Should have done this much earlier. I could hardly see what I was doing. Still I was right, wasn’t I? The second night’s always much warmer than the first.’

  ‘In more ways than one, I hope,’ replied Bea, as suggestively as she dared.

  ‘I’m sure we can make it as warm as we want.’ He grinned as he lugged the box through to the inglenook.

  And, indeed, by the time they left at Sunday lunchtime, Bea had no complaints. The weather had closed in, with a gale that howled in from the coast, so after Mark had gone out for the Sunday papers, they settled themselves round the fire with Radio 4 in the background and relaxed. She had even come round to the concept of ‘basic’ and, before they left, had promised that she would visit again. In the spring, perhaps.

  *

  By the time she got home, the prodigal son had returned from Colin’s so Bea set about killing the fatted calf (rather, roast chicken and potatoes – his favourite) for his supper. As she pottered in the kitchen, she thought about Mark and how well they had got on. Once they’d relaxed with each other, the inauspicious start had given way to something much more satisfactory that demanded further practice, she decided. Perhaps Let’s Have Lunch had something of an instinct for these things after all.

  As she served up, Ben sloped in, like something out of an ad for heroin chic. Thinner than ever, shoulders hunched and hair all over the place, he took a seat at the table, crossing his legs. Bea decided against mentioning the risk his jeans must be posing to his circulation or asking if he was aware of the two cigarette burns in his T-shirt.

  ‘How was your weekend?’ she asked, as she bent to take the chicken from the oven. Long experience had taught her that conversations without eye-contact were the ones that went most smoothly.

  ‘OK. Pity Dad’s such a jerk.’

  ‘Why?’ She ought to discourage him from being derogatory about his father, but she couldn’t resist the snippets that he brought her about her ex-husband’s new life. The frisson of Schadenfreude was too delicious to ignore.

  ‘He’s decided he wants me to call him “Colin” instead of “Dad”. “You’re not a child any more.”’ He had Colin’s voice to a T. ‘“I think of us more as equals.” What makes him think I want to be the equal of someone who made such a tit of himself leaving us for someone half his age? Everyone at school was pissing themselves about it. And I don’t want to be her friend either. He keeps telling me we have so much in common, but we haven’t.’ His left foot swung back and forth, kicking the table leg. ‘Anyway, the girls call him “Dad” and he is my dad too.’

  ‘If you don’t want to call him “Colin”, then tell him so.’ Bea was often irritated by Colin’s inability to understand that, despite appearances, Ben was still a child in so many ways. Couldn’t he see how difficult his son found adjusting to the idea that his father had another family? Obviously not. He would never try to get Ben in a heart-to-heart. They were alike in that way. Better to brush anything emotional under the carpet and carry on without making things worse or more uncomfortable by talking about them. However hard Colin worked to keep his relationship with Ben smooth, his underlying fear of being rejected for what he’d done was quite obvious to Bea – and maybe to Ben too.

  ‘I did.’ Another kick to the table leg. ‘You know, I don’t remember him ever taking me to the park. Did he?’

  ‘I’m sure he did. Yes, of course.’ In fact, she was far from sure. Colin’s attitude to parenting back then had been of the hands-off variety.

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. I know he didn’t.’ Ben’s face lit up as he smiled at her. Her heart melted. ‘I don’t mind that, but I don’t understand what makes him think I’d want to go to the park for an hour to stand with him watching Coral and Maudie.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks it gives you a chance to talk to each other.’

  ‘Mum, listen. I got an hour’s lecture about why not to touch drugs. Way I see it, either I’m an adult or I’m not. He can’t have it both ways.’

  Bea felt a sliver of guilt as she remembered that she had asked Colin to address the drugs question. But she had assumed he would use a modicum of sense and timing. What a plonker. Whatever he’d said had obviously been dismissed, thanks to the way he’d handled things. ‘He has a point about drugs,’ she murmured.

  ‘I might have known you’d side with him. Don’t try and guilt me too. It won’t work.’

  ‘I’m not. Really, I’m not.’

  ‘Where have you been anyway?’ (Change the subject.)

  ‘I went to Norfolk with Mark.’ (Keep it casual.)

  ‘That the guy you met through the dating agency?’ (I’m not that interested.)

  ‘Mmm. That enough chicken for you?’ (Want to know more?)

  ‘Good time?’ (Not really.)

  ‘Do you know? It was. We didn’t do anything much but I really did enjoy his company.’ She could tell that she had already lost Ben’s interest. Whom she went out with didn’t bother him, or affect his life, as long as she maintained a full fridge and biscuit tin, provided a laundry service, occasional company, and kept out of his affairs unless he asked for advice. But telling him about it was a way of going back over the time she and Mark had spent together. The man might not be the most obvious match she’d met, but she wouldn’t put the brakes on just yet.

  Chapter 25

  Standing at the top of the step-ladder, Ellen screwed a new halogen bulb into one of the two lines of track lighting that illuminated the gallery. She remembered Uncle Sidney’s alarm when she’d told him how much her latest idea would cost and the disruption it would cause while the old wall lights were removed and the ‘new-fangled’ ones installed. Then, when he had seen how well they allowed the subtleties of colour in the paintings to combine, he had come round to her way of thinking.

  The ring of the opening door made her turn a little too quickly so she put out a hand to steady herself before taking a step down to greet Oliver. Her heart leaped as he crossed the threshold and looked up at her.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ He sounded put out. Where was the ‘Hello’, the ‘How’s it going?’

  She took a deep breath. Aware that her stress
over the imminent exhibition was making her unnecessarily quick to criticise, she didn’t want to feel irritated with anyone, least of all him. ‘I’m just changing a bulb. They usually last for months but for some reason that one keeps cutting out. I’m going to have to call the electrician.’ She came down to greet him properly.

  ‘I could see that. But what were you doing up a ladder dressed like that?’

  She looked down at the full black skirt with the pale embroidery motif that they had chosen together. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall off. It’s not like one of those pencil skirts that hobble you at the knees.’

  ‘I’m not talking about falling off, I’m talking about customers. Wouldn’t trousers be more suitable?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not wearing any and the job needed to be done.’ She decided not to remark on such an absurdly old-fashioned view. After all, he was only thinking of her and the impression she might make.

  ‘One bulb could wait, couldn’t it?’ The two slight creases between his eyebrows deepened with his frown.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve got Jed Sawyer coming in later to take a look at everything so I want it to be perfect for him.’

  ‘I could have done it for you.’ He snapped the step-ladder together and leaned it against the newly painted white wall. She hoped it wouldn’t mark but said nothing.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know you were coming in. Why have you anyway?’

  ‘I was on my way to the Portrait Gallery and I wanted to see you. But you’re obviously busy.’

  Why did he sound so huffy?

  ‘Don’t be like that. You know I love you dropping by.’ She planted a kiss on his nose. ‘Will I see you later?’

  ‘Depends what time you’re planning on being back.’