What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  That same tone. She hated it when he went into victim mode, as if the world was against him and now even she was failing to offer the love and support that he felt was his due. He’d used it a couple of times recently, once because she’d supported Emma against him when he’d asked her to wash up and she’d had homework that had to be done and again when she’d wanted to meet up with Bea and Kate without him. The initial shine was definitely beginning to rub off their relationship. But that was life, she guessed. He knew what her business meant to her and how important it was to her financially. Every exhibition was at least as important as the last and had to be got absolutely right. ‘I can’t be too late because of the kids but I’ve no idea how fussy Jed will be. Some artists take ages until they’re happy with how their pictures are hung. I can see why.’ She paused. ‘You could say there’s a lot hanging on it.’

  Although Oliver groaned at the pun, she was relieved to see him smile.

  ‘Which reminds me, I must check when the drink’s being delivered for the opening.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me do that? I could be useful around here.’ He went over and sat behind her desk, flicking through her papers.

  ‘I know you could but I prefer to do all these things myself. It’s not that I don’t trust you . . .’ She stopped. Oliver looked so dejected that she almost changed her mind. ‘Really.’

  ‘I know.’ He got up and started looking through the framed pictures that leaned against the wall. ‘You’ve built the business up and you can’t let it go. I’d be the same.’

  She bit back her warning to be careful. If any of the glass broke now . . . ‘You would?’

  ‘Of course. You carry on and give me a call when you’re through. Maybe I’ll come round or, even better, you could escape to the flat.’

  ‘I’ll try but no promises.’

  As he shut the door, he turned and blew her a kiss, then disappeared down the street. Ellen put the steps away and switched on the lights, ready to start hanging the pictures where she and Jed had planned the day before. She locked the door and put up the ‘CLOSED’ sign so she wouldn’t be disturbed. Looking at the paintings, Ellen thought how much she loved these ‘abstract landscapes’, as he called them. Strong and atmospheric, the broad textural strokes and powerful use of colour conveyed the light and power that Jed saw in the land patterns and skies of the Lake District.

  While waiting for him to arrive, she put the hard work off for another few minutes by sitting down with her checklist to make sure that everything would run smoothly the following evening. She ran through the invitation list to the private view, firing off reminder emails to anyone who hadn’t replied. She called Emily Kirkbride, whose exhibition she had just taken down, to make sure she was expecting back the pictures that hadn’t sold. Ellen was keeping three for stock and would take more once those went. She confirmed with Time Out that their reviewer would turn up and rang her friend Cressida at Art Finder magazine to check she was coming too. Majestic confirmed they would deliver the wine, ice and glasses the following afternoon.

  With nothing left to do, she began to distribute the pictures around the gallery, leaning them against the walls where they’d look best. The largest went on the wall dividing the back and front room to draw visitors into the heart of the gallery. Then she shared out the rest between the two rooms, making sure the strongest works would be in key positions so the punters would keep moving around. She made a start on the hanging, stepping back every so often to make sure that each picture had enough space to speak for itself without having so much that it destroyed the effect of the whole. There was no doubt in her mind about Jed’s talent. Apart from the abstracts that they were keeping towards the front of the gallery, he had recently started painting still-lifes in oils, choosing the simplest subjects – a sweet, a cherry, a small bowl of eggs or a plate of apples – most often painting them larger than life size, always concentrating on texture, light and shade. She grouped twenty together to hang on the short right-hand wall of the back room deliberately to surprise the punters with their impact. These were the ones that would sell first, she was sure.

  As she worked, her mind went back to Oliver. He had gone to so much trouble all week to make up for that terrible night, constantly reassuring her that nothing like that would happen again. Although she could hardly forget the episode, she had made every effort to put it behind her. At the same time she had vowed that if he ever so much as threatened a repeat performance, he would not find her so forgiving. Constant re-evaluation was what every new relationship must involve, she reminded herself. Everyone packed the odd surprise into their emotional artillery and Oliver was no exception. She should try to be more generous.

  However confident she felt, one nagging doubt still surfaced when the two of them were apart and she had time to look at their relationship objectively. Had she been too hasty in committing herself to him? Should she have waited until she knew him better? Everything had seemed so right to begin with but she had to acknowledge that their relationship had changed from how it had been during those first blissful weeks. But there were so many pressures on them now: children, rent, job. She wanted things to be as they had been but she couldn’t ignore the demands of everyday life for ever.

  If only he hadn’t wasted all that money on that crazy romantic gesture of the shed. Despite all intentions, it stood unused (apart from the freezing night she had spent in it), a constant reminder of what she wasn’t achieving and of the fact that he had paid for it while she was paying his rent. She hadn’t expected their arrangement to continue beyond two or three months and her funds were already running low. One solution would be for him to move into the house, but much as she might welcome the idea, Emma was far from ready for that to happen. She knew other women in her position wouldn’t let that stop them, but she wasn’t one of them. Her children came first.

  The previous week, two jobs that Oliver had been so certain were in the bag had come to nothing, one at the Dulwich Art Festival and the other at Marshalsea Arts, a small private gallery known to her only by name. Despite his obvious disappointment, she was pleased that he remained positive about finding something else. Having an uncertain future was difficult, but at least they knew they would be together. She smiled at the thought. Of course that was what she wanted.

  There was a knock at the door. A tall, burly man in his fifties, with a head of cropped grey hair, a weather-beaten face and a short grizzled beard, stood outside. His dark-green corduroy trousers were topped by a heavy-knit brown jumper over an open-necked shirt, and he wore scuffed brown loafers on his feet.

  ‘Jed, hi.’ She shook his hand. ‘I’ve made a start, but you may want to change things again once you see how they look.’

  He came inside and stood still, taking in the room. Then his face lit up with a wide smile. ‘This is fantastic.’

  ‘Come through to the back.’ Ellen led the way.

  Again he took a moment to study what she had done. ‘Yes, I still like your idea of putting these together and this wall’s ideal.’

  For the next hour or so they worked together. Jed had a clear idea of how his paintings should hang to be seen at their best but he listened to Ellen’s reasons for placing the key works in certain spots. Between them they agreed exactly where everything should go and spent the rest of the day hanging them in place. Eventually Ellen left him to take a final look at both rooms. She went back to her desk and waited. She was aware of him stopping in front of each picture as if greeting an old friend. After a few minutes, she forgot about him as she concentrated on her paperwork, lost in the effort of double-checking her accounts for the show she’d just taken down.

  ‘I was wondering whether to swap those two round.’ Jed broke her concentration and she looked up to see him pointing to two of the larger abstracts, one in autumnal, the other in winter tones. ‘But now I look again, I can see that they resonate better the way they are. It works. I’m happy.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ellen wanted re
assurance. ‘We’ve got time to change them over.’

  ‘I don’t need to. Can I buy you a quick drink as a thank-you?’

  ‘Let me buy you one,’ she said, easy now she knew she had a good hour in hand and time to answer any of his questions about the next day. ‘I should make a couple of calls first.’ He nodded and went into the back to give her privacy. She dialled Oliver but was sent straight to voicemail where she left a message. Then she called home, promising Emma and Matt to be home by seven thirty.

  The pub was busy but they found a seat in the back room. She pushed through to the bar to get Jed’s pint and her glass of wine, then returned to join him. He sat with his back against the oak bench while she perched on a small round stool across a table that was marked with rings and covered with beer mats. She wanted to talk him through the private view, making sure that he was happy with every aspect. When she’d finished, there was a short silence.

  ‘You’ve thought of everything. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything until we’ve sold a picture or two. Then we’ll know it’s worked.’

  ‘Just seeing my work displayed like that is almost enough. Honestly. If you hadn’t come to Kendal last year and found me, this would never have happened.’

  ‘If I hadn’t found you, someone else would have. Jeannie was busting to tell someone about you.’ Ellen remembered the woman who owned the B-and-B where she’d stayed. Small, round and aproned, she was a fount of knowledge as to what was going on in the area. Ellen had gone up there to see an artist whose work had been featured in a magazine but Jeannie had insisted she visit the painter who had rented ‘the artist’s place’ just outside town.

  She had followed directions to a small stone cottage where, alerted to her arrival, Jed had welcomed her inside. The place was furnished minimally but comfortably, giving the impression that he wasn’t particularly interested in material things. At the back of the house was the studio, a large room with a north-facing window that looked across uninterrupted countryside scattered with sheep. She was immediately bowled over by his work as was he about her proposal to show it in London. Since then, they’d corresponded and spoken on the phone, making sure there was enough work to show, Jed photographing each new picture so she could see what to expect. She hadn’t been disappointed.

  Jed was endearingly straightforward and Ellen liked that. When he talked about the recent death of his wife, Anne, she had empathised. As the years had passed, she’d found she wanted to talk more about the devastation she’d felt when Simon died and her long journey back from there, but as time had gone on, fewer and fewer people wanted to listen. After a while, you were expected to be adjusting, not needing to grieve openly any more. Finding someone who understood that loss and could talk about it was an unexpected gift. Unlike Simon, Anne had taken her time to die. Her protracted death from cancer had been difficult for Jed, who had had to watch her ebbing away over years as her suffering increased. At least Simon had been spared that slow decline.

  ‘That was why we ended up in Kendal,’ Jed explained. ‘She grew up there and we had family holidays there and she wanted to spend the last few years of her life there. When we thought she’d recovered after the first bout of cancer, we decided to move, you see. We didn’t believe it would come back. You don’t. Or we didn’t want to. When it did, my painting became a way of coping. Anne said she liked to think of me out in the fells when I wasn’t with her, recording them so she could see them too. Then, when she needed me in the house, I painted the objects around us. It turned into a kind of game as she tried to find more and more difficult challenges for me. I hadn’t shown anyone else what I’d been doing till Jeannie sent you along.’

  ‘Thank God she did. I know the show’s going to be a huge success.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Thanks to you, I’m beginning to feel as if I might have some sort of a future without Anne now.’

  ‘I know that feeling. I was the same when Uncle Sidney asked me to work with him at the gallery. I was lost after Simon’s death but working here gave me a new direction and made me feel as if I could somehow cope. And I have.’

  ‘Let’s drink to that.’ He raised his glass

  ‘What do you think you’ll do next?’

  ‘I may look for somewhere to live in London.’

  ‘Really?’ Having seen the landscape he woke up to every day for herself, Ellen couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Why? How could you give up the fells?’

  ‘Everything up there reminds me too much of Anne’s death. If I’m going to start again, I’ve got to move away. We started out together in London, so I still have friends here. Life’s about taking chances and this is one of them.’

  ‘But will you be able to find the same inspiration down here? I’m sorry. That’s naïve of me. But the landscape up there’s so magnificent and so different.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ll be surprised. This is where I began, after all. I was forced into teaching history once we’d had our boys so I never painted as much as I would have liked to back then. This will give me a chance to catch up on missed opportunities that I haven’t forgotten. It’ll be an interesting challenge.’ He smiled at her as he drained his glass. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She looked at her watch. ‘The time! I must go, I’m afraid. My kids will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jed stood up to shake her hand. ‘And I must find somewhere to eat.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ She felt bad that she hadn’t asked before. Perhaps she should have recommended something nearby.

  He looked embarrassed. ‘Er . . . right round the corner.’

  ‘From here? Where?’ There weren’t any hotels as far as she knew, apart from the one that was heavily over-subscribed by Social Services to give people a roof while they waited for council housing.

  ‘I’ll show you. Come with me.’ She let him take her arm and guide her to Conway Street.

  ‘But there isn’t a hotel anywhere near here,’ she said, puzzled.

  ‘Did I say anything about a hotel?’ Jed laughed, a deep infectious rumble, and pointed to a maroon VW campervan. ‘It’s got everything I need: a bed downstairs and a pull-out two-berth shelf in the roof, a kitchen, wardrobe and bags of storage space.’

  ‘But it must be freezing at night.’ Ellen couldn’t imagine anything worse than not being able to sleep in a comfortable warm bed.

  ‘A little on the cold side, maybe, but nothing a good sleeping bag can’t solve.’ He opened the door to show her the tidy, snug interior.

  ‘But you can’t stay here.’ Ellen couldn’t bring herself to ask what he did about his washing arrangements. She could see that parking the van where you could pee in a field was one thing, but in a London street?

  ‘It’s not ideal, true. But I promised my son Ian that I’d bring it down for him. He’s flying in from Germany to come to my show and then he’s taking it through Eurotunnel. He’ll drive it to Hamburg where he’s living. Seemed a waste of money to book into a hotel. To be honest, I didn’t really think it through.’ He laughed again.

  ‘Well, you must come home with me. I insist. At least I’ve got a shower and running water. I’ll give you a key, introduce you to the children and you can come and go as you please.’ Although she hadn’t known him for long, she felt that she could trust him completely.

  Jed raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Why not? It’s the very least I can do.’

  His face creased into a smile. ‘Then leap aboard and I’ll drive you there, my saviour.’

  *

  ‘You’ve let some artist you hardly know have free run of your house? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Ellen took Oliver’s hand and stroked the side of his face. ‘But the artists I look after are almost like my family. I had to help him and it won’t be for long.’

  ‘Family!’ He snorted. ‘I get thrown out and a near stranger gets to move in. How does that work exact
ly? Do explain to me.’ He threw back the duvet and got out of bed.

  ‘Come back. You know that’s not what it’s about.’ He was not going to make her lose her temper. ‘Come on.’ She watched him turn, his body taut and strong. She could see his expression soften as he looked at her. His displeasure vanished as quickly as it had come.

  He climbed in again then rolled over onto his stomach. He kissed her collarbone, suddenly penitent. ‘I’m sorry. Of course I know all that. I’m jealous of him, that’s all. I want to be living there with you.’

  ‘I know. And you will. Just a few more months. That’s what we agreed.’ A few more months that she could barely afford unless Oliver started contributing. Perhaps if she worked harder on Emma they could bring the date forward. She felt his hand move under the duvet until it was resting on her stomach. She rolled over to meet him and, as they touched, all thoughts of a practical nature left her head.

  She hadn’t been too hasty. This was what life was for.

  Chapter 26

  After the divorce, Bea had earmarked Colin’s study in the loft extension for herself. As soon as he had moved out, the decorators had removed any trace of his occupancy. The striped wallpaper was stripped and the walls painted a soft off-white. His second-hand bookcases went to the tip and in their place four long thick shelves were fixed to the wall, manuscripts on the lowest and books above. Having finally persuaded him to take away his antique pine partner’s desk, Bea chose oak trestles with a glass top instead. On it, in stark contrast to her office desk, sat her laptop, a phone and a Bestlite desk lamp, nothing more.

  She’d put in recessed ceiling lights on dimmer switches that she rarely used, and four discreet Artemide wall lights that washed the walls with a soft glow. The manky blue carpet had given way to seagrass with a couple of strategically placed deep red wool rugs. The only other notable piece of furniture, apart from her office chair, was a chrome and black Corbusier chaise longue. How arty she felt when reclining to read, a standard Anglepoise behind her, the read pages of a manuscript turned onto the coffee-table at her side, a chocolate or two within easy reach. On the walls were three large prints that she’d bought from one of Ellen’s artists: richly coloured and carefully patterned domestic still-lifes that reminded her of the work of Mary Fedden but without the price tag.