What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  No one came here. Just Bea. Sometimes, when she felt the need for human contact, she took her work downstairs but most often she was happy to hide away up here where the atmosphere was reliably untroubled. Tonight, she had brought up her mug of coffee and settled herself at the desk. The blind on the window to her right was up so she could see across gardens and rooftops, the orange glow of the street lights blurring into a starless night sky. On the other side of the room, she’d pulled the finely striped cream blind so no one from across the street could see in. She’d lit her favourite scented candle, the Diptyque Figuier that Ben insisted smelt like cat’s piss – but up here he didn’t have to smell it. From the two tiny black speakers floated the soothing sounds of Dire Straits.

  She switched on her laptop and quickly Googled ‘Oliver Shepherd’. Might as well start with the obvious. She gazed awestruck at the possibility of nine million entries. How could there be so many Oliver Shepherds in the world, even allowing for a few repeats? She clicked on a few of the sites, finding nothing remotely relevant so quickly gave up. She’d have to narrow the search. He’d said he’d lived in France but where exactly? She picked up the phone.

  Kate answered immediately. As she explained, Bea could sense Kate’s disapproval.

  ‘Did he mention the name of a town or anything? I can’t remember a thing, as usual.’ Bea’s anxiety about her senile moments had become a joke among them.

  ‘Ah, the joys of alcohol-induced amnesia. You’ll be able to ask him again and be just as interested in the answer as you were the first time then.’

  ‘You must be able to remember. Your brain functions much better than mine.’

  ‘Didn’t Ellen once say something about Centre? I think it’s a region around the Loire valley somewhere. Does that help?’

  ‘Well, at least it gives me somewhere to start.’

  ‘Go carefully, won’t you?’

  ‘Kate, stop it. This is for Ellen. I’ll call you later or tomorrow if I find anything. And I probably won’t.’ She put the phone down and carried on Googling. After an hour, she was still not much further forward. All she had was a list of the four major towns in the area, the names of a few galleries, a couple of British-sounding artists who lived there, and no idea where to go next. As she debated how to narrow the search again, she was interrupted by the phone. It was Mark.

  Within minutes, she had told him what she was up to and how she’d reached an impasse. Mark had heard enough about Oliver to be intrigued by his reticence about his past and backed her decision to do a judicious bit of digging into his non-background.

  ‘Why don’t you call a gallery or two in the major towns and just ask them if they know of an Oliver Shepherd or of an English gallery in the area?’ he suggested.

  ‘That’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it? The area’s huge. Anyway, my French is so rusty it’s corroded.’

  ‘But mine isn’t. Maybe I could do it for you.’

  ‘Would you? Really?’

  ‘You’ve told me so much about this guy that I’m as curious as you are now. Of course I will.’

  They agreed that during his lunch hour the next day he would try three or four galleries that they chose at random and then report back. Shutting down her laptop, Bea concentrated her attention on him and what he had to say, and for the next half-hour they chatted about their week so far and planned to see a film the following week, both admitting how much they were looking forward to seeing each other again. By the time she went to bed, Bea felt she was definitely on the way to putting her own small world to rights.

  *

  By lunchtime the next day, she felt quite different. A major disagreement had blown up with Amanda over a book jacket. Where Bea was anxious to send the illustration back to the illustrator, asking him to play up the humorous side of the novel, Amanda wanted to use what he’d already done so they could meet their production schedule. In the end Bea had stepped down, uncharacteristically brow-beaten into defeat, then spent the rest of the morning fuming, furious with herself for letting Amanda get her own way. She knew it was more important that the jacket was right than that they met the bloody schedule. When Mark called, she was debating whether or not to involve Adam. If she did, she might be shifting her rocky relationship with Amanda into another gear. How much did that matter to her?

  For a moment, she forgot her problems as she listened to what Mark had to say.

  ‘I drew a complete blank with the first two in Châteauroux and Moulins. They sounded rather suspicious of me and couldn’t understand why I wanted to find a gallery when I didn’t know where it was or what it specialised in.’

  Bea held her breath. She had a feeling something was coming.

  ‘Then I called Jean-Claude Épicier, une galerie d’art—’

  ‘OK, you’re not speaking to them now! Stick to English with me,’ Bea interrupted, rather more rudely than she’d intended but she was impatient to hear the rest of the story.

  ‘Sorry. The chap who answered the phone said he didn’t know any Oliver Shepherd but . . .’ He paused for effect. Bea had to stop herself shouting at him to hurry up. ‘. . . there was an art gallery run by an Englishwoman close to where his father lived in the old town of Bourges. He couldn’t remember its name but said he’d call his dad and get the number for me. Ex-pats in the same business are bound to know each other, aren’t they? I’m calling him back in an hour.’

  ‘Well done, Holmes. That’s brilliant. Let me know as soon as you get it and I’ll call her this afternoon.’ Bea enjoyed the excitement of any chase, however fruitless it might turn out to be.

  She spent the next two hours in suspense, unable to concentrate on anything, having to apologise to Stuart three times for making him repeat himself while pitching to her a book about Hitler’s regiment in the First World War. Otherwise she fiddled about, answering emails and composing one to Adam about the controversial book jacket. She’d decided it was important to fight her corner, not for herself but for the welfare of the book. Her relationship with Amanda would have to weather the disagreement. Every time the phone rang, she grabbed it in a fever of anticipation only to be disappointed. At last, at twenty-five to five, Mark rang.

  ‘It’s called Art Space and is definitely run by an Englishwoman. Apparently it’s been there for about five years.’

  ‘Do you really think I should phone her?’

  ‘Don’t get cold feet now. Not after all I’ve done! If this comes to nothing you can think again. But what harm can possibly come from one call?’

  He was right. She’d probably get nowhere but at least she’d have tried. Promising to call him when she’d spoken to them, she put the phone down, then hesitated. What gave her the right to interfere in her friend’s life like this? Perhaps Kate was right and she should accept Oliver and his relationship with Ellen at face value. Then she thought of Ellen, the terrible bewildering period after Simon’s death and how she had picked herself up and slowly built a new life for herself and her children. Kate and Bea had been so proud of her. Back then, Ellen had relied on them for support when she needed it. Bea was not going to let her down now, whatever Kate said. She had to find out if Oliver was who he said he was, for Ellen’s sake. Although what she would do if he wasn’t, she didn’t dare think. Besides, it was only one little phone call. Mark was right. What harm could it possibly do?

  Putting off the moment, she Googled ‘Art Space Bourges’. All that appeared was the name, address and phone number of the gallery and a map showing the street it was on. At the same time, an email from Adam pinged into her inbox, asking her to come to his office at a quarter past five. She had twenty minutes. Galvanised into action, she dialled the number. Listening to the long beeps, she quickly considered what she was going to say. A click.

  ‘Allô, oui?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Bea decided not to embarrass herself by even attempting anything in French.

  ‘Yes, I do. I am English. Mary Keeting speaking. How can I hel
p you?’ She sounded pleasant, friendly, of a certain age and with a slight northern accent that Bea hadn’t expected.

  ‘I’m looking for someone. I know he owns an art gallery somewhere near Bourges and I’m phoning various galleries and artists in the hope that someone will know him.’ How feeble did that sound?

  ‘If I can help I will. What’s his name?’

  ‘Oliver Shepherd.’

  Bea heard an intake of breath. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m Bea Wilde. I’m from London. Do you know him?’ Her grip tightened on the phone.

  ‘I do know an Oliver Shepherd, yes.’

  ‘Well, the one I’m talking about is around about thirty-eight, handsome, tall, dark-haired . . .’ Bea racked her brain to think of one distinguishing characteristic. ‘And he owns an arts and crafts gallery somewhere in the Centre region.’ She winced at her own accent. ‘I know this is like looking for a needle in a haystack but I must try.’

  ‘Owns?’

  Bea thought she detected a sense of outrage in Mary’s question. ‘Yes. That’s what he said.’

  ‘The Oliver Shepherd I know worked with a friend of mine until recently.’ She emphasised the ‘with’. ‘He owns nothing.’

  Bea could feel her heart pounding. ‘But he said . . .’

  ‘I’m sure whatever he said was extremely plausible. If he’s the same person, it would be. He lived with Suzanne Berthaud, a friend of mine, who has a small but very successful arts and crafts gallery outside Bourges.’ Mary stopped as if she was about to say more than she wanted.

  Bea heard the ring of a bell in the background, something said.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s a customer. Bonjour, Madame. Un moment . . . I’ll have to go. Let me give you Suzanne’s number. I’ll tell her to expect a call from you this evening.’

  Bea put down the phone as a hot flush overtook her. She flapped the neck of her blouse and removed her jacket, frustrated, excited and puzzled. With her elbows on her desk, she rested her head in her hands to think for a moment. Perhaps she should leave matters there. He’d said he’d owned a gallery and she’d found it. Perhaps he hadn’t owned the place, but he’d told some version of the truth. But as she went over the conversation, she realised there had been something in Mary’s voice that pricked her curiosity. She picked up the scrap of paper on which she’d written the number she’d been given and put it into her purse.

  Stuart stuck his head round the door. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Bea looked up, annoyed by the interruption. ‘No. Just something I wasn’t expecting.’ Suddenly cold, she put her jacket back on.

  Stuart understood that she wasn’t going to say more and withdrew. She watched as he returned to his office and bent over whatever he was reading. She wanted to talk to someone but she hadn’t time to call Mark or Kate. Besides, Mark was bound to be in some high-level meeting, and she’d never get past that dragon on Kate’s practice reception. She decided to call Mark after she’d spoken to Suzanne and texted Kate to ask her round after supper. But, first, she’d have to wait and kill time doing battle with Amanda. She stood up to go to Adam’s office, having just noticed Amanda tottering towards it.

  *

  By the time she and Ben had finished their fish pie that evening, she had calmed down from the confrontation. Adam’s support for her over the jacket had provoked a stinging attack from Amanda in which she had accused Bea of costing the company an untold fortune, thanks to her frequent failure to meet the publishing schedules. Which was totally unfair. Well, almost. Bea had hit back, defending herself by pointing out that her prime concern lay with the books and their successful publication, not with being a schedule-slave. ‘That’s how I see my job,’ she concluded. ‘Like it or not.’ She remained as calm and aloof as she knew how.

  Adam had waded in to keep the peace, pointing out the right on each side and asking them to try harder to accommodate one another. However, he added, in this instance the schedule would have to be adapted to allow for getting the right illustration. Both women had stalked out without speaking and returned to their offices. Bea had heard Amanda’s door slam.

  ‘Sounds like a bloody kindergarten, if you ask me,’ was Ben’s verdict when she told him what had happened.

  She laughed. He was absolutely right. Yet despite recognising their playground behaviour, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to back down now. Amanda and she had crossed swords too many times for that. At least Adam appeared to have no favourites and supported whoever he thought was right, which must be particularly galling for Amanda, if office gossip about their increasingly ‘close’ relationship was true.

  Once everything was put away, she left Ben in front of the TV while she went upstairs to phone France.

  Suzanne picked up immediately. She listened without interrupting as Bea told her the story she’d thought up earlier, having decided not to tell the whole truth until she’d heard what the other woman had to say. If she turned out still to be a friend of Oliver’s, despite Mary’s apparent antagonism, Bea didn’t want him or Ellen to find out what she’d been doing behind their backs. Not yet, at least. Instead she explained how she’d met Oliver through a friend some months ago when she was in France. He’d talked about his gallery and offered to look at Bea’s pottery (as if – but the idea amused her), advise her and perhaps help to sell some pieces for her. When she finished there was a silence. She lay back on the chaise longue (however elegant it looked, she never failed to be surprised by how uncomfortable it actually was), hoping that Suzanne wouldn’t see through her story, and waited for her to speak.

  She began slowly although her English was fluent. ‘I’m sorry to let you down but, if he is the Oliver I know and it sounds as if he well may be, then he had no right to raise your hopes. Mary and I talked about this and we agreed that I should tell you the truth of what happened.’

  Bea could hardly breathe, not knowing what to expect next.

  ‘I met my Oliver Shepherd when I was visiting England about two and half years ago. I bumped into him at the Serpentine Gallery, we got talking about the paintings and he asked me for a coffee. That was it. Within weeks of my coming home, he visited for a few days but then never left. He moved in with me and Isabelle, my daughter. My friends warned me to take things slowly, but it was impossible. We were in love. Or so I thought.’

  Bea lay still, unable to believe the similarity with Ellen’s story. But could she really have tracked him down this easily? Not possible, surely.

  ‘I’m sorry, you don’t need to know all this.’ The momentary bitterness in Suzanne’s voice had gone.

  ‘But I’m really intrigued,’ Bea reassured her. ‘He seemed so genuine.’

  ‘That’s his great gift. I trusted him completely and he almost destroyed my business. Now I realise that he was a – how you say? – a conman who got what he wanted, then disappeared.’

  ‘But Oliver said he owned a gallery. He can’t be the same person.’ By now, Bea wanted more than anything for him not to be.

  ‘The Oliver Shepherd I knew said a lot of things. He worked in the gallery with me for maybe two years. I was pleased to help him earn some money. After the first year, he persuaded me into signing over half the business to him. Mary and her husband tried to stop me but I wouldn’t listen. I wanted to prove to him how much I loved him. He often made me feel as if he doubted the strength of my feelings. This was a way of showing him. How stupid I was!’

  She paused but Bea said nothing, astonished by how open Suzanne was being.

  ‘I gradually cut myself off from most of my friends and let him take over my life, but I liked doing whatever pleased him. I really thought we would be together for ever and this gift was a sign of my commitment to him. But I’ve told you far too much. This isn’t why you phoned. I’m sorry.’

  ‘In a way it is, though. I think I’d better explain.’ Apart from the similarities in the two stories, there was something in Suzanne’s voice that made Bea trust her. Relying on her ins
tinct, she made the snap decision to tell her everything. When she finished, there was a long pause. Then Suzanne said what they were both thinking. ‘He must be the same man. He’s doing the same thing all over again. You have to tell her.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Bea was wishing more than anything that she hadn’t made the phone call. Perhaps knowledge wasn’t always such a good thing.

  ‘You must. Let me finish the story and you’ll see. Because, having given him forty-nine per cent of the business, the only way I was able to get it back was to buy it. He made me pay for what I gave him. He may have been relying on me not being able to raise the money. If I hadn’t he could have bought my share, then sold the place and walked away with the profit. Selling to him would be the only way I could sever ties with him. But he hadn’t thought of my brother, who rescued me, thank God. By that time, I had no idea where Oliver had gone. Everything was being handled by an Edinburgh lawyer on his behalf.’

  ‘Edinburgh? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve still got the correspondence. So, you see, if he’s the same man, you must say something.’

  Bea needed time to think. Why did Suzanne make it sound so urgent? She had the oddest feeling that something had been left unsaid but she didn’t feel comfortable in prompting her to say any more. She’d said so much. Before she had time to say anything, Suzanne caught her breath. ‘Of course. I’m going to be in London in three weeks’ time. We could meet then and I’ll give you photos and anything else I can find to help.’

  Three weeks seemed a long way off but Bea had to be content with that. She was curious to meet Suzanne in person and welcomed the opportunity to gauge her reliability for herself before she tried to convince Ellen. The two women said their goodbyes with a promise from Suzanne to be in touch nearer the time.