What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  The unfamiliar early start had left Bea feeling like something from the night of the living dead. By the time she caught sight of her reflection in the unforgiving glare of the lights in the Ladies at Tours airport, her hair had taken on an uncontrolled life of its own and, without makeup, her face was ashen, with purplish shadows under her eyes. What she looked like was neither here nor there. Last night’s events had galvanised her. The look she had seen on Oliver’s face had made her realise how much she distrusted him. Thanks to her inability to keep quiet, she had forced matters to a head too soon. So be it. She couldn’t wait for Suzanne to come to London in three weeks’ time: she needed whatever information there was right now. The previous evening, when Suzanne had heard what had happened, she had immediately agreed to drive from Bourges to meet Bea in a pâtisserie in the centre of Tours, just as soon as Bea could get there.

  As Bea stood shivering outside the low white terminal building, queuing with the other passengers at the taxi rank, only twelve hours after they’d spoken, she switched on her mobile to call Stuart. One missed call from Kate. It could wait. Before she had a chance to dial, the phone rang.

  ‘Bea?’

  ‘Yes.’ Adam! The one person she didn’t want to speak to right now.

  ‘Where the hell are you? The key buyers are due in twenty minutes. I thought we were going to run through the presentation.’

  Shit! In the heat of the moment, she’d completely forgotten the run-through. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

  ‘I’m in, er . . .’ How could she break it gently?

  ‘Where? Where are you? When are you going to get here?’ His rage communicated itself only too effectively over the airwaves. There was no way she was going to be able to wriggle out of this one with the old fail-safe of gastro enteritis. He would have recognised the continental ring tone.

  ‘In France.’ She held her breath and waited.

  ‘In France?’ he repeated. ‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I had to come here at very short notice. It’s something of an emergency.’

  ‘I’m not interested, Bea.’ There was no mistaking the chill in his voice. ‘The presentation has been in the diary for weeks, as you well know. As far as I’m concerned, it should have taken precedence over everything else. The fact that you couldn’t even be bothered to let any of us know that you were taking off signals to me that something very serious is missing in your attitude towards this company.’

  ‘Adam, I’m sorry. I tried to get hold of Stuart. He’ll do a great job in my—’

  ‘There’s nothing more to be said right now. Amanda will step in for you.’

  I bet she will, sighed Bea. ‘We’ll talk whenever you deign to come back.’ Without waiting for her to say anything, he hung up.

  Bea was cursing under her breath throughout the fifteen-minute taxi-ride into the centre of Tours. As far as her career was concerned, she had messed up big-time. The honeymoon was well and truly over and the divorce court beckoned. Adam’s reputation travelled ahead of him. Fall foul of him and there was no way back. What made it worse was that she could imagine the alacrity with which Amanda would step into her shoes and the presence of mind with which she would fulfil the role so unexpectedly thrust on her. Bea might as well have put herself in front of a firing squad and given the order to shoot.

  The sky was heavy with unfallen snow. The temperature was freezing and the good citizens of Tours were well wrapped up to protect themselves against it. The window of the Pâtisserie de Paris was stocked with fat, curled croissants, gâteaux and tarts of every size and description. As she nudged her way through the door, Bea was hit by the rich smell of coffee, the steamy hiss of the espresso machine drowning the voices of the customers who packed the small café. A waitress dodged among the tables, carrying orders, cups and plates to the high glass counter that displayed various tiny biscuits and an array of chocolates, behind which two other girls dashed back and forth, narrowly avoiding one another, shouting requests. Heavy overcoats and macs hung crowded on the wooden coat-stands. Round the dark, panelled walls hung familiar photos of Notre Dame, the Sacré Coeur, Versailles, the Arc de Triomphe and other Parisian landmarks.

  Bea checked out each table until she lighted on one tucked into a dark corner at the back. Sitting in a low leather chair was a slim woman in her forties, not wealthy-looking but elegant in a simple air-force blue fitted coat, a patterned scarf at her throat. A boyish haircut and a fine-boned face, with large, dark, hooded eyes and a long straight nose, made her stand out from the crowd. She saw Bea and smiled. As she negotiated her way through the tables, Bea felt a growing sense of anticipation, her anxiety about Adam temporarily forgotten. She noticed that beside the woman’s coffee cup was a thick manila envelope.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  The woman nodded, shy, and waited as Bea shook off her coat and ordered a café crème from the waitress who’d followed her. As she sat down, Suzanne pushed the envelope towards her. ‘I’ve brought photos so you can be sure we are talking about the same person. I’ve also brought the letters from the solicitor so you’ll know I’m telling the truth.’

  Bea pulled out the contents of the envelope. Oliver was standing in the main street of a small French town in front of the large window of an art gallery, his arm around Suzanne, smiling at the camera. ‘It’s him,’ she murmured. ‘I was so hoping it wouldn’t be.’

  There he was again, lounging on a cushioned bench in a sunny garden. And with a young child, whom she took to be Suzanne’s daughter. And standing by a table, leaning on it, looking at a piece of brightly glazed pottery. Bea stared at them, torn between relief at not having wasted her journey and dismay at what to do next. Suzanne said nothing, letting Bea take in the contents of the envelope in her own time. Then she inched one of the papers towards her. The embossed letter heading belonged to a firm of Edinburgh lawyers, McKitterick, Drummond & McKay. Below was a contract of sale drawn up between Oliver Shepherd and Suzanne Berthaud, dated almost a year earlier. But what particularly puzzled Bea was the address given for Oliver.

  ‘But this says he lives in Edinburgh. I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s where he comes from and where his wife lives.’ Suzanne must have anticipated Bea’s reaction.

  ‘His wife?’ She was leaning back in the chair and gripping the table with both hands as if it was anchoring her to the floor. Winded, she swallowed. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I thought he didn’t have any family.’

  Suzanne straightened the photos into a pile. ‘When he was packing to leave, I found a letter half written to her. That was when he told me the truth for the first time. There was no longer any reason for him not to. He admitted that he had been charged with assaulting her but although a court order, I think you call it, prevented him going near her, he had been writing because he wanted to see his daughter.’

  ‘Assault!’ This was moving too fast for Bea. When she’d set out to dig a little dirt on Oliver, she hadn’t dreamed she would discover something so worrying.

  ‘Yes. Of course, when he moved in with me, I had no idea. I told you, I was really in love but things turned very bad.’

  ‘But he didn’t hit you . . . did he?’ Bea looked towards the street, not wanting to hear but knowing what the answer was going to be.

  ‘This is the one thing I haven’t told you.’ Suzanne leaned forward, both elbows on the table, as she lowered her voice so their neighbours couldn’t hear. ‘It’s something I never wanted to talk about again, ever. To anyone. But I’ve been thinking since we spoke and I must, for your friend’s sake.’ She sipped her coffee as if gathering strength from it. She kept her eyes fixed on the photos, perhaps remembering happier times.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bea felt a knot of anxiety assemble itself in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘He didn’t hit me often and never very badly and he was always so, so sorry that afterwards I forg
ave him every time. There were just a few slaps at first. Once he slammed a door on my hand, and another time he threw a plate at me.’ She hesitated and took a sip of her coffee. ‘I’m sorry. It’s painful to talk about. As time went on, he became more short-tempered but he was so kind to me in so many other ways. I felt his life had not turned out quite as he wanted and I was sorry for that. Then one day he hit me in front of my daughter, Nadine. Just once. But that was enough.’ Bea pulled out the photo of the young girl with Oliver. Suzanne nodded, then started making patterns with the sugar in the bowl, her mind somewhere far away. ‘That was when I knew it was over. I couldn’t forgive him that. I asked him to go. He agreed . . .’ She paused, lost in whatever memories she was not sharing. ‘I’m not proud of what I put up with. All you need to know is here.’ She pointed at the documents that lay on the table under the photos. ‘When he eventually left, he went back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘I can’t take all this in. What you told me before was bad enough, but now . . . You don’t think Ellen’s in danger, do you? I’d never forgive myself if something happened.’

  ‘How would I know?’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  Bea looked at her. How could she be sure she could trust everything this complete stranger told her? Suppose this woman had some agenda of her own that made her want to blacken Oliver’s name.

  Suzanne started talking again, nervously tapping the table with a finger. ‘I’ve told you because I think she should be warned. I put up with it to begin with because I loved him. He could be so loving, so generous, that I thought I was the one at fault and that perhaps I deserved his anger. But no. I know that now.’ She still couldn’t bring herself to look at Bea. ‘I’m so ashamed of myself and for my daughter.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’ve made up a hundred times by being generous enough to tell me.’

  ‘What will you do?’ Suzanne began to pull on a pair of deep blue leather gloves.

  ‘I’m not sure. I need to think. Can’t I get you another coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you. I must get back to see someone in Bourges this afternoon. But you may keep these, if they’re helpful.’ She indicated the envelope and then she was on her feet, pulling a blue beret over her hair, picking up her bag. She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I hope I’ve helped.’ Bea’s heart went out to her – she looked suddenly so vulnerable and unsure of herself. Was Oliver responsible for her being like this? If there had been more room between the tables, Bea would have hugged her. As it was, she had to make do with standing as straight as the chair pressed into the back of her legs would allow and offering her hand. However, Suzanne leaned forward so they could exchange awkward kisses.

  Bea watched the slight figure making its way out into the cold before ordering another coffee and, as an afterthought, a slice of chocolate ganache. She ought to phone the office, but that could wait. She needed to make a plan.

  *

  Ben had sloped off to watch a DVD at a mate’s house so when Bea got home the rest of the evening stretched ahead of her. She’d had a shower, washing away the worst of her day and borrowing Ben’s razor to shave her legs and under-arms. He’d be disgusted, but he wouldn’t notice. If he did, she’d buy him another. Besides, the older she got, the less hair she seemed to have to shave (except for the random dark ones on her chin that were appearing with alarming regularity and needed more serious treatment), so she wouldn’t be borrowing the damn thing for much longer. Afterwards she hung up her clothes (must lead by example or there was no hope) and donned her embarrassingly old-fashioned pink floral winceyette pyjamas. Combined with the stripy cashmere bedsocks that Kate had given her the previous Christmas and her White Company towelling robe they made the most comfortable get-up she’d ever owned. Yes, she looked as if she had wandered in from a hotel bedroom somewhere but she didn’t care. Who was there to see?

  Downstairs she knocked up her favourite supper of scrambled eggs and anchovies – a combination she couldn’t remember discovering, she’d loved it for so long. Many friends had remarked on it and not always favourably. She put the pan in the sink, vowing to wash it up before Ben came home but, because it always took so long, not just yet. She carried the plate through to the living room where she put it on the coffee-table while she slipped a DVD into the player. Then she sat with her legs stretched out on the sofa, arranged the cushions behind her, picked up her supper, resting it on a copy of Hello! (secret vice number one) and waited for the opening credits of episode 109 of The West Wing (secret vice number two). A whole forty-five more to go, she reminded herself, with a small frisson of pleasure.

  At her feet lay a manuscript demanding a response to its agent. It wouldn’t be read tonight, but having it there made her feel as if she might make a start. She thanked God she’d seen sense and finally taken notice of Ben’s insistence that their lives weren’t worth living without a flat-screen LCD TV. At last she’d put out the monolithic old set and replaced it with this streamlined dark-surround job that fitted neatly into the alcove by the chimney-breast. If there was anything guaranteed to clear her mind of the fact that she’d fallen out with the three women – if she included Amanda – who were closest to her, this was it. She leaned back and had her first mouthful as the strings took her soaring over to the White House and all that was good and bad about America.

  But tonight the fate of a fact-finding congressional delegation to the Gaza Strip failed to grip her interest. Her mind kept wandering off to Suzanne, Mark, and what she had decided do next. As she was contemplating the alternative joys of episode 110 or the manuscript – no contest, really, but she felt better if she went through the motions – she was saved by the phone.

  Mark had finished work late and was anxious to find out what had happened in France. After listening, he agreed that there was only one course of action open to her. Before she returned Kate’s calls or even attempted to speak to Ellen, Edinburgh beckoned. Mark offered to book himself a ticket so he could come with her.

  ‘But you don’t need to,’ she protested.

  ‘I want to. Moral support. I’ll book us into a swish hotel and take Friday off. How does that sound?’

  ‘Well, brilliant, actually. I’d really appreciate it if you were there.’

  ‘Then that’s where I’ll be. Leave it to me.’

  Bea hung up and pressed the play button for episode 110. Mark was really quite intuitive. His company on the trip to Edinburgh was exactly what she wanted. As the strings swelled once again, she swiftly put the manuscript by the door ready for its journey upstairs – a sleeping partner who wouldn’t snore or take most of the bedclothes yet might entertain her – and settled back on the sofa. But not before she’d grabbed her bag and unearthed her pudding, a box of four Paul A. Young hand-made chocolates (not-so-secret vice number three).

  In The West Wing, events were spiralling out of control in Gaza when Bea heard the front door slam and familiar footsteps dragging down the hall. She pressed the pause button as the door opened.

  ‘Hey, Mum. What’s up?’ Ben dropped his bag in the middle of the room and plonked himself down beside her. She just bent her knees in time. ‘Not West Wing again?’

  ‘You know you love it, really. You just need to keep up.’

  ‘If I did that, I’d be some saddo who stayed in with his mother most nights. Just because you’ve got a box-set habit doesn’t mean I have to have one too.’

  ‘True enough.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Have you eaten? Hey!’ She slapped at his hand, which was inching towards the remaining chilli truffle and raspberry ganache. ‘Mine! Well, OK. You can have one of them, provided it’s the raspberry.’

  He puffed out his cheeks at her. ‘’S all right, but I might see if there’s something in the fridge.’

  He joined her for the remainder of the episode with a yoghurt and two cold sausages. They sat together, Bea catching him up with the plot as they went along. The smell of tobacco on his breath and smoke on his clothes reminded her of the failure of Colin’s man-to-man cha
t. But Bea didn’t mind. Just sitting with her boy, she felt contentment sweep over her. He wouldn’t be there for ever, she knew that, but when he was and they were getting on, there was nothing to beat that feeling, as strong now as it had been when he was born. At last, for the first time that day, her mind stopped whirring and she allowed herself to relax.

  Chapter 30

  The night after the private view Oliver came round for what was a slightly awkward supper with a monosyllabic Emma and a garrulous Matt. He waited until the children had disappeared upstairs before suggesting they took their coffee to the sitting room where they could talk. To Ellen’s relief, the place was reasonably tidy. She put the tray on the blanket box she used as a coffee-table, then sat down beside him. Aware he was nervous about whatever he was going to say, she kept silent, waiting for him. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and began.

  ‘I didn’t feel ready to talk to anyone about this before but Bea’s interfering made me realise I’ve got to be completely honest with you. I’m worried there may be misunderstandings if I’m not.’ She felt him press a little harder on her arm while he paused, as if struggling to find the right words.

  ‘Honest, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to just because of what she’s done.’

  ‘I don’t know who she’s been talking to but I can only think she’s found out about what happened in France.’ He shifted position so she had to readjust her own. ‘You know that I lived with a woman there – Suzanne.’

  Ellen concentrated as he began to detail the complexities of their relationship. However, she was soon lost among the intricacies and influences of Suzanne’s numerous interfering relations and friends. She caught up again when he was talking about how they had grown apart. He’d lowered his voice so she could only just hear him. ‘The first time she hit me with her mobile, I didn’t think it meant anything.’