Toweled dry now, he slipped on the pale blue shirt Ella had ironed for him. Hmmmm, Ella. He smiled to himself. Boy, it was fun watching her squirm. He almost felt like letting her off the hook occasionally, but his common sense had thankfully overruled his better nature. This was good for her, having to make an effort and actually considering someone else’s feelings for a change. He looked around at the unusually tidy sitting room—Ella’s knitting was all bundled in its bag for once and she’d changed the water in the vases. Yes, altogether things at home had definitely changed for the better.
The Bean, as he had anticipated, was still in her “boudoir,” as she liked to call it, so Frankie made straight for the kitchen. His list awaited him, but handwritten this time. Perhaps Alex had been in too much of a rush to program her commands into her database, or whatever. He peered closely at the paper, hastily torn from a pad adorned with her company logo. She’d used a gel pen; her writing was smaller than he’d expected, with regular curving letters and long loops for the gs and ys. It was firm but surprisingly girlish:
Hi Ella,
Thanks for stepping in so brilliantly. The place looks great and the biscuits were delicious—have to admit I polished them off last night. I’m blaming jet lag! Mum seems delighted with everything you’ve done for her. I’m sorry if she was a bit tricky at first—but you seem to have bonded fantastically now, so thanks very much for that too. Just a quick list of things I’d like you to do today:
—My washing from Toronto is still in my case—could you do it for me? The running gear is probably a bit yucky and sweaty, so slam some fabric conditioner in with it please. I usually do my running bras by hand (gotta keep that support going!) and there’s some handwash stuff under the sink, but sling the knickers in the machine.
—Could you get me a tube of clotrimazole (sorry to ask)?
—Could you get whatever Mum wants to eat? Her appetite is hopeless so anything tempting will do.
I’ll be working late most of this week so I’ll do a sandwich @ desk. She says you’ve offered to take her out again today—great. Just don’t tire her out too much. Hope I’ve left enough cash. Let me know if you need any more.
Thanks again,
Alex
Frankie read the note through several times. It was so unlike the abrupt, rather formal Alex he’d met he could hardly reconcile the two versions. Of course, she thought she was leaving her instructions for another woman so she was off her guard. Working in the theater, Frankie was used to having close female friends with a level of intimacy that perhaps didn’t occur in other professions. By force of circumstance, he’d shared dressing rooms, tour vans, bathrooms, even bedrooms (well, it was Edinburgh) with actresses, friends who had stripped in front of him without any qualms. They’d even shared their tales of woe about their love lives in excruciating detail. It was all par for the course. But they’d known they were sharing with a man. Alex didn’t. Reading her note was slightly uncomfortable for Frankie, a bit like reading a secret diary, and he felt a sudden pang of remorse about the whole deception issue.
Glancing at the note again, he put his reservations to one side. He had laundry to do, groceries to fetch and clotrimazole to buy (whatever that was). He made a first cup of tea for the Bean, whom he could now hear moving around in her boudoir, and took in the tray.
“Darling!” she greeted him rapturously from her position by the window. He’d noticed she had an instinct for placing herself in decorative poses, always with her best side forward and with the most flattering lighting she could find. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
He grinned delightedly—he seemed to have trouble doing anything else around the Bean. “Morning, Bean!” He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Sleep well?”
“Oh ever so much better, thank you. It was lovely to have Alex back. She was exhausted, poor girl, though she wouldn’t admit it, of course, so there didn’t seem much point staying up. Started that book about Tennessee Williams you lent me. Fascinating life, just fascinating. Oh, one thing, darling. I came perilously close to letting the cat out of the bag about you. She asked me how it was going, if you were working hard—’cos I must admit, I did have a little moan the other day about that useless sister of yours—and I think I might have said something about you being awfully handsome. I covered it up, but one will have to be terribly careful.”
Frankie looked at her in horror. The last thing they needed was for Alex to catch them all out, especially when it seemed to suit everyone else so perfectly. The Bean wanted him to stay, Ella was begging him to stay in place so that she could continue with her new job, and he was certain that he would, indeed, do a far better job of it. Plus, he had to admit, spending time with the Bean was a sheer delight. If anything, he felt he should be paying her for the privilege.
She returned his look guiltily. “Yes, I know, sweetheart. It was very silly of me. Very silly indeed. But I think you must take some responsibility. If you weren’t so handsome, I shouldn’t have said anything. So it’s your fault really.” She came close and cupped his cheek with her good hand. “Couldn’t you try to be just a little bit plainer?”
He laughed, charmed as always. “You will take more care, won’t you?”
She crossed her heart with a slender finger, looking up at him coquettishly. “Promise on my honor!” Then broke into an earthy laugh. “For what it’s worth. Now, darling—are we still on for today?”
Frankie rubbed his hands together, his disquiet put aside. “You bet! I haven’t been to Brighton for ages. I’ve just got some laundry to do first, I’ll get it in the drier and we’ll be off. All right? Shall I make some sandwiches so we can eat on the way?”
The Bean hugged herself. “Ooh, yummy. Egg mayonnaise for me, please. Plenty of black pepper too, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“For you, Bean, nothing is too much!”
Frankie left her to her breakfast and opened the door to Alex’s room. She’d left in a hurry this morning, by the look of it, and her suitcase lay unopened on the floor. The bed was turned back. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted the pillow to plump it up. Something gray and cottony slipped to the floor and he stooped to retrieve it. An oversize T-shirt with her company logo. Was that what she wore to sleep? Frankie shook his head. She didn’t look the négligée type, but still! He pushed it quickly under the pillow. Then, smoothing the sheet, he shook the enormous quilt vigorously. He turned to survey the rest of the room. Tidyish but with no concession to comfort, aside from the enormous bed and seemingly new bed linen. With a shrug, he picked up her case and carried it into the kitchen.
Later that day, driving home from Brighton with the Bean beside him nodding off gently, Frankie had a feeling he almost didn’t recognize and had trouble pinning down. Well-being? Contentment? It was certainly something like that. With the housework done, despite constant interruptions from the Bean asking if it was time to go, they’d squeezed into Alex’s little car and set off. The Bean’s constant stream of outrageous anecdotes kept Frankie in stitches all the way there and he had to force himself to concentrate on the route and to keep to the speed limits despite the Bean urging him to drive faster. Once there, she took charge, spurning the sandwiches and insisting on lunch at English’s, which she paid for after a brief skirmish. Their stroll around the Lanes was punctuated by the Bean darting into antique shops and jewelers. She tucked another neatly wrapped package into her large leather handbag and took his arm again.
“This place has gone to the dogs! It was really something in the sixties. I remember being dragged by a boyfriend to hear the Who at the Starlight Rooms. Such energy. That lovely boy, Daltrey. And his trousers! I really thought they were going to split right there and then. Of course, he’s quite the country gentleman now. Well, they all are, aren’t they? Tragic, with their OBEs and their country estates.” She shuddered. “Of course, I gave it all up when I had Alex or who knows, I might have been a dame!” She shrieked with laughter. “Luckily, darling, I’ve never been ri
ch enough to be dragged into bourgeois mediocrity. Genteel poverty is more my thing, much more integrity, don’t you agree?”
Frankie laughed, but was thoughtful as they strolled down towards the Prom, only half listening to the Bean’s tales of mods and rockers and skinny-dipping in the early hours between Saturday night and Sunday morning. Who was she kidding? With all those films behind her, she must be rolling in it. And she certainly didn’t stint herself in the shops she visited—or at the bookies. He smiled wryly. It must be another one of the many poses she loved to strike.
At the very end of the Palace Pier, they stood leaning against the railing gazing back towards the town, or rather, the Bean gazed at the town, Frankie gazed at the Bean, her hair whipped across her perfect, lined face by the breeze.
She sighed deeply. “From here it still looks lovely, but it’s not what it was. It’s so dirty now. So commercial.” She nibbled at the ice cream he’d bought her. “Or perhaps it’s just me. Nothing seems as good as it was.” She turned away to look out to sea. “It’s bloody, being old. I hate it.”
“You? Never! Come off it, Beanie. Not only do you look fantastic, you’re a total legend. How could you be old? You’re the Bean.”
She turned back, smiling tightly, and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, darling. Much appreciated, but I’m an old bean now. Now you, you have so much in front of you. Don’t waste your life wondering if you can succeed—make it happen. I’ve seen careers thrown away on wishes. Think how you’d feel at my age if all you had to remember were ‘if onlys.’ I can just see you in a romantic lead somewhere.”
Frankie snorted, thinking about his disastrous love life. “Yeah right. I can’t even manage that in real life, it seems.”
“Oh, darling, women must be falling at your feet!”
“Well, I haven’t tripped over any recently.”
She touched his arm reassuringly. “Just you wait. The right girl will come along when you least expect it. I met my darling Johnny on the Promenade des Anglais at three in the morning. He was drunk as a lord and asked me to marry him on the spot.” She roared with laughter. “Just don’t marry an actress. Two artistic temperaments will never work. Here”—she handed the ice cream to him—“finish this for me, would you? I think I’m starting to feel a little bit tired. Shall we go?”
Her mood had soon lifted as they walked back to the car. She’d spotted a beautifully preserved Lambretta and was off with another anecdote, describing what sounded like a hair-raising ride down from London, freezing in her miniskirt. Several people had stopped them and asked for her autograph, and she was as charming and gracious as he’d ever seen her. The fans left in an ecstatic daze, while he proudly took her arm and strolled away with her in the opposite direction. Fortunately, she hadn’t heard the whispered comment speculating on whether he was her son or her boy toy.
At Frankie’s urging, the Bean called home to check that Alex wasn’t back. “The coast’s clear, darling.” She smiled. “Alex need never even know what fun we’ve had today. Or how much I’ve spent. I certainly won’t tell her. And you can’t!” She pinched his cheek roguishly, but Frankie clapped his hand to his head.
“I forgot to get… er… something. What was it again?” He fished in his pocket for the list, then pulled in on a double yellow line and dashed into a pharmacy, leaving the Bean with instructions to exert her charm on any traffic wardens.
“Can I have some clotrimazole, please?”
The young girl gestured to the wall of products behind her. “Certainly. Which kind?”
“Err…”
“Pessary? Cream?”
Frankie’s face must have shown total bewilderment. The girl leaned forward slightly. “Thrush? Athlete’s foot? Nappy rash?”
“Not nappy rash, certainly. Erm…”
“There’s a preparation for cystitis too. Is it for you or your partner?”
“She’s not my… erm.”
“Are you experiencing itching or redness? Because it’s very important to treat both partners.”
“It’s not for me!” Frankie said, far louder than he intended. Everyone turned to look. “I’ll come back.”
He slammed the car door shut and did up his seat belt as fast as possible. The Bean looked at his flaming face with mild curiosity but said nothing. It wasn’t until they got back and he’d supplied her with tea, then had written and torn up at least three notes to Alex, asking exactly what type of clotrimazole she required, that the Bean leaned forward confidingly and said, “No need to be embarrassed, dear. Were you buying some of those johnnies?” Frankie could feel himself going even redder, startled by her directness. “They’re so much better than they were in my day,” she chortled. “I gather now you can get them ribbed and fruit-flavored, like tea!” She nudged him in a matey way. “What do you young things call it? Are you going to pick someone up?” And she rocked back in her chair in hysterical laughter.
Chapter 13
Mummy! He’s not moving!” Millie had had the car door open almost before they pulled up outside the front door and was inside and into the kitchen before Max had the engine off. Struggling to the top of the stairs, Saff dropped the suitcases on the landing and flexed her hands to get the feeling back. The bags were heavier than she’d thought. She could hear Max storing the skis back in the shed.
“What, Mills? Hang on, I’m coming down.” The house felt airless even after just a week and she couldn’t wait to throw open the windows and let in the spring air.
“Aaaah! He’s dead. Widget’s dead!” Millie’s face was contorted in a howl of grief when Saff joined her by the hamster’s cage. Her daughter threw her arms around her and clung on desperately. “She’s killed him!”
“Now now, love, let me see. He’s probably asleep or hibernating.”
“But it’s spring, Mummy! They don’t hibernate now!” Millie sniffed dramatically.
Saff, not exactly relishing the prospect of what she might find, carefully opened the cage and put her hand inside. This was maternal sacrifice indeed. She wasn’t mad about furry things alive, but definitely not dead. Through a pile of sawdust and cotton wool she could see the creature’s nose peeping out and she cupped her hand around its body. Stiff as a board.
“Oh, Millie love, I think you may be right.” The wail crescendoed as Millie wiped her snotty face on Saff’s T-shirt. “Well, darling, they don’t live forever you know. I did warn you at the pet shop.”
“She killed him!”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” Saff looked around the kitchen. The sink was dry, the dishcloth stiff over the tap. It looked suspiciously as if their neighbor had forgotten to come over after all.
Half an hour later, the limp plants retrieved from the bath and having a long drink, and the brown tête à tête daffodils put out by the back door to die back to their bulbs, Saff was scrabbling through the recycling trying to find an old shoebox to double as a coffin. She pulled out one from a pair of sneakers Max had bought in one of his must-lose-weight phases, but discarded it—the poor hamster would rattle and slide about in that. Lodged at the bottom of the recycling, however, was an oatcake box, so she packed the stiff little corpse into it, holding it in place with screwed up bits of the Telegraph—at least it was going out in a broadsheet—and taped the lid down firmly.
“Can I write a prayer?”
“That’s a lovely idea, darling, then we could have a little funeral.”
“Make sure you dig it deep enough,” said Max, wandering into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee before going back to his study to sort through mail and e-mails.
“Why, Daddy?”
“Well, if you don’t, some buggery dog will dig it—”
“Thank you, Max.” Saff scowled at her husband. “Daddy means that we need to make sure he is cozy and warm so he can go up to heaven. Perhaps we might put a big stone on top of his grave—a bit like a gravestone.” She led Millie outside, hoping she’d distracted her from Max’s tactless remark. He hated the hamster�
�“Vermin, just vermin,” he’d snorted the day it arrived—and had studiously ignored it, though not without commenting that Saff shouldn’t have given in to Millie’s pestering. Usually Saff would have found his remark about the buggery dog funny, but today it annoyed her. In fact, she’d felt pretty irritated with him throughout the holiday and had turned her back and pretended to be asleep the one night he’d made a play for some action. It had all started with the discovery of the missing ski pants. His response had been less than sympathetic, but then, she’d thought as she scoured the shops at the resort to try and find some that didn’t cost the earth, he was all right Jack, wasn’t he? Because she’d remembered to pack all his stuff. He hadn’t even had to think about his toothbrush, had he? And she’d been so busy thinking about everyone else, guess whom she’d forgotten? Wasn’t that just the story of life these days?
She’d snarled as she trawled the shop racks. Max had been even more off when, out of spite, she’d come back to the hotel with a very flash (and satisfyingly expensive) pair, paid for with his credit card. “What on earth do you need them for?” he’d shouted. “They won’t make you go any faster.” And she’d done her best to out-ski him just to serve him right. Of course, he’d beaten her every time and headed off with Oscar to much more challenging pistes. Leaving her to look after Millie.
“Muuum,” Millie sobbed now as Saff dug a hole with the spade under the lilac tree at the end of the garden. Even Oscar had joined them and, after a stern look from Saff, was trying to appear suitably serious. “I can’t help thinking,” she sniffed. “I can’t help thinking how the sunlight used to shine though his ears…”
Better than your father, thought Saff, putting all her weight behind her foot on the shovel, who thinks the sun shines out of his arse.
“Dear God, keep Widget safe in heaven. Amen.” And with that, Millie ran, howling, up to her bedroom.
After lunch Saff stuck her head around Max’s study door. “Right, the children are upstairs playing. I’m going to nip over and see the Bean. Please don’t just carry on with your work and ignore them?”
Busy Woman Seeks Wife Page 8
