Busy Woman Seeks Wife

by Annie Sanders

  Max was dialing a number on the phone. “Sure. See you later. Are you sure she’ll be there?”

  “She’s incapacitated, isn’t she? I can’t imagine she can go anywhere.”

  “Hi there. How are you?” Ignoring her, Max began speaking into the phone.

  Saffron maneuvered through the traffic, listening to something classical on Radio 3, enjoying a moment’s peace, something she hadn’t really had all week. She had no idea who the composer was but it helped ease the tension out of her shoulders, which she’d hadn’t even been aware was there. She took her time, driving around the common three times before heading off for Alex’s road. She was looking forward to seeing the Bean—it was always a tonic. At school she would always turn up late for speech days and sports days (pissing off Alex, who naturally excelled at everything and picked up all the medals), but her arrival would always cause a stir, especially in the early days when she was still something of an icon.

  The Bean would always have a little sports car and dispense champagne and Pimm’s from the back of it in paper cups so the teachers wouldn’t know the girls were drinking, and she’d throw her fragrant arms around all of Alex’s friends. Alex, on the other hand, would cower away and Saff would often find her drinking tea with her parents in the back of their camper van—a vehicle Saff found acutely embarrassing in a car park full of Mercedeses and BMWs. The two of them used to joke that they should do a parent swap. Alex’s father, the utterly charming and rakish Johnny, would never grace such events—he was always off on some unspecified business trip—and the Bean, who so hated to be alone, would arrive with an actor she was working with in tow. One year she turned up with a man so breathtakingly beautiful the girls just stood and stared, while he sat impassive in leather jacket and jeans, hidden behind dark glasses.

  The cherry trees on Alex’s road were in full burst of pink when Saff turned the corner, and she had a relaxed, almost benign sensation when she pulled into a parking space and put the pay-and-display ticket on her dashboard. She was looking forward to this. How odd to imagine the Bean ensconced in Alex’s minimal and unloved flat. Saff rang the doorbell and waited. It took a while before she heard the intercom being picked up.

  “Hello, yes?”

  “Hellooo! Bean, it’s me.”

  “Who, dear?” The voice sounded small and nervous.

  “It’s me. Saff.”

  There was a pause. “I’m quite busy, dear. Can you come another time?”

  This didn’t sound right at all, and suddenly Saff was worried. The ridiculous thought crossed her mind that perhaps she had a lover there. She might even be being held hostage. She looked about her, not quite sure what she was hoping to find, then pressed the bell again. “Bean, can you let me in? I’ve come all this way and I only wanted to say hello.”

  There was another long pause. “All right, dear, but just for a moment. I… I have to wash my hair.” Saff pushed open the door at the click and made her way up the stairs to Alex’s flat door, which was opened gingerly by the Bean. Saff noticed her hair looked immaculate, and her welcoming hug, though familiarly laced with Arpège, was not as enthusiastic as usual.

  “Hello, Saffron, dear. Come on through. I’m just in here… as one would be, I suppose.” Saff was led through to the sitting room as if she’d never been here before in her life. Around the sofa the Bean had set up some kind of camp with copies of Vogue, her nail polish and a large pile of papers that looked remarkably like one of Max’s scripts.

  “Are you auditioning for something?” Saff peered down at the papers. “Is this some long-overdue comeback?”

  “Good Lord, no.” Confusingly, the Bean picked up the papers and stuffed them under the cushion. “Can I get you something?” she enquired, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching questioningly. There was an uncomfortable moment. Being asked to sit down would be a start, thought Saff. Instead the Bean hovered.

  “Er, well, tea would be nice, but where’s Ella? Can’t she get that?”

  “Ella?” If anything the Bean’s eyebrows rose even farther until they were almost at her hairline. “Ella, yes. She’s busy. She’s very busy. She’s out actually!”

  “Right,” said Saff slowly, not quite sure what was going on here. She put her bag down on a chair. “You sit down and I’ll put the kettle on.” Before the Bean could argue, she turned on her heel and walked into the small kitchen. It was tidier than the last time she’d been here and it smelled of bleach. On the side was a bag of groceries, half unpacked, with oranges escaping from it, and beside the kettle laid out on a tray were a teapot containing two tea bags, a bowl of sugar lumps and two china cups. Was the Bean expecting someone else? Well, Saff could add another cup to the tray if that someone turned up.

  Once the tea was made, she carried the tray back through and put it down on the table between them. Instead of reclining comfortably, Alex’s mother was perched on the edge of the seat, a distracted look on her face.

  “Are you all right?” Saff asked. “Is your arm playing up?”

  “Fine, dear, just fine. Now, how was your glamorous holiday? Do tell.”

  So, pouring the tea for them both, Saff began to relay the holiday story, playing up the ski pants issue with a drama she knew the Bean would enjoy.

  But instead of laughing, the Bean gulped down the scalding tea, muttered something about “gosh, poor you,” then stood up. “Now, I have to go out shopping, so if you don’t mind…”

  Saff put down her barely touched cup. She’d been going to wash her hair, hadn’t she? “Oh. Right. Fine. Only, it looks as though Ella’s already done the shopping from the bag in the kitchen—”

  At that moment, from behind the closed bedroom door, came an enormous sneeze. Saff froze. So did the Bean. Christ, she’d been right about the lover! How embarrassing. But now what? Should she just disappear? She looked from the bedroom door back to the Bean, but instead of embarrassment as she had expected, the woman’s eyes were full of glee.

  “Oh, Saff, dear, I’m so sorry. Can you keep a secret?”

  Chapter 14

  Ella searched through the pile of papers yet again, as if willing the list to be there would somehow make it appear. In the office next door she could hear the staccato rattle of Mike’s fingers on the computer keyboard. Her new boss typed in spurts, furiously active for a couple of minutes, then pausing for thought or inspiration, or something. Ah, inspiration. If only Ella could dredge up some of that!

  She’d had the crucial sheet of paper only that morning, after typing it out laboriously on Frankie’s laptop at home the previous evening. At the time, he’d done a comedy double take, as if the sight of her working were so incredible he had to look again in case his eyes were deceiving him. She’d pushed her hair irritably out of her eyes and paused in her hunt-and-peck two-finger attempt at word processing to stick her tongue out at him, then had continued doggedly.

  “This looks serious,” he’d mocked. “Homework? Last time I saw you do anything this close to hard work must have been—well, let’s see now—never?”

  Ella had simply gritted her teeth and continued, determined not to let him get her riled. The old Ella would have jumped up and started a cushion fight. The new Ella was too busy for such nonsense—although she was still sorely tempted. Frankie had knocked off teasing almost straightaway and had come to peer over her shoulder. Predictably, though, his first comment was a criticism.

  “You need to give that a bit of a spell-check. See those wavy red lines? Right-click and choose the right spelling.”

  Count to ten, Ella. “If I knew the right spelling, I’d have put the right spelling,” she’d said with icy disdain. “I’m a bit dyslexic, not stupid.”

  That had shut him up. But Ella had looked anxiously at the screen. She didn’t want Mike or anyone else at the radio station laughing at her ideas just because they weren’t spelled right. Frankie was still hovering.

  “ ‘New hospital wing delay,’ ” he’d read. “ ‘Mobile phone mast. Brown
-field development. Environmental survey.’ What’s all this, Ells?”

  “Oh nothing really,” she’d evaded. “Just some ideas for a program I thought of. A sort of investigation thing, you know.”

  He obviously didn’t from the look on his face. He’d stared at her as if she’d grown another head.

  “What?” She’d shaken her head irritably. “Get lost, you goofball. I’m trying to concentrate.”

  He’d raised his eyebrows in that annoying, supercilious way of his. “Nothing, nothing. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?”

  Ella had snorted and carried on typing. “That would make a nice change. I thought I had to make you tea for eternity to make up for you having to put up with the old bag.”

  “Er, yes. Well, just this once, eh? Since you’re obviously busy.”

  She’d waved him away, lost again in the ideas she was gradually formulating. Yes, something on sweatshops as well. That would be a challenge.

  And now, here she was in the office, five minutes to go until the ideas meeting and no trace of her ideas. She couldn’t write out another list, even if she could have remembered any of the subjects she’d come up with, because then everyone would see her spelling. Oh God, when would she learn to be more organized? She had a PhD in excuses for homework not completed, and now for once she’d worked hard and the bloody thing had disappeared.

  The other two researchers walked confidently into the room, so Ella gave up the frantic search, leaning back against the table with studied cool. Both of them seemed to have pages and pages of notes, tucked into efficient-looking notebooks. She grabbed a clipboard from a pile on the filing cabinet in the corner and held it against her chest. Mike threw open the door to his lair. His wild, badly cut hair and monobrow gave him a dark, lupine look. He was rangy too, his top button was never done up and his shirt was always hanging out at the back. It had clearly never come into close contact with an iron. In the month or so Ella had been there, she’d heard him chew out an average of four staff members each week. So far she’d avoided the worst of his temper, but maybe today was her day. She took a seat by the window and pretended to check over her nonexistent list. He started with Kerry.

  Her ideas for drive-time games were dissected minutely, and most dismissed before her grilling was over. Ella could feel sweat breaking out on the palms of her hands. Luke’s scheduling ideas were well presented, with printed-out copies not only for Mike but for Ella and Kerry too. She tried not to glare at him as he returned smugly to his seat. Creep.

  Mike read through the notes carefully before throwing them in the bin. “Sell me your ideas,” he barked. “I don’t want to read about them. This is radio. I want to hear, I want to be persuaded. I want to be seduced.”

  Gross thought, winced Ella. He must be at least thirty-five, though for an old man he did have a Clive Owen-ish appeal, and his dismissal of Luke’s ideas did offer a chink of hope for Ella. Luke stammered his way through an utterly unseductive pitch before trailing off as Mike shook his head. “I’m not feeling it” was all he said before turning to Ella. “Okay, new girl. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Ella cleared her throat. “Well, I sent you a copy of my ideas by e-mail this morning,” she lied, casually tapping the empty clipboard. “But it’s probably better if I talk you through them. I see an undercover investigation series into local issues that are bothering everyone in the area. This is a local station, after all. People can listen to national radio for world events. We need to bring people in and get some community spirit going. Really find out what people are thinking, what worries them, what they want…” She plowed on and, miraculously, under pressure last night’s ideas started to flood back. She hardly dared look up but she instinctively knew she had them. She had them in the palm of her hand. Frankie might be the actor but she was the improv queen today. Kerry and Luke were both glaring at her—an excellent sign—while Mike nodded thoughtfully, throwing the odd question her way and making notes.

  When she got to the end of her spiel, he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “You and you.” He nodded at Kerry and Luke. “Bugger off. I’d like a moment with Lois Lane here. Sit down there.” He indicated the chair in front of him that Kerry had just vacated as the other two shuffled resentfully through the door, then extended his hand. “And let’s have a look at those notes.”

  “Erm, they’re in shorthand. My own special shorthand only I can read,” Ella bluffed frantically.

  Mike extended his hand again and she slowly handed over the empty clipboard. He looked briefly down, as if to confirm what he already knew, and handed it back to her. Ella felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. This must be what it felt like to be a lion’s lunch.

  He smiled slowly. “There’s no e-mail either, is there?” She shook her head wordlessly. “And the dog ate your printout, did it?”

  Ella jumped to her own defense. “No, there was one. Honest. I had it earlier. I put it down. I just couldn’t find it, so I just said what I could remember.”

  Mike swiveled around in his chair. “Coffee?” He fiddled with the drip filter permanently steaming by his desk. “You forgot to mention the sweatshops though, didn’t you?”

  “What?” Ella jerked forward. “How did you… ?”

  Mike turned back towards her and handed over a murky cup of coffee, then opened his desk drawer and handed her the list she’d made. “You can’t kid a kidder, Ella. Didn’t anyone teach you that? I’m the biggest bullshitter I’ve ever met.” The smile on his face was very broad by now. “I just thought I’d see how well you could think on your feet. You’ve got to think fast in this business. You passed. You’ll go far.”

  “You… you… you… !” For once, words failed her.

  Mike grinned in satisfaction. “Now, bugger off, kid.”

  Chapter 15

  I’m thinking bagels.” Maurice, head honcho of Gorgeous Gourmet, put down his papers as if he’d announced a cure for the common cold and waited expectantly.

  “Bagels?”

  “For the launch. Teensy weensy little ones, mind, ever so sweet, full of smoked salmon or chocolate. Even foie gras…”

  Alex’s tummy rumbled. She’d been so rushed this morning that breakfast had been a slab of Ella’s deliciously moist fruit loaf that she’d found in a tin in the kitchen. Her usual bolt into Starbucks on the way to work had been stalled by a call from Todd, who was en route to Munich and wanting to kill time at the airport. They hadn’t seen each other now for two weeks and he was clearly feeling frustrated.

  Maurice was now waxing lyrical about itsy-bitsy croissants, his striped shirt—so tight it appeared almost painted onto his skinny frame—rippling with excitement. Alex had never actually met him before, but she had tasted some delicious muffins at a marketing conference a few months ago and, when the food issue for the launch had come up, she’d gotten Camilla on to the case to find out who’d catered the event and get some recommendations. With his carefully gelled, artistically sculpted blond hair and diamond nose stud, he made an unlikely looking type to be involved in the catering business. Alex had a moment’s disquiet.

  “You’re absolutely sure you can cope with an event this size, aren’t you, Maurice? I mean, we’re talking three hundred press, VIPs, athletes, and it’s very important for us to get it right.” She leaned forward to drive home her point. “I mean, very, very important. Possibly the biggest thing we’ve ever done, and I need breakfast circulating constantly so no one thinks we’ve scrimped, athletic-looking waiters… you know the kind of thing.”

  Maurice leaned back in his seat, an offended expression on his face, and sighed theatrically. “Alex, you have come to absolutely the right person. All my clients say that what I don’t know about brunch canapés isn’t worth knowing.” He crossed his tightly trousered legs, his silver thumb ring catching the light as he feathered the hair forward around his ears. Alex watched in fascination. “Of course there are the tricky ones to think about.”

  “Sorry
?”

  Maurice giggled girlishly and brushed something nonexistent off his sleeve. “Those sensitive little souls like myself who have special diets. I blame all the sliced white bread we had as children.” He leaned forward again conspiratorially. “I’m a martyr to my digestion, frankly.” He started to count off on his fingers. “We need to allow for the gluten-intolerant, lactose-intolerant, soy-intolerant, wheat-intolerant…” This was beginning to sound like an allergy conference. Alex stopped him.

  “Keep it simple, Maurice.”

  He looked crestfallen. “Oh, so you won’t want to know about my fruit sculpture then?”

  “Fruit sculpture?”

  “Oh yes.” He leaned even farther forward. “We must have fruit for all those sporty people. Now, I’m thinking something big, bold and spectacular. I’m thinking fruits to reflect the international audience. I’m thinking a full-size statue of an athlete, maybe even more than full size. Yes! Let’s go gigantic. All muscles and pectorals.” His eyes glazed over for a moment in erotic reverie. “But, wait for it, made entirely out of fruit. Watermelon for the head, all carved exquisitely. Pawpaw, mangoes, luscious strawberries and blueberries.” He warmed to his theme, his hand gestures going wild. “Slices of apple and pineapple to make shape and form. Cantaloupe and ripe apricots?”

  Alex looked at her watch, feeling very ill at ease. “Right.”

  “And there he would stand in all his glory.” Now Maurice’s arms were stretched wide like the Messiah’s. “Proud and strong at the end of the runway, the colors on his fruit-created clothing reflecting the colors of your clothing range…”

  “Maurice, how much is this… this artwork going to be?”

  Without dropping his arms, Maurice looked down at his notes and mentioned a figure.