The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘Have you seen this email about the redundancies?’ says Annalex, turning to Kate accusingly.

  ‘What email? Is there news?’ says Kate, suddenly on high alert.

  ‘You’re telling me you didn’t suggest this to Devron?’

  ‘Suggest what?’ says Kate, hurriedly clicking on the email in her inbox:

  Along with an up-to-date CV, candidates must submit a thousand-word statement on what inspires them in food marketing. NB: candidates can submit for voluntary redundancy up to 30 November.

  ‘Why are you annoyed about that, Annalex?’

  A sharp crease forms between Annalex’s eyes. ‘This whole writing thing is exactly the sort of thing that favours someone like you.’

  ‘You mean someone who’s paid to write, so someone like me and you?’ says Kate in confusion.

  ‘I’m much more of a big-picture person. This is totally unfair.’

  Kate rests her head in her hands – O, O, O . . . ‘Outstanding’ is the only positive O, but having tasted that egg at a PECAN showcase, she can’t in good conscience utilise it. It’s going to have to be ‘Oh-so-delicious’ – it goes against her principles but Devron will love it. Besides, it’s not as bad as when Annalex wrote Feast-a Pheasant for game season, where the ‘a’ represented of, and it means Kate can start the rhyming doubles; what on earth rhymes with praline?

  There must be more to life than this. But catching sight of Annalex manically stabbing at her keyboard like it had insulted her and her immediate family, brings out a sudden competitive instinct in Kate. Yes, her job may not be groundbreaking, but she wants to be in control of whether she keeps it or not. She doesn’t want her options taken away from her by Annalex or anyone else.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  MARTIN HAS BEEN TEXTING Kate all week. He’d asked to see her on Monday but she was babysitting for Bailey, and every night since she’s been working till midnight on her submission for Devron. Finally, they’d made a date for Saturday and Kate can’t help but compare how long it took Nick to ask her out to how quickly and persistently Martin has.

  It’s a stunning early autumn afternoon, the sun still strong in a cloudless sky. They meet outside Tate Modern. Rather than flowers, Martin’s brought her the glossy sections of the papers, rolled into an elongated cone. In return, she’s brought him an autographed packet of Fletchers’ pork pies.

  He holds them to his heart: ‘I’ll cherish these forever.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you – they’re best before Monday.’

  He has a smile that transforms his face from attractive to gorgeous. She still feels guilty she said yes to this date, and even guiltier that she finds him so attractive.

  Once inside the gallery Martin heads straight for the American classics, whizzing round, rarely lingering. Kate has come to realise recently how impatient she is, and so she likes this about Martin. In one room he slows to a halt in front of a Warhol of Debbie Harry and nods appreciatively. ‘Those cheekbones . . . that eyeshadow. Such insouciance,’ he says.

  ‘She was actually at my friend’s wedding last month.’

  ‘Seriously? I hope you took a selfie with her?’

  ‘No way, I’d never bother a celebrity in public.’

  ‘You have to, it’s Debbie Harry. Right, listen up,’ he says, pulling Kate close to whisper in her ear. ‘Distract that guard over there, do a little mazurka, I’ll get this off the wall and when I give the nod, run like the wind. No? Fine, well, let’s get a photo at least.’ He gently steers her towards the canvas and puts his arm around her. ‘Say cheese!’

  He shows her the shot and grins. ‘We look great together. You have this tiny freckle – just . . . there.’ He narrows his eyes and presses her cheek gently. ‘It’s the sexiest thing ever.’

  Kate blushes, moving swiftly to the next canvas, slightly overwhelmed by the attention.

  ‘Chairman Mao,’ says Martin. ‘Perfect name for a kitten, particularly one that sits in a chair all day.’

  Back in July, Nick and Kate been talking about getting a kitten and had spent several nights discussing names, eventually deciding on Sir-Mix-A-Lot, because it was such a ridiculous name for a cat. The memory of this causes a sudden dull ache in her chest.

  ‘I bet you’re a cat person,’ says Martin.

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘It’s a Sagittarius thing, my almost-twin.’ He clicks his finger and winks. ‘Right – that’s enough culture for one day, let’s skedaddle.’

  He reaches for her hand. She and Nick have evolved a way of hand-holding with such tightly interlocking fingers it’s like their hands are one, whereas Martin favours the cupping manoeuvre which reminds Kate of walking in crocodiles on school trips. It doesn’t feel right. She must stop comparing these men, but still, his hand in hers, it feels somehow too intimate.

  Martin leads her along the South Bank, over Waterloo Bridge, then up through to the narrower streets of Soho. ‘I’m meeting my bro at 8.30 p.m. at the Groucho, but do you fancy some food first? Let’s eat.’

  Ten minutes later they’re seated in a corner booth at Kettner’s, Martin squeezed so tightly next to her the heat from his legs is warming hers.

  ‘What do you fancy to drink?’ he says. ‘A cocktail? Wine?’

  ‘Shall we have some wine?’

  ‘I don’t drink, but order anything you fancy.’

  ‘Oh. If you’re not drinking, I won’t either.’

  ‘You must, sweetheart, please, I’m all about the vicarious thrills.’ He insists on ordering Kate a carafe, then slips his hand casually to her knee while they browse the menu. ‘I’m getting the steak. The sausage and mash is meant to be amazing too.’

  ‘Have you tried it?’

  ‘I don’t eat carbs.’

  ‘What, never?’

  He shrugs. ‘Fattening, innit?’

  ‘I always eat carbs,’ says Kate, ordering roast chicken and chips. ‘So you never eat pasta? Or pizza? Or crisps?’

  ‘Is it a deal-breaker?’ he says, laughing.

  ‘At least tell me you eat butter?’

  ‘No butter, no sugar.’

  ‘Is there anything left worth eating?’

  ‘Protein?’

  Kate smiles, but the voice in her head is shrieking: What a fussy eater. She chides herself. I don’t eat carbs is probably better than I love my TV as much as I love you . . .

  ‘Tell me about this old lady you visit?’ he says, resting his head on his hand and staring deeply into Kate’s eyes.

  ‘Mrs Finn? She’s ninety-seven. Even though her face is incredibly lined, she’s so alert she sometimes looks eighty. Though when she’s tired she looks ancient. She has great taste in books. And her memory, my goodness, she can recite more poetry than I’ve ever read.’

  ‘I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast.’

  ‘Protein,’ says Kate, and Martin laughs. ‘Mrs Finn can be a little schizoid sometimes – like we’ll be in the middle of a perfectly nice chat, then suddenly she’ll attack.’ Kate looks perplexed. ‘I think she’s depressed.’

  ‘Ninety-seven though – good innings and all that. I’ll be ready to check out by seventy.’

  Kate shrugs. ‘I guess it depends on your quality of life, whether you have children, grandchildren, a sense of purpose. She’s bored – and she can’t taste or read properly anymore so she’s lost her two favourite things. And she was married for over sixty years. She misses her husband.’

  Martin tips his head to one side in sympathy. ‘You’re obviously making her life cheerier.’

  ‘I doubt it. I seem to annoy her every time I open my mouth.’

  ‘What do you do with her?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Do you wheel her around galleries? Take her for walks? Or is she a hip nonagenarian like those ones online, getting down to Biggy?’

  ‘Absolutely not, there are no ironic dance moves with Cecily, she won’t budge an inch. We just talk. She tells me about her life, then cri
ticises mine. I think she sees me as her pet project. To be fair, it’s quite good to get some perspective when I’ve spent the entire week bickering with Annalex about whose job it is to write the Yorkshire Pudding packaging – it’s clearly going to say Yummy Yorkies, but on principal it does sit in her category,’ she says, rolling her eyes at the pettiness.

  ‘So, how long have you worked at Fletchers?’

  ‘Forever. If I survive this latest restructure it’ll be twenty years next spring,’ says Kate, the low grip of fear returning to her stomach at the thought of leaving the security of the only workplace she’s ever known.

  ‘You’ve worked at the same place your whole career? Do people who don’t have a mortgage or school fees still do that?’

  ‘People like me do . . .’ says Kate, reaching for her wine.

  ‘What does people like me mean?’

  ‘I never got my degree,’ says Kate, flushing. ‘I’m not ambitious. I don’t have any superpowers.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ says Martin, stroking his chin. ‘You’re scared of risk. And that’s probably why you’ve never married.’

  No – that’s because she’d made a series of exceedingly poor choices.

  ‘There’s no other explanation,’ Martin continues, throwing his hands in the air. ‘You’re attractive, you’re funny, you laugh at all my jokes – why else would such an amazing woman still be on the market?’

  ‘On the market,’ she says, nudging him. ‘Makes me sound like cattle. So why aren’t you married?’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, cringing and bringing two fists to his mouth in an apologetic gesture. ‘Did I not mention? I am . . .’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘I’m not married married. I am literally married, but we’ve been separated for months, we’re just waiting on the paperwork.’

  ‘Oh. Are you sure about that?’

  He wiggles the fingers of his left hand. ‘Yep, pretty sure. So, Kate – who’s your best friend?’

  ‘Bailey, we’ve been friends since we were four.’

  ‘And what was your nickname at school?’

  ‘Are these off some Buzzfeed list, Eight Questions to Ask On a First Date?’

  ‘Damn.’ He reaches into his pocket for a piece of paper and gives it a glance before tearing it in two and throwing it over his shoulder. ‘Rumbled.’

  ‘That wasn’t . . .?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that was my dry-cleaning slip. Or the cure for Ebola,’ he says, choking on his giggle, which makes Kate warm to him again.

  The food arrives, and they eat and flirt. Over the next hour Martin asks her more questions than Nick did in their first three months. He’s trying to get to know her but she finds it exhausting, and yearns for the familiarity of Nick who knows her so well they finish each other’s sentences.

  The meal ends, Martin insists on paying and they slowly head out to the street to say their goodbyes.

  ‘I had such a good time,’ says Martin, beaming at her.

  ‘So did I,’ says Kate, smiling at the realisation that it’s true.

  ‘So . . . shall I give you a ring when I’m done? I can swing by on my way home.’

  ‘Tonight? I’m living at my mum’s – temporarily. And besides, I’ll probably be asleep.’

  ‘Ah yeah, no, fair play. Is your mum in most nights?’

  ‘I feel like I’m fourteen again,’ says Kate, covering her face in embarrassment.

  Martin pulls a face of frustration. ‘I’d offer to make you dinner next week but my flatmate, she’s . . . well, a bit funny about me having guests round.’

  Kate nods sympathetically. ‘My old flatmate was the same.’

  ‘OK, so let’s say next Saturday afternoon? How about a picnic on the Heath, if the weather stays good?’

  ‘I could make food . . .’ says Kate, thinking of Cecily’s instructions. ‘Would you eat carbs if I make sandwiches, or will you lick the fillings and leave the bread, like some supermodel on a bikini shoot?’

  ‘I’ll happily eat anything you make. You know something?’ he says, leaning in closer. ‘I think you’re rather brilliant.’

  He leans in and kisses her tenderly. Her heart is beating overtime, but she is so out of sorts because of Nick she can’t understand if her body is for or against this particular kiss.

  ‘Ah,’ he sighs. ‘You really are damn sexy. Right, gotta go. I’ll see you Saturday for sandwich-licking.’ He winks, and he’s off.

  On the bus home Kate leans her head against the window, watching the lights of Tottenham Court Road speed by. On their first date, Nick and Kate met for dinner at 7 p.m. and ended up being the last ones in the restaurant, chucked out by the manager at midnight. Afterwards, they’d stood in the street and Nick had said goodbye, then he’d run off without even a peck on the cheek. She hadn’t been able to sleep that night because she was so confused – had that just been a great date, or a total non-starter?

  She probably should see Martin again, because until Nick comes back convincingly, she is, literally, single. Martin may be a little full on but he’s also funny and charming and interesting – and, most importantly, interested in her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘I TOLD YOU SO, again,’ says Cecily, clicking her fingers irritably as Kate pours slightly more than half a cup of tea into her cup. ‘Spoon that straight out or you’ll never learn.’

  Kate sighs and replaces three teaspoons of liquid back into the pot. She’s yet to see Cecily spill a drop due to her tremor, but Cecily is adamant.

  ‘The minute you stop fixating on Amoeba . . .’

  ‘I’m going to bring Amoeba in to meet you one of these days – I guarantee you’ll like him.’

  Cecily’s nostrils flare in response.

  ‘And could you please stop calling him Amoeba?’

  ‘Fine, then I shall call him Pigeon, but let’s not dwell on him. When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Martin? I’m not convinced I should. I believe in “Do as you would be done by”, so I should tell Nick, but I don’t want to.’

  ‘Oh stop being such a coward.’

  ‘It’s loyalty, not cowardice. Besides, I don’t want to mess Martin about. And he is a bit intense . . .’

  ‘He’s keen – as well he should be.’

  ‘Probably because I’m not. That always makes someone keener.’ Kate realises with dismay that this describes her and Nick – except she’s the one on the back foot.

  ‘And you’ll make him “Dinner for a Charming Stranger”. You’ll cook at your mother’s?’

  ‘No, and no. Martin suggested a picnic – I’ll make him the one from your book.’

  ‘That’s not the intention of that picnic.’

  ‘But it’s the principle, right? You make it sound like a spell book,’ says Kate, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Which would make me a witch,’ says Cecily, chewing the thought over. ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘Anyway – I’ll do the second date, and I’ll cook, but that’s as far as I can take it. Now please, could you tell me how you came to be a writer?’

  ‘Are you really interested?’

  ‘Of course – I always wanted to be a writer,’ says Kate, settling back into her chair.

  ‘OK, then. Well, I’ll have to start at the beginning, which was one rainy Tuesday in the sweet shop when I was five. I was hiding behind a curtain waiting for the perfect moment to steal more toffees when the Farragher sisters, who ran an exclusive prep school, came in with their beagle, Fred. They liked to discuss politics with Papa, but on this particular day Fred sniffed me out.’

  Kate laughs as she imagines a young Cecily hiding behind a curtain as a dog’s wet nose pokes through.

  ‘After the initial embarrassment Miss Ann said to Papa, “You have an exceptional child here, I can see Jesus in her eyes”. Papa saw no such apparition, quite the contrary, but he didn’t want to lose a customer who bought a pound of fudge every week. The
sisters were willing to take me at the reduced fee of three pounds a term—’

  ‘A term?’

  ‘Papa thought it extravagant but Mama finally persuaded him, she’d heard the children at the local elementary had nits. He agreed but with fearful threats of what would happen if I didn’t come top of every class. It was an excellent school, we were taught manners, elegant copperplate writing, poetry and, above all, to love Jesus, which scared me as the only Jewish girl there.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were Jewish.’

  ‘Oh my family weren’t religious, I’d never been to a synagogue, Papa loved eating bacon. But I wasn’t Roman Catholic, so I was the only one going to limbo, which bothered me immensely. I lived in perpetual shame of my difference, which forced me to live on two levels,’ she says, nibbling her biscuit thoughtfully. ‘The top layer embraced the everyday challenges – lost hair ribbons, difficult homework – but underneath I lived in my imagination. At bedtime I’d hide under the sheets and picture myself as Jo in Little Women or Anne of Green Gables. The world of make-believe often seemed a happier place to be.’

  ‘Books were my escape too,’ says Kate. ‘I’m an only child – and as I grew up, books felt like my companions – they saved me from loneliness. I suppose in some ways they still do.’

  ‘Who did you like to read when you were young?’

  ‘Oh anything and everything. When I was about twelve my father was really into Raymond Chandler; I read all of Dad’s copies the minute he finished them.’

  ‘Chandler’s a masterful writer. Samuel bought me that copy of The Big Sleep for one of my many, many birthdays,’ says Cecily, pointing to a shelf high behind Kate’s head.

  ‘I love that book,’ says Kate, turning her gaze in the direction of the grey-and-white hardback. ‘So did you start writing at primary school?’