The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘Nick, I have to be honest. I’m scared you’ll have another wobble.’

  ‘That won’t happen, Kate, it won’t. Give me another chance. I promise there’ll be no more wobbles. I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather share my life with.’

  Kate’s heart throbs with happiness. ‘Apart from Laura Marling. Or Kristen Stewart,’ she says, running her finger along his unruly right eyebrow.

  ‘Or a life-size high-end Swedish robot sex doll, but yes, you’re my fourth-best option in the whole world. No one’s ever loved me the way you love me, you are wonderful.’

  And she smiles, and thinks: maybe I am.

  *

  It is 3.40 a.m. and they lie in Kate’s bed on the edge of sleep.

  ‘I’ve forgotten how perfectly we fit together,’ says Nick, stroking Kate’s hair, then pulling her closer.

  She nods, eyes closed, breathing in the familiar smell of him. She’s missed this more than anything – not the sex so much as this bit afterwards, the gentle drifting into oblivion, holding hands, their fingers tightly entwined.

  ‘So . . . how do you feel about trading this admittedly lovely bed in your mum’s walk-in wardrobe for the left half of mine? Are you still up for that?’

  ‘You know what, Nick? I think I am,’ she says, laughing as she looks up at his radiant smile and meets it with her own.

  He squeezes her hand tightly and her heart feels like it’s expanding with love. ‘When shall we do it?’

  ‘Whenever, soon, I don’t mind,’ says Kate, struck by a sudden exhaustion from all the hoping and waiting and finally now the relief of getting back what she’s been aching for. ‘Mum’s in Lanzarote for a few weeks at the start of December, so I’ll have this place to myself . . .’

  ‘And there’s the big birthday . . .’

  ‘The big birthday – yep, that is still happening.’ Thank goodness at least now she’ll be arriving at that daunting destination with Nick safely by her side.

  ‘And then my project finishes the following week, so shall we say the weekend after that?’

  ‘Sure, sounds good.’ Kate nods in contentment, and within moments she has fallen into a deep and blissful sleep.

  Chapter Forty-two

  KATE WAKES WITH Nick’s arm wrapped around her waist, the tops of his feet resting under the soles of hers. She breathes a deep sigh and her whole body relaxes onto the mattress. Every morning since France she’s woken with an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. She’d taken it for sadness, but now she understands it was fear – fear of facing the day, or rather of having to face herself. That feeling isn’t there anymore – it’s been replaced by one of peace and contentment now she’s safely back beside Nick, where she belongs.

  Nick is fast asleep, so she gently reaches over to her bedside table and picks up Thought for Food. Last night’s dinner could not have been better. It was so simple, yet came together in a way far greater than the sum of its parts. Actually, those potatoes weren’t simple, but they were worth the effort. It would never have occurred to her to pair them with chicken. She wonders how old Samuel enjoyed his meal. She wonders how Cecily felt the next morning, her father interrogating her – that immense, terrible pressure to shed the burden of singledom.

  She flicks to ‘Brunch for Newlyweds’:

  Of all the days that’s in the week

  I dearly love but one day,

  And that’s the day that comes betwixt

  The Saturday and Monday.

  Henry Carey

  Aim: to combine the delights of a lazy Sunday morning with the pleasure of an early luncheon, thus leaving a long afternoon for any pursuits the lovebirds care to follow.

  The menu itself is not to Kate’s taste – kidneys flambé – in fact, she can’t imagine anything worse. Besides, whatever they do for breakfast, she has to see Cecily later on, which is the second-to-last thing she’d like to do after flambéing a kidney.

  She rests the book back on the side table, resettles the duvet over their feet and happily dozes off again.

  She’s woken a few hours later by a light scratching noise. It’s Nick propped up in bed doing the Listener with his favourite crossword pencil.

  ‘Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?’ she says, running her nails lightly over his tummy.

  He shivers with delight, then rests the crossword on his side table. ‘Just happy to have my girl back by my side.’

  ‘What do you fancy today?’

  ‘Other than you?’

  ‘Cheeseball.’

  ‘I thought we could take a walk, it’s beautiful out.’

  ‘How do you know?’ says Kate, looking at the still-drawn curtains.

  ‘I’ve been up already. I’ve done all the washing-up, and coffee’s brewing.’

  ‘Ah, Nick,’ she says, leaning in to kiss him.

  ‘It was the least I could do after that amazing supper,’ he says, stroking her hair. ‘We could walk through Regent’s Park to the farmers’ market in Marylebone, grab a posh bacon sandwich, then buy food for later? How do you feel about roast beef for supper with all the trimmings, and we could watch The Lego Movie again?’

  ‘Yes, except for that last bit.’

  ‘Lego Batman?’

  ‘See previous answer for details . . .’

  ‘OK, then, one of your grown-up films – Chinatown?’

  ‘Even though it has actual humans in it, not little yellow plastic toys?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Excellent. Oh, but I have to see Mrs Finn at 4 p.m.’

  ‘You saw her yesterday.’

  ‘I know, but Sunday’s our day – and also we sort of had a row. Do you want to come with me for a cup of tea? She’s very interesting, and she’s going to tell me all about some trip to Hawaii she and Samuel went on for her seventieth. I’d really love you to meet her.’

  Nick shakes his head hesitantly. ‘I do have work to do, if I’m not with you . . .’

  ‘Just for an hour?’

  ‘Another time.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I’ll see her, then head over to yours.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan,’ he says, taking a deep breath and letting out a loud sigh of contentment. ‘There is one thing I’d like to do before any of that,’ he says, grinning, as he gently rolls on top of her and nudges her thighs apart. ‘One very important thing . . .’

  *

  She’d have happily stayed in bed with Nick all day, but Rita is due back with Patrick at 5 p.m., then there’s Cecily, of course, and besides, it is the most beautiful of days.

  It’s been an exceptionally dry and mild October. The leaves have only now fallen, and each one seems perfectly intact as though preserved in an album, every last vein traceable on the surface.

  As Kate and Nick walk through Regent’s Park, their feet nudge through the carpet of leaves, making a pleasing shoosh, shoosh sound – like a steel brush on a drum. Hands held tightly, they take turns pointing out sights each more breathtaking than the last. The highest branches are an explosion of fireworks – crimson, orange and lime, a blaze of fiery glory. Leaves of glowing amber, an egg-yolk yellow tree! The beauty stops Kate’s breath. High above, a jumbo jet scores a crisp white line across the blue, blue sky reminding her of an airline poster from the eighties when flying still seemed exotic. Nick is mildly obsessing about the proportionality of yellow to russet leaves, convinced there’s some mathematical principle behind it.

  He grabs her arm tighter with a smile that seems to say: I’m sorry, I love you. You’re mine and I’m yours always.

  ‘Are you thinking about bacon?’ says Kate, laughing.

  ‘Nope, just happy . . . it’s because I’m with you. I know that now.’

  As long as the sky stays this exact shade of blue, the world is a marvel and anything is possible.

  *

  Kate can barely drag herself from Nick’s side as 4 p.m. approaches. She considers calling Lauderdale to say she’s not feeling too well herself. But the
n she pictures the glorious shafts of winter sunlight making the entire park look saturated in colour, the crisp, clear air filling her lungs. Then she thinks of Cecily in that stuffy book-lined cell.

  Lauderdale is busy today, and as Kate walks through the dining room she sees they’re holding a tea party. Bessie Burbridge, dressed immaculately in a red skirt suit, sits in front of a large birthday cake with ‘Ninety-Two’ written on it in chocolate icing. She’s surrounded by a couple in their sixties, a dozen other residents and a handful of smiling staff. Kate stops to say hello, then is cajoled into having a slice of cake, and by the time she’s had a lovely chat with Bessie’s daughter, who was an English professor at the same university Kate briefly attended, it’s 4.20 p.m. She excuses herself and heads to Cecily’s door, but when she knocks she’s met with silence. She knocks more loudly, and when there’s no response she cautiously pokes her head round the door and her heart lurches.

  Cecily sits slumped in her chair, her head fallen unnaturally forward, her legs rigid at an awkward Kerplunk angle. Kate notices how desperately frail Cecily’s legs are, as fragile and knobbly as Twiglets in sheepskin slippers. She rushes over and gently touches Cecily’s shoulder, then again more firmly.

  Cecily jolts up, muttering something incomprehensible in Swedish, then jolts up again, before slowly opening her eyes and turning to Kate in confusion.

  ‘Mrs Finn, everything’s fine, it’s only me, it’s Kate.’

  Cecily inhales with a snort, then another. ‘Didn’t your parents ever teach you to knock?’

  ‘Can I get you some water?’

  Cecily opens her mouth and a dry, glottal noise comes out. ‘Tea.’

  Heart still racing, Kate heads to the kitchen. She grabs a couple of plain shortbreads. She should have bought a gift for Cecily at the farmers’ market, but she’d been having such an indulgent day the thought hadn’t occurred to her.

  Kate takes the tea back to Cecily and settles on her usual chair.

  ‘I don’t like being woken,’ says Cecily. ‘You should have knocked.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m in a bad mood with you.’

  For a change, thinks Kate as she pours the tea and smiles patiently.

  ‘I suppose the dinner was a success?’ says Cecily, grabbing the cup in both hands, her lips quivering with rage.

  ‘The menu was great, thank you. Those potatoes in particular—’

  ‘Where’s my book?’

  Kate’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘I didn’t bring it. Sorry, I didn’t realise you were serious.’

  ‘I haven’t forgiven you for yesterday.’

  Kate lets out a sigh. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘You know full well.’

  ‘No, actually, I don’t. Do you mean the bit where I went considerably out of my way to buy you your soup? Or the bit where I brought you home-made cake and you turned your nose up at it?’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was such an ordeal, coming to see me, such a terrible inconvenience.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ says Kate, and instantly regrets saying it.

  ‘Why have you bothered coming today?’

  ‘I was looking forward to hearing about you dancing with Samuel on the beach in Hawaii.’

  ‘With Samuel? What?’ says Cecily in outrage. ‘I’m not telling you anything more about my life. You don’t actually care about me. Really, why on earth are you here?’

  ‘No idea,’ says Kate, whose vow to stay calm isn’t working. ‘Blind, stupid loyalty.’

  ‘Misplaced loyalty, that’s the first intelligent thing you’ve ever said,’ says Cecily. ‘You don’t need to worry about coming to see me anymore because I do not want visitors, I never did. I want to be left in peace.’

  ‘Mrs Finn, if you’re trying to push me away by being mean—’

  Cecily screeches with annoyance. ‘Go away, dreadful girl.’

  ‘Mrs Finn, I thought we’d moved past all this nonsense.’

  ‘I’m not moving anywhere. Go. I don’t want you here, ever again.’

  Kate’s face is burning with fury as she walks out of the room. She’s gone from feeling terror that Mrs Finn was dead to wanting her – well, not dead of course, but definitely out of her life.

  She heads out into the street. The sky is darkening and without the sun it’s distinctly chilly. Why is she even surprised? Cecily is queen of holding a grudge: she hates Maud because of a single hand of bridge played years ago, she hates poor Bessie for being too nice!

  Kate was having the perfect Sunday and now the old bat has made her feel guilty, humiliated, worried and angry – feelings that are in danger of ruining her day. She won’t have it.

  She heads to the tube station bound for Nick’s. She must speak to him about Christmas, whether he wants to do something just the two of them, or whether he can handle Rita and her acolytes.

  Cecily was once a young woman in love and planning her future. Now she has nothing to plan for. She has nowhere to go; her life is tiny. Kate has tried to coax her out, but she’s failed.

  Kate doesn’t want to think these thoughts – far too depressing. Instead, she remembers the walk this afternoon and it starts to bring back cheer.

  Then she recalls another walk she took with Nick, nearly two years ago now. It had been their second date and when she’d met him in the street, her heart had sunk – he’d seemed too keen, he was rather sweaty – and suddenly she’d thought he was an awkward geek, not nearly as handsome as her ex-boyfriend Toby, who had loved the same books as Kate and was far more her type. But then she and Nick had walked over to the secret garden in Hampstead and Nick had talked about his love of Eddie Izzard – he could recite entire routines – and he’d been so enthusiastic and funny (even if they were Eddie Izzard’s jokes) that when he’d made her stop walking so that he could kiss her – that first kiss so nervous and sweet – she’d realised she’d been foolish and shallow to think that sweatiness, or the books you do or don’t read, actually mattered.

  He’d kissed her, to ‘claim her’, as he’d later confessed, and even though the kiss wasn’t the greatest, his sweetness had won her over. Sweetness, and the strong sense Kate had of wanting to be on his side. Something about his innocent enthusiasm had brought out an extreme tenderness in her. He’d kissed her, she’d kissed him and she’d never looked back, until, of course, that horrible, stupid incident in France.

  It has been a colossal challenge these last few months, having to be two different people – the surface Kate who’s pretended she’s OK with The Wobble, who’s pretended she’s empathetic and relaxed enough to inhabit the suffocating fog of insecurity, all the while struggling under the immense burden of hope she’s lugged on her back the whole time; and the real Kate, desperate to know whether she is loved or not – and if not, then needing to rush to a faraway cave to scream about it.

  It’s pretty exhausting having to be a whole person, let alone two, and so for the relief of being able to just be one version of herself again – as much as for the knowledge that Nick does really love her – she is truly grateful.

  And Cecily . . . well, Kate has tried, very hard, but Cecily’s just one of those people who doesn’t want anyone to care about her, and there’s nothing Kate can do to fix that.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Project: Fletchers’ Special Selection

  Our growers have worked with our farming partners to select premium heirloom vegetables to delight customers, at great-value price points.

  KATE IS SITTING AT her desk on Tuesday afternoon, staring at her inbox in dismay as she scrolls through her new brief:

  First category roll-out will be root vegetables, specifically carrots. The following varieties offer margins of 40 per cent or greater: Early Horn, Golden Ball, Little Finger, Purple 68. However, Head of Produce is concerned these names sound pornographic. Therefore the first premium variety for BOGOF will be Tendersweet. Requirements: headline alliteration, plus copy for front of pack. Serving suggestions as per standar
d: wash before serving.

  So much for Devron’s ‘exciting creative opportunities’. She can just picture the scorn on Cecily’s face.

  Kate’s been in back-to-back meetings since 8 a.m. The decision to change KIPPER to CAPER remains unresolved, and after a three-hour nail-biting debate during which Kate pondered whether her colleagues would notice if she slipped from the room and replaced herself with a giant Alexa or some mist, it has been decided that the decision needs to be escalated to stakeholder level, and has been fed up the chain and thus taken off everyone’s to-do lists for now. She was then dragged into Mistakes: We’ve Made a Few – a ‘wash-up’ meeting which was an attempt to apportion blame for the failure of the Summer of Sausages promotion. Watching grown men argue wholeheartedly about the failure of their sausages lost its comedic value for Kate years ago.

  She’ll treat herself to a cappuccino and a Twirl, that’ll reinvigorate her while she counts down the hours till she sees Nick tonight. Tuesdays are notoriously the worst day of the week – you expect Mondays to be bad, Wednesdays you’re already at hump day, but Tuesdays? Famously nothing to recommend them.

  She heads off to the canteen, returns to her desk and resumes her stand-off with her computer screen. The caffeine and the chocolate are gone in minutes, along with their temporary high.

  Tasty, tantalising Tendersweets . . . tedious, tiresome Tendersweets . . .

  Heirloom carrots are still just carrots. Carrots are crunchy. Carrots are good for you. Sometimes carrots are even yellow or purple (not the Tendersweets, mind you) – but they’re still just carrots. The night she’d written her submission for her job she’d felt inspired in a way she’s never felt in her actual job, not once. If she has to spend another year, no, scrap that, another week having to pretend to care about carrots, she might lose her mind.

  It’s really only now, now that Nick is securely back in place and space has been freed up in her head again, that she can focus. These last few months at work, she’s been swept along on a tide of ego and principle. She’s been competing against Annalex, for what? Every time Cecily made a snide comment about her job, Kate knew in her gut that she was right, and now Kate is calm, confident and strong again, she can see it so clearly: she’s made a mistake. She had an opportunity to open the world up for herself – to take a chance on a different type of career – and instead she clung to this job because she was scared, because she had no real concept of her possibilities.