Busy Woman Seeks Wife (20 page)

“Yeah, well, it’s not so much going as gone.” Ella too studied the contents of her coffee cup. “The position I was covering—well,
the girl had a bad back and now she’s recovered and is coming back. Why couldn’t she have had something serious, or at least
something lingering?” Saff smiled at Ella’s directness. “For once I was really enjoying myself. Making calls, chasing stories,
meeting people. I’ve had so many lousy jobs—really dead-end stuff like waitressing, flipping burgers, working in the sodding
cinema—but I think they really helped. They seemed like preparation for the radio station because they made me able to talk
to people. But more than that, I know what it feels like to be at the bottom of the pile, to have to sign on and justify yourself
all the time. For the first time it was something I really thought I could do. I thought I could make a difference by covering
stories that aired people’s grievances.” She paused. “And now he doesn’t want me.”

“Who?”

“Mike. My boss. He’s quite cute actually, in an old kind of way. No offense!”

There was silence between them for a while as they listened to a lawnmower in the distance, then Ella said: “That’s the best
you can hope for, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You know, that you can end up doing something you enjoy doing, even if it doesn’t make a fortune. I mean, look at Frankie.
All he wants is to act—and he’ll put up with all sorts of rejection on the off chance he might find his dream, land the perfect
role.”

Saff thought about the passion he put into his audition practice with the Bean. “He could always cook if all else failed.
He’s brilliant at that.”

There was a pause, then Ella turned to Saff. “That’s it! That’s what
you
should do. For money, I mean. Properly like. You’d love that!”

“What?”

“Cooking. Catering. Whatever they call it.”

Saff smiled at the excitement in the girl’s eyes. “That, Ella, is the crappiest idea I’ve ever heard!”

O
ver in Chelsea, things weren’t looking much better. If anything, they were worse. The Bean had buzzed Frankie into her little
mews house and had greeted him distractedly, but she was still in her peignoir, evidence of a scanty breakfast still at her
elbow as she avidly watched on TV the efforts of two over-enthusiastic real estate agents to interest a smart Asian couple
in a house with three shower rooms and no bath. She barely took her eyes off it as he started to clear up around her. In the
three days since Alex had sent them all packing, she seemed to have physically shrunk and was looking tired, rather the way
she had that first day he’d met her. Until now, Frankie hadn’t realized how much she had come on while she had been staying
with Alex. The last time they had been there, she had been wisecracking, cheating wildly at poker, doing ludicrous impersonations
of various actors and directors—until Alex walked in.

Frankie felt another wave of guilt. He’d spent the days since then fretting about that stupid audition when all the time the
Bean had been at home, sinking back into her old, insular ways, bored out of her skull, missing her daughter, watching mindless
daytime television programs and neglecting herself. What had he been thinking? Suddenly the audition and his own miserable
career seemed very insignificant. It wasn’t just that he needed the Bean. The Bean needed him. But, independent as a cat,
she would rather suffer on her own than admit she needed anyone or anything. An image of Alex came into his mind again, standing
there furious, white and trembling. “Get out, all of you!” He wondered, briefly, if she regretted what she had said. Probably
not. And who could blame her?

Frankie shook himself. Alex was not his problem anymore, but the Bean… right! Time for some acting. He took the remote
from her hand and knelt down in front of her, looking seriously into her still-lovely face. “Bean, let me be frank, as opposed
to Frankie, for a moment.” She smiled sadly and refocused her eyes on his. “This is not good. I know it’s going to be more
difficult for us to see each other, now you’re back home, but I still need your help. I’m pretty sure I messed up the audition,
big-time. And, to be honest, I’ve been too embarrassed to tell you. But do you think we could talk it through, so you can
help me work out what went wrong and how I can put it right next time?”

The Bean leaned forward in her chair. “Messed it up? You can’t have. With your talent? You’d better tell me all about it.”

Frankie hid a smile. Okay, so it was going to be painful to dredge up his humiliation, but the Bean was hooked. “Well, I will,
but could we go for a walk? I’ll find it easier to talk, and maybe we can get a bite to eat? There’s that nice café in St
James’s Park. Or perhaps we could go to the Royal Academy. There’s that exhibition on you wanted to see.”

The Bean unfolded herself from her chair and stretched. “Yes,” she purred. “That would be lovely. Tell you what, I’ll have
a shower and get dressed and you make me a cup of tea. What do you say?”

Frankie grinned. “Your wish is my command!”

She disappeared into the bathroom and Frankie tidied the old-fashioned little kitchen, which looked no more lived in than
when he’d dropped her back the night Alex found them all. Even though the little flat was crammed with things—every inch of
the wall covered in pictures from
Spotlight
and framed cast lists, every table littered with beautiful ornaments, oil paintings in ornate frames leaning up against the
walls—none of it seemed used. A museum to a better past. It was obvious to him now: the Bean needed people around her. All
that had been wrong with her when she first moved in with Alex was that she had been starved of company, and preferably admiring
company. With even a little attention, she had blossomed. Sitting there with no makeup, watching crap TV, she had atrophied
again. All his good work during the past few weeks had been for nothing. He could hear her high-pitched warble as she washed,
and he looked around again at the small, unused pans, the single-cup teapot and the mug turned upside down in the drainer.
This was too sad, and even if he was the last person she wanted to see, he had to speak to Alex. If that work-obsessed, career-driven
woman couldn’t see how lonely her mother was, then maybe Frankie would have to tell her.

A
lex deleted Saff’s apologetic text without even reading it. It was the fifth one she’d gotten from her. She’d started to read
the first two and then couldn’t bear any more. She tossed the phone back into her bag.

Things were wonderfully quiet tonight and she’d been able to have a shower, then eat ice cream out of the tub and have total
control of the remote for the first time in ages. Her mother had called, leaving a message on the answering machine asking
how she was, but Alex had ignored the interruption. They could all go to hell, she thought defiantly, and poured herself another
glass of wine. She channel-hopped for a while, but it was all rubbish about D-list celebs making exhibitions of themselves,
so she cast an eye over the flat. Her things were everywhere, a pile of this evening’s running clothes on the floor in front
of the machine, washing up on the side from breakfast. There was even a layer of dust she could see on the coffee table. The
order of the past few weeks had disappeared, but then so had her mother’s presence, which was a relief. In its way. And anyway,
things being so tidy all the time had begun to get on her nerves.

She looked at her watch. Only ten o’clock. Bliss. Perhaps she should make the most of having an early night? Lord knew she
could do with one. Sloshing water over her face and cleaning her teeth, she slipped into a tank top and underwear and, turning
off the hallway light and pulling the door of her mother’s now empty room closed, Alex climbed into bed and picked up her
“to do” list. She still had to settle the order of interviews with the main stars appearing at the launch, and there was the
relentlessly pushy woman from
Today!
magazine to deal with who would not give up until she had secured an exclusive with Bettina Gordino. Alex ticked off various
things as she scanned down the list. So much still to do. She could do with some rest.

Half an hour later she was still lying on her back and listening to the noise of a barbecue in a distant garden. People shrieking
with laughter. How selfish. The bed felt rumpled next to her skin, not smooth and cool as it did when the bed had been made
up with fresh sheets by… by Frankie. Alex turned onto her side and punched the pillows violently to plump them up. Oh
well, it was a pain that she’d have to change them herself now but all good things come to an end. She sighed and closed her
eyes.

Damn him, damn her mother and damn Saff, she railed fifteen minutes later as she stood in the kitchen, dropping a tea bag
into a cup. Most of all, damn Saff. Her mother had always been tricky. So mercurial. Everyone else seemed to find her endlessly
entertaining—even Frankie had clearly fallen under her spell—but to Alex it was shallow, done to impress people, done to be
adored. And who was left sorting out the chaos she left in her wake? As for Frankie, well, she didn’t know him. He was good-looking
all right, but an actor? God help her! He was probably as precious and difficult as the Bean or the sports stars she spent
her time mollycoddling. Alex helped herself to the last biscuit in the tin. Okay, so he could cook but what did that prove?
So could any fool.

But it was Saff’s deception that really hurt. If she couldn’t trust her then who the hell could she trust? They’d known each
other since they were in pigtails, they’d shared boyfriend pains, Alex was godmother to Millie (and about eight other people’s
children, but such was the lot of the unmarried thirty-something—people always imagined being a godmother would somehow compensate
for not having your own).

Alex tipped the remains of the cup into the sink, rinsed it out under the tap, and turned it upside down on the empty drainer.
If she couldn’t trust anyone, she’d just row her bloody boat on her own and, slamming the bedroom door behind her, she slumped
into bed.

“Right, Cam, a meeting!” Alex knew she was barking orders but there had been an early text from Gavin the next morning wanting
an update, and it had unnerved her. Why was he asking now? He’d never done that before. “Gavin is on the warpath,” she explained,
turning on her computer as Camilla sat down on the chair opposite her desk.

“I know—I was in early and he was hovering around your desk, looking at your papers.” Camilla tapped her pen with her teeth.
She looked very fresh and quite tanned in white T-shirt and pink cotton capri pants.

Hovering? That was out of character for Gavin. He was twitchy, yes, but he never
hovered.
Alex felt her stomach clench. What was this all about? “Did he… did he say anything?” It didn’t seem right to sound
so paranoid but she had to ask and Camilla would know what she meant.

“Well, he sort of asked me for an update. I said we had everything under control for the event, of course, but I have to say”—she
lowered her voice—“I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s as if… well, I don’t know how to say this, but it’s as
if he sort of doesn’t trust it to go without a cock-up.”

“Mmm. Well, we’ve had our glitches but let’s just make sure nothing else goes wrong, hey?”

Alex dealt with some pressing e-mails and was about to call Maurice the caterer for an update when her phone rang. “Alex,
it’s Rowena.” Alex’s heart sank. The
Today!
journalist was not so much a terrier for a story as a Rottweiler. She came straight to the point without her usual gushing
preamble. “Can you assure me of Bettina Gordino? Only I thought you said we would get an exclusive and now I hear that
Scorch
have secured it ahead of us. You know I asked about this straight after the PR briefing the other day—of course, you couldn’t
be there, which was a shame, but I was assured by Camilla she would be ours.”

“Well.” Alex finally managed to stem her flow. “I haven’t been told about this. I’ll get back to you.”