Paradise Fields (34 page)

While she was tweaking her fringe and borrowing Fleur's hair wax for blondes, she remembered what Viv had said about men, when Fleur had asked her why she had never married. ‘Men are like elephants, practically my favourite thing. But you wouldn't want to own one.'

‘Do I want to own one?' she asked, peering into the mirror, trying to see if her pores really did look refined with their new make-up, or if they were as coarse as ever, swearing and drinking tea out of the saucer.

‘You're looking tired, Nel,' Simon said when they were seated at too small a table on rather uncomfortable chairs.

Nel's hackles rose, possibly visibly. ‘Well, I shouldn't
be! I've got new make-up on which is supposed to bring out my sparkle.'

‘New make-up doesn't do anything for lack of sleep, or stress, pickle.' He took hold of her hand and squeezed it gently.

Nel regarded him. It was nice of him to be concerned. She was tired and stressed, and, no, different make-up couldn't really be expected to change anything. She should value his caring nature. Instead she felt slightly suffocated by it.

‘I think you need to do less. Why don't you concentrate on the farmers' market, and give up with this hospice nonsense . . . I don't mean nonsense!' he added quickly. ‘I mean, the hospice is terribly important. But you can't really do much about the building scheme. And if the hospice land gets sold, well, think of the lovely new building you could get with the money.'

Nel couldn't remember telling Simon all this. She supposed she must have at some time, or how would he know? But there was no harm in him knowing. None of the information was confidential, was it?

‘I see what you mean. We are facing huge opposition. But I have a feeling that the new hospice wouldn't get built. That the money would just disappear into people's pockets.' She didn't say Jake Demerand's, or Chris Mowbray's pocket, but she thought it.

‘I don't think you should worry about that. After all, you're not responsible for the hospice. You're only one committee member. I really think you should cut down on your good works, Nel. I know they were what got you through when Mark died, but you're over him now. You don't have to cut your heart out for every good cause now.'

For a brief, wild moment, it was as if Simon had a hidden agenda. Nel dismissed this as early-onset paranoia and wished she could tell Simon that he was a good cause in a way, that he took up her time too, time when she could be relaxing with her daughter. She smiled. The grip on her hand became tighter.

‘Darling, I wish you'd let me look after you more.'

‘Simon! You look after me brilliantly! You're always fixing things for me, sorting out the car, stuff like that.'

‘But I'd like to do it on a more full-time basis. I want to marry you, Nel. I think you know that.' He released her hand and raised his own. ‘No, I know what you're going to say! You're going to say, “Wait until the children have left home,” but they have, nearly. I don't want to wait any longer, I want to marry you now, while we've still got time ahead of us.'

Rather desperately, Nel tried to lighten the mood. ‘We're not that old! We've got a few more years before we're likely to shuffle off this mortal coil! Or at least, I have.'

‘Trust you to make a joke of it, but I'm serious. I love you and I want to marry you. Now. Soon.' Then, to Nel's growing horror, he put his hand in his pocket and produced a box. ‘I know all girls appreciate a romantic gesture. This is a little something I picked up in Cirencester the other day. Try it on.'

It not only fitted, it looked fabulous. It was a huge oval aquamarine, surrounded by tiny diamonds. Nel stared down at it, momentarily hypnotised by the sight of it on her wedding finger. Mark hadn't been able to afford diamonds, and her engagement ring had been lovely, but semi-precious, and she had stopped wearing it years ago, when she realised it couldn't take the
battering being a wife and mother gave it. Suddenly her hand looked complete, the narrow gold band enhanced by the larger ring. So why did she think back to the moment when Mark had pulled a screwed-up paper bag from his pocket and given her a ring that was initially so big she had to pack her finger with sticking plaster and cotton wool to keep it on? It had cost more to make smaller than it did to buy. Would Mark feel she was being disloyal if she married again?

Dismissing this fleeting nonsense, she said, ‘Simon, I couldn't possibly get engaged to you without talking to the children.'

‘Would they talk to you if they were getting engaged?'

‘Probably not, but it's not the same. I'm their mother—'

‘Which means you don't have to answer to them.'

‘Yes, I do! They're still young! They still live at home! I can't just get married, change their lives completely, without consulting them!'

‘Obviously, you'd have to tell them, but not ask their permission. They're young adults, they've got their own lives to lead. They can't dictate what you do.'

‘No! Of course not. And they wouldn't dream of doing that, or trying to do that. But I would have to give them plenty of warning. I couldn't just go home with a dirty great rock on my hand.' She looked at it. ‘Although it is glorious.'

‘Don't wear it immediately then. Give them a chance to get used to the idea, and then wear your ring.' He smiled, and when he did, the corners of his eyes crinkled attractively. His smile was one of the things that made Nel say yes when he first asked her out. She'd rejected many other invitations prior to his. At the time
she'd seen it as a sign that she was ready for another relationship.

‘After all,' he said now. ‘It's not going to affect your children all that much. We don't need to move house, or anything. I could move in with you. There'd be plenty of room for us both, especially when the children do leave home.'

A terrifying sense of suffocation flashed through Nel. She tried hard to dismiss it. She was only being neurotic because she was so stressed. Simon would keep her safe. Simon wouldn't sleep with her because he wanted her influence. He wouldn't take advantage of her age or desperation, or the fact she was a sensual woman who had suppressed her sensuality for years. He probably didn't know that; she'd only just discovered it herself. She was so confused. Would she be mad to turn down Simon and all he represented because she'd been mad enough to fall in love with Jake?

‘Don't answer now. Think about it. Talk it over with the boys – not Fleur straightaway. She's so indulged she's bound to be against it.'

As always, Nel prickled at the merest hint of criticism of her children. She made herself calm down. Fleur
was
indulged. Only that afternoon she had bought her some very expensive jeans for no reason other than she loved her, and had appreciated her help buying clothes. The trouble was, Fleur was easy to indulge. She was always so delighted, so grateful and so loving. Which was how she knew she wasn't spoilt, Nel always thought. Spoilt children were never pleased, never happy with anything they were given. It was, she convinced herself, the vital difference.

‘I don't think Fleur would be against anything which would make me happy,' she said.

‘Not consciously, but she wouldn't like sharing you with me. She wouldn't get the amount of attention you give her now. Viv too. She'd feel she would lose you as a friend if you married me – or anyone. So just think about it, don't talk about it. But keep the ring, and look at it from time to time. It's a symbol of all the good things I can give you.'

Nel looked down at the ring, part entranced by its sparkliness, part horrified at what it implied. Horrified that she was seriously considering accepting Simon's offer. She didn't love him, there was no doubt about that – at least she didn't feel about him the way she felt about Jake. He didn't preoccupy her, and make her lose track of herself; being with him didn't make her feel all overexcited. But neither did he make her doubt herself, and her judgement. He might not set her on fire, but she knew where she was with him – something that certainly couldn't be said for Jake.

Before Jake had come along and confused everything, she'd been perfectly happy with Simon, hadn't she? What if Jake had just temporarily muddled things? What if, by turning down Simon, she'd actually be turning down a very comfortable, companionable future? It wasn't as if Jake was likely to offer the same commitment. She took a deep breath.

‘All right. I'll think about it. But I'm not saying yes, Simon, not until I've thought things through. And, as you say, I've got a lot on my plate at the moment. I'll need to wait until I've got a time slot for thinking.' She smiled, to point up her little joke, which sounded extremely pathetic.

‘You don't need to think too hard. After all, if you married me, you wouldn't have so much on your plate, would you?'

‘Well, no.'

Rather frantically she tried to think of what Simon would remove from her area of responsibility. Car servicing, possibly paperwork, tax forms, DIY and house maintenance. It seemed a lot, and she smiled, suppressing thoughts of what work he would create: proper cooking all the time, washing, ironing, extra house cleaning, tidiness. Would they even each other out? And would watching war documentaries rather than makeover programmes be a sacrifice she could willingly make?

It would be a familiar sacrifice. Mark had been addicted to any programme involving war, war machines, or re-enactments of battles fought long ago. And she could always get another television and watch it in another room.

‘Promise me you'll think about it, and not spend so much time thinking about things you can't change?'

‘OK, Simon, I will,' she said softly, knowing that a large proportion of her warm feelings for him came from gratitude that he wasn't pressing her for an answer.

NEL DECIDED NOT
to think about Simon's offer of marriage until after the meeting. She knew he'd understand; she could hardly think about turning her life upside down when she didn't know how much it was going to be turned upside down anyway. If they lost the hospice land, it might be nice to start a new life with Simon. He'd help her get over Jake. They could perhaps sell both their houses, buy something bigger, start afresh. It would be fun, decorating somewhere different. After all, would she want to go on living in this house if there was a vast housing estate at the bottom of her garden? Simon's vague suggestion made when she and Jake met him at the Black Hart, and he was with that woman, that she might sell off the end bit was a silly idea. He'd see that when she'd had a chance to talk to him about it.

As she applied her new make-up and put on her new clothes, Nel realised she was a classic Nimby: Not In My Back Yard. ‘So,' she asked herself out loud, ‘if the hospice survived, with a new roof, but you still had the housing estate, would you still want to move?'

No, the garden was huge. She wouldn't need to look at the housing estate if she didn't want to. She could grow more trees, put up a screen. She'd only really hate the housing estate if it took the place of the hospice.

Relieved to discover she wasn't a wholly despicable person, she took one last look at herself in the mirror, took her long coat out of its plastic bag, put it on.

She was just about to leave the house when Fleur leapt out of the sitting room.

‘Let me look at you.'

‘It's only a meeting!'

‘An important meeting and Jake will be there. Hang on.' Fleur withdrew a piece of crumpled tissue from up her sleeve. ‘You've got a bit of mascara on your cheekbone. There.'

‘I suppose I should be grateful you didn't spit on the tissue!' said Nel and then left the house before too many dog hairs could leap off the furniture and stick to her, like iron filings to a magnet.

‘Wow, you look wonderful!' said Vivian as they met up in the Ladies of the hospice. ‘Fleur did really well! Designer?'

Nel nodded. ‘Don't ask how much it cost. I don't know. I've blotted it out of my consciousness. It was extremely well reduced, but it was still a fortune.'

‘Worth every penny. You'll wear it for years. I can't help noticing it is predominantly black, though.'

‘Well, yes. You can't have stylish, almost affordable and wear-it-for-years and not have black. Have you noticed my new make-up, though? Apparently it's what I need, because I have beautiful skin. They must sell an enormous amount of make-up by telling people they have beautiful skin and then making them buy something to cover it up.'

‘You do have beautiful skin, though. You're looking really good, girl.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘And you've got a game plan?'

‘Sort of.' Nel's instinct was to fly by the seat of her pants (new, plain but elegant), but she knew that Vivian would not approve. She and Abraham had decided to keep their information to themselves, until they discovered how much Chris Mowbray knew, or was willing to reveal. Then, when they thought the moment was right, they would tell the committee about the ransom strip, and their plan to divide it into plots. ‘It's a shame we didn't get a chance to discuss it, really. How's Florence? Home?'

Vivian dried her hands on a paper towel, peering into the mirror as she did so. ‘Home, but still a bit restricted as to what she can do. However, she's been busy on the telephone. She's getting all her groups to buy chunks of land, and the richer members to buy them individually. How many committee members know about the ransom strip?'

‘Apart from those we've told? I haven't a clue. I think we have to assume everyone knows everything. Especially people we don't want to know.'

‘Do you think Jake will come? Oh, hi, Kerry Anne. Nice to see you.'

‘Kerry Anne!' Nel was far more enthusiastic. ‘Excellent! I hope you're going to encourage Pierce to go for the smaller building plan? After all,' she leaned in, ‘you wouldn't want cheap housing in front of your health spa, would you? Tasteful executive housing would fit the image much better.'