What Women Want (12 page)

‘Do you have to? Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’ Bea was not asking for herself. He looked tired. Even in the dim lighting, he gave off an aura of weariness and she could make out the shadows under his eyes.

‘No. Really not.’ He sighed. ‘If I put it off, Alison won’t speak to me either, which would make seeing the girls that much harder. I only see them at weekends and then only if Alison hasn’t organised something else for them. Which she often does.’ His wistful expression gave way to something more determined as he looked at Bea. ‘But you don’t want to hear all this.’

In a way he was right, she didn’t. Yet at the same time she found she did. She had never given a serious thought to what it must be like to be at the losing end of the custody battle. Had Colin felt any of Mark’s frustration those times she’d insisted on him seeing Ben when she was reaching the end of her tether? Not that she’d cared about that at the time. Dealing with teenagers alone was hard, especially if your ex was only an angry tube ride away. She used to imagine Colin out enjoying himself while she was imprisoned alone with Ben. But seeing Mark in this state made her think perhaps things weren’t so black and white.

‘No, I do,’ she said, and meant it.

‘I vowed I wouldn’t bore any of my dates into the ground with my personal life. So that’s enough.’ His smile seemed more attractive than she remembered from their first meeting. His teeth weren’t
that
uneven. ‘You sound as if you understand, though.’

‘Oh, I do. More than you know.’

‘That makes me want to find out more but I really am going to have to go. I’m sorry.’

‘No, no. I shouldn’t have been so late. It’s my fault. You go, and I’ll finish my drink.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. I’ve always got a book with me.’

‘Then could we try again next week?’

‘Yes. I’d like that.’ To her surprise, Bea realised she meant that too.

A book! As she watched him weave his way into the night, Bea dug into her bag for her regular Friday-night companion. She signalled the waiter to order a salad and another glass of wine. How stupid she felt, always moaning about the lack of a man in her life and then, when she’d had the chance to do something about it, she’d blown it by not turning up on time. But the opportunity hadn’t been entirely wasted. He might not be the most attractive man she’d met so far but, on a second outing, he just might be one of the nicest. Something that her other recent date certainly was not. Perhaps she shouldn’t underestimate that.

‘What do you think? You can open your eyes . . . wait for it . . .’ Ellen opened the front door and led Oliver through. ‘Now!’

They were in a long, rectangular room, light spilling through a large window with wide french windows at the far end that opened onto a tiny terrace, just big enough for a metal table and chair and some bedraggled pot plants. To the right of the door a neat row of white and chrome kitchen units ran the length of the wall. Beyond the small glass-topped dining-table and two white leather and chrome chairs, a yellow two-seater sofa faced a small, wall-mounted flat-screen TV. The walls were freshly painted a uniform white, the perfect setting for the
pièce de résistance
: Caroline Fowler’s
Starship
. The colours sang from the painting, taking attention from everything else in the room.

Oliver gasped. ‘My God. It looks better than ever. You bought it?’

‘For you.’ Ellen enjoyed his obvious pleasure. ‘It’s a present.’

‘I can’t . . . you shouldn’t have . . .’ For the first time since she’d known him, Oliver couldn’t find the words he wanted.

‘I can. I have. Now, come through here.’ She caught his hand and pulled him through a door on the left. Another light-infused room with pale Wedgwood blue walls and white woodwork, at the centre of which was a double bed made up with crisp white bed linen. There were blue and white checked blinds at the windows, a bedside table carrying a chrome Anglepoise reading lamp and a wide built-in wardrobe. ‘And then, best of all . . .’ Ellen almost skipped over to a final door, which she flung open to reveal a wet room, where the sun glanced off blue and white mosaic tiles, and a sheer glass panel divided the shower from the rest of the room. ‘Well? Say something.’

Once they’d made the decision that Ellen was going to loan him up to three months’ rent, and maybe more, if need be, she hadn’t wasted time. While Oliver put his energy into finding the now more-necessary-than-ever job, she put hers into phoning the local lettings agents. One of her calls had been taken just minutes after this flat had been accepted on the agency’s books. Because it was in a converted stocking factory within half a mile of her house, she had shut the gallery for a couple of hours over lunch and gone to inspect. The rent was a little higher than she’d budgeted for but she’d put down a deposit, frightened they would lose it otherwise. She had been so sure that it was perfect but, too late, the thought crossed her mind that perhaps she’d moved too fast and forced him into a commitment that he wasn’t really ready for, despite what he’d said.

‘It’s nothing like I’d imagined.’

‘It’s not?’ Her relief at his regaining the power of speech was tempered with anxiety that she’d made a terrible mistake.

‘No. I thought I’d be living with cockroaches and damp. I never imagined anything like this. It’s . . .’ he paused ‘. . . absolutely breathtaking. I love it.’ As he pulled her towards him, they fell back onto the bed, laughing. Then, as one thing led to another, Ellen stopped worrying that (a) he didn’t like it, (b) she’d spent too much money, (c) she’d borrowed from the children’s university account (but, of course, it would be paid back long before they’d be choosing where to go), and gave herself up to the moment.

Afterwards they lay in a tangle of duvet, the bed surrounded by the clothes they’d flung off in their hurry. Ellen’s head rested in the dip below Oliver’s shoulder as she half dozed in the afternoon light, marvelling on how blessed she felt to have discovered such a sense of harmony with someone else again. Oliver and she were a perfect fit. She couldn’t imagine him ever not being in her life now.

‘Funny to think that we’re not going to see each other for a week.’ She caught the woody citrus scent of his after-shave as he rolled to face her.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I wish I could come with you.’

‘I wish you could too.’ She could picture them in Cornwall together, staying at a local B-and-B, introducing him to everyone, tramping the cliff path, pottering about in the family boat, eating crab sandwiches on the beach. He could even have come with her to visit the couple of artists she hoped to persuade to exhibit at the gallery. ‘And next time you will. But I’ll be back in a week and by then you’ll be ensconced here and you might even have found some work.’

‘Don’t.’ He groaned and rolled back again, his arms folded behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

‘Couldn’t you widen the field a bit?’ she asked tentatively.

‘For God’s sake, I’m doing the best I can. Just leave it to me.’ He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, rubbing his head.

‘Come back.’ She ran her hand down his back, resting it on his waist. ‘I was only making a suggestion.’ But she couldn’t stop herself thinking that the wider he cast his net, the sooner he would find something.

‘I don’t think so.’

Her heart sank. Why was it that, despite the intense closeness she felt they had, she sometimes had to tread on eggshells around him? It was as if there was still a part of him he kept hidden, despite the ‘no secrets’ pact they had made. She could put her hand on her heart and swear that he knew everything about her, her marriage and her family, her work, her hopes and fears. Would he be able to swear she knew everything about him? She thought not. Now was clearly not the moment to find out.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we test-run the wet room together?’ Smiling again, storm over, he took her hand and together they went next door, any tension between them evaporated.

*

As she replayed that afternoon in her head, she looked out of the train window, a slight smile on her lips. They were passing Dawlish, her favourite part of the journey south where the track hugged the coastline, waves slapping against the sea wall below them, the white and pastel houses of the town on the north side giving way to the rich red sandstone cliffs. She gazed south to the horizon where the sea and sky fused into one another, the vast expanse of inky blue water only interrupted by the flash of a white sail with seagulls wheeling above.

Her usual enjoyment of the journey had been hijacked by her memories of the last weeks, and by her projections of those to come. She felt as if her life had divided into two parts that she had to reconcile as soon as possible. Before and after Oliver. As the train rushed towards the before, she was beginning to acknowledge that the potential difficulties Bea and Kate had signalled were all too probable. As long as she was with Oliver, the realities of the situation were sufficiently misted to make it easy to ignore them.

As the train drew into Truro, she began to feel more and more nervous about how the children might react. What would she do if they didn’t give Oliver the welcome she’d been so sure of till now? Then, there was no more time for thought. There they were, sun-kissed and smiling: Matt racing down the platform, flinging his arms around her; Emma holding back but looking pleased to see her. By the exit, Ellen caught sight of Mary, Simon’s mother, a trim, diminutive woman in her late seventies who had refused to let age get the better of her. She was the picture of a proper countrywoman, with her unruly grey hair, ruddy cheeks, blue Barbour waistcoat and loose trousers.

‘Mum, come on. If we’re quick, we can get back in time for you to go out in the new dinghy. The tide’s just right.’ Matt pulled at her arm.

‘Hang on, hang on.’ She laughed. ‘Give me a chance to say hello to Em. How are you, darling?’

‘She’s got a boyfriend,’ Matt mocked in a sing-song voice.

‘Shut up, Matt. It’s not true, Mum.’ Emma hugged her tight.

‘Yes, you have. You’re always down at the beach with him.’ He managed to dodge the slap aimed at him.

‘Stop it, you two, I’ve only just got here.’ Ellen walked between them to prevent any further disagreement. ‘Hello, Mary.’ She embraced her mother-in-law. ‘Not too exhausted?’

‘You know we always love having them. And you look as though you’ve benefited from the break.’

‘Look at your hair, Mum. You look like M in the James Bond films.’

‘Thanks so much, Matt. She’s only about twenty years older than me. Don’t you like it?’

‘Very much indeed. Makes you look younger, whatever Matt says.’ Mary led the way to her battered old Peugeot estate and they all piled in, shouting greetings to Tilly and Rex, the excited pair of springer spaniels bouncing around in the back. They drove down the familiar high-hedged narrow lanes, non-stop chatter from the rear seat, arriving at the Neill’s family home, a large nineteenth-century stone farmhouse close to a small hamlet in the Percuil valley. During the school holidays, the house was Holiday Central, alive with cousins and their friends who dashed in and out, snatching up and dropping off riding kit, surfboards, wetsuits, swimsuits, towels, tennis rackets, car keys, bicycles, and distributing sand wherever they went. The two dogs followed the crowd, wagging and barking with excitement. Mary was immune to the hubbub, enjoying having the young life around her. Bob, Simon’s father, hid himself in their private sitting room whenever it got too much. Simon’s brother and sister, Pete and Julia, lounged around the garden with their partners, coming in to contribute to a meal, get a book or a drink, or give the youngest children a lift somewhere. The atmosphere was the same relaxed chaos that it had been every summer Ellen could remember being there.

By the evening, Ellen had been out in the dinghy without capsizing it, helped with supper and caught up with snippets of what Emma and Matt had been doing over the last weeks. She was helping with the washing-up when Mary said, ‘Darling, you didn’t eat much at supper. Are you all right?’

‘Just because I normally eat like a horse, I know. No, I’m trying to lose a few pounds. Oliver’s persuaded me it would be a good thing.’ His name slipped out without her thinking and there it lay between them, large and glaringly obvious. Her prayers that Mary wouldn’t notice went unanswered.

‘Who? I don’t remember hearing that name before, do I?’ She put a plate back in the sink and stopped to scrutinise Ellen. ‘I knew there was something different about you, apart from the new hair, of course.’ Two and two made four with no effort at all.

‘You’re such a beady old thing,’ Ellen protested. ‘OK. Hands up. I was going to tell you but I was waiting for the right moment.’

‘Seems like you’ve just found it.’ Mary put a hand on Ellen’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been expecting this for years. Can’t think why it took so long. Anyway, I couldn’t have wished for a lovelier daughter-in-law.’

As they washed and dried, Ellen poured out the whole story, grateful that they were having the conversation at a moment when they didn’t need to look each other in the eye – exactly as she’d engineer an awkward conversation with Matt or Emma. She told Mary everything, feeling only a smidgeon of guilt when she omitted to include the minor detail of the rent payment. When she’d finished there was a short silence while Mary peeled off her rubber gloves.

‘It all sounds a bit of a whirlwind.’ She hesitated over her choice of words, obviously not wanting to give the impression that she disapproved. ‘Are you sure you know him well enough to make such a commitment so soon?’

‘I know more every day. And the more I know, the more I like.’ Ellen brushed aside any potential objections, as she’d promised Oliver she would. If she let a chink of doubt appear in her armour, Mary would pounce, then worry away until it was much larger. ‘I know you’re concerned for Matt and Em, but so am I. I won’t do anything to hurt them. Promise.’

‘What are you promising?’ Matt stuck his head round the door. ‘Hurry up. I want to beat you at Scrabble.’

‘Why? Has the TV broken?’ Matt was usually impossible to prise away from the screen.

‘Ha ha! No, but Em and Lucy are watching some stupid film. What
were
you promising?’ Like his grandmother, Matt had a nose for what he wasn’t meant to know. There was no point in trying to fudge because he’d just go on until he’d succeeded in worming a satisfactory reply out of her.

‘I was just promising that you’d like a new friend of mine.’

‘Why? Who is she?’

‘She’s a he. And he supports Arsenal.’ At least, she was sure he could be persuaded to, in the interest of good relations.

‘A he!’ Matt yelled, as if a male friend was the last thing he’d expect his mother to have.

‘Yes. He liked the paintings in the gallery and we’ve made friends. You’ll like him.’

‘He’s not a boyfriend, is he?’ The disgusted emphasis put on the word ‘boyfriend’ was enough to warn Ellen not to say more. As was Mary’s sharp elbow in the ribs.

‘No, no. Don’t be silly.’ Time to change the subject. ‘Come on, then. Scrabble it is. But you know I’m unbeatable.’

The challenge was enough to put everything else right out of Matt’s head. ‘No, you’re not,’ he objected. ‘I won at least the last two times.’

That’s boys for you, thought Ellen and she clenched her fist Andy Murray-style. ‘OK, then. Bring it on.’

‘You won’t beat me, you know. Let battle commence.’ With the gauntlet thrown, he dashed down the corridor to the living room, Ellen in hot pursuit.

*

By the end of the week, Ellen was exhausted and ready for home. She’d played all the games in the toy cupboard with varying degrees of success – Scattergories, Monopoly, Articulate, The Nasty Horse Racing Game and Cribbage – all old favourites that were brought out every year. She’d walked the cliff path, straining up the steep bits, legs aching, but relishing the open spaces, the wind in her face and the time alone. She’d played tennis (badly), golf (even worse), been out in the dinghy, and even been persuaded to catch fresh mackerel for a barbecue supper. She’d visited her two artists: one had already been snapped up by a gallery in Bristol but the other was interested in her proposals. They’d been through the work he had in his studio, selecting the best of the figurative oils that had so readily captured her imagination with their clever use of space and composition, and their suggestions of half-told stories. They agreed he would paint another four over the following few months so there would be enough for a coherent exhibition in the back room of the gallery next spring.