What Women Want (24 page)

The fly in the ointment was Amanda. She’d shown her colours at the away-day so Bea knew exactly what she was up against. Already she’d heard from a number of agents that Amanda was presenting herself as senior to Bea, as well as implying that any decisions about the publishing programme had to be sanctioned by her. In other words, they would be best advised to submit material and any concerns straight to Amanda, cutting out Bea altogether. But two could play at that game. Without making a fuss, Bea had assured the same people that nothing had changed. She was sure they would remain loyal to her.

The latch on the front door rattled and she heard Mark’s shout. Reluctant to leave the fireside, she tore herself away to find him on the front step laden with a boxful of logs.

‘Should have done this much earlier. I could hardly see what I was doing. Still I was right, wasn’t I? The second night’s always much warmer than the first.’

‘In more ways than one, I hope,’ replied Bea, as suggestively as she dared.

‘I’m sure we can make it as warm as we want.’ He grinned as he lugged the box through to the inglenook.

And, indeed, by the time they left at Sunday lunchtime, Bea had no complaints. The weather had closed in, with a gale that howled in from the coast, so after Mark had gone out for the Sunday papers, they settled themselves round the fire with Radio 4 in the background and relaxed. She had even come round to the concept of ‘basic’ and, before they left, had promised that she would visit again. In the spring, perhaps.

*

By the time she got home, the prodigal son had returned from Colin’s so Bea set about killing the fatted calf (rather, roast chicken and potatoes – his favourite) for his supper. As she pottered in the kitchen, she thought about Mark and how well they had got on. Once they’d relaxed with each other, the inauspicious start had given way to something much more satisfactory that demanded further practice, she decided. Perhaps Let’s Have Lunch had something of an instinct for these things after all.

As she served up, Ben sloped in, like something out of an ad for heroin chic. Thinner than ever, shoulders hunched and hair all over the place, he took a seat at the table, crossing his legs. Bea decided against mentioning the risk his jeans must be posing to his circulation or asking if he was aware of the two cigarette burns in his T-shirt.

‘How was your weekend?’ she asked, as she bent to take the chicken from the oven. Long experience had taught her that conversations without eye-contact were the ones that went most smoothly.

‘OK. Pity Dad’s such a jerk.’

‘Why?’ She ought to discourage him from being derogatory about his father, but she couldn’t resist the snippets that he brought her about her ex-husband’s new life. The frisson of
Schadenfreude
was too delicious to ignore.

‘He’s decided he wants me to call him “Colin” instead of “Dad”. “You’re not a child any more.”’ He had Colin’s voice to a T. ‘“I think of us more as equals.” What makes him think I want to be the equal of someone who made such a tit of himself leaving us for someone half his age? Everyone at school was pissing themselves about it. And I don’t want to be
her
friend either. He keeps telling me we have so much in common, but we haven’t.’ His left foot swung back and forth, kicking the table leg. ‘Anyway, the girls call him “Dad” and he is my dad too.’

‘If you don’t want to call him “Colin”, then tell him so.’ Bea was often irritated by Colin’s inability to understand that, despite appearances, Ben was still a child in so many ways. Couldn’t he see how difficult his son found adjusting to the idea that his father had another family? Obviously not. He would never try to get Ben in a heart-to-heart. They were alike in that way. Better to brush anything emotional under the carpet and carry on without making things worse or more uncomfortable by talking about them. However hard Colin worked to keep his relationship with Ben smooth, his underlying fear of being rejected for what he’d done was quite obvious to Bea – and maybe to Ben too.

‘I did.’ Another kick to the table leg. ‘You know, I don’t remember him ever taking me to the park. Did he?’

‘I’m sure he did. Yes, of course.’ In fact, she was far from sure. Colin’s attitude to parenting back then had been of the hands-off variety.

‘Don’t bullshit me. I know he didn’t.’ Ben’s face lit up as he smiled at her. Her heart melted. ‘I don’t mind that, but I don’t understand what makes him think I’d want to go to the park for an hour to stand with him watching Coral and Maudie.’

‘Perhaps he thinks it gives you a chance to talk to each other.’

‘Mum, listen. I got an hour’s lecture about why not to touch drugs. Way I see it, either I’m an adult or I’m not. He can’t have it both ways.’

Bea felt a sliver of guilt as she remembered that she had asked Colin to address the drugs question. But she had assumed he would use a modicum of sense and timing. What a plonker. Whatever he’d said had obviously been dismissed, thanks to the way he’d handled things. ‘He has a point about drugs,’ she murmured.

‘I might have known you’d side with him. Don’t try and guilt me too. It won’t work.’

‘I’m not. Really, I’m not.’

‘Where have you been anyway?’ (Change the subject.)

‘I went to Norfolk with Mark.’ (Keep it casual.)

‘That the guy you met through the dating agency?’ (I’m not that interested.)

‘Mmm. That enough chicken for you?’ (Want to know more?)

‘Good time?’ (Not really.)

‘Do you know? It was. We didn’t do anything much but I really did enjoy his company.’ She could tell that she had already lost Ben’s interest. Whom she went out with didn’t bother him, or affect his life, as long as she maintained a full fridge and biscuit tin, provided a laundry service, occasional company, and kept out of his affairs unless he asked for advice. But telling him about it was a way of going back over the time she and Mark had spent together. The man might not be the most obvious match she’d met, but she wouldn’t put the brakes on just yet.

Standing at the top of the step-ladder, Ellen screwed a new halogen bulb into one of the two lines of track lighting that illuminated the gallery. She remembered Uncle Sidney’s alarm when she’d told him how much her latest idea would cost and the disruption it would cause while the old wall lights were removed and the ‘new-fangled’ ones installed. Then, when he had seen how well they allowed the subtleties of colour in the paintings to combine, he had come round to her way of thinking.

The ring of the opening door made her turn a little too quickly so she put out a hand to steady herself before taking a step down to greet Oliver. Her heart leaped as he crossed the threshold and looked up at her.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ He sounded put out. Where was the ‘Hello’, the ‘How’s it going?’

She took a deep breath. Aware that her stress over the imminent exhibition was making her unnecessarily quick to criticise, she didn’t want to feel irritated with anyone, least of all him. ‘I’m just changing a bulb. They usually last for months but for some reason that one keeps cutting out. I’m going to have to call the electrician.’ She came down to greet him properly.

‘I could see that. But what were you doing up a ladder dressed like that?’

She looked down at the full black skirt with the pale embroidery motif that they had chosen together. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall off. It’s not like one of those pencil skirts that hobble you at the knees.’

‘I’m not talking about falling off, I’m talking about customers. Wouldn’t trousers be more suitable?’

‘Yes, but I’m not wearing any and the job needed to be done.’ She decided not to remark on such an absurdly old-fashioned view. After all, he was only thinking of her and the impression she might make.

‘One bulb could wait, couldn’t it?’ The two slight creases between his eyebrows deepened with his frown.

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve got Jed Sawyer coming in later to take a look at everything so I want it to be perfect for him.’

‘I could have done it for you.’ He snapped the step-ladder together and leaned it against the newly painted white wall. She hoped it wouldn’t mark but said nothing.

‘Yes, but I didn’t know you were coming in. Why have you anyway?’

‘I was on my way to the Portrait Gallery and I wanted to see you. But you’re obviously busy.’

Why did he sound so huffy?

‘Don’t be like that. You know I love you dropping by.’ She planted a kiss on his nose. ‘Will I see you later?’

‘Depends what time you’re planning on being back.’

That same tone. She hated it when he went into victim mode, as if the world was against him and now even she was failing to offer the love and support that he felt was his due. He’d used it a couple of times recently, once because she’d supported Emma against him when he’d asked her to wash up and she’d had homework that had to be done and again when she’d wanted to meet up with Bea and Kate without him. The initial shine was definitely beginning to rub off their relationship. But that was life, she guessed. He knew what her business meant to her and how important it was to her financially. Every exhibition was at least as important as the last and had to be got absolutely right. ‘I can’t be too late because of the kids but I’ve no idea how fussy Jed will be. Some artists take ages until they’re happy with how their pictures are hung. I can see why.’ She paused. ‘You could say there’s a lot hanging on it.’

Although Oliver groaned at the pun, she was relieved to see him smile.

‘Which reminds me, I must check when the drink’s being delivered for the opening.’

‘Why don’t you let me do that? I could be useful around here.’ He went over and sat behind her desk, flicking through her papers.

‘I know you could but I prefer to do all these things myself. It’s not that I don’t trust you . . .’ She stopped. Oliver looked so dejected that she almost changed her mind. ‘Really.’

‘I know.’ He got up and started looking through the framed pictures that leaned against the wall. ‘You’ve built the business up and you can’t let it go. I’d be the same.’

She bit back her warning to be careful. If any of the glass broke now . . . ‘You would?’

‘Of course. You carry on and give me a call when you’re through. Maybe I’ll come round or, even better, you could escape to the flat.’

‘I’ll try but no promises.’

As he shut the door, he turned and blew her a kiss, then disappeared down the street. Ellen put the steps away and switched on the lights, ready to start hanging the pictures where she and Jed had planned the day before. She locked the door and put up the ‘CLOSED’ sign so she wouldn’t be disturbed. Looking at the paintings, Ellen thought how much she loved these ‘abstract landscapes’, as he called them. Strong and atmospheric, the broad textural strokes and powerful use of colour conveyed the light and power that Jed saw in the land patterns and skies of the Lake District.

While waiting for him to arrive, she put the hard work off for another few minutes by sitting down with her checklist to make sure that everything would run smoothly the following evening. She ran through the invitation list to the private view, firing off reminder emails to anyone who hadn’t replied. She called Emily Kirkbride, whose exhibition she had just taken down, to make sure she was expecting back the pictures that hadn’t sold. Ellen was keeping three for stock and would take more once those went. She confirmed with
Time Out
that their reviewer would turn up and rang her friend Cressida at
Art Finder
magazine to check she was coming too. Majestic confirmed they would deliver the wine, ice and glasses the following afternoon.

With nothing left to do, she began to distribute the pictures around the gallery, leaning them against the walls where they’d look best. The largest went on the wall dividing the back and front room to draw visitors into the heart of the gallery. Then she shared out the rest between the two rooms, making sure the strongest works would be in key positions so the punters would keep moving around. She made a start on the hanging, stepping back every so often to make sure that each picture had enough space to speak for itself without having so much that it destroyed the effect of the whole. There was no doubt in her mind about Jed’s talent. Apart from the abstracts that they were keeping towards the front of the gallery, he had recently started painting still-lifes in oils, choosing the simplest subjects – a sweet, a cherry, a small bowl of eggs or a plate of apples – most often painting them larger than life size, always concentrating on texture, light and shade. She grouped twenty together to hang on the short right-hand wall of the back room deliberately to surprise the punters with their impact. These were the ones that would sell first, she was sure.

As she worked, her mind went back to Oliver. He had gone to so much trouble all week to make up for that terrible night, constantly reassuring her that nothing like that would happen again. Although she could hardly forget the episode, she had made every effort to put it behind her. At the same time she had vowed that if he ever so much as threatened a repeat performance, he would not find her so forgiving. Constant re-evaluation was what every new relationship must involve, she reminded herself. Everyone packed the odd surprise into their emotional artillery and Oliver was no exception. She should try to be more generous.

However confident she felt, one nagging doubt still surfaced when the two of them were apart and she had time to look at their relationship objectively. Had she been too hasty in committing herself to him? Should she have waited until she knew him better? Everything had seemed so right to begin with but she had to acknowledge that their relationship had changed from how it had been during those first blissful weeks. But there were so many pressures on them now: children, rent, job. She wanted things to be as they had been but she couldn’t ignore the demands of everyday life for ever.

If only he hadn’t wasted all that money on that crazy romantic gesture of the shed. Despite all intentions, it stood unused (apart from the freezing night she had spent in it), a constant reminder of what she wasn’t achieving and of the fact that he had paid for it while she was paying his rent. She hadn’t expected their arrangement to continue beyond two or three months and her funds were already running low. One solution would be for him to move into the house, but much as she might welcome the idea, Emma was far from ready for that to happen. She knew other women in her position wouldn’t let that stop them, but she wasn’t one of them. Her children came first.

The previous week, two jobs that Oliver had been so certain were in the bag had come to nothing, one at the Dulwich Art Festival and the other at Marshalsea Arts, a small private gallery known to her only by name. Despite his obvious disappointment, she was pleased that he remained positive about finding something else. Having an uncertain future was difficult, but at least they knew they would be together. She smiled at the thought. Of course that was what she wanted.

There was a knock at the door. A tall, burly man in his fifties, with a head of cropped grey hair, a weather-beaten face and a short grizzled beard, stood outside. His dark-green corduroy trousers were topped by a heavy-knit brown jumper over an open-necked shirt, and he wore scuffed brown loafers on his feet.

‘Jed, hi.’ She shook his hand. ‘I’ve made a start, but you may want to change things again once you see how they look.’

He came inside and stood still, taking in the room. Then his face lit up with a wide smile. ‘This is fantastic.’

‘Come through to the back.’ Ellen led the way.

Again he took a moment to study what she had done. ‘Yes, I still like your idea of putting these together and this wall’s ideal.’

For the next hour or so they worked together. Jed had a clear idea of how his paintings should hang to be seen at their best but he listened to Ellen’s reasons for placing the key works in certain spots. Between them they agreed exactly where everything should go and spent the rest of the day hanging them in place. Eventually Ellen left him to take a final look at both rooms. She went back to her desk and waited. She was aware of him stopping in front of each picture as if greeting an old friend. After a few minutes, she forgot about him as she concentrated on her paperwork, lost in the effort of double-checking her accounts for the show she’d just taken down.

‘I was wondering whether to swap those two round.’ Jed broke her concentration and she looked up to see him pointing to two of the larger abstracts, one in autumnal, the other in winter tones. ‘But now I look again, I can see that they resonate better the way they are. It works. I’m happy.’

‘Are you sure?’ Ellen wanted reassurance. ‘We’ve got time to change them over.’

‘I don’t need to. Can I buy you a quick drink as a thank-you?’

‘Let me buy you one,’ she said, easy now she knew she had a good hour in hand and time to answer any of his questions about the next day. ‘I should make a couple of calls first.’ He nodded and went into the back to give her privacy. She dialled Oliver but was sent straight to voicemail where she left a message. Then she called home, promising Emma and Matt to be home by seven thirty.

The pub was busy but they found a seat in the back room. She pushed through to the bar to get Jed’s pint and her glass of wine, then returned to join him. He sat with his back against the oak bench while she perched on a small round stool across a table that was marked with rings and covered with beer mats. She wanted to talk him through the private view, making sure that he was happy with every aspect. When she’d finished, there was a short silence.

‘You’ve thought of everything. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything until we’ve sold a picture or two. Then we’ll know it’s worked.’

‘Just seeing my work displayed like that is almost enough. Honestly. If you hadn’t come to Kendal last year and found me, this would never have happened.’

‘If I hadn’t found you, someone else would have. Jeannie was busting to tell someone about you.’ Ellen remembered the woman who owned the B-and-B where she’d stayed. Small, round and aproned, she was a fount of knowledge as to what was going on in the area. Ellen had gone up there to see an artist whose work had been featured in a magazine but Jeannie had insisted she visit the painter who had rented ‘the artist’s place’ just outside town.

She had followed directions to a small stone cottage where, alerted to her arrival, Jed had welcomed her inside. The place was furnished minimally but comfortably, giving the impression that he wasn’t particularly interested in material things. At the back of the house was the studio, a large room with a north-facing window that looked across uninterrupted countryside scattered with sheep. She was immediately bowled over by his work as was he about her proposal to show it in London. Since then, they’d corresponded and spoken on the phone, making sure there was enough work to show, Jed photographing each new picture so she could see what to expect. She hadn’t been disappointed.

Jed was endearingly straightforward and Ellen liked that. When he talked about the recent death of his wife, Anne, she had empathised. As the years had passed, she’d found she wanted to talk more about the devastation she’d felt when Simon died and her long journey back from there, but as time had gone on, fewer and fewer people wanted to listen. After a while, you were expected to be adjusting, not needing to grieve openly any more. Finding someone who understood that loss and could talk about it was an unexpected gift. Unlike Simon, Anne had taken her time to die. Her protracted death from cancer had been difficult for Jed, who had had to watch her ebbing away over years as her suffering increased. At least Simon had been spared that slow decline.

‘That was why we ended up in Kendal,’ Jed explained. ‘She grew up there and we had family holidays there and she wanted to spend the last few years of her life there. When we thought she’d recovered after the first bout of cancer, we decided to move, you see. We didn’t believe it would come back. You don’t. Or we didn’t want to. When it did, my painting became a way of coping. Anne said she liked to think of me out in the fells when I wasn’t with her, recording them so she could see them too. Then, when she needed me in the house, I painted the objects around us. It turned into a kind of game as she tried to find more and more difficult challenges for me. I hadn’t shown anyone else what I’d been doing till Jeannie sent you along.’