What Women Want (25 page)

‘Thank God she did. I know the show’s going to be a huge success.’

‘I hope you’re right. Thanks to you, I’m beginning to feel as if I might have some sort of a future without Anne now.’

‘I know that feeling. I was the same when Uncle Sidney asked me to work with him at the gallery. I was lost after Simon’s death but working here gave me a new direction and made me feel as if I could somehow cope. And I have.’

‘Let’s drink to that.’ He raised his glass

‘What do you think you’ll do next?’

‘I may look for somewhere to live in London.’

‘Really?’ Having seen the landscape he woke up to every day for herself, Ellen couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Why? How could you give up the fells?’

‘Everything up there reminds me too much of Anne’s death. If I’m going to start again, I’ve got to move away. We started out together in London, so I still have friends here. Life’s about taking chances and this is one of them.’

‘But will you be able to find the same inspiration down here? I’m sorry. That’s naïve of me. But the landscape up there’s so magnificent and so different.’

He laughed. ‘You’ll be surprised. This is where I began, after all. I was forced into teaching history once we’d had our boys so I never painted as much as I would have liked to back then. This will give me a chance to catch up on missed opportunities that I haven’t forgotten. It’ll be an interesting challenge.’ He smiled at her as he drained his glass. ‘You’ll see.’

‘I hope so.’ She looked at her watch. ‘The time! I must go, I’m afraid. My kids will be wondering where I am.’

‘Of course.’ Jed stood up to shake her hand. ‘And I must find somewhere to eat.’

‘Where are you staying?’ She felt bad that she hadn’t asked before. Perhaps she should have recommended something nearby.

He looked embarrassed. ‘Er . . . right round the corner.’

‘From here? Where?’ There weren’t any hotels as far as she knew, apart from the one that was heavily over-subscribed by Social Services to give people a roof while they waited for council housing.

‘I’ll show you. Come with me.’ She let him take her arm and guide her to Conway Street.

‘But there isn’t a hotel anywhere near here,’ she said, puzzled.

‘Did I say anything about a hotel?’ Jed laughed, a deep infectious rumble, and pointed to a maroon VW campervan. ‘It’s got everything I need: a bed downstairs and a pull-out two-berth shelf in the roof, a kitchen, wardrobe and bags of storage space.’

‘But it must be freezing at night.’ Ellen couldn’t imagine anything worse than not being able to sleep in a comfortable warm bed.

‘A little on the cold side, maybe, but nothing a good sleeping bag can’t solve.’ He opened the door to show her the tidy, snug interior.

‘But you can’t stay here.’ Ellen couldn’t bring herself to ask what he did about his washing arrangements. She could see that parking the van where you could pee in a field was one thing, but in a London street?

‘It’s not ideal, true. But I promised my son Ian that I’d bring it down for him. He’s flying in from Germany to come to my show and then he’s taking it through Eurotunnel. He’ll drive it to Hamburg where he’s living. Seemed a waste of money to book into a hotel. To be honest, I didn’t really think it through.’ He laughed again.

‘Well, you must come home with me. I insist. At least I’ve got a shower and running water. I’ll give you a key, introduce you to the children and you can come and go as you please.’ Although she hadn’t known him for long, she felt that she could trust him completely.

Jed raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Why not? It’s the very least I can do.’

His face creased into a smile. ‘Then leap aboard and I’ll drive you there, my saviour.’

*

‘You’ve let some artist you hardly know have free run of your house? I don’t believe it.’

‘I know, I know.’ Ellen took Oliver’s hand and stroked the side of his face. ‘But the artists I look after are almost like my family. I had to help him and it won’t be for long.’

‘Family!’ He snorted. ‘I get thrown out and a near stranger gets to move in. How does that work exactly? Do explain to me.’ He threw back the duvet and got out of bed.

‘Come back. You know that’s not what it’s about.’ He was not going to make her lose her temper. ‘Come on.’ She watched him turn, his body taut and strong. She could see his expression soften as he looked at her. His displeasure vanished as quickly as it had come.

He climbed in again then rolled over onto his stomach. He kissed her collarbone, suddenly penitent. ‘I’m sorry. Of course I know all that. I’m jealous of him, that’s all. I want to be living there with you.’

‘I know. And you will. Just a few more months. That’s what we agreed.’ A few more months that she could barely afford unless Oliver started contributing. Perhaps if she worked harder on Emma they could bring the date forward. She felt his hand move under the duvet until it was resting on her stomach. She rolled over to meet him and, as they touched, all thoughts of a practical nature left her head.

She hadn’t been too hasty. This was what life was for.

After the divorce, Bea had earmarked Colin’s study in the loft extension for herself. As soon as he had moved out, the decorators had removed any trace of his occupancy. The striped wallpaper was stripped and the walls painted a soft off-white. His second-hand bookcases went to the tip and in their place four long thick shelves were fixed to the wall, manuscripts on the lowest and books above. Having finally persuaded him to take away his antique pine partner’s desk, Bea chose oak trestles with a glass top instead. On it, in stark contrast to her office desk, sat her laptop, a phone and a Bestlite desk lamp, nothing more.

She’d put in recessed ceiling lights on dimmer switches that she rarely used, and four discreet Artemide wall lights that washed the walls with a soft glow. The manky blue carpet had given way to seagrass with a couple of strategically placed deep red wool rugs. The only other notable piece of furniture, apart from her office chair, was a chrome and black Corbusier chaise longue. How arty she felt when reclining to read, a standard Anglepoise behind her, the read pages of a manuscript turned onto the coffee-table at her side, a chocolate or two within easy reach. On the walls were three large prints that she’d bought from one of Ellen’s artists: richly coloured and carefully patterned domestic still-lifes that reminded her of the work of Mary Fedden but without the price tag.

No one came here. Just Bea. Sometimes, when she felt the need for human contact, she took her work downstairs but most often she was happy to hide away up here where the atmosphere was reliably untroubled. Tonight, she had brought up her mug of coffee and settled herself at the desk. The blind on the window to her right was up so she could see across gardens and rooftops, the orange glow of the street lights blurring into a starless night sky. On the other side of the room, she’d pulled the finely striped cream blind so no one from across the street could see in. She’d lit her favourite scented candle, the Diptyque Figuier that Ben insisted smelt like cat’s piss – but up here he didn’t have to smell it. From the two tiny black speakers floated the soothing sounds of Dire Straits.

She switched on her laptop and quickly Googled ‘Oliver Shepherd’. Might as well start with the obvious. She gazed awestruck at the possibility of nine million entries. How could there be so many Oliver Shepherds in the world, even allowing for a few repeats? She clicked on a few of the sites, finding nothing remotely relevant so quickly gave up. She’d have to narrow the search. He’d said he’d lived in France but where exactly? She picked up the phone.

Kate answered immediately. As she explained, Bea could sense Kate’s disapproval.

‘Did he mention the name of a town or anything? I can’t remember a thing, as usual.’ Bea’s anxiety about her senile moments had become a joke among them.

‘Ah, the joys of alcohol-induced amnesia. You’ll be able to ask him again and be just as interested in the answer as you were the first time then.’

‘You must be able to remember. Your brain functions much better than mine.’

‘Didn’t Ellen once say something about Centre? I think it’s a region around the Loire valley somewhere. Does that help?’

‘Well, at least it gives me somewhere to start.’

‘Go carefully, won’t you?’

‘Kate, stop it. This is for Ellen. I’ll call you later or tomorrow if I find anything. And I probably won’t.’ She put the phone down and carried on Googling. After an hour, she was still not much further forward. All she had was a list of the four major towns in the area, the names of a few galleries, a couple of British-sounding artists who lived there, and no idea where to go next. As she debated how to narrow the search again, she was interrupted by the phone. It was Mark.

Within minutes, she had told him what she was up to and how she’d reached an impasse. Mark had heard enough about Oliver to be intrigued by his reticence about his past and backed her decision to do a judicious bit of digging into his non-background.

‘Why don’t you call a gallery or two in the major towns and just ask them if they know of an Oliver Shepherd or of an English gallery in the area?’ he suggested.

‘That’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it? The area’s huge. Anyway, my French is so rusty it’s corroded.’

‘But mine isn’t. Maybe I could do it for you.’

‘Would you? Really?’

‘You’ve told me so much about this guy that I’m as curious as you are now. Of course I will.’

They agreed that during his lunch hour the next day he would try three or four galleries that they chose at random and then report back. Shutting down her laptop, Bea concentrated her attention on him and what he had to say, and for the next half-hour they chatted about their week so far and planned to see a film the following week, both admitting how much they were looking forward to seeing each other again. By the time she went to bed, Bea felt she was definitely on the way to putting her own small world to rights.

*

By lunchtime the next day, she felt quite different. A major disagreement had blown up with Amanda over a book jacket. Where Bea was anxious to send the illustration back to the illustrator, asking him to play up the humorous side of the novel, Amanda wanted to use what he’d already done so they could meet their production schedule. In the end Bea had stepped down, uncharacteristically brow-beaten into defeat, then spent the rest of the morning fuming, furious with herself for letting Amanda get her own way. She knew it was more important that the jacket was right than that they met the bloody schedule. When Mark called, she was debating whether or not to involve Adam. If she did, she might be shifting her rocky relationship with Amanda into another gear. How much did that matter to her?

For a moment, she forgot her problems as she listened to what Mark had to say.

‘I drew a complete blank with the first two in Châteauroux and Moulins. They sounded rather suspicious of me and couldn’t understand why I wanted to find a gallery when I didn’t know where it was or what it specialised in.’

Bea held her breath. She had a feeling something was coming.

‘Then I called Jean-Claude Épicier,
une galerie d’art
—’

‘OK, you’re not speaking to them now! Stick to English with me,’ Bea interrupted, rather more rudely than she’d intended but she was impatient to hear the rest of the story.

‘Sorry. The chap who answered the phone said he didn’t know any Oliver Shepherd but . . .’ He paused for effect. Bea had to stop herself shouting at him to hurry up. ‘. . . there was an art gallery run by an Englishwoman close to where his father lived in the old town of Bourges. He couldn’t remember its name but said he’d call his dad and get the number for me. Ex-pats in the same business are bound to know each other, aren’t they? I’m calling him back in an hour.’

‘Well done, Holmes. That’s brilliant. Let me know as soon as you get it and I’ll call her this afternoon.’ Bea enjoyed the excitement of any chase, however fruitless it might turn out to be.

She spent the next two hours in suspense, unable to concentrate on anything, having to apologise to Stuart three times for making him repeat himself while pitching to her a book about Hitler’s regiment in the First World War. Otherwise she fiddled about, answering emails and composing one to Adam about the controversial book jacket. She’d decided it was important to fight her corner, not for herself but for the welfare of the book. Her relationship with Amanda would have to weather the disagreement. Every time the phone rang, she grabbed it in a fever of anticipation only to be disappointed. At last, at twenty-five to five, Mark rang.

‘It’s called Art Space and is definitely run by an Englishwoman. Apparently it’s been there for about five years.’

‘Do you really think I should phone her?’

‘Don’t get cold feet now. Not after all I’ve done! If this comes to nothing you can think again. But what harm can possibly come from one call?’

He was right. She’d probably get nowhere but at least she’d have tried. Promising to call him when she’d spoken to them, she put the phone down, then hesitated. What gave her the right to interfere in her friend’s life like this? Perhaps Kate was right and she should accept Oliver and his relationship with Ellen at face value. Then she thought of Ellen, the terrible bewildering period after Simon’s death and how she had picked herself up and slowly built a new life for herself and her children. Kate and Bea had been so proud of her. Back then, Ellen had relied on them for support when she needed it. Bea was not going to let her down now, whatever Kate said. She had to find out if Oliver was who he said he was, for Ellen’s sake. Although what she would do if he wasn’t, she didn’t dare think. Besides, it was only one little phone call. Mark was right. What harm could it possibly do?

Putting off the moment, she Googled ‘Art Space Bourges’. All that appeared was the name, address and phone number of the gallery and a map showing the street it was on. At the same time, an email from Adam pinged into her inbox, asking her to come to his office at a quarter past five. She had twenty minutes. Galvanised into action, she dialled the number. Listening to the long beeps, she quickly considered what she was going to say. A click.

‘
Allô, oui
?’ A woman’s voice.

‘Do you speak English?’ Bea decided not to embarrass herself by even attempting anything in French.

‘Yes, I do. I am English. Mary Keeting speaking. How can I help you?’ She sounded pleasant, friendly, of a certain age and with a slight northern accent that Bea hadn’t expected.

‘I’m looking for someone. I know he owns an art gallery somewhere near Bourges and I’m phoning various galleries and artists in the hope that someone will know him.’ How feeble did that sound?

‘If I can help I will. What’s his name?’

‘Oliver Shepherd.’

Bea heard an intake of breath. ‘Who is this?’

‘I’m Bea Wilde. I’m from London. Do you know him?’ Her grip tightened on the phone.

‘I do know
an
Oliver Shepherd, yes.’

‘Well, the one I’m talking about is around about thirty-eight, handsome, tall, dark-haired . . .’ Bea racked her brain to think of one distinguishing characteristic. ‘And he owns an arts and crafts gallery somewhere in the Centre region.’ She winced at her own accent. ‘I know this is like looking for a needle in a haystack but I must try.’

‘Owns?’

Bea thought she detected a sense of outrage in Mary’s question. ‘Yes. That’s what he said.’

‘The Oliver Shepherd I know worked with a friend of mine until recently.’ She emphasised the ‘with’. ‘He owns nothing.’

Bea could feel her heart pounding. ‘But he said . . .’

‘I’m sure whatever he said was extremely plausible. If he’s the same person, it would be. He lived with Suzanne Berthaud, a friend of mine, who has a small but very successful arts and crafts gallery outside Bourges.’ Mary stopped as if she was about to say more than she wanted.

Bea heard the ring of a bell in the background, something said.

‘I’m sorry, it’s a customer.
Bonjour, Madame. Un moment
. . . I’ll have to go. Let me give you Suzanne’s number. I’ll tell her to expect a call from you this evening.’

Bea put down the phone as a hot flush overtook her. She flapped the neck of her blouse and removed her jacket, frustrated, excited and puzzled. With her elbows on her desk, she rested her head in her hands to think for a moment. Perhaps she should leave matters there. He’d said he’d owned a gallery and she’d found it. Perhaps he hadn’t owned the place, but he’d told some version of the truth. But as she went over the conversation, she realised there had been something in Mary’s voice that pricked her curiosity. She picked up the scrap of paper on which she’d written the number she’d been given and put it into her purse.

Stuart stuck his head round the door. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Bea looked up, annoyed by the interruption. ‘No. Just something I wasn’t expecting.’ Suddenly cold, she put her jacket back on.

Stuart understood that she wasn’t going to say more and withdrew. She watched as he returned to his office and bent over whatever he was reading. She wanted to talk to someone but she hadn’t time to call Mark or Kate. Besides, Mark was bound to be in some high-level meeting, and she’d never get past that dragon on Kate’s practice reception. She decided to call Mark after she’d spoken to Suzanne and texted Kate to ask her round after supper. But, first, she’d have to wait and kill time doing battle with Amanda. She stood up to go to Adam’s office, having just noticed Amanda tottering towards it.

*

By the time she and Ben had finished their fish pie that evening, she had calmed down from the confrontation. Adam’s support for her over the jacket had provoked a stinging attack from Amanda in which she had accused Bea of costing the company an untold fortune, thanks to her frequent failure to meet the publishing schedules. Which was totally unfair. Well, almost. Bea had hit back, defending herself by pointing out that her prime concern lay with the books and their successful publication, not with being a schedule-slave. ‘That’s how I see my job,’ she concluded. ‘Like it or not.’ She remained as calm and aloof as she knew how.

Adam had waded in to keep the peace, pointing out the right on each side and asking them to try harder to accommodate one another. However, he added, in this instance the schedule would have to be adapted to allow for getting the right illustration. Both women had stalked out without speaking and returned to their offices. Bea had heard Amanda’s door slam.

‘Sounds like a bloody kindergarten, if you ask me,’ was Ben’s verdict when she told him what had happened.

She laughed. He was absolutely right. Yet despite recognising their playground behaviour, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to back down now. Amanda and she had crossed swords too many times for that. At least Adam appeared to have no favourites and supported whoever he thought was right, which must be particularly galling for Amanda, if office gossip about their increasingly ‘close’ relationship was true.

Once everything was put away, she left Ben in front of the TV while she went upstairs to phone France.