What Women Want (31 page)

Bea reached out to the bell beside the door. It wasn’t too late to turn back. Instead she could spend the morning with Mark and give up this potentially pointless enterprise. But a voice inside her head said,
No. Finish what you’ve started. Wouldn’t you want a friend to go to such lengths if they were worried about you?
Her resolve shored up, she pressed the lower bell marked ‘Drummond’ and heard five dissonant notes ring out inside the house. After a few seconds, she heard a shout, ‘Hang on. Just coming.’ A chain was unhooked, a mortice unlocked and the handle turned.

Bea stared at the woman in front of her – not the beaten-down victim she was expecting at all. In her forties, she had a round face cushioned by a double chin, deep-set blue eyes under eyebrows that had never glimpsed tweezers, and a pair of ruddy round cheeks. She was holding a towel to her pepper-and-salt hair. A certain stoutness was half hidden under a plaid dressing-gown. As she waited for Bea to speak, her initial smile began to fade.

‘Yes?’

Bea pulled herself together. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you Marion Drummond?’

‘Yes, I am. And you are?’

‘My name’s Bea Wilde. I’ve come about Oliver Shepherd. I just want to ask you a few questions.’

Marion’s face changed. Bea wasn’t sure whether she was frightened or furious. ‘Are you the police? Has he done something?’

‘God, no. Do I look like a policewoman? I need to find out about him so that I can help a friend. Please let me explain.’

‘You’d better come in before we freeze to death.’ Marion pulled the door open and welcomed Bea into a large hall. ‘Now, how can I help you? It’ll have to be quick or I’ll be late for work.’ She tossed the towel onto a chair before leading her through to a room at the back of the hall where the emphasis was on comfort rather than style. At one end, a sofa draped with a bright paisley throw was angled in front of a TV. A pile of magazines littered the floor between them. At the other, an oval table was covered with a patterned oilcloth. A dark-haired girl was sitting at it, eating breakfast. ‘This is Natalie, my daughter.’

Bea nodded a greeting, remembering Kate’s description of the young woman she had seen with Oliver. She told herself not to jump to any conclusions but to wait until she knew more.

They sat down together, and while Bea removed her hat and coat, Marion poured them all a cup of strong coffee from the cafetière, then offered round a bottle of milk. With the two women watching her, Bea embarked on her story once again, making sure she kept everything in the right order and didn’t leave anything out. Marion listened carefully, giving the impression she’d heard it all before. Natalie looked upset but resigned, and continued eating her toast. When Bea produced the photos she had of Oliver, they both gave the briefest of nods and returned them without saying more.

When she’d finished, Marion asked Natalie to make some more coffee and to phone each of their employers to tell them they would be a little late. ‘Only a little, mind,’ she added, to emphasise the point. ‘She’s a PA at the Royal Bank of Scotland on Princes Street, God help us,’ she explained, with a chuckle. ‘And I’ve got to get down to a primary school in Merchiston but they’ll manage fine without me for half an hour.’

While Natalie was out of the room, she spoke quickly and quietly to Bea. ‘Oliver’s Natalie’s father so I won’t say too much. Of course she knows he was violent and she was there one awful night when he was in his cups, grabbed me by the hair and smashed my head against the door, yelling and shouting. In fact, she was the one who called the police, but . . . years have passed and, after all, he is her dad.’

‘What happened? Do you mind me asking?’

‘Not at all. It was all over the local press so it’s no secret.’ She looked weary at the memory. ‘Oliver was a possessive man, who had to know exactly where I’d been and who with. He’d give me the odd tap if he didn’t like what I’d done but nothing too bad. I got clever at spotting the signs and keeping out of his way. But that particular night he came home from the pub, fixated with the idea that I’d been seeing someone behind his back. Somebody had said something that he’d twisted around in his head. Nothing I said would convince him otherwise. He started tearing the place apart, looking for a note – anything – to prove I was lying. I’d never seen him so out of control. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but one minute I was yelling at him to stop and the next he had me on the floor with his hands around my neck. The noise woke Natalie up and she called the police. That was it. He gave himself up to them without a fuss. They took him away and he never set foot in here again. When he’d sobered up, he was terrified by what he’d done and so sorry, but I wouldn’t have him back after that. I had a child to protect. While he was on bail, he wasn’t allowed anywhere near us. He got three months suspended, then disappeared down south.’

Natalie returned with the coffee and Marion paused while her daughter refilled their cups.

Bea was trying to take the story in, appalled by its implications. ‘Have you heard from him since?’

Marion glanced at Natalie.

‘Not until about a year ago. He didn’t come here but he rang asking if he could use this address for a legal matter. I agreed he could. Silly, really, but I suppose I felt sorry for him. After all this time he’s still apologising.’

‘He’s stopped drinking now, though.’ Natalie spoke for the first time, with a softer Scottish burr than Marion’s. ‘He told me that.’

‘Yes. Natalie’s seen him. You visited him when you were in London, didn’t you?’

The girl nodded. And Bea refrained from mentioning the wine she’d seen Oliver enjoy. No point in puncturing his daughter’s beliefs. This was not about her.

‘But you’re divorced?’ Bea couldn’t help asking.

‘Lord, no.’ Marion threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘I’m afraid not. We should be but that seemed the least of our worries. To be honest, I was so relieved he was away at last and I didn’t want to do anything to rile him. I don’t want him back here threatening me or causing trouble again. And he’s never asked for a divorce.’

By the time Bea left, her head was spinning. She had come to Edinburgh to be certain that there was no mistaking who Oliver was. What she’d come away with was the awful certainty that her closest friend was involved with an abusive conman who had a wife and a daughter he’d never mentioned. She had photos to prove he was the same person, and legal documentation about the sale of Suzanne’s gallery. Now she had to find a way to make Kate listen to her and together they would decide how to break the news to Ellen. If Ellen decided to do nothing with the information, that was her business.

The rest of the day sped by. Wandering round the National Gallery, she hardly noticed the pictures they were looking at. Over lunch, she toyed with her soup while telling Mark everything.

‘I’m glad I was with you in case something happened,’ he said. ‘And after last night I reckon we make quite a good team, you and me.’

‘You know what? I’m beginning to think we do too.’

They kissed across the table, ignoring the snorts of derision from the schoolchildren at the couple of tables nearest to them. Walking briskly along Princes Street, leaning into the biting wind, Bea stopped thinking about Ellen for a minute or two as she remembered Mark’s words. He might not be the most prepossessing of men at first glance but, like it or not, she had meant what she said. They did work well together, in more ways than one.

As she approached the Balmoral Hotel, she changed her focus to Audrey and how she would counter the woman’s objections to the way her last book had been published. She walked past the kilted footman through the revolving door into the grand lobby and a different world. She turned towards the sound of a harp drifting in from the Bollinger Bar. Audrey had installed herself at a banquette facing the bar and was already halfway through a glass of champagne. She was a particular type of Edinburgh lady, tall, thin and refined, not a hair of her waved bob out of place, the colours of her tweed skirt toning exactly with her cashmere twinset. She beckoned Bea over with an imperious wave and the briefest of smiles. The small-talk was exactly that, as Bea ordered the Balmoral tea for two, then listened to what Audrey had to say, making the right noises and defending the publishing strategy when called on to do so. She was virtually working on autopilot until she was pulled up short.

‘Amanda Winter tells me you’ll be rejacketing my back-list.’

‘I’m sorry. Who said that?’ Bea thought she must have misheard. Suddenly Audrey had her full attention.

‘Amanda Winter. A darling girl who phoned me yesterday to introduce herself. I understand she’s in charge of the publishing now, although I know you’ll still be my editor. Will you be all right, after all this time?’

‘I’ll be absolutely fine, thank you, Audrey. Just fine.’ So the scheming witch was already cosying up to Bea’s authors behind her back and demoting her in the process. Amanda must have known that Audrey would repeat the message. As far as Bea was aware, there had been no planned rejacketing programme, although she agreed it was long overdue. In fact, she’d been fighting that corner on Audrey’s behalf for months. The forces at Coldharbour were already moving against her, but they would be too late. It seemed that Audrey, unwittingly, had put the final seal on Bea’s own plans.

Eventually Bea made her escape, agreeing to keep in contact over the new treatments they might use and giving repeated assurances that she would put Audrey’s new novel about Anne of Denmark to the top of her pile when it came in. And, yes (through gritted teeth), of course she would share it with Amanda. Never has an escape felt more divinely pleasant, she thought, as she made her way back through the sleet to Mark and the long journey home.

That night, while Mark cleared up supper she went upstairs, relieved that Ben had been so polite when they’d got back. Perhaps he welcomed the idea of another person in their lives who might take the heat off him from time to time. She had left them to it so that she could call Kate, as she and Mark had agreed she should. All the way home, she had gone over with him what she might say, how she would manoeuvre her way past Paul, if necessary. She had no idea what sort of reception to expect. She lined up two Rococo chocolates on the small table beside her, a lavender and a rose cream, then dialled.

Within moments Kate picked up.

‘It’s Bea. Don’t hang up, please.’ She hadn’t meant to sound quite so desperate.

‘Of course I won’t, you idiot. I’m so glad you’ve phoned. Where have you been? I’ve tried calling you but you never picked up.’

‘I’ve been dying to talk to you,’ confessed Bea, intensely relieved that Kate wasn’t going to cold-shoulder her. ‘I behaved so badly on the night of the private view and I’m sorry I got caught between the two of you. I would have called back but I wanted to get my facts straight so I had to go to France and Edinburgh, believe it or not. But now I’ve really got something that we must talk about.’

‘God, Bea. You know I’m not happy about this. It’s why we all fell out, for goodness’ sake.’

‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe it was important. Please.’ If Kate didn’t listen to her, she would never convince Ellen. She waited as her friend deliberated.

‘OK. OK. I give in.’ Kate thought for a moment. ‘Let’s meet for lunch in Carluccio’s tomorrow. You can tell me then. I’ve got a few things of my own to tell you, too.’

Bea picked up the lavender cream as she hung up. She had a feeling that everything between them was going to be all right. Now there was one more thing she wanted to do before she went back downstairs. She popped the lavender cream into her mouth and turned on her laptop to draft her letter of resignation.

That Friday night, Oliver and Ellen sat down to supper with Matt and Emma once more. Nothing was much different from the last time, except that Ellen’s stomach felt as if butterflies were clog-dancing through it. Oliver irritated her by advising her to relax. How could she? They had talked to Jed, who had jumped at the idea of moving into the flat. His son had delayed his arrival until the weekend and was picking up the VW on Sunday, by which time Oliver would have moved out. Perhaps Jed was right, Ellen thought. Perhaps Fate was offering a guiding hand. In which case, the time had come to tell the children about all this.

Emma had come in late from school and had gone straight to her room to change. The laptop under her arm suggested she wouldn’t be seen until supper, Facebook being so much more alluring than any conversation with her mother and Oliver. Matt had followed her in, bouncing a football down the hall. Ellen had felt Oliver wince as it rolled down the stairs to the basement. He picked it up and shoved it into a cupboard. She smiled to herself, knowing his sharp ‘tut’ came as he struggled with the door as the cupboard’s contents fought to get out.

Matt was oblivious to the fate of his ball as he jumped down the stairs two at a time, his school bag bumping against the banisters. He submitted to Ellen’s hug before untangling himself to head straight for the fridge. His over-long trousers wrinkled over his scuffed lace-ups, his shirt was untucked from his waistband and his tie hung from a trouser pocket.

‘Matt, we’re about to have supper . . .’

‘Why so early? I want to see that
Top Gear
we recorded last night. Anyway, I’m starving.’ He poured himself a glass of milk and took a Twix from the biscuit tin.

‘Em’s going out, that’s why. Matt! Must you put your feet on the seat? Someone’s going to sit there.’

‘But they’re not now, though, are they?’ He moved them as Ellen advanced with a floor cloth in her hand. ‘Anyway, guess what? I’ve been picked for the first team tomorrow. Billy’s been dropped and I’m in.’ He high-fived her.

‘I thought you were looking pleased.’ The years had taught her exactly how much being selected meant to Matt. ‘That’s fantastic.’

‘So will you come and watch the match?’ The eagerness in his face willing her to say ‘yes’ almost broke her heart.

‘You know I want to more than anything, but I can’t.’ She went to pull the lasagne out of the oven.

‘You never do.’ He jumped off the chair and headed for the stairs.

‘That’s not fair. I would if I could.’

‘I know – it’s the bloody gallery’s fault. Again.’

‘Matt!’

Then Oliver intervened: ‘I’d like to come. Would you accept me as a substitute?’

He had slipped in his request before Ellen could reprimand Matt for his language. She saw the pleasure in Matt’s eyes at the idea of having someone to cheer him on, although he was grudging in his acceptance nonetheless.

‘Yeah. OK. As long as you cheer for the right team.’

‘What do you take me for? A complete numbskull? Of course I will. That’s settled, then. And perhaps your mum could go next time. What do you think?’

‘She won’t. She never does.’

‘Well, maybe we’ve got some news for you that you’ll like.’ Oliver smiled at him. ‘No, I won’t tell you. Not yet. And I’ve got tickets for the Arsenal match next week.’

‘Wicked!’ Matt’s face lit up.

‘Your name’s on one of them if you lay the table.’ He held out the knives and forks, which were ripped from his hand.

Five minutes later, the four of them were sitting down together. Emma was silent, eating rapidly, the quicker to get out of the house. Ellen had refrained from commenting on the skimpiness of her skirt, which barely covered her bum, or on her almost sheer glittery top. Didn’t she feel the cold? Matt and Oliver were discussing the finer points of Fabregas’s game. Ellen was finding it impossible to do anything other than play with the food on her plate, knowing that what she was about to say to them would mean things could never be the same again. But, she told herself for the umpteenth time, this was what she wanted to do. As they came to the end of the course, she cleared her throat and decided to plunge in before Emma disappeared through the front door.

‘Listen, kids.’ She tried to control the forced jollity she could hear in her voice. ‘There’s something that Oliver and I want to tell you.’

‘What? Don’t tell me. Oliver’s moving in.’ Emma didn’t even look up but Ellen didn’t need to see her face to register her disdain.

‘Well, yes. But there’s more to it than that.’ Ellen had been preparing what she was going to say for the last forty-eight hours and, with one swipe, Emma had just taken her legs away.

‘How can there be? It’s been obvious that’s what you’ve been waiting for so you might as well get on with it.’ She still didn’t lift her head, her fingers moving below the table.

‘Would you mind not texting when I’m trying to talk to you?’ The hope and optimism that she had nervously brought to the table were leaving Ellen and into their place rushed anger. ‘I want to explain to you both how I hope things might work out.’

‘Whatever.’ Emma’s chair shrieked against the tiles as she stood up, taking her denim jacket from its back.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Going out. I told you ages ago that I’m going to meet Freya.’

‘SIT DOWN!’ All three faces turned to Ellen in surprise. Even she couldn’t remember when she had last raised her voice to them. ‘NOW!’ Just in case there was any doubt about what she meant.

Shocked into submission, Emma returned to her seat, slipping her mobile into the pocket of her jacket and fingering her bead-drop earrings.

‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but I want you to listen all the same.’ Watching her daughter’s pinched, resentful face, Ellen regretted shouting. Their living arrangements were making her experience emotions that she was still too young to understand, so Ellen had at least to try to explain. She had never shied away from telling her children what she thought were the essential truths of life and this was every bit as important. This was the moment she had chosen to tell them, and she was going to do it – calmly.

‘I want you to understand how much Oliver means to me.’ She ignored the muttered ‘per-lease’ from her right. ‘But I also want you to know that him being here makes no difference to how much I love you both. I know Daddy would agree that if I’m happy you’ll be happier too. And Oliver being here does make me happy. Yes, Em. He does. That’s why he’s going to live here with us.’ She ignored her daughter’s furious look. ‘And he’ll make you happy too, if you give him a chance.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Emma stood up again. ‘You can do what you want, Mum, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept it.’

‘I’m sure we’ll get used to one another,’ Oliver chipped in. ‘Look, I’m not going to take your mother away from you. In fact, we’ve decided that I’ll help her in the gallery on Saturdays so she can spend more time with you at the weekend.’

Ellen rather wished he’d left it to her to tell the children this. Too late.

‘The gallery!’ Emma’s face was suddenly suffused with colour. ‘So you’re not just content with the house and Mum, you’re getting in there too. That’s her special place.’ She dashed away a tear that ran down her cheek.

‘Em!’ Although shocked by the strength of Emma’s feelings, Ellen was also dismayed to realise how much her daughter must be hurting. She had never heard her speak to anyone like that. She went to embrace her but Emma twisted away, raising her left shoulder against her to shut her out.

‘Don’t touch me. I’m going out. I’ll stay at Freya’s tonight.’

‘When will you be back?’ Ellen asked hopelessly. ‘I’d thought we might all go to that new cartoon at the Vue tomorrow night.’

‘For God’s sake, Mum!’ Emma’s scorn was painful to hear. ‘I’m not ten any more. Take Matt. He’ll love it.’ And she was gone, so quickly that Ellen had no time even to ask her to change her skirt.

‘Well, that went well,’ offered Oliver. ‘What about you, Matt? Think it’s a good idea?’

‘It’s OK,’ Matt muttered, although he looked shaken by the fall-out between his mother and sister. Ellen was aware of him watching her, his face screwed up into a frown. ‘Do you think Em’ll come back?’

‘Of course she will, darling. She’s just got to get used to the idea.’ Yes, given time, Emma would find other things to obsess her; what was happening at home would eventually take second, third or fourth place.

‘Oliver? Will you be getting a season ticket for Arsenal if you’re going to be living here?’

They laughed.

‘Maybe, just maybe, I will. You never know.’ To Ellen’s ear, Oliver didn’t sound terribly convincing but Matt didn’t notice.

‘Wicked! Can I watch that
Top Gear
now?’

Ellen gave in. ‘Go on, then.’

As they watched him take the stairs two at a time, the only one of them still smiling was Oliver.