Читать книгу What Women Want - Fanny Blake - Страница 13

Chapter 9

‘I’m sorry to arrive out of the blue, but I know you’re cross with me.’ Ellen stood on the doorstep, looking expectant, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a brown and white box that Bea instantly recognised with delight as being from Artisan du Chocolat.

‘Of course I’m not.’ Bea’s disappointment at Tony’s no-show wrestled with surprise, as she ushered Ellen into the kitchen. ‘Let me find the corkscrew. You know where the glasses are.’

‘I should have called you to tell you first but it’s just that Kate came into the gallery, Oliver phoned and I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to tell you both days ago but I was so wrapped up in what was happening that I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s been crazy.’

‘Slow down.’ Bea was laughing as they settled themselves at the table. ‘God, look at you. You’re completely different.’

A blush began to colour Ellen’s cheeks. ‘I know. Oliver suggested I had my hair cut like this. Do you think it’s OK?’

‘OK? It’s taken years off you. But what about the dress? I’m used to Ellen, the woman who single-handedly keeps Levi’s afloat. You look amazing.’ She made Ellen turn around, taking in the lime dress, the slight heels, the dab of makeup, the urchin cut. Something had happened to her friend that had transformed her almost beyond recognition. ‘I’m dying to know all about everything but tell me slowly. And in detail.’

Ellen understood how miffed Bea had been not to be told her news first. They had been friends since they’d met at university and were so familiar with the way each other’s minds worked that they often didn’t need to ask what the other was thinking. Ellen’s coming round this evening was an olive branch. Bea took it readily.

Friends again, they raised their glasses in a toast, comfortable as ever at Bea’s kitchen table. As they talked, the candles on the table flickered in the breeze that was also carrying in the sounds of the neighbourhood through the wide-open patio doors. Beyond them, the small back garden was lit with a few discreet outdoor lights – a mail-order bargain from an interiors magazine. The overhead dimmers were low, the under-unit lighting giving out just enough background illumination. Thanks to an uncharacteristic cleaning frenzy a couple of days earlier, the black granite worktops of Bea’s kitchen were unusually tidy, apart from a disorganised stack of papers by the phone. The much-cherished double-door American fridge punctuated their conversat ion with the sound of ice cracking in the ice dispenser. Through the side window, they could see over the garden wall into the neighbouring kitchen where a woman stood with her back to them, round-shouldered with exhaustion, as she worked her lonely way through a vast, precarious pile of ironing. Down Bea’s hallway, a strip of light escaped from under the door of the sitting room, with a not-so-muffled bass beat that indicated the defiant presence of Ben. It wasn’t long before Bea had caught up on the unexpected developments in Ellen’s life, the when, where and why answered.

Naturally sceptical about the concept of love at first sight, she nonetheless had to concede this seemed to have been what had happened to Ellen. Seeing her friend so happy was enough to dispel the negative thoughts that Bea had been trying to keep at bay. ‘He sounds terrific – and just the man for you. What does he do?’

‘Actually, nothing at the moment.’ Ellen looked half apologetic in the face of Bea’s badly hidden surprise. ‘He hasn’t been back in the country for long. But he’s applying for curator and gallery jobs. There just aren’t that many around, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll get something in the end.’

Bea decided to change tack to what mattered more. ‘What about the kids? Do they know? When are they coming back?’

‘That’s just what Kate asked. I’ve thought so hard about them and, of course, I’ve talked to Oliver.’ Her face brightened as she said his name. ‘They’ve been having such a lovely time in Cornwall that I haven’t dared hint at anything over the phone.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to tell them.’

‘That’s what she said too. But I don’t know when.’

‘Maybe you should take a few steps back. Get him to move out, then introduce him gradually into their lives.’

Ellen’s face crumpled.

‘It doesn’t have to be for long, for heaven’s sake. I may not be the best example of hands-on motherhood but I do know that if you’re serious about him you have to do this properly.’

‘You’re right. You’re a good friend not to let me make such a stupid mistake.’ A note of resolve entered Ellen’s voice. ‘I’ll have to get him to see that’s the right thing to do.’

‘Just as importantly, when do we get to meet him?’

‘I’ll think of something as soon as I get back from Cornwall. Promise. But I don’t want to make him feel like something in the zoo with the two of you giving him the once-over.’

‘Mmm. Sticking our fingers through the bars to give him a poke or a handful of nuts. We might be a bit much, I can see that.’ Their laughter was that of old friends who completely understood one another.

‘No. What I’ve got to do is sort this out. I think I’ll go down alone to Cornwall for the second last week of the holiday as planned. I’ll tell them I’ve met Oliver and they can meet him after they get back.’ Her relief at having made a plan gave way to anxiety. ‘Do you think they’ll like him?’

‘God knows. I hope so. But as I haven’t met him how could I possibly know?’ Bea was as relieved as Ellen that they’d reached a conclusion but was impatient to catch her friend up on her own news. As she was wondering, with an unusual degree of tact, how to change the subject, the sitting-room door opened, a shaft of light illuminating the hall, falling across the multi-coloured woollen rug Bea had lugged home from Marrakesh, regretting it every step of the way. Inveigled into a shop in the souk, she’d been unable to resist either the mint tea or the guile of the shopkeeper. The light hit the long mirror over the radiator, illuminating the reflection of the Bryan Pearce harbourscape hanging on the opposite wall, a reminder of family holidays in St Ives. Ben emerged from the sitting room to slouch into the kitchen, an empty glass in one hand and a plate in the other.

‘Hi, Ben. How are you getting on? Must be nearly A-2s, isn’t it?’

Bea envied Ellen’s breezy chat-among-equals approach, not to mention her ability to ignore the expression of non-cooperation that was making itself plain on Ben’s face.

‘Yeah. All right,’ he muttered, avoiding Ellen’s eye by keeping his own fixed on the floor. He put the plate and cup on the side, before opening the fridge to take a beer.

‘Darling! Not on a week night,’ said Bea.

Ben returned the can with a grunt, exchanging it for a carton of milk and a yoghurt. He lifted the carton and tipped it towards his mouth.

‘Ben! How many times have I—’

‘Bea,’ hissed Ellen.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But, honestly, I—’

Ellen silenced her with a glare. As Ben opened a cupboard and started piling biscuits on his plate, she tried again: ‘Which subjects have you gone for?’

‘Haven’t decided yet.’ Ben shook his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Maybe English, history, media studies. Maybe I’ll just leave school and get a job.’

Don’t rise to it, Bea said to herself. Don’t rise to it. Simultaneously, she heard her own intake of breath and her sharp ‘Ben! Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’

‘Well, I might.’

‘Perhaps now isn’t quite the right moment to discuss it.’ Ellen was the epitome of family conciliation as Ben disappeared, armed with his supplies, his thunderous mood adequately communicated by the hunch of his shoulders, the slam of the door and the increase in the music’s volume. Bea took a swig of wine. ‘Bloody child! Sometimes I think I can’t get through to him any more.’

‘He’s only saying it because he knows exactly the reaction he’ll get,’ said Ellen. ‘And you know nagging never works.’

‘I can’t help it. He drives me mad.’

‘He’s just at that age,’ Ellen reassured her. ‘You’ve got to ignore it. He’s still a great kid underneath all that.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so. Give him a couple of years and you’ll see.’ Ellen got up to put the kettle on. ‘Now, where were we? I think it’s your turn.’

‘How long have you got?’ So saying, Bea launched into her latest news from the work and dating front, giggling about Mark and bemoaning Tony Castle. For the next couple of hours, they would go back and forth over the same well-trodden ground, as they examined and re-examined their lives, loves (or lack of them) and children. They had spent countless similar evenings in each other’s company, enjoying the friendship, discretion, support and advice. Even if Bea’s feathers were ruffled from time to time, Ellen took that in her stride. That was what friendship was about, thought Bea. Ultimately, nothing was strong enough to break the bond between them.

*

Before she went to bed, Bea made herself a cup of hot chocolate and took it to the sitting room, ignoring the debris that was evidence of Ben’s earlier occupation. Mothers and children – who’d have ’em? She opened the box Ellen had brought and took out the distinctive brown tub of pink and black pepper caramels. As the fusion of sweet and savoury flavours melted in her mouth, she thought with affection of Adele and with some sadness of the last conversation they’d had together when she’d dropped her mother at home.

They had sorted out the shopping and sat down with a cup of tea before Bea had touched on the subject of Adele moving house. To her surprise, an uncertain look crossed Adele’s face and she said what she must have been bursting to say all day.

‘I’ve got something to tell you, Bea. I’ve been putting it off because I don’t know how you’ll react. Janey Blythe has asked me to move to Bournemouth with her. There.’ She sat back, looking pleased but apprehensive, waiting to see the effect her announcement would have on her daughter. Janey Blythe was Adele’s near neighbour, a sprightly, slightly younger woman who, like Adele, was widowed, with her children long established in their own lives. The two had grown particularly close after the deaths of their husbands and Bea knew they spent hours talking about their own and their children’s lives. Janey was always keen to try new things. Her last idea had been to encourage Adele to go to the local pottery class with her. The three wonky vases on top of the old upright piano suggested lots of enthusiasm but little skill.

‘Ye-es.’ Bea was hesitant, worried she’d been wrong in her assessment of her mother’s state of mind. She’d clearly completely lost her marbles. ‘But where? And what about the house?’

‘I’m going to sell it. I’ve been rattling around it for years. We’ve found two flats – actually, Janey has – in a new development principally for old crocks like us very close to the sea front.’ Adele was beaming at the prospect of something so different.