Читать книгу What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection - Fanny Blake - Страница 15

Chapter 6

When Bea had cut off their conversation so abruptly, Kate had understood exactly what was going on in her friend’s mind. Bea’s emotions were so transparent. But why couldn’t she just accept that Kate and Ellen’s friendship was inevitably different from the relationships Bea had with either one of them? And, more importantly, that it didn’t matter. They were old, close friends who shouldn’t be divided just because of Bea’s irrational jealousy.

She picked up the newspaper that Paul had left spread across the kitchen table and took it outside to the patio. She sat down and began to leaf through the pages while working out which jobs to do the next day. She knew that if she didn’t take the secateurs to the garden soon, the whole place would be a jungle. The white wisteria, while beautiful in flower, grew so vigorously that it was threatening to overwhelm the pergola and the apple tree beside it. The summer storms during the week meant that the weeds were pushing their way through her carefully planted borders and the shrubs seemed to have taken on a life of their own as they sprouted towards the sun, spreading sideways, fighting for space.

As she considered what to tackle first, she was interrupted by a sudden shout from inside where Paul, in khaki shorts, T-shirt and sandals – he’d got the message about not wearing socks with them at long last – was jumping up and down, sucking the index finger of his right hand.

‘What’s happened?’ She got up. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I cut my finger on a bloody tin,’ he muttered. ‘Where are the plasters?’

As he moved across to the sink, Kate could see the large chrome Brabantia bin on its side, rubbish spilling across a sheet of newspaper on the floor with a green plastic bucket nearby. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, as she opened a cupboard to get out the first-aid box, then passed him a small box of plasters.

‘I’m going through the rubbish – obviously.’ Paul was running his finger under the tap, the water streaming scarlet. ‘Perhaps you should have a look at this. Stitches or septicaemia – I don’t know which would be worse.’

Years of experience of being married to one of the world’s great hypochondriacs had taught Kate to ignore all remarks relating to his well-being. They were invariably exaggerated. It had always struck her as odd that a man with such an impressive City profile should be such a wuss behind his front door.

‘Have you lost something?’

‘No! Don’t put that there.’ Paul’s attention turned from his injury as he grabbed the handful of orange peel she was about to return to the bin and tossed it into the bucket instead. ‘The fruit and veg go in the bucket, the paper in the plastic box and everything that can’t be recycled goes in the bin. How many times do I have to remind everyone?’

She stared, astonished, as he continued to rummage through the mess picking out potato peelings, teabags and leftovers from supper the night before.

‘I’m the only one in this house who takes recycling seriously,’ he added.

‘I hope you’re not saying I don’t? Sometimes I forget, that’s all. It’s going to get mixed up once it’s in the rubbish van anyway.’

‘Kate, you haven’t a clue what happens in the van – or at the recycling centre, come to that. I’m just trying to do my bit – well, our bit.’ He separated out some pieces of egg shell.

‘Isn’t this a bit extreme? The odd bit of potato or orange peel in the wrong place isn’t going to bring the world grinding to a halt.’

‘If everybody talked like that . . .’

‘Pinch me, please.’

‘What?’

‘Pinch me. I want to be absolutely certain that we’re really having this conversation.’

She knelt down and began to help him sort out the rubbish, unable to stop a snort that turned into a stifled giggle. ‘Look at us!’ Within seconds, they were sitting side by side on the floor, laughing together like old times.

‘Are you going into the surgery today?’ Paul recovered himself enough to ask, satisfied that everything was in the right place.

‘I haven’t decided. It’s such a lovely day but I suppose I ought to get on top of my referrals. Why?’

‘In that case, I’ll go down to the fishmonger’s and get the stuff for that bouillabaisse I’ve wanted to try for ages. I’ve started making some panna cotta too.’

Kate smiled. ‘Sounds good.’ She considered her husband as he went over to pull out a recipe book. He was still so much the man she had fallen in love with so many years earlier. ‘Will Jack be in?’

‘God knows. You know what he’s like. Saturday night? I doubt it.’

As if on cue, the sound of the bathroom door prefaced the sound of footsteps heading downstairs.

‘Morning, Marge.’ Jack hugged his mother. ‘Anything for breakfast?’

Kate squeezed him back, feeling a great rush of affection towards the tousled twenty-two-year-old who towered above her. She leaned against his Chelsea strip, inhaling his sandal-wood aftershave, yet again struck by the speed with which all her children had grown up and saddened by the thought that it wouldn’t be long before they’d all gone. Jack was the last to fly the nest. ‘Try the fridge. Are you going to be in tonight?’

‘In? What, here? No way. I’m off to the Chelsea match and then I’m meeting some mates. There’s a party in Chiswick somewhere.’

‘So it’s just us, then.’ Paul pulled out a used envelope and began writing his shopping list.

‘Again.’

‘Don’t say it like that. We haven’t had a night in together for ages.’

‘Yeah, Mum. Chill out. The old man’ll cook something great and you can open one of those posh bottles of wine you insist on keeping under lock and key.’

‘Only because I know they’re not safe when you and your mates are around and we’re not.’

‘Just because we finished off that crate of Château-something-or-other when you were away. How was I meant to know it was so special?’

‘My point exactly.’ She put her arm around Paul’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s a lovely idea. Let’s do it.’

Fifteen minutes later, she was on her own with a valuable half-hour in which to do nothing. Paul had gone off armed with carrier-bags and Jack had left for Stamford Bridge, having rejected the contents of the fridge in favour of a sausage sarnie on the way. As she resettled herself on the garden bench with a coffee and the paper, her thoughts returned to Ellen. She had been glowing from the inside out this morning, giddy with happiness. Whoever this man was, he must be a good thing if he could bring about a change like that so suddenly. Kate could still remember what it felt like, the intensity of that first flush of love – the sense of there being no one but Paul in the world, that nothing else mattered – as if it was yesterday not thirty-odd years ago.

Paul had been such a maverick then, always the life and soul, unpredictable, fun. Their children would never believe how different he was from the man they knew today. She remembered the party where they’d met, the usual student thing: crowded, loud and with plenty of drink in the kitchen. She had been sitting in a corner where it was quieter, less smoky, huddled in conversation with a couple of other medics from St Mary’s when Paul had come towards them. As soon as she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. Quite literally. She knew she wasn’t alone in fancying him, but the difference had been that, incredibly, he felt the same about her. They went home together that night and that was that. For thirty-one years their rock-solid relationship had been the envy of their friends. But the sensations she knew Ellen must be experiencing had faded long ago.

Kate sighed and stretched out her legs on the bench, leaning back with her face angled to the sun and thinking about her marriage. If anything, it was like a favourite old coat: over the years, patches of fabric had grown thin, one or two rips had been stitched up so you almost couldn’t see them – but you always knew they were there. Yet, despite its increasing shapelessness and the signs of general wear-and-tear, it still felt more comfortable than any new coat ever would. It was ‘her’. She shut her eyes, pleased with the analogy, and felt the sun warm her cheeks. Perhaps she and Paul had come to take one another a bit too much for granted over the years but tonight would be a chance to patch one of those thinning areas. Seeing Ellen had made her realise she’d like to recapture a bit of that old pizzazz and she wanted to believe Paul would too.

*

‘Darling, I can’t find the corkscrew,’ Kate yelled from the kitchen.

‘It’s up here. Come and sit down.’

She was surprised that Paul hadn’t commented on her contribution to the evening, however minimal it had been. She was used to him being more appreciative. When she’d got in, relieved to be temporarily back on top of the endless practice admin that came with her job, the scent of the Mediterranean had stolen up the stairs to greet her. Paul was absorbed in his cooking and, to her relief, refused all offers of help. Instead she went into the dining room and laid the table with the Victorian lace cloth, got out the silver, replaced the candle stubs with new, then went into the garden to snip three Belle Isis roses, their pale flesh-pink petals in full bloom. Putting them in a vase, she inhaled their myrrh-like scent, then placed them in the centre of the table. She heard the bang of the oven door, then a muttered curse, and guessed she still had time to whizz upstairs and change into a simple dusky lilac linen dress, brush her hair and even dab on a lick of lipstick before adding a quick spritz of cologne.

Paul had docked his iPod to send a piano concerto she didn’t recognise rippling round the dining room. She dimmed the lights and lit the candles, pleased with what she saw. The scene was set for seduction.

Paul came in carrying two plates. ‘I’ve messed up the panna cotta. Not thinking.’

‘That’s not like you.’ He normally got the results he wanted by adapting any recipe as he needed to. ‘But this looks delicious.’ The bouillabaisse, the garlicky croûtons and rouille breathed the South of France into the room. She watched him pull the cork on a chilled bottle of Montrachet and pour the pale, straw-coloured wine into their glasses. She lifted hers to clink with his. ‘To us.’

As Paul smiled back, she noticed the slight bags under his eyes. He looked tired. Immediately she reproached herself once more for not paying him enough attention over the last months. With the children grown-up, it was too easy to give the time that she used to devote to them to her work. Apart from that, throwing herself into the practice and all it involved meant her mind was constantly occupied, giving her little time to dwell on how much she missed her two oldest. Now that she was a partner, and had upped her number of sessions a week, she didn’t get home till nine most nights, too exhausted to do anything more than eat, doze in front of the news and go to bed. As she began to eat, she thought again about how little she knew of what really went on in Paul’s world, any more than he really did of what went on at the surgery. They met at the beginning and the end of the day, caught up with all the jobs they didn’t have time for at weekends, exchanging snippets of news as they passed each other – and so the months disappeared. An idea struck her.

‘We should think about going to see Sam. We deserve a holiday.’

‘Yes, we do. But Africa?’

‘Well, it’s going to be hard to see him anywhere else.’

‘I can’t possibly. Not now.’ Panic crossed his face before he looked down at his bowl.

‘No, of course not. But we can make plans.’ If she pressed enough, she might be able to persuade him. Dreaming up and organising the trip of a lifetime might be just the thing to bring them together again. And combined with seeing their faraway son – what could be better?

‘I’m sorry, but now isn’t the moment.’ He picked up his fork and took a last mouthful.

‘Why not?’ Why wouldn’t he explain what was causing his withdrawal from her?

‘It’s been a heavy week.’ Paul finished his meal and put his head into his hands. ‘There’s no escaping the fact that we’re going to have to make more cuts.’

‘But I thought you’d been through that.’

‘We have. But our turnover’s still down and we’ve got to cut our overheads even further if we want to stay in business.’

‘But you’ll be all right, won’t you?’ Perhaps that was what was worrying him.

‘Oh, I’ll be all right. But there are plenty of people who won’t and it won’t be easy for them to get another job in this climate. I had a young guy in the office this morning, crying, pleading with me to reassure him that he’ll keep his job and I couldn’t.’ He sounded so despairing, but Kate knew she had nothing to say that would help him. The chasm that was opening between them was already too wide for her to reach across.

The mood of the evening had changed.

‘I’m sorry, Katie. You’re right, I’m still knackered. Another early night and I’ll be fine. Coming?’

‘Actually I think I’ll stay down here and clear up. I’ve got a few things that I want to get done.’ She began to gather up the plates and glasses.

‘Well, OK. If you insist.’ He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Good night.’

Despite her earlier resolve, Kate recognised that tonight was not for romancing. The moment had gone. Pottering about in the kitchen, she relaxed in the heavy peace that descended on the house at this time of night, only ever interrupted by the odd passing car, distant police siren or the sharp, high-pitched bark of a fox. With everything put away, she made herself a cup of tea and switched on her laptop, clicking on her latest emails. At last there was one from Sam. She opened it with a happy sense of anti cipation and relief.

Hey Mum

How are you guys? Can only get online when one of the boys takes me into town. That’s why the long silence. Although I’ve only been in Ghana for a few weeks, I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to be properly homesick. Coming here has been one of the best things I have ever done. After a week of acclimatisation and getting to know one another and making sure we had all the supplies we’d need, the five of us were driven to this tiny village where we’re now all living (photos to follow – have lost the lead!). I’m talking mud huts in a compound – the real deal. The villagers took to us straight away and have made us feel almost at home. I suppose they would, given we’ve come to help them build and run the school. Kev, our team leader, is dead keen that we should be helping the villagers help themselves. Enabling them by teaching them the processes rather than doing all the work ourselves. I hadn’t thought of that before but, of course, when we eventually leave, the whole point is that the project should be able to continue running without us. We haven’t actually started building yet because we’re waiting for more wood to be brought in, but in the meantime I spend hours playing football with the kids – not much of a strain! – and have even been taken hunting with the men of the village. When I’m not doing that we’re trying to work out the beginnings of a sponsorship scheme so that kids from other villages will be able to come here too . . .

As she read on, Kate couldn’t help feeling envious. What Sam was describing was as remote and intriguing to her as the photographs she saw in the pages of National Geographic, which they kept in the practice waiting room. She and Paul had always talked about how one day they would travel together but somehow they’d never got further than Europe. Early in their marriage, Kate had been happy at the centre of her new family, pitying her friends who were missing out on the joys of family life but were able to holiday where and when they wanted. But perhaps it was she who had missed out. In the end all her friends had caught her up: careers were chosen and babies were born but without the sacrifice of those early years of freedom.

She pulled down a favourite old photo from a shelf in the corner. There were the three of them, Megan, Sam and Jack, sitting in a blue plastic paddling pool in the garden. How could she and Paul have produced three such contrasting children? Smiling out at her were nine-year-old Megan, fly-away brown curls, blue eyes under fine wide-apart brows, a tip-tilted nose and a gentle mouth; Sam, at seven, with blond curls, freckles, eyes already with that faraway look despite the broad smile at the photographer, which revealed a front tooth chipped when he had fallen out of a tree; and Jack, four years younger, with short darker hair, a determined chin and a slight frown. The photo gave away exactly the people they would become: Megan married to Ned and working in the drama department of the BBC in Bristol; Sam, out of easy contact, adventuring in Africa; Jack, confident, charismatic and too soon out of university to have found his way.

Suddenly there was an almighty crash from outside, followed by the sound of something being dragged along the street. She jumped to her feet and ran upstairs into the living room where she pulled aside the curtain. There, in the middle of the road, a mangy brown fox was tearing through the contents of their food recycling bin. So much for Paul’s care in sorting out the rubbish. The animal had dragged the bin out of their front garden, forced it open, strewn everything across the road and was now sniffing round, scoffing the best bits. A sharp bark heralded the arrival of a second, which slunk between two cars further up the street, then loped towards its mate, eyes gleaming under the street light. Kate shuddered. Sitting on the back of the sofa, she knocked hard on the window to drive them away. For a moment they stopped, looked up. One stared straight at her, defiant, before going back to its feast.

The curtains drawn and lights switched off, she went upstairs to tell Paul but he was flat out, sound asleep, one arm flung across the bed, gently snoring. With a small sigh, she got herself ready for bed and slipped in beside him.