Читать книгу What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection - Fanny Blake - Страница 24

Chapter 15

Caught by a gust of wind, the front door slammed behind Paul as Kate stared at the ingredients he’d prepared for her. Heaped on the work surface lay a pile of glistening grey tiger prawns, hand-peeled, de-headed and -tailed. Who else but Paul would have the patience? Next to them, he’d left plump white scallops that he’d halved, leaving their orange corals intact. He’d even cooked and skinned the halibut for her, cutting it into large meaty chunks. Next to them, his instructions were written in neat capital letters so she couldn’t possibly make a mistake. He knew her well. Following them to the accompaniment of Mozart’s string quartet in G, she combined the fish with the cold herby wine sauce that he’d laced with chopped cornichons, then spooned the mixture into his favourite red ceramic pie dish, which he’d bought when they’d spent that long weekend in Grasse. Finally she added some capers to the grated and buttered potatoes before forking them over the fish mixture, spreading them as evenly as possible. A quick scattering of grated cheese and the pie was ready for the oven.

She laid the downstairs table for three, placed the bowl of green salad and the dressing Paul had mixed in its centre and sat down to wait for Bea and Ellen, flicking through a National Geographic she’d brought home from the surgery. She couldn’t concentrate. Instead her thoughts drifted back to her relationship with Paul. How many other husbands would arrive home early with the shopping and organise a meal for his wife and her friends before going out to a business dinner? She should have been more grateful when he’d gone to so much trouble for her. True, he loved doing it, but as thanks he deserved more than a rant about the failings of the new district nurse as the reason for being too late to do it herself. Memo to self yet again: don’t take him so much for granted.

The doorbell made her start. She found Bea and Ellen standing hunched together under an umbrella. Beyond them, the plants on either side of the path were glistening wet, bent over in the wind. She could see the rain driving into the road, spitting up from the tarmac.

‘Come in, come in. Quick.’ She took the umbrella and left it dripping in the downstairs shower while Ellen and Bea shrugged themselves out of their macs. Having hung them above the umbrella, they followed her down to the kitchen where Bea pressed a pale blue box decorated with a wild boar into her hand. ‘Rococo ganaches – my new favourite of the moment.’

Kate took them with a smile and put them on the side for later.

‘Something smells good.’ Ellen walked over to the oven and peered through the glass.

‘Let’s hope. I just finished off what Paul started.’ Kate opened the fridge door and pulled out a bottle.

‘God, you’re lucky. He’s too good to you.’ Ellen went to sit on one of the bar stools by the island.

‘Don’t – please! I know.’ The weight of Kate’s guilt increased. ‘Anyway, you can talk, if things are as good as they were the last time we spoke. White OK?’

‘Industrial alcohol would be OK after the day I’ve had.’ Bea threw herself into the comfortable chair at the front of the room, letting her shoes drop to the floor so she could bend her legs underneath her. ‘You’ll never guess what that smooth bastard’s done this time.’

‘I thought you were on his side now.’ Kate had heard the whole work saga when Bea had phoned during the week so knew exactly who she was talking about. She had agreed that Bea’s chosen course of action was the best. For the time being, at least.

‘I was. I still am – in a way. Except he called me in today to tell me he’d hired Amanda Winter, his editorial director at Pennant, as . . .’ she made quote marks in the air ‘. . . “publisher”. Fait accompli. Not even a word of consultation.’ Her voice rose in indignation.

‘But he can’t do that. You’re the publishing director. Isn’t that constructive dismissal or something?’ Kate found herself equally outraged on behalf of her friend.

‘Nobody takes any notice of that any more. Once you get to a certain level you can hire and fire who the hell you want. Just wrap the new chief in another title and everyone turns a blind eye. Then get rid of another Indian to pay for it so you’ve got fewer people to do the essential jobs that keep the company going.’

‘Where does that leave you, then?’

‘Good question. On the bloody back foot. Again. Even though he protests he needs me and wants me to stay.’

‘Perhaps he doth protest too much. Can’t you do something?’ She filled Bea’s glass and moved the magazines on the coffee-table to make room for it.

‘Like what? All I can do is sit tight, and make sure she doesn’t take my job. That’s what she’ll have her eye on. But she’s not going to get it. I’m going to be the one who decides when I throw in the towel. Not her.’

Kate watched as Bea arranged her jacket over the back of her chair, still fulminating against the shortcomings of senior management. Like so many of their friends, she had got blonder as the years passed, her hair artfully and regularly streaked for the cost of a small mortgage. Animated in conversation, her face was still striking, mostly thanks to her strong cheekbones and large, expressive mouth that still retained some of the fullness of her youth. She had forged her own style, throwing in the odd designer label with a bit of ethnic and using long tops, not too tight, and jackets to hide the worst bits: her midriff, thighs and a bum that she joked was sliding down towards the back of her knees. Now that she had finally shrugged off the hurt and humiliation of Colin’s clichéd departure for a younger woman, Kate couldn’t see why she was having such difficulty in meeting another man.

‘I envy you, you know,’ she blurted. The words were out before she had a chance to stop them.

Bea stopped her continuing rant mid-flow. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I do. Things might be going wrong for you at the moment but you’ve still got that energy we all had when we started out.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Bea looked genuinely bewildered. ‘What energy? I’m completely knackered.’

‘You may be. But you still get excited about what you do.’

‘So do you, you idiot. Saving lives is exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Saving lives is the least of it. I’m bogged down with admin, man-management, endless disputes and patients wanting me to sign sick notes when there’s nothing wrong with them. None of the things I went into medicine for.’ What did she sound like? She hated the self-righteousness that had crept into her voice, especially since what she had said wasn’t really true. She did see plenty of patients during her sessions and house-calls. There was nothing like the feeling of having successfully diagnosed and treated a patient, not to mention being on the receiving end of their gratitude. Her job was constantly different and throwing up new challenges. The burden of admin must be skewing her sense of perspective.

‘I thought working for myself was hard,’ said Ellen. ‘I’m always struggling to keep my head above water but you guys make it look positively pleasant.’ She had opened a packet of peanuts and offered them round.

‘Don’t go all smug on us. I couldn’t bear it.’ Bea drained her glass and got up for a refill.

Kate had noticed Ellen’s hurt expression. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’ Sometimes Bea’s humour could fall just on the wrong side of the line dividing funny and sharp.

‘You know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?’ Bea took a few nuts and smiled at Ellen who nodded, obviously not a hundred per cent convinced.

That was another of Bea’s defence mechanisms – pretending her tactlessness didn’t terribly matter. But it did, especially when Kate knew Bea was as fond of Ellen as she was and would walk over hot coals for her if the situation demanded.

‘New man, job you love. How lucky are you?’ There had been an edge to Bea’s voice that Kate didn’t like. She must be minding about things more than she was letting on. ‘Oh, sorry, El. I’m being foul. Too much on my plate and unlucky in love as well. Not much of a life-enhancer. Take no notice.’

‘You should have called me,’ Ellen offered. ‘I’d have come round.’

‘I did. I spoke to Oliver a couple of times, but he said you were busy and couldn’t come to the phone.’

‘Busy?’ Ellen looked puzzled. ‘When was that?’

‘I can’t remember. Monday, maybe. And then Tuesday. I did think it was a bit odd that you were too busy both times, but what do I know? Poor put-upon singleton that I am.’

‘Oh, please.’ Kate played air-violin. ‘Stop now, before I burst into tears.’

Ellen laughed. ‘I can’t remember what I was doing unless it was when I was going through my wardrobe.’

‘What? Your wardrobe’s been set in aspic for years. You don’t do “going through” your wardrobe.’

‘She’s right,’ Kate agreed. ‘I’ve never known you throw anything out.’

‘Oliver went through my dresses and skirts when I was away and made some suggestions, then encouraged me to take a few things to the charity shop. Don’t know why I’ve never done it before really . . . What?’

Kate and Bea were looking at her open-mouthed.

‘He went through your wardrobe while you were away?’ Bea said, incredulous. ‘I’d kill anyone who went through mine.’

‘Only because yours is such a shambles you don’t know what they’d find.’

‘It’s not that bad. Just a tad disordered. But I wouldn’t want anyone going through my things.’

‘I didn’t think of it like that.’ Ellen looked perplexed. ‘He was only trying to help.’

‘I’m sure he was,’ said Bea. ‘But what was he doing there anyway? Hasn’t he got the flat?’

‘He has a key. Anyway, he was helping put up the studio-shed.’

‘The what?’ Bea got up to help herself to another drink.

‘My new studio. It’s a shed. Oliver thought he’d surprise me with somewhere I could paint. So he got the whole thing installed while I was in Cornwall.’

Both Bea and Kate stared at her as if they couldn’t believe what they were hearing.

‘He surprised you with a shed?’ Bea spoke slowly as if she might have misunderstood. ‘Completely out of the blue? He can’t do that. He hardly knows you. What about your garden?’

‘Put like that it does sound a bit unusual.’

‘Unusual? I’ll say.’

‘But he’s a man who acts on impulse. He wanted to give me something special for my birthday, and thought putting a studio into the garden was what I’d want.’

‘Did you?’

‘Of course.’ She didn’t sound entirely certain. ‘And I’ll enjoy planning and replanting parts of the garden.’ As she went on to describe it, Kate could see that Bea’s continuing interrogation was making Ellen uncomfortable. She obviously didn’t like Bea’s implication that Oliver had gone too far. Kate decided to change the subject. ‘What about a job?’ she asked. ‘Has he had any luck yet?’

‘Nothing.’ Ellen looked relieved and grateful. ‘But you know how difficult it is at the moment. There aren’t that many jobs around and he isn’t known on the circuit since he’s been in France.’

‘But he’s not in a position to be fussy, is he? There must be something he could do.’

‘I know.’ Ellen sighed. ‘I’ve said as much. But he bites my head off.’ She seemed quite resigned to the way he was.

‘Ah, so all is not one hundred per cent in the Garden of Eden, then?’ Bea couldn’t resist.

‘Bea . . .’ warned Kate. ‘I’d better get the pie.’ She was anxious to move the conversation on to a less controversial tack. After all these years, the last thing she wanted to do was throw cold water on Ellen’s contentment. They still hadn’t met Oliver, so were hardly in a position to judge him.

‘Well, if Kate envies me, I envy you actually,’ Bea volunteered suddenly, looking at Ellen, who had ignored her previous remark. ‘Apart from the clothes thing, of course – that’s a bit too controlling for me. But he’s obviously mad about you.’

‘You will find someone, Bea. Probably when you’re least expecting it.’

‘That should be about now, then!’ She and Ellen went over to the table and sat down while Kate wrestled the pie out of the oven. ‘Do you want a hand?’

‘No. I’m fine. Ellen’s right, you know.’

‘Mmm. Maybe. But look at me! I’m beset by a hormonal teenager who, as far as I know, has as much chance of becoming a nuclear physicist as he does a mass murderer; an overbearing boss; a Mr Bean type in the City whom I’ve met for one drink; and some knob who left a calling card that took me to the clap clinic. And he left fake contact details with the agency so I can’t even have the pleasure of passing on the good news. Bloody marvellous.’

Just then Kate reached the table. ‘Put like that, I see what you mean. And who’d want to compete with them? Mind out! This is hot!’ Her voice rose to a shriek as the tea-towel she was using as an oven glove slipped. The pie-dish pressed against the heel of her right hand. She tried to get it to the table in time. But, in agony, she let go a moment too soon, just before the dish was fully on the table. In horrified silence they watched as the pie arced over and down, the dish shattering into smithereens and the pie splattering across the pristine limestone-tiled floor.

The three women stared at it. Kate was the first to break the silence. ‘Paul’s favourite dish. He’ll kill me!’

A clearing of Bea’s throat was followed by a stifled cough from Ellen. Kate looked up to see that the two of them were trying to contain their laughter.

‘God, look at us. It’s not exactly Sex and the City, is it?’ As Bea choked the words out, she couldn’t control herself any longer and, with an explosive snort, she cracked up completely. At that, Ellen followed suit, leaving Kate to join in as she held her hand under the cold tap. They laughed together till the tears rolled down their faces.

At last, when the only sounds to be heard were a few muffled whimpers from Bea, and Ellen was wiping her eyes with a bit of kitchen roll, Kate spoke: ‘Fish and chips, anyone?’

*

A couple of hours later, Kate was alone again in the kitchen. The fish pie was in the bin, the fish-and-chips papers had been recycled and the plates and glasses were in the machine. Paul was still not back. Bea had left with Ellen half an hour earlier, prompted by a call from Oliver wondering where Ellen was. He couldn’t be blamed, Kate supposed. He wasn’t to know that the evenings they spent together always ran on into the night. There was always so much to catch up on, now more than ever, and none of them ever wanted their time together to be over. Oh, well. Possessiveness wasn’t such a bad thing, she supposed. Better than not being wanted at all. Poor old Bea. If only she and Paul could magic up a single friend for her. She checked the clock. Half past midnight. It was unlike Paul to be as late as this.

She wasn’t tired so made herself a cup of peppermint tea and took it up to the living room. She’d wait for Paul. She collapsed into the familiar comfort of their old sofa, currently reupholstered in an off-white calico (something she could never have chosen until Sam and Megan had left home) and scattered with the rose-print cushions she’d found at a brocante during the same holiday that Paul had bought the pie-dish. What a good weekend that had been. Was there this unfamiliar distance between them back then? She didn’t think so. Something had definitely happened that had stopped them communicating in their old familiar way.

Or someone? Her sudden gasp caught her by surprise. The thought was as unwelcome as it was shocking. As she tried to shake it off, it only tightened its hold. Could history be repeating itself? Yet again she dismissed the idea. Now part of the warp and weft of their marriage, his affair was an incident they’d weathered and he’d promised there wouldn’t be another. Surely this was one of the occasional downturns to be expected in a long-term partnership. But she didn’t find the thought all that reassuring.

She put down her tea and stood up to look at herself in the large mirror over the fireplace. Stuck about with invitations and cards from the children, her reflection stared back, showing a thoughtful face only slightly lined and framed by fine dark hair. She could never be as open as Bea or Ellen in discussing her relationship with Paul: it wasn’t something she wanted to air with them or with anybody, not in any detail at least. No, this was something she was going to have to work out alone.

She crossed to the assorted family photos ranged on the top of the console table and picked up their wedding picture, so old it was beginning to fade. There they stood, radiant and full of hope for the future. So much of that hope had been fulfilled, she thought. An abrupt miaow announced the arrival of Mouse, the grey stray that had adopted them about ten years earlier. Sam had found the bedraggled young cat in the bushes at the end of the garden. He had tempted him out with a saucer of milk and a bit of cold chicken, and ever since Mouse had been Sam’s most devoted fan. He hopped up beside Kate now, rubbing against her hand and clawing at her trousers.

‘Mouse! Stop it!’ She lifted him up and laid him on her lap, stroking him until his rumbling purr filled the silence. ‘There, you silly old thing. Where do you think Paul’s got to?’

She picked up her book on Africa. Reading about someone else’s experiences travelling through Ghana and other countries brought her a little closer to Sam and helped her understand something of the country where he was. She found her place, although she wasn’t in the mood to read tonight. What would Paul say when she told him Ellen had invited them for lunch? Would he be as interested in meeting Oliver as she and Bea were? Probably. He liked Kate’s friends and was pleased to see them when he did but wasn’t as involved with their lives as Kate was. As far as he was concerned, they were a part of her life that was separate from him. However, even his interest had been piqued by the arrival of Oliver. Wait till he heard about the shed. He was cynical, like Bea, and curious about who Oliver was and where he had come from.

‘I’m learning about him every day,’ Ellen had protested, when cross-questioned earlier in the evening. ‘He’s lived in France, somewhere in Centre, for the last two or three years and doesn’t like talking about what went on there. He says it’s still too painful. Something to do with the woman he lived with. But I’m happy with that. I’d rather not know. Anyway, he’ll tell me when he’s ready.’

‘But, Ellen, you’ve got to ask him,’ Bea insisted. ‘God almighty, woman! You’ve got him practically living in your house, and your children will be home in a couple of days. Suppose he turns out to be – I don’t know – a paedophile or something?’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Ellen was outraged. ‘If there was something like that, I’d know. Why can’t you just take him as the loving, generous man I know he is? You’re my closest friends, for God’s sake. I just want you to be pleased for me. You’ll see when you meet him.’

And then she had invited them to a family lunch. Bea had looked slightly ashamed of her suggestion, apologised and accepted. As had Kate.

Kate ran her fingers up and down Mouse’s soft belly, making him stretch out his legs in pleasure. If Ellen was prepared to accept Oliver at face value, shouldn’t they? As Ellen’s friends, it was up to them to support her in whatever life choices she made. Who were they to question her judgement? Or should they, as her friends, be looking out for her when she was head over heels, possibly blind to anything that would spoil things? Kate knew Bea would take the latter view but for once she disagreed. She wanted Ellen to be happy. She wanted that for all of them. She sighed and began to read about the elephants of Knysna.

Outside, the gate banged, and Paul’s key turned in the lock. She stood up to greet him, tipping an indignant Mouse onto the floor. At last. Late he might be but this was her chance to start making things better between them.