What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection

‘What’s he going to do to the editorial department? He’s bound to want some changes, isn’t he?’ Jade’s anxiety betrayed itself in her quieter-than-normal voice.

‘Bea, you have to tell us what’s going on.’ Even Stuart, normally bothered by nothing, had dropped his customary laid-back manner.

‘Nothing’s going on.’ Even to hint at what had been said at this stage wouldn’t be in anyone’s interests. ‘All he wanted was a rundown on the staff and to go through the upcoming programme. That’s it. As soon as there’s something to tell, you two will be the first to know. Promise.’ She was surprised to discover that she hadn’t dropped the childhood habit of crossing her fingers to excuse herself when telling a lie. Just as long as they hadn’t noticed.

The rest of the day disappeared as she caught up with correspondence, put together editorial notes on a manuscript whose author was coming in the following day, talked to the publicity and art departments about the approaches they were taking to a couple of her books, and dealt with all the day-to-day business of an editorial department. Whenever possible, she avoided speculative conversations with anyone about the future of the company.

Only when she had closed her front door, thrown off her shoes, poured herself a glass of red plonk and sunk into her deep red sofa, eyes shut, did she take time to concentrate on her first conversation with Adam. A tad disenchanted with her career she might be, but not enough to throw in the towel right now. And there was something about this ruthless management style that she found exciting. His macho approach was outrageous, but she was curious to see if he was all he was cracked up to be and whether he would be able to deliver. If he could, then perhaps she wanted to be a part of his new team. If he couldn’t, it would be interesting, and maybe she would survive him. The challenge he presented was one she couldn’t possibly duck. Adele was right. However, sacrificing two members of her staff, none of whom had shown anything other than enthusiasm for their jobs, was an almost impossible demand. She sat there wrestling with the problem, convinced that a bit of lateral thinking was all that was needed to solve it. Not so.

The front door slammed as Ben crashed in, hurling his bag on the floor and himself towards the kitchen, yelling, ‘What’s for supper?’

Her ‘Hi, Ben. Good day?’ went unheard. Putting her work life to one side she concentrated on making a bowl of pasta and a green salad for them. Annoyed that she refused to let him eat his on his knees in front of the TV, Ben refused to answer her questions with anything other than grunts and monosyllables until he’d finished. Then he disappeared into the sitting room, dragging his bag behind him and muttering something about ‘Bloody parents.’ None the wiser about his life, Bea cleared up while returning to her previous musings, still getting nowhere.

Salvation came when the doorbell interrupted her ever more circular thoughts. Surely Tony Castle hadn’t come back for more. She stood to give herself a quick once-over in the mirror on the kitchen wall. Mmm. Could be worse. She ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt at windswept-and-interesting, then turned the dimmer switch to a more flattering level without quite switching the light off. Taking a deep breath and pinning on her most winning smile, she walked down the hall and flung open the door.

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.’