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

Her heartbeat had slowed by the time they pulled up outside the bar, which was tucked away behind Regent Street. Outside, the pavement pulsed with people. Window ledges were littered with empty bottles and glasses, the street with cigarette butts. She pushed her way through the open doors into the dimly lit interior. Huge ceiling fans whirred lazily while the combination of voices and music provided a busy background hum. Edging her way past the mahogany bar, which was shoulder deep with braying cocktail drinkers, she eventually spotted Mark sitting in the quietest corner by the restaurant section, partially hidden behind a potted palm. Opposite him was an enormous wall clock, so he must be all too aware that she was nearly forty minutes late. On the table was an empty glass and a forlorn neon pink gerbera that was winning its right to droop, despite the supporting wire wound about its stem.

‘I am so sorry.’ Bea hurried up to him. ‘I’ve had a helluva day and I had to rush home first to drop some things off, then I came straight here.’ She hoped he wouldn’t notice how newly bathed she was.

Mark looked at her, clearly relieved. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘My God. I would never stand someone up. Never. Let me get you a drink.’ She began to rummage in her bag for her purse. ‘I’d have phoned you, but you didn’t give me your card.’ Despite being touched by his response to her arrival, she decided to pass the buck. It worked.

‘I’m afraid I don’t really have much time.’ He sounded apologetic, as if it was his fault she was late. ‘My ex has just phoned. She’s had a major row with my youngest daughter and is insisting that I come and take her for the weekend.’

‘Heavens. How old did you say she was?’ Surely his children were old enough to look after themselves.

‘Thirteen going on twenty-three.’

‘Then you’ll need a drink first. Hang on.’ Bea negotiated the crush at the bar to return with two small glasses of Pinot Grigio and a bowl of nuts. ‘What happened?’ Any story of another mother’s difficulties, however small, was usually music to her ears. Being part of the same sisterhood meant she relished any confirmation that her inadequacies on the parenting front were not unique.

‘The usual. Alison, my wife – sorry, ex-wife – has a short fuse and Bella knows how to light it. She announced she was going to a party but when Alison called the parents of the party-giver to ask if Bel could stay the night – guess what?’

‘No party!’ Bea had been there.

‘In one. So now they’re never speaking to one another again. And I’ve got to tube out to Chiswick to persuade her to come back to my flat with me.’ He sat back and sipped his drink, then let his shoulders fall and his eyes close as if wishing he could shrug off his warring women.

‘Do you have to? Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’ Bea was not asking for herself. He looked tired. Even in the dim lighting, he gave off an aura of weariness and she could make out the shadows under his eyes.

‘No. Really not.’ He sighed. ‘If I put it off, Alison won’t speak to me either, which would make seeing the girls that much harder. I only see them at weekends and then only if Alison hasn’t organised something else for them. Which she often does.’ His wistful expression gave way to something more determined as he looked at Bea. ‘But you don’t want to hear all this.’

In a way he was right, she didn’t. Yet at the same time she found she did. She had never given a serious thought to what it must be like to be at the losing end of the custody battle. Had Colin felt any of Mark’s frustration those times she’d insisted on him seeing Ben when she was reaching the end of her tether? Not that she’d cared about that at the time. Dealing with teenagers alone was hard, especially if your ex was only an angry tube ride away. She used to imagine Colin out enjoying himself while she was imprisoned alone with Ben. But seeing Mark in this state made her think perhaps things weren’t so black and white.

‘No, I do,’ she said, and meant it.

‘I vowed I wouldn’t bore any of my dates into the ground with my personal life. So that’s enough.’ His smile seemed more attractive than she remembered from their first meeting. His teeth weren’t that uneven. ‘You sound as if you understand, though.’

‘Oh, I do. More than you know.’

‘That makes me want to find out more but I really am going to have to go. I’m sorry.’

‘No, no. I shouldn’t have been so late. It’s my fault. You go, and I’ll finish my drink.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. I’ve always got a book with me.’

‘Then could we try again next week?’

‘Yes. I’d like that.’ To her surprise, Bea realised she meant that too.

A book! As she watched him weave his way into the night, Bea dug into her bag for her regular Friday-night companion. She signalled the waiter to order a salad and another glass of wine. How stupid she felt, always moaning about the lack of a man in her life and then, when she’d had the chance to do something about it, she’d blown it by not turning up on time. But the opportunity hadn’t been entirely wasted. He might not be the most attractive man she’d met so far but, on a second outing, he just might be one of the nicest. Something that her other recent date certainly was not. Perhaps she shouldn’t underestimate that.

Chapter 13

‘What do you think? You can open your eyes . . . wait for it . . .’ Ellen opened the front door and led Oliver through. ‘Now!’

They were in a long, rectangular room, light spilling through a large window with wide french windows at the far end that opened onto a tiny terrace, just big enough for a metal table and chair and some bedraggled pot plants. To the right of the door a neat row of white and chrome kitchen units ran the length of the wall. Beyond the small glass-topped dining-table and two white leather and chrome chairs, a yellow two-seater sofa faced a small, wall-mounted flat-screen TV. The walls were freshly painted a uniform white, the perfect setting for the pièce de résistance: Caroline Fowler’s Starship. The colours sang from the painting, taking attention from everything else in the room.

Oliver gasped. ‘My God. It looks better than ever. You bought it?’

‘For you.’ Ellen enjoyed his obvious pleasure. ‘It’s a present.’

‘I can’t . . . you shouldn’t have . . .’ For the first time since she’d known him, Oliver couldn’t find the words he wanted.

‘I can. I have. Now, come through here.’ She caught his hand and pulled him through a door on the left. Another light-infused room with pale Wedgwood blue walls and white woodwork, at the centre of which was a double bed made up with crisp white bed linen. There were blue and white checked blinds at the windows, a bedside table carrying a chrome Anglepoise reading lamp and a wide built-in wardrobe. ‘And then, best of all . . .’ Ellen almost skipped over to a final door, which she flung open to reveal a wet room, where the sun glanced off blue and white mosaic tiles, and a sheer glass panel divided the shower from the rest of the room. ‘Well? Say something.’

Once they’d made the decision that Ellen was going to loan him up to three months’ rent, and maybe more, if need be, she hadn’t wasted time. While Oliver put his energy into finding the now more-necessary-than-ever job, she put hers into phoning the local lettings agents. One of her calls had been taken just minutes after this flat had been accepted on the agency’s books. Because it was in a converted stocking factory within half a mile of her house, she had shut the gallery for a couple of hours over lunch and gone to inspect. The rent was a little higher than she’d budgeted for but she’d put down a deposit, frightened they would lose it otherwise. She had been so sure that it was perfect but, too late, the thought crossed her mind that perhaps she’d moved too fast and forced him into a commitment that he wasn’t really ready for, despite what he’d said.

‘It’s nothing like I’d imagined.’

‘It’s not?’ Her relief at his regaining the power of speech was tempered with anxiety that she’d made a terrible mistake.

‘No. I thought I’d be living with cockroaches and damp. I never imagined anything like this. It’s . . .’ he paused ‘. . . absolutely breathtaking. I love it.’ As he pulled her towards him, they fell back onto the bed, laughing. Then, as one thing led to another, Ellen stopped worrying that (a) he didn’t like it, (b) she’d spent too much money, (c) she’d borrowed from the children’s university account (but, of course, it would be paid back long before they’d be choosing where to go), and gave herself up to the moment.

Afterwards they lay in a tangle of duvet, the bed surrounded by the clothes they’d flung off in their hurry. Ellen’s head rested in the dip below Oliver’s shoulder as she half dozed in the afternoon light, marvelling on how blessed she felt to have discovered such a sense of harmony with someone else again. Oliver and she were a perfect fit. She couldn’t imagine him ever not being in her life now.

‘Funny to think that we’re not going to see each other for a week.’ She caught the woody citrus scent of his after-shave as he rolled to face her.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I wish I could come with you.’

‘I wish you could too.’ She could picture them in Cornwall together, staying at a local B-and-B, introducing him to everyone, tramping the cliff path, pottering about in the family boat, eating crab sandwiches on the beach. He could even have come with her to visit the couple of artists she hoped to persuade to exhibit at the gallery. ‘And next time you will. But I’ll be back in a week and by then you’ll be ensconced here and you might even have found some work.’

‘Don’t.’ He groaned and rolled back again, his arms folded behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

‘Couldn’t you widen the field a bit?’ she asked tentatively.

‘For God’s sake, I’m doing the best I can. Just leave it to me.’ He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, rubbing his head.

‘Come back.’ She ran her hand down his back, resting it on his waist. ‘I was only making a suggestion.’ But she couldn’t stop herself thinking that the wider he cast his net, the sooner he would find something.

‘I don’t think so.’

Her heart sank. Why was it that, despite the intense closeness she felt they had, she sometimes had to tread on eggshells around him? It was as if there was still a part of him he kept hidden, despite the ‘no secrets’ pact they had made. She could put her hand on her heart and swear that he knew everything about her, her marriage and her family, her work, her hopes and fears. Would he be able to swear she knew everything about him? She thought not. Now was clearly not the moment to find out.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we test-run the wet room together?’ Smiling again, storm over, he took her hand and together they went next door, any tension between them evaporated.

*

As she replayed that afternoon in her head, she looked out of the train window, a slight smile on her lips. They were passing Dawlish, her favourite part of the journey south where the track hugged the coastline, waves slapping against the sea wall below them, the white and pastel houses of the town on the north side giving way to the rich red sandstone cliffs. She gazed south to the horizon where the sea and sky fused into one another, the vast expanse of inky blue water only interrupted by the flash of a white sail with seagulls wheeling above.

Her usual enjoyment of the journey had been hijacked by her memories of the last weeks, and by her projections of those to come. She felt as if her life had divided into two parts that she had to reconcile as soon as possible. Before and after Oliver. As the train rushed towards the before, she was beginning to acknowledge that the potential difficulties Bea and Kate had signalled were all too probable. As long as she was with Oliver, the realities of the situation were sufficiently misted to make it easy to ignore them.

As the train drew into Truro, she began to feel more and more nervous about how the children might react. What would she do if they didn’t give Oliver the welcome she’d been so sure of till now? Then, there was no more time for thought. There they were, sun-kissed and smiling: Matt racing down the platform, flinging his arms around her; Emma holding back but looking pleased to see her. By the exit, Ellen caught sight of Mary, Simon’s mother, a trim, diminutive woman in her late seventies who had refused to let age get the better of her. She was the picture of a proper countrywoman, with her unruly grey hair, ruddy cheeks, blue Barbour waistcoat and loose trousers.