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

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