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

She knows nothing about him.’ Bea sounded full of righteous anger.

      ‘And neither do we.’

      ‘You’re always so damn reasonable.’

      Kate could sense Bea’s indignation waning. ‘And you’re always so quick to judge.’

      ‘I know, I know. But, really . . . How do we know he’ll pay her back?’

      ‘You’ve read too many novels!’ Kate had always thought that Bea’s imagination was fuelled by what she did for a living. Her own attitude was much more practical. ‘Of course we don’t. But she’s a grown-up and we have to trust that she knows what she’s doing. And we should give him the benefit of the doubt – at least until we’ve met him.’

      ‘But all this is so out of character. I don’t want her to get hurt.’

      ‘Neither do I. But paying someone’s rent for a few months isn’t the worst thing that could happen.’ Kate sat in her surgery day in day out, listening to people talk about their lives, about the sometimes bizarre and extreme things that some of them experienced. She had learned long ago never to be shocked by anything. Life had a way of throwing up the unexpected. That was what happened and you just had to get on with it. There was no point in overreacting.

      ‘What’s she paying with, though? The gallery can’t be bringing in that much. And she needs what she’s got for the kids.’

      ‘No idea. I don’t mind asking her when I next see her, though.’ Kate straightened her papers and popped her pens into the holder at the back of the desk. ‘I expect she’s got a bit stashed away from Simon’s life insurance or something. Rainy-day money. What better way to use it?’

      ‘You sound as if you approve.’ Bea seemed quite taken aback.

      ‘I don’t disapprove, I’ll say that. Besides, it’s all so romantic. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t give your eye-teeth to be in her shoes.’

      Bea said nothing. Regretting her tactlessness, Kate attempted to smooth things over. ‘Oh, Bea, I’m sorry – but you know what I mean. I’m as glad for her as I would be for you in the same situation.’

      ‘You’re right. If I’m honest, I suppose I am a bit jealous. Why is it that I don’t get lucky? It’s not as if I wasn’t making the effort.’

      ‘Perhaps you’re trying too hard. I don’t know.’ Kate’s attention was taken by her screen alerting her to the fact that four patients were waiting. ‘Bea, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to dash. Let’s talk about this when we’ve got some time.’

      ‘OK. Don’t worry. I’ve got a meeting to go to in a minute anyway. I know you’re right. I’ll send the jury out again and won’t decide on anything until there’s more evidence. Fair?’

      ‘Fair.’

      As she put down the phone, Kate couldn’t help think how lucky she was to have found two such good friends who understood each other so well. Despite the odd up and down in their history, there was always one of them who could see sense. Pleased by the turn in Ellen’s fortunes at last, she didn’t want anything to spoil it, least of all by Bea being over-protective or jealous. She would do what she could to stop that happening. If only Bea could meet someone for herself, perhaps she’d back off Ellen and leave her to make her own mistakes. Surely one of the agencies she’d applied to would throw up someone suitable soon.

      Chapter 11

      Bea had been waiting for her appointment for just over half an hour. Her long-time principled allegiance to the NHS was being tested to its limits. Half a manuscript lay unread on her lap. She found it impossible to concentrate as women came and sat down or were called and disappeared down a narrow corridor where she could see a line of white doors, each with a red light that lit up when the room was occupied. She’d given up trying to puzzle out how the system worked. She had heard one of the nurses explain that, unusually, there was more than one clinic running today, which was why people who had come in after her had been seen ages ago while others who had been there when she arrived were still waiting.

      She looked around her. The faded lino was the colour of dried blood. Below the thick green line painted all the way around the room at elbow height, the institutional cream walls were smeared black where chair backs had dragged along them. Above the line, one or two mass-produced exotic landscapes hung dusty and squint. In one corner, a TV was bracketed high on the wall, the sound not loud enough to hear but not quiet enough to ignore. Thin cotton curtains, too short for the grimy sash windows, blew in the breeze made by a fan putting up a futile struggle to circulate some air. The blue and red chair seats were worn and grubby. Everywhere, signs announced the department’s imminent move to a spanking new building: presumably the reason why this waiting room had been allowed to languish, Bea thought crossly. Behind the large semi-circular desk by the door, one nurse sat almost hidden behind a tower of files that she was gradually dismantling, overlapping them on the desktop, apparently to put them in some sort of order, with frequent tuts that could be heard across the room. A receptionist worked beside her, presumably unable to help thanks to her nails, which were long, lacquered works of art.

      Bea got up yet again to go to the Ladies and sat there trying to breathe through the pain low in her stomach and the excruciating burning sensation that came as she tried to pee.

      ‘Bastard!’ she muttered, coming out of the cubicle and taking a plastic cup of water from the dispenser. Wash an infection through – isn’t that what you were meant to do? Two days and God only knew how many gallons didn’t seem to be doing the trick.

      Back in the waiting room, she sat feeling angry with herself. A week after their encounter, having geared her mind up to forgetting Tony Castle, it looked as if that was not going to happen – or not yet, at least. Thank you, Tony! How could she have got herself into this situation? How many times had she embarked on the condom conversation with Ben, only to be told he knew it all? As did she. Unprotected sex leads to unwanted pregnancy or the GUM clinic – and to prove it here she was.

      ‘Mrs Wilde.’

      An unsmiling nurse stood, thin blue file clutched to her bosom, waiting. At last. Bea followed her along the corridor into a small room where an equally serious young woman sat bent over a desk. She looked up as Bea sat down. Kind, bespectacled eyes stared out of an exhausted face. She mustered a wan smile.

      ‘I’m Dr McKay. What seems to be the problem?’ She toyed with her red biro, seesawing it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

      As Bea explained her symptoms, the doctor’s intent gaze didn’t leave her face. Under such close scrutiny, she found herself stumbling over her explanation, embarrassed and furious with herself and with Tony. Dr McKay said nothing until she finished, then was sympathy itself.

      ‘I’m sorry but I have to ask everyone these questions . . .’ she began, before rifling through Bea’s recent sex life – or lack thereof.

      Bea was surprised to find that under these circumstances talking about what came naturally came quite unnaturally. Matters she would joke about with Kate or Ellen assumed a more sobering significance. She felt a sadder, more inadequate person than her usual robust self. No, she didn’t have a regular partner; no, she hadn’t had sex for some time (yes, some years) before this last episode; no, she couldn’t exactly remember when; and no, she knew almost nothing about her most recent partner or, more worrying, about his own sexual history, recent or past.

      ‘Hop onto the couch and I’ll take some swabs.’ Brisk and matter-of-fact, the doctor wasn’t judging her for being so inept on the condom front. But lying there, eyes shut, legs apart, took Bea back to the last time she’d been in the same position. How very different she’d felt then. How short the journey from ecstasy to embarrassment.

      ‘It’s probably trichomoniasis.’ That was reassuring. At least it was nothing worse. ‘We should get the results within half an hour and I’ll give you some antibiotics. There’s no need to be embarrassed, Mrs Wilde. Relax.’

      ‘I’m