What Women Want. Fanny Blake

or not she did, she should put her head down and work hard, adopting the stance that Adam Palmer expected: tough, go-getting. When she’d won his confidence, she’d be in a position to make a choice. As for Ben, had Bea ever seen a monosyllabic twenty-two-year-old who spent all day in front of the TV? Of course not. The boy would grow out of it, just like all the others. Bea had a nasty feeling that there were plenty of twenty-two-year-olds who never had.

      Later, as Adele was laughing at the story of her daughter’s latest dating fiasco, Bea’s phone rang.

      ‘Bea, it’s Kate. You’ll never guess.’

      ‘Well, for God’s sake tell me, then.’

      ‘It’s Ellen. She’s got herself a man!’

      For a moment Bea was thrown. ‘Ellen? Hang on a minute.’ She held up one finger and gestured to her mother that she wouldn’t be long.

      Adele nodded, quite content to watch what was going on at the tables around her while she waited for Bea to finish.

      ‘Yes, Ellen. Your old university friend who’s been single since her husband died. That Ellen.’ Bea could hear Kate’s excitement. ‘I went to the gallery this morning and she told me. He’s one of her customers!’

      ‘You have got to be joking. After all this time? Who is he? When did she meet him?’ Bea was ashamed to admit to herself that, instead of sharing Kate’s evident pleasure, she was piqued by the idea that, after years of apparent indifference to the opposite sex, Ellen had beaten her to it. Somehow the natural order of things seemed to have been skewed.

      ‘They just met and he’s moved in with her already. Well, at least until the kids get back.’

      ‘What?’ For once Bea was speechless.

      ‘It’s true. He’s not even forty. And she wants us to meet him. I said I’d tell you to expect a call from her.’

      Moved in with her? That couldn’t be right. Ellen would never do anything so hasty. Although she had made some canny snap decisions over the artists she took on at the gallery, outside her work life this was a woman for whom ‘dithering’ was a watchword. But what appeared to be indecision was really circumspection. And Kate didn’t make mistakes. She listened, absorbed what she was told and considered her next course of action. She wouldn’t have told Bea any of this unless she was absolutely sure it was true.

      Bea ended the conversation more abruptly than she meant to. She couldn’t share Kate’s pleasure in the news, not just yet. She needed time to take it in, get over her own feelings of what felt horribly close to envy. She was ashamed of herself. What an unpleasant person she must be, if she couldn’t share in a friend’s happiness without thinking of herself first.

      But why didn’t Ellen tell me? Bea wondered. We’ve been friends for almost thirty years, seen each other through so much, and yet she told Kate. Kate, to whom Bea had only introduced Ellen about ten years ago when Kate and Paul had moved to London from Manchester. Bea disliked the insidious needle of resentment that pricked her when she was reminded of the strong relationship between her two friends. But it was true that, having introduced them because she thought they’d get on, there were times when she felt the odd one out, such was the bond that had developed between them.

      ‘What is it, darling? I’ve lost you.’ Adele’s voice brought her back to the present.

      ‘That was Kate telling me that Ellen’s got herself a man at last.’

      ‘But that’s wonderful. She’s been lonely for so long.’

      ‘Lonely?’ That wasn’t the way Bea saw her friend at all. ‘What makes you say that? She’s had the kids, and Simon’s family have always supported her, as well as Kate and me. She’s always said she didn’t want anyone else.’

      ‘Bea, dear, try to be a little more understanding. Of course lots of people have loved her and looked after her. But that’s not the same as being in love, is it? It’s not the same as having someone special to share things with, someone to provide a buffer against the world outside, someone who makes you feel safe and loved. Your father did all those things for me – all those things that I know you’re looking for yourself, although you’d never put it that way.’ Adele reached across to grasp Bea’s hand while Bea looked away, suddenly self-conscious – her mother knew her far too well.

      She wasn’t in the mood to discuss the truth of her own feelings so briskly changed the subject, making her mother laugh as she regaled her with the story of the date who had come to pick her up in his van. When she’d opened the door, the first thing she saw was a made-up double mattress in the back. All she’d let him see of her was her back as she beat a hasty retreat into her house.

      By the time Bea and her mother left the pub, everything was back on an even keel and they headed into the nearby town to buy something for supper and to stock up Adele’s fridge for another week.

      Chapter 6

      When Bea had cut off their conversation so abruptly, Kate had understood exactly what was going on in her friend’s mind. Bea’s emotions were so transparent. But why couldn’t she just accept that Kate and Ellen’s friendship was inevitably different from the relationships Bea had with either one of them? And, more importantly, that it didn’t matter. They were old, close friends who shouldn’t be divided just because of Bea’s irrational jealousy.

      She picked up the newspaper that Paul had left spread across the kitchen table and took it outside to the patio. She sat down and began to leaf through the pages while working out which jobs to do the next day. She knew that if she didn’t take the secateurs to the garden soon, the whole place would be a jungle. The white wisteria, while beautiful in flower, grew so vigorously that it was threatening to overwhelm the pergola and the apple tree beside it. The summer storms during the week meant that the weeds were pushing their way through her carefully planted borders and the shrubs seemed to have taken on a life of their own as they sprouted towards the sun, spreading sideways, fighting for space.

      As she considered what to tackle first, she was interrupted by a sudden shout from inside where Paul, in khaki shorts, T-shirt and sandals – he’d got the message about not wearing socks with them at long last – was jumping up and down, sucking the index finger of his right hand.

      ‘What’s happened?’ She got up. ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘I cut my finger on a bloody tin,’ he muttered. ‘Where are the plasters?’

      As he moved across to the sink, Kate could see the large chrome Brabantia bin on its side, rubbish spilling across a sheet of newspaper on the floor with a green plastic bucket nearby. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, as she opened a cupboard to get out the first-aid box, then passed him a small box of plasters.

      ‘I’m going through the rubbish – obviously.’ Paul was running his finger under the tap, the water streaming scarlet. ‘Perhaps you should have a look at this. Stitches or septicaemia – I don’t know which would be worse.’

      Years of experience of being married to one of the world’s great hypochondriacs had taught Kate to ignore all remarks relating to his well-being. They were invariably exaggerated. It had always struck her as odd that a man with such an impressive City profile should be such a wuss behind his front door.

      ‘Have you lost something?’

      ‘No! Don’t put that there.’ Paul’s attention turned from his injury as he grabbed the handful of orange peel she was about to return to the bin and tossed it into the bucket instead. ‘The fruit and veg go in the bucket, the paper in the plastic box and everything that can’t be recycled goes in the bin. How many times do I have to remind everyone?’

      She stared, astonished, as he continued to rummage through the mess picking out potato peelings, teabags and leftovers from supper the night before.

      ‘I’m the only one in this house who takes recycling seriously,’ he added.

      ‘I hope you’re not saying I don’t? Sometimes