What Women Want. Fanny Blake

come to that. I’m just trying to do my bit – well, our bit.’ He separated out some pieces of egg shell.

      ‘Isn’t this a bit extreme? The odd bit of potato or orange peel in the wrong place isn’t going to bring the world grinding to a halt.’

      ‘If everybody talked like that . . .’

      ‘Pinch me, please.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Pinch me. I want to be absolutely certain that we’re really having this conversation.’

      She knelt down and began to help him sort out the rubbish, unable to stop a snort that turned into a stifled giggle. ‘Look at us!’ Within seconds, they were sitting side by side on the floor, laughing together like old times.

      ‘Are you going into the surgery today?’ Paul recovered himself enough to ask, satisfied that everything was in the right place.

      ‘I haven’t decided. It’s such a lovely day but I suppose I ought to get on top of my referrals. Why?’

      ‘In that case, I’ll go down to the fishmonger’s and get the stuff for that bouillabaisse I’ve wanted to try for ages. I’ve started making some panna cotta too.’

      Kate smiled. ‘Sounds good.’ She considered her husband as he went over to pull out a recipe book. He was still so much the man she had fallen in love with so many years earlier. ‘Will Jack be in?’

      ‘God knows. You know what he’s like. Saturday night? I doubt it.’

      As if on cue, the sound of the bathroom door prefaced the sound of footsteps heading downstairs.

      ‘Morning, Marge.’ Jack hugged his mother. ‘Anything for breakfast?’

      Kate squeezed him back, feeling a great rush of affection towards the tousled twenty-two-year-old who towered above her. She leaned against his Chelsea strip, inhaling his sandal-wood aftershave, yet again struck by the speed with which all her children had grown up and saddened by the thought that it wouldn’t be long before they’d all gone. Jack was the last to fly the nest. ‘Try the fridge. Are you going to be in tonight?’

      ‘In? What, here? No way. I’m off to the Chelsea match and then I’m meeting some mates. There’s a party in Chiswick somewhere.’

      ‘So it’s just us, then.’ Paul pulled out a used envelope and began writing his shopping list.

      ‘Again.’

      ‘Don’t say it like that. We haven’t had a night in together for ages.’

      ‘Yeah, Mum. Chill out. The old man’ll cook something great and you can open one of those posh bottles of wine you insist on keeping under lock and key.’

      ‘Only because I know they’re not safe when you and your mates are around and we’re not.’

      ‘Just because we finished off that crate of Château-something-or-other when you were away. How was I meant to know it was so special?’

      ‘My point exactly.’ She put her arm around Paul’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s a lovely idea. Let’s do it.’

      Fifteen minutes later, she was on her own with a valuable half-hour in which to do nothing. Paul had gone off armed with carrier-bags and Jack had left for Stamford Bridge, having rejected the contents of the fridge in favour of a sausage sarnie on the way. As she resettled herself on the garden bench with a coffee and the paper, her thoughts returned to Ellen. She had been glowing from the inside out this morning, giddy with happiness. Whoever this man was, he must be a good thing if he could bring about a change like that so suddenly. Kate could still remember what it felt like, the intensity of that first flush of love – the sense of there being no one but Paul in the world, that nothing else mattered – as if it was yesterday not thirty-odd years ago.

      Paul had been such a maverick then, always the life and soul, unpredictable, fun. Their children would never believe how different he was from the man they knew today. She remembered the party where they’d met, the usual student thing: crowded, loud and with plenty of drink in the kitchen. She had been sitting in a corner where it was quieter, less smoky, huddled in conversation with a couple of other medics from St Mary’s when Paul had come towards them. As soon as she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. Quite literally. She knew she wasn’t alone in fancying him, but the difference had been that, incredibly, he felt the same about her. They went home together that night and that was that. For thirty-one years their rock-solid relationship had been the envy of their friends. But the sensations she knew Ellen must be experiencing had faded long ago.

      Kate sighed and stretched out her legs on the bench, leaning back with her face angled to the sun and thinking about her marriage. If anything, it was like a favourite old coat: over the years, patches of fabric had grown thin, one or two rips had been stitched up so you almost couldn’t see them – but you always knew they were there. Yet, despite its increasing shapelessness and the signs of general wear-and-tear, it still felt more comfortable than any new coat ever would. It was ‘her’. She shut her eyes, pleased with the analogy, and felt the sun warm her cheeks. Perhaps she and Paul had come to take one another a bit too much for granted over the years but tonight would be a chance to patch one of those thinning areas. Seeing Ellen had made her realise she’d like to recapture a bit of that old pizzazz 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.