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

and see.’

      During the journey home, she regaled him with descriptions of the artists she had met, where they lived and the pieces she’d seen. Uncle Sidney had rarely expanded his existing stable of artists except by recommendation but she had soon developed a nose for the sort of pictures that the gallery could sell and believed that by widening their roster they would attract new customers. Oliver didn’t offer much conversation in return but listened, occasionally asking the odd question, his hand on her knee whenever he could put it there safely.

      Her stories were only interrupted by his swearing whenever a light changed against them or thudding his fist on the steering-wheel when another driver got in his way. Ellen pretended not to notice these squalls of unnecessary temper and just carried on talking.

      When they arrived home, Oliver switched off the engine and turned to her, taking her face in both hands and kissing her deeply.

      ‘Let’s go in.’ Ellen reached for the door handle.

      ‘Hang on a minute! There’s something I need to tell you.’

      She stopped and looked at him. ‘What?’

      ‘It’s your birthday next week, isn’t it?’

      ‘You know it is. We talked about going to the theatre. Why? Have you got tickets for something?’

      ‘No.’ He looked as if he was about to burst with excitement. ‘But I have got you a surprise.’

      ‘Don’t say that. I’ll be dying with curiosity for the next four days.’

      ‘No, you won’t. Let’s go in. I just wanted to . . . well, warn you.’

      ‘OK. Consider me warned.’ Ellen got out of the car and ran up the steps. ‘I love coming home. More than ever now that you’re here. And we’ve got one whole week to ourselves.’ She turned and put her key in the lock, immediately feeling guilty for taking pleasure in her children’s absence.

      ‘Hang on. Let me go first.’ He edged past her. ‘Let me take your bag upstairs. Then, while you freshen up, I’ll go down and crack open the bottle of champagne.’

      Having washed and changed from her jeans into her loose navy silk trousers and a beaded pink Indian kurtee that he had once said he liked, she came down the stairs into the kitchen. A slice of evening sunshine came through the side window, lighting the darkened room. Oliver gave her a chilled glass of champagne before leading her to the kitchen table.

      ‘Mmm. What a welcome. Why don’t we go out into the garden? It’s a beautiful evening.’ Ellen went over to the french windows. ‘Why have you got the curtains drawn, anyway?’ As she reached out to pull them back, Oliver grabbed her arm, making her spill some champagne. ‘Ouch. Careful.’

      ‘Wait a minute, darling.’ He pulled her back to the chair, and pushed her down on it. ‘Before we do, have a sip, then close your eyes.’

      ‘What? You are funny but OK.’ She did as she was told and heard the curtains being pulled back.

      ‘Keep your eyes shut.’ Oliver came to stand behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. He took a breath. ‘OK. You can open them now.’

      As she looked out to the garden, her eyes widened and she gripped the sides of her chair.

      ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ She could hear the note of pride in his voice. ‘Happy early birthday, darling.’

      ‘Oh, my God, Oliver. What have you done?’

      ‘Don’t you like it?’ Ellen could hear the click of his thumb-nail against another.

      ‘I . . . well . . . I . . .’ Words failed her.

      ‘It’s specially purpose-built so that you can use it as a studio. You said that you always wanted one of your own and now you’ve got one.’

      ‘But the garden . . .’

      ‘It’s a bit of a mess, I know. They had to work so fast to get it finished on time. But there’s nothing that can’t be tidied up. We can do it together.’

      ‘A mess . . . yes.’ Ellen’s voice faded.

      Outside, her beloved garden that had seen her through her bereavement, providing so much pleasure and comfort over the following ten years, had been destroyed. The small lawn had been trampled over, and no heed given to her precious plants on which she had lavished so much time and attention. Two planks lay on the grass, their ends crushing the scented French lavender. The central bed and the two borders were devastated, the hellebores bent and crushed, her precious shrubs knocked about, her favourite lilac with a broken branch. And at the end, just hiding the greenhouse, stood an enormous new garden shed, painted a deep Scandinavian red. Facing the house were two glass doors through which she could see a skylight illuminating an easel inside.

      ‘Don’t you like it?’ Oliver’s voice came from somewhere miles away. ‘The glass is special Pilkington double-glazed so you’ll be warm in there, even in the dead of winter. Perhaps I should have asked you. But I was so sure you would.’

      Ellen felt as if she had been plunged into a pool of water that was closing over her head. A rushing noise filled her ears as she struggled for breath. Her garden! How could he not have understood how important every plant out there was for her? He had watched her pottering about outside in the evening, dead-heading, straightening wayward stems, picking posies for the dining-table or the bedroom. He had sat beside her in bed while she planned the changes she would make for the new year, experimenting with new planting schemes, outlining a different shape for a flowerbed. He knew how long she spent poring over her plant books, her pencil poised over the graph paper on which she sketched her ideas. She remembered talking about the possibility of putting a tool shed on that bit of hard standing, but she had dismissed the idea in favour of a pergola. The space she had earmarked for it had disappeared under the footprint of his present.

      ‘It’s such a shock.’ Ellen was desperately searching for something positive to say. After all, his motives had only been the very best. She had sometimes talked about having nowhere to paint but never would she have envisaged a studio at the expense of her garden. She stood up, walked over to the french windows and stared out.

      Oliver put his arm round her waist. ‘I know. The garden. I didn’t imagine it would take such a battering or that the studio would look so big. I was stupid not to see that.’

      She twisted to face him, wishing the extra four or five pounds that had effortlessly slid on while she was away would disappear instead of organising themselves exactly where his hand lay. ‘But how could you afford it?’ The words came out before she could stop them.

      ‘I maxed out my last credit card and made up the difference by selling Starship the day you left for Cornwall. I looked through your customer index and phoned that collector, Dan Frost.’ He smiled, pleased with his own ingenuity. ‘He was thrilled to have the opportunity to buy another Caroline Fowler and gave me a very good price for it.’

      ‘You sold Starship?’ she repeated. How could he have sold the picture that had brought them together – and go through her confidential papers to do so? She backed away from him, her arms crossed over her chest as if she was protecting herself.

      ‘But you don’t mind, do you?’ He seemed surprised by her reaction. ‘Didn’t you give it to me? And I made sure I found it a good home.’

      ‘Well, yes, of course I did. But I thought it would mean more to you than that,’ she mumbled, not caring how petty she sounded.

      ‘Well, it did when you gave it to me, of course. But then I had the idea of doing this for you, and selling the painting was the only way I could afford to. It’s just a picture, after all . . . Have I made a terrible mistake?’

      The anxiety in his voice made it impossible for her to say yes. ‘No, of course not.’ She tried to sound happy and failed miserably. Her present, the painting that she’d believed he appreciated for