What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  ‘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 its beauty as much as she did, had been ‘just a picture’ to him. In exchange for something that held so much significance for her, she had been given this shed. She swallowed. ‘I just need a bit of time to . . . well, to get used to it.’

  ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve been inside.’ His excitement had returned.

  They picked their way across the garden to the door. He passed her a key on a loop of red ribbon. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘You open it, darling.’ She didn’t want him to see her hands shaking. As the door slid to one side, she saw how he had prepared for her. The sun lit up the pale cream walls and the scrubbed wooden floor, illuminating the few pieces of furniture that Oliver had provided.

  ‘I picked up the plan chest on eBay. Look, it’s perfect for you.’ He pulled open the top drawer. ‘I’ve put all your paperwork from the gallery in here so you’ve got somewhere to keep it rather than spreading it all over the house.’ But that was how she liked to work, she objected silently. ‘There’s watercolour paper in the drawer underneath and you can put all your sketches in the others. Come over here.’ From one of the two shelves on the wall, he took a small cardboard box containing tubes of watercolour paint. She took them from him so he could reach for the jam jar that he’d stuffed with various paintbrushes. ‘I didn’t really know what you’d want but they told me in the art shop that these should be enough to get you started. Well?’ He was looking at her with such expectation, she couldn’t possibly disappoint him. How much he must love her to do all this in secret. Just for her. ‘I really am sorry about the garden.’ He sounded so forlorn.

  ‘We can fix that.’ She found words at last. ‘And, well, I have always wanted a studio of my own.’

  She rifled through the paints, delighting in their colours. She twisted the top off the cadmium red and squeezed it until paint oozed from the end. That small action was enough to bring back hours spent in her studio space at art school. She began to feel more positive. Oliver was giving her the chance to reclaim a lost part of herself. And they really could fix the garden.

  ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’ He still sounded doubtful.

  ‘Of course.’ And, at that moment, she almost was. ‘The garden could do with a bit of a rethink and this gives me the opportunity to do it.’ Standing there, surrounded by what he’d done for her, she felt an enormous rush of love for him. She wrapped her arms round his neck and they kissed, long and hard, until they pulled apart breathless, Ellen once again bowled over by the intensity of her feelings.

  Oliver looked down at her. ‘There is one more thing.’

  ‘You’ve spoilt me enough.’ She didn’t think she could take any more.

  ‘I thought we could put the sofa-bed from the playroom in here too so you’ve got somewhere to sit and think. Oh, and I forgot to show you these.’ He bent down and, from behind the chest, he pulled a small electric travelling kettle, two Tate Gallery mugs and a small jar of Gold Blend. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘You know what, Oliver Shepherd?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve thought of everything. I do love you.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to hear. Shall we go back inside? Or will you be resuming your artistic career straight away?’

  ‘Mmm. Tempting. But I think I’ll wait till tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Perfectly. Since the kids are away, I’ve got other plans for us anyway.’

  ‘I was hoping you might have something in mind.’ She followed him back to the house, forcing herself to look away from the destruction around them.

  *

  Much later that night, woken by Oliver’s rhythmic but insistent snoring, Ellen tiptoed downstairs and sat in the kitchen cradling a mug of hot milk. With the lights off, she could still see the huge hulk of the shed dominating the garden. She didn’t need to remind herself of the damage its installation had caused. Her excitement at having a place to paint had waned, only for her first reaction to return: dismay. Her life was already so busy with the house, the business, the children and, now, Oliver that she couldn’t imagine a time when she’d ever use the shed. If she had wanted to paint badly enough, wouldn’t she have found somewhere to do it years earlier? What she wanted was actually to enjoy her garden again, to watch her plants grow. She wished the bloody shed was gone. But that would only cause more damage and, worse, it would be like a gigantic slap in Oliver’s face. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

  But now, the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. How could he have sold the painting? she asked herself again, still not quite able to believe he had. How dare he ruin her garden? What had made him think he could do whatever he wanted to her home? Even though he would be living there one day, he wasn’t sharing it yet. What was he thinking of, spending what little credit he had left on her while she was paying his rent? But, she had to remind herself, the point was that he had done it for her. It was an act of love – wasn’t it? She heard the slap of his bare feet on the stairs.

  ‘Ellen? Are you there?’

  ‘In here.’

  ‘What are you doing? Aren’t you freezing?’

  ‘Just thinking.’ As he entered the room, he looked so tense, so vulnerable. All he had been trying to do was please her. Her anger disappeared. Him being there made all the difference. His presence gave her a feeling of security and a sense of being loved that obliterated everything else. This was what she’d been missing for years.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ She drained her mug and stood up. ‘Just being silly. You know what it’s like in the middle of the night when everything seems worse than it is.’

  ‘Look. You can talk to me, you know.’ He took the mug and put it on the counter before pulling her into the warmth of his embrace. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . there are some things that aren’t worth discussing. Let’s go up.’

  As they took the stairs together, she looked up at him, his face lit by the dim light from the casement window, his hair on end. What other surprises had he got up his sleeve, she wondered. This was the man she had believed to be her kindred spirit, but again, she realised she didn’t know him well at all.

  Chapter 15

  Caught by a gust of wind, the front door slammed behind Paul as Kate stared at the ingredients he’d prepared for her. Heaped on the work surface lay a pile of glistening grey tiger prawns, hand-peeled, de-headed and -tailed. Who else but Paul would have the patience? Next to them, he’d left plump white scallops that he’d halved, leaving their orange corals intact. He’d even cooked and skinned the halibut for her, cutting it into large meaty chunks. Next to them, his instructions were written in neat capital letters so she couldn’t possibly make a mistake. He knew her well. Following them to the accompaniment of Mozart’s string quartet in G, she combined the fish with the cold herby wine sauce that he’d laced with chopped cornichons, then spooned the mixture into his favourite red ceramic pie dish, which he’d bought when they’d spent that long weekend in Grasse. Finally she added some capers to the grated and buttered potatoes before forking them over the fish mixture, spreading them as evenly as possible. A quick scattering of grated cheese and the pie was ready for the oven.

  She laid the downstairs table for three, placed the bowl of green salad and the dressing Paul had mixed in its centre and sat down to wait for Bea and Ellen, flicking through a National Geographic she’d
brought home from the surgery. She couldn’t concentrate. Instead her thoughts drifted back to her relationship with Paul. How many other husbands would arrive home early with the shopping and organise a meal for his wife and her friends before going out to a business dinner? She should have been more grateful when he’d gone to so much trouble for her. True, he loved doing it, but as thanks he deserved more than a rant about the failings of the new district nurse as the reason for being too late to do it herself. Memo to self yet again: don’t take him so much for granted.

  The doorbell made her start. She found Bea and Ellen standing hunched together under an umbrella. Beyond them, the plants on either side of the path were glistening wet, bent over in the wind. She could see the rain driving into the road, spitting up from the tarmac.

  ‘Come in, come in. Quick.’ She took the umbrella and left it dripping in the downstairs shower while Ellen and Bea shrugged themselves out of their macs. Having hung them above the umbrella, they followed her down to the kitchen where Bea pressed a pale blue box decorated with a wild boar into her hand. ‘Rococo ganaches – my new favourite of the moment.’

  Kate took them with a smile and put them on the side for later.

  ‘Something smells good.’ Ellen walked over to the oven and peered through the glass.

  ‘Let’s hope. I just finished off what Paul started.’ Kate opened the fridge door and pulled out a bottle.

  ‘God, you’re lucky. He’s too good to you.’ Ellen went to sit on one of the bar stools by the island.

  ‘Don’t – please! I know.’ The weight of Kate’s guilt increased. ‘Anyway, you can talk, if things are as good as they were the last time we spoke. White OK?’

  ‘Industrial alcohol would be OK after the day I’ve had.’ Bea threw herself into the comfortable chair at the front of the room, letting her shoes drop to the floor so she could bend her legs underneath her. ‘You’ll never guess what that smooth bastard’s done this time.’

  ‘I thought you were on his side now.’ Kate had heard the whole work saga when Bea had phoned during the week so knew exactly who she was talking about. She had agreed that Bea’s chosen course of action was the best. For the time being, at least.

  ‘I was. I still am – in a way. Except he called me in today to tell me he’d hired Amanda Winter, his editorial director at Pennant, as . . .’ she made quote marks in the air ‘. . . “publisher”. Fait accompli. Not even a word of consultation.’ Her voice rose in indignation.

  ‘But he can’t do that. You’re the publishing director. Isn’t that constructive dismissal or something?’ Kate found herself equally outraged on behalf of her friend.

  ‘Nobody takes any notice of that any more. Once you get to a certain level you can hire and fire who the hell you want. Just wrap the new chief in another title and everyone turns a blind eye. Then get rid of another Indian to pay for it so you’ve got fewer people to do the essential jobs that keep the company going.’

  ‘Where does that leave you, then?’

  ‘Good question. On the bloody back foot. Again. Even though he protests he needs me and wants me to stay.’

  ‘Perhaps he doth protest too much. Can’t you do something?’ She filled Bea’s glass and moved the magazines on the coffee-table to make room for it.

  ‘Like what? All I can do is sit tight, and make sure she doesn’t take my job. That’s what she’ll have her eye on. But she’s not going to get it. I’m going to be the one who decides when I throw in the towel. Not her.’

  Kate watched as Bea arranged her jacket over the back of her chair, still fulminating against the shortcomings of senior management. Like so many of their friends, she had got blonder as the years passed, her hair artfully and regularly streaked for the cost of a small mortgage. Animated in conversation, her face was still striking, mostly thanks to her strong cheekbones and large, expressive mouth that still retained some of the fullness of her youth. She had forged her own style, throwing in the odd designer label with a bit of ethnic and using long tops, not too tight, and jackets to hide the worst bits: her midriff, thighs and a bum that she joked was sliding down towards the back of her knees. Now that she had finally shrugged off the hurt and humiliation of Colin’s clichéd departure for a younger woman, Kate couldn’t see why she was having such difficulty in meeting another man.

  ‘I envy you, you know,’ she blurted. The words were out before she had a chance to stop them.

  Bea stopped her continuing rant mid-flow. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I do. Things might be going wrong for you at the moment but you’ve still got that energy we all had when we started out.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bea looked genuinely bewildered. ‘What energy? I’m completely knackered.’

  ‘You may be. But you still get excited about what you do.’

  ‘So do you, you idiot. Saving lives is exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Saving lives is the least of it. I’m bogged down with admin, man-management, endless disputes and patients wanting me to sign sick notes when there’s nothing wrong with them. None of the things I went into medicine for.’ What did she sound like? She hated the self-righteousness that had crept into her voice, especially since what she had said wasn’t really true. She did see plenty of patients during her sessions and house-calls. There was nothing like the feeling of having successfully diagnosed and treated a patient, not to mention being on the receiving end of their gratitude. Her job was constantly different and throwing up new challenges. The burden of admin must be skewing her sense of perspective.

  ‘I thought working for myself was hard,’ said Ellen. ‘I’m always struggling to keep my head above water but you guys make it look positively pleasant.’ She had opened a packet of peanuts and offered them round.

  ‘Don’t go all smug on us. I couldn’t bear it.’ Bea drained her glass and got up for a refill.

  Kate had noticed Ellen’s hurt expression. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’ Sometimes Bea’s humour could fall just on the wrong side of the line dividing funny and sharp.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?’ Bea took a few nuts and smiled at Ellen who nodded, obviously not a hundred per cent convinced.

  That was another of Bea’s defence mechanisms – pretending her tactlessness didn’t terribly matter. But it did, especially when Kate knew Bea was as fond of Ellen as she was and would walk over hot coals for her if the situation demanded.

  ‘New man, job you love. How lucky are you?’ There had been an edge to Bea’s voice that Kate didn’t like. She must be minding about things more than she was letting on. ‘Oh, sorry, El. I’m being foul. Too much on my plate and unlucky in love as well. Not much of a life-enhancer. Take no notice.’

  ‘You should have called me,’ Ellen offered. ‘I’d have come round.’

  ‘I did. I spoke to Oliver a couple of times, but he said you were busy and couldn’t come to the phone.’

  ‘Busy?’ Ellen looked puzzled. ‘When was that?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Monday, maybe. And then Tuesday. I did think it was a bit odd that you were too busy both times, but what do I know? Poor put-upon singleton that I am.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ Kate played air-violin. ‘Stop now, before I burst into tears.’

  Ellen laughed. ‘I can’t remember what I was doing unless it was when I was going through my wardrobe.’

  ‘What? Your wardrobe’s been set in aspic for years. You don’t do “going through” your wardrobe.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Kate agreed. ‘I’ve never known you throw anything out.’

  ‘Oliver went through my dresses and skirts when I was away and made some suggestions, then encouraged me to take a few things to the charity shop. Don’t know why I’ve never done it before really . . . What?’

  Kate and Bea were looking at her open-mouthed.

  ‘He went through your wardrobe while you were away?’ Bea said, incredulous. ‘I’d kill anyone who went through mine.’

  ‘Only because yours is su
ch a shambles you don’t know what they’d find.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. Just a tad disordered. But I wouldn’t want anyone going through my things.’

  ‘I didn’t think of it like that.’ Ellen looked perplexed. ‘He was only trying to help.’

  ‘I’m sure he was,’ said Bea. ‘But what was he doing there anyway? Hasn’t he got the flat?’

  ‘He has a key. Anyway, he was helping put up the studio-shed.’

  ‘The what?’ Bea got up to help herself to another drink.

  ‘My new studio. It’s a shed. Oliver thought he’d surprise me with somewhere I could paint. So he got the whole thing installed while I was in Cornwall.’

  Both Bea and Kate stared at her as if they couldn’t believe what they were hearing.

  ‘He surprised you with a shed?’ Bea spoke slowly as if she might have misunderstood. ‘Completely out of the blue? He can’t do that. He hardly knows you. What about your garden?’

  ‘Put like that it does sound a bit unusual.’

  ‘Unusual? I’ll say.’

  ‘But he’s a man who acts on impulse. He wanted to give me something special for my birthday, and thought putting a studio into the garden was what I’d want.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course.’ She didn’t sound entirely certain. ‘And I’ll enjoy planning and replanting parts of the garden.’ As she went on to describe it, Kate could see that Bea’s continuing interrogation was making Ellen uncomfortable. She obviously didn’t like Bea’s implication that Oliver had gone too far. Kate decided to change the subject. ‘What about a job?’ she asked. ‘Has he had any luck yet?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ellen looked relieved and grateful. ‘But you know how difficult it is at the moment. There aren’t that many jobs around and he isn’t known on the circuit since he’s been in France.’

  ‘But he’s not in a position to be fussy, is he? There must be something he could do.’

  ‘I know.’ Ellen sighed. ‘I’ve said as much. But he bites my head off.’ She seemed quite resigned to the way he was.