What Women Want

by Fanny Blake

  Apart from that, the thought of a hotel room with crisp white sheets, a super-king-sized bed and a like-minded companion beckoned – what more could a girl want? What this one wanted was confirmation. And she was determined to get it. In her bag, stuffed into the phone pocket so it wouldn’t disappear into the depths, was the address and phone number of Marion Drummond, otherwise known as Mrs Oliver Shepherd.

  The flight was crowded and already delayed by three-quarters of an hour. By the time they finally disembarked into the icy sleet at Edinburgh, there was little traffic on the roads so their taxi found its way to the boutique Bruntsfield hotel in about twenty minutes, arriving just before they stopped serving dinner. It was the first opportunity for a week or so that she and Mark had had to sit down together. The dining room was discreet, dimly lit and came highly recommended by a colleague of his.

  Within minutes of sitting at the table, Bea felt as relaxed as she ever had in the company of a lover. More so, perhaps. The diminutive starters were not much bigger than the amuse-bouches that had preceded them. Their palates were cleansed by a searingly acidic mixed citron sorbet before the minuscule main courses of monkfish steaks (for her) and rack of lamb (for him). Dithering over the wine, they decided to compromise and order by the glass so they could both enjoy the colour they preferred. Their conversation ranged over the children (gratifyingly and unusually well behaved at the moment), his wife (currently monstrously ill behaved with her demands rocketing now she knew he was seeing someone else), their work (anxious times given the current climate for him; her future hanging in the balance) and, of course, what lay in store for the following day.

  ‘I still think you should have phoned her before we flew up. Suppose she’s not there?’ As ever, Mark was the calm voice of reason.

  But Bea was not. ‘No. I’ve got to meet her in person and I want the element of surprise on my side. I didn’t want to risk her refusing to see me or leaving town once she knew I was on my way.’

  ‘And if she’s not there?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her neighbours. I’ll stay another night and wait for her. I don’t know! I haven’t thought it through but I must know exactly what I’m talking about when I manage to see Kate. I want her to grasp how thorough I’ve been. I’m not making the same mistake I made on Tuesday night.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve learned your lesson.’

  ‘OK, Mr Smart Arse. That sounded just the teeniest bit smug.’

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it. So, how do I fit in?’ His absolute willingness to help her was like having her favourite hot-water bottle in bed – reassuring and comforting.

  ‘I thought we could find the house together early tomorrow morning. It’s somewhere in Morningside, so she can’t exactly be short of a bob or two. Then I’ll go and talk to her on my own. I won’t be long. After that we could go to the new wing of the National Gallery and have a sandwich there. Then I’ll meet the tiresome Audrey Balfour for a couple of hours’ worth of tea and ear-bashing and then we’ll waste time together until we get the plane back. How does that sound?’

  ‘Militaristic.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I’m exhausted just by the sound of it.’ He pulled a face. ‘Shall we head upstairs to get some rest ahead of time?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  ‘Coffee or dessert?’

  ‘No coffee. And I’ve got a small box of Godiva chocs that you’re going to love. I thought we could just accompany them with a little something from the mini-bar.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. Lead on, Macduff.’

  *

  The night fulfilled every one of Bea’s hopes and expectations. It was extraordinary how much things could improve with practice, she mused, as they went downstairs for breakfast. Since their first awkward night together in Norfolk, Mark’s confidence as a lover had grown so there were certainly no complaints on that score.

  Mark had got a city map from the reception desk and over the full Scottish they hunted together for Cluny Drive. ‘Got it!’ Bea exclaimed, pointing with her knife and spreading egg yolk over the spot.

  ‘It’s a bit of a hike from here, but there must be a bus.’ Mark borrowed her reading specs and squinted at the tiny numbers marked on the different roads.

  In the end they took a taxi, Bea arguing that time was hardly on their side. She ignored Mark’s suggestion that Marion might have left for work by the time they got there. The Edinburgh streets were bleak. Bad weather had rolled in from the north-east. Pillows of grey cloud swelled above the terraces, dark with rain. Car headlights beamed through the gloom. At least Bea and Mark had come prepared, Bea with her three-quarter-length loose black coat with a fur trim that, while not the most flattering, was a sure-fire barrier against the most Arctic of winds. On her head she had a fake (of course) silver fox Dr Zhivago hat. Mark was similarly well wrapped up in a heavy navy coat, bright orange scarf, gloves and a wide-brimmed waterproof hat that gave him a rather dashing outdoorsy look.

  Turning off busy Comiston Road, the taxi entered a leafy residential area, pulling up outside a substantial semi-detached Victorian villa with a light shining from the ground-floor bay window. Mark took both of Bea’s gloved hands and squeezed them. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait in the cab to see whether someone’s there. If you go in, I’ll find a coffee on the main road. If not, we’ll be waiting round that corner. If you need me for any reason, call me and I’ll be there.’

  Giving him a peck on the cheek and an apprehensive grimace, Bea climbed out. Bracing herself against the wind, she waved, then turned under a small rustic arch and up a long, straight path that divided a scrappy front lawn down the middle. At its end was a white front door, surrounded by the naked stems of climbing roses. To the left of the door was a large bay window, curtains half closed, but she could hear music playing within. She could just make out a mirror above the fireplace and the reflection of a modern chandelier. To the right, four rectangular windows, two above two, stared out into the morning, blinds raised, lights off.

  Bea reached out to the bell beside the door. It wasn’t too late to turn back. Instead she could spend the morning with Mark and give up this potentially pointless enterprise. But a voice inside her head said, No. Finish what you’ve started. Wouldn’t you want a friend to go to such lengths if they were worried about you? Her resolve shored up, she pressed the lower bell marked ‘Drummond’ and heard five dissonant notes ring out inside the house. After a few seconds, she heard a shout, ‘Hang on. Just coming.’ A chain was unhooked, a mortice unlocked and the handle turned.

  Bea stared at the woman in front of her – not the beaten-down victim she was expecting at all. In her forties, she had a round face cushioned by a double chin, deep-set blue eyes under eyebrows that had never glimpsed tweezers, and a pair of ruddy round cheeks. She was holding a towel to her pepper-and-salt hair. A certain stoutness was half hidden under a plaid dressing-gown. As she waited for Bea to speak, her initial smile began to fade.

  ‘Yes?’

  Bea pulled herself together. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you Marion Drummond?’

  ‘Yes, I am. And you are?’

  ‘My name’s Bea Wilde. I’ve come about Oliver Shepherd. I just want to ask you a few questions.’

  Marion’s face changed. Bea wasn’t sure whether she was frightened or furious. ‘Are you the police? Has he done something?’

  ‘God, no. Do I look like a policewoman? I need to find out about him so that I can help a friend. Please let me explain.’

  ‘You’d better come in before we freeze to death.’ Marion pulled the door open and welcomed Bea into a large hall. ‘Now, how can I help you? It’ll have to be quick or I’ll be late for work.’ She tossed the towel onto a chair before leading her through to a room at the back of the hall where the emphasis was on comfort rather than style. At one end, a sofa draped with a bright paisley throw was angled in front of a TV. A pile of magazines littered the floor between them. At the other, an oval table was covered w
ith a patterned oilcloth. A dark-haired girl was sitting at it, eating breakfast. ‘This is Natalie, my daughter.’

  Bea nodded a greeting, remembering Kate’s description of the young woman she had seen with Oliver. She told herself not to jump to any conclusions but to wait until she knew more.

  They sat down together, and while Bea removed her hat and coat, Marion poured them all a cup of strong coffee from the cafetière, then offered round a bottle of milk. With the two women watching her, Bea embarked on her story once again, making sure she kept everything in the right order and didn’t leave anything out. Marion listened carefully, giving the impression she’d heard it all before. Natalie looked upset but resigned, and continued eating her toast. When Bea produced the photos she had of Oliver, they both gave the briefest of nods and returned them without saying more.

  When she’d finished, Marion asked Natalie to make some more coffee and to phone each of their employers to tell them they would be a little late. ‘Only a little, mind,’ she added, to emphasise the point. ‘She’s a PA at the Royal Bank of Scotland on Princes Street, God help us,’ she explained, with a chuckle. ‘And I’ve got to get down to a primary school in Merchiston but they’ll manage fine without me for half an hour.’

  While Natalie was out of the room, she spoke quickly and quietly to Bea. ‘Oliver’s Natalie’s father so I won’t say too much. Of course she knows he was violent and she was there one awful night when he was in his cups, grabbed me by the hair and smashed my head against the door, yelling and shouting. In fact, she was the one who called the police, but . . . years have passed and, after all, he is her dad.’

  ‘What happened? Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. It was all over the local press so it’s no secret.’ She looked weary at the memory. ‘Oliver was a possessive man, who had to know exactly where I’d been and who with. He’d give me the odd tap if he didn’t like what I’d done but nothing too bad. I got clever at spotting the signs and keeping out of his way. But that particular night he came home from the pub, fixated with the idea that I’d been seeing someone behind his back. Somebody had said something that he’d twisted around in his head. Nothing I said would convince him otherwise. He started tearing the place apart, looking for a note – anything – to prove I was lying. I’d never seen him so out of control. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but one minute I was yelling at him to stop and the next he had me on the floor with his hands around my neck. The noise woke Natalie up and she called the police. That was it. He gave himself up to them without a fuss. They took him away and he never set foot in here again. When he’d sobered up, he was terrified by what he’d done and so sorry, but I wouldn’t have him back after that. I had a child to protect. While he was on bail, he wasn’t allowed anywhere near us. He got three months suspended, then disappeared down south.’

  Natalie returned with the coffee and Marion paused while her daughter refilled their cups.

  Bea was trying to take the story in, appalled by its implications. ‘Have you heard from him since?’

  Marion glanced at Natalie.

  ‘Not until about a year ago. He didn’t come here but he rang asking if he could use this address for a legal matter. I agreed he could. Silly, really, but I suppose I felt sorry for him. After all this time he’s still apologising.’

  ‘He’s stopped drinking now, though.’ Natalie spoke for the first time, with a softer Scottish burr than Marion’s. ‘He told me that.’

  ‘Yes. Natalie’s seen him. You visited him when you were in London, didn’t you?’

  The girl nodded. And Bea refrained from mentioning the wine she’d seen Oliver enjoy. No point in puncturing his daughter’s beliefs. This was not about her.

  ‘But you’re divorced?’ Bea couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Lord, no.’ Marion threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘I’m afraid not. We should be but that seemed the least of our worries. To be honest, I was so relieved he was away at last and I didn’t want to do anything to rile him. I don’t want him back here threatening me or causing trouble again. And he’s never asked for a divorce.’

  By the time Bea left, her head was spinning. She had come to Edinburgh to be certain that there was no mistaking who Oliver was. What she’d come away with was the awful certainty that her closest friend was involved with an abusive conman who had a wife and a daughter he’d never mentioned. She had photos to prove he was the same person, and legal documentation about the sale of Suzanne’s gallery. Now she had to find a way to make Kate listen to her and together they would decide how to break the news to Ellen. If Ellen decided to do nothing with the information, that was her business.

  The rest of the day sped by. Wandering round the National Gallery, she hardly noticed the pictures they were looking at. Over lunch, she toyed with her soup while telling Mark everything.

  ‘I’m glad I was with you in case something happened,’ he said. ‘And after last night I reckon we make quite a good team, you and me.’

  ‘You know what? I’m beginning to think we do too.’

  They kissed across the table, ignoring the snorts of derision from the schoolchildren at the couple of tables nearest to them. Walking briskly along Princes Street, leaning into the biting wind, Bea stopped thinking about Ellen for a minute or two as she remembered Mark’s words. He might not be the most prepossessing of men at first glance but, like it or not, she had meant what she said. They did work well together, in more ways than one.

  As she approached the Balmoral Hotel, she changed her focus to Audrey and how she would counter the woman’s objections to the way her last book had been published. She walked past the kilted footman through the revolving door into the grand lobby and a different world. She turned towards the sound of a harp drifting in from the Bollinger Bar. Audrey had installed herself at a banquette facing the bar and was already halfway through a glass of champagne. She was a particular type of Edinburgh lady, tall, thin and refined, not a hair of her waved bob out of place, the colours of her tweed skirt toning exactly with her cashmere twinset. She beckoned Bea over with an imperious wave and the briefest of smiles. The small-talk was exactly that, as Bea ordered the Balmoral tea for two, then listened to what Audrey had to say, making the right noises and defending the publishing strategy when called on to do so. She was virtually working on autopilot until she was pulled up short.

  ‘Amanda Winter tells me you’ll be rejacketing my back-list.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Who said that?’ Bea thought she must have misheard. Suddenly Audrey had her full attention.

  ‘Amanda Winter. A darling girl who phoned me yesterday to introduce herself. I understand she’s in charge of the publishing now, although I know you’ll still be my editor. Will you be all right, after all this time?’

  ‘I’ll be absolutely fine, thank you, Audrey. Just fine.’ So the scheming witch was already cosying up to Bea’s authors behind her back and demoting her in the process. Amanda must have known that Audrey would repeat the message. As far as Bea was aware, there had been no planned rejacketing programme, although she agreed it was long overdue. In fact, she’d been fighting that corner on Audrey’s behalf for months. The forces at Coldharbour were already moving against her, but they would be too late. It seemed that Audrey, unwittingly, had put the final seal on Bea’s own plans.

  Eventually Bea made her escape, agreeing to keep in contact over the new treatments they might use and giving repeated assurances that she would put Audrey’s new novel about Anne of Denmark to the top of her pile when it came in. And, yes (through gritted teeth), of course she would share it with Amanda. Never has an escape felt more divinely pleasant, she thought, as she made her way back through the sleet to Mark and the long journey home.

  That night, while Mark cleared up supper she went upstairs, relieved that Ben had been so polite when they’d got back. Perhaps he welcomed the idea of another person in their lives who might take the heat off him from time to time. She had left them to it so
that she could call Kate, as she and Mark had agreed she should. All the way home, she had gone over with him what she might say, how she would manoeuvre her way past Paul, if necessary. She had no idea what sort of reception to expect. She lined up two Rococo chocolates on the small table beside her, a lavender and a rose cream, then dialled.

  Within moments Kate picked up.

  ‘It’s Bea. Don’t hang up, please.’ She hadn’t meant to sound quite so desperate.

  ‘Of course I won’t, you idiot. I’m so glad you’ve phoned. Where have you been? I’ve tried calling you but you never picked up.’

  ‘I’ve been dying to talk to you,’ confessed Bea, intensely relieved that Kate wasn’t going to cold-shoulder her. ‘I behaved so badly on the night of the private view and I’m sorry I got caught between the two of you. I would have called back but I wanted to get my facts straight so I had to go to France and Edinburgh, believe it or not. But now I’ve really got something that we must talk about.’

  ‘God, Bea. You know I’m not happy about this. It’s why we all fell out, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe it was important. Please.’ If Kate didn’t listen to her, she would never convince Ellen. She waited as her friend deliberated.

  ‘OK. OK. I give in.’ Kate thought for a moment. ‘Let’s meet for lunch in Carluccio’s tomorrow. You can tell me then. I’ve got a few things of my own to tell you, too.’

  Bea picked up the lavender cream as she hung up. She had a feeling that everything between them was going to be all right. Now there was one more thing she wanted to do before she went back downstairs. She popped the lavender cream into her mouth and turned on her laptop to draft her letter of resignation.

  Chapter 32

  That Friday night, Oliver and Ellen sat down to supper with Matt and Emma once more. Nothing was much different from the last time, except that Ellen’s stomach felt as if butterflies were clog-dancing through it. Oliver irritated her by advising her to relax. How could she? They had talked to Jed, who had jumped at the idea of moving into the flat. His son had delayed his arrival until the weekend and was picking up the VW on Sunday, by which time Oliver would have moved out. Perhaps Jed was right, Ellen thought. Perhaps Fate was offering a guiding hand. In which case, the time had come to tell the children about all this.