Busy Woman Seeks Wife

by Annie Sanders

  “Hiya, babe.” She dropped her clipped business tone and slipped into something she hoped sounded sultry. “How was your flight? You must be tired. How’s your day going so far?”

  “Not so bad, not so bad. It will be all the better when I see you tonight, of course.” Bugger. In all the rush to pick up her mother, she’d forgotten the arrangement to meet tonight.

  “Ah. Problem.” And she went on to explain.

  By the time he rang her doorbell, at around 8:30, Alex hoped he’d cheered up a bit about the idea of having to spend the evening with her mother there too. The enmity between Todd and her mother had been palpable from the moment they’d first met a few months ago, though masked behind a veneer of feigned bonhomie. Until now Alex had kept contact to the bare minimum—the requisite meet-the-boyfriend visit at the Bean’s insistence, once Alex had let slip that she was seeing someone, and a couple of other brief encounters. But supper together would be a first.

  They stole a deep kiss in the hallway. Three weeks apart and Alex let herself be pulled towards him into his embrace. She could feel his taut body beneath his shirt and smell his sharp cologne. A little too much of it actually, but it was expensive so perhaps that made it okay. He looked at her intensely with his brown eyes, and she took in his beautifully aligned face. By any criteria he was perfect. “Well,” he drawled, taking her hand. “Let battle commence.”

  “Mother, it’s Todd, do you remember?” Stupid question, and as she bolted for the kitchen and put on the water to boil for the pasta, she could just about make out a stilted conversation with long silences in between.

  “Quite vile, dear.” The Bean put down her fork a bit later, not even pretending any more to move the fusilli around the plate. “Is this the best you could come up with?” Alex looked quickly at Todd, who was making a better go of his food, though only just. Did her mother really have to show her up?

  “I’m so sorry, but I didn’t have much time.”

  “Clearly not.” Her mother pushed her plate away. “I do hope things will get better while I’m here, though of course I won’t be able to do a thing.” She nodded at the cast on her arm, resting in a sling made from an old Hermès scarf. “Perhaps the lovely Saffron can help. She’s a wonderful cook. The most divine sole bonne femme I’ve ever tasted. What’s her husband called again?”

  “Max, Mother. How could you forget that? You’ve known him for years.”

  “Yes, of course. He’s a lucky man, having a wife like that. Now your father, he loved the way I cooked…” And off she went, dominating the conversation for the rest of the evening, luckily not noticing the very mediocre bought apple pie.

  “Christ, Alex, you’re going to need some help,” said Todd later, wincing as he tried to get comfortable on her bedroom floor, the duvet and blanket she put underneath as a makeshift mattress clearly woefully inadequate. Much as she wanted him to, she hadn’t really meant him to stay the night, the bed situation being what it was. Not to mention being unsure about the proximity of her mother in the single room next door, but she’d changed her mind when, as they watched the news side by side on the other sofa, he’d run his hand up her thigh.

  “I know,” she groaned. “God knows what I’m going to do. I can’t find anyone suitable. Saff even invited a bloke to come along!”

  “Well, my darling.” He turned his naked chest towards her and she could make out the sharp planes of his face in the orangey light thrown by the street lamp outside. “Much as I think you are delicious, your mother isn’t, so let’s hope she makes a full recovery real soon.” And she giggled as he slipped down between her legs.

  The following day was frantic, meetings and conference calls interspersed with phone calls to her mother—when she wasn’t engaged on the phone to her old actress friend, Beryl. Alex had even contemplated asking Beryl to look after the Bean, but she must be knocking seventy herself and it would be too much. When Alex did finally get though, the Bean complained about having to get things from the kitchen herself and wanted to talk in great detail about the phone calls from the neighbor downstairs about the leak and the woman from the curtain maker’s about the blind for the bathroom. Then there were the bed delivery people, who’d made such a fuss about the stairs apparently. Alex had managed to cut her short just in time to take a far more promising call.

  “Oh God, you were right,” she howled to Saff later as she finally got time to call her.

  “What about?”

  “The wife thing. Mother is going to be a full-time job—she’s so demanding, it’s like running a hotel but without the tips. You know, this morning she wondered why I didn’t have Dundee marmalade, for God’s sake! And there’s such a stack of stuff to do here and at home, frankly, but guess what? I think I’ve got the perfect person.”

  “Oh, have you? Not that woman who looked like a psychopath with the suspicious references? I do hope you mean that gorgeous bloke Frankie—he seemed ideal!”

  “The actor? No way. I couldn’t cope with having a man in my flat. I know what you said,” she went on quickly before Saff could interrupt, “but it would never work. No, it’s someone who called today actually. Bit of a last-minute call and she only just caught me between meetings.”

  “What!” Saff squeaked. “You haven’t met her?”

  “Well, yes, as it happens. She was close to the office so I met her briefly and she was great.” Alex realized she was taking a bit of a risk and hadn’t even followed up references—quite unlike her usual style—before asking the woman to stay at the flat while she was in Canada. “Sometimes you just get an instinct, don’t you? She’s young but ideal, really. Enthusiastic, fully qualified in caring for the elderly from what she says, and her cooking credentials sound marvelous. Apparently she was involved in film catering or something, and she said she’s very reliable. She’s almost made to measure. And even better, she’s just finished a contract and can start straightaway! I can’t believe my luck actually, and she only lives around the corner apparently.”

  “Mmm.”

  Alex ignored the circumspect tone in Saff’s voice. “Come on, Saff, I interview people all the time. I ought to know. I’ve been on enough boring courses about it.”

  “Maybe. What’s she called, anyway?”

  “Her name’s Ella. Sweet, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 7

  Ski pants, gloves, sunblock, earmuffs for Millie—Saff ticked off the list as she put everyone’s ski gear in the bag, and eased herself carefully off her knees. She had pins and needles in her feet now, but at least she had most things packed, except the last-minute bits of course. They would have to go in at dawn tomorrow. The house was quiet after the morning’s excitement, the children in a spin at the prospect of leaving for Courchevel first thing tomorrow, and all she could hear was the hum of the dishwasher and the rustle of Millie’s hamster in its cage in the corner of the kitchen.

  “For goodness’ sake, Oscar, calm down!” she’d shrieked at her son as she tried to maneuver around a trash truck on the way to school, traffic hurtling towards her. “You’ll burst if you keep this up all day and there’s all the end-of-term business to get through too.” It was pointless. The dark-haired eleven-year-old had ignored her and, relentlessly hyper, had continued poking his sister throughout the morning rush until they had pulled up outside the school. “Leave Millie alone,” she’d said through gritted teeth, getting their bags from the boot. “Now.” She’d turned down the collar of his shirt. “Don’t forget to bring back anything that needs washing. Millie, here’s your ballet stuff, and Oscar. Oscar, hang on. Here’s some homemade Easter biscuits for Mrs. Jackson… careful. I’ll see you both later and…” She watched as they both ran off through the gates. “And have a good day,” she said quietly to herself, realizing she hadn’t had a chance to kiss them goodbye.

  As she fished the passports out of the drawer in Max’s study, she thought about how she hated that. Kissing them goodbye was like punctuating the end of a sentence, and not doing so mad
e it all feel unfinished. Of course, they weren’t bothered, so why should she be? She glanced briefly at the papers on Max’s desk. There was another hefty script, a TV drama it looked like, with Grass Roots on the title page and the name of the writer, Greta Dunant—a name Saff recognized from somewhere. It must be good if it had been given to Max to read—only the scripts likely to be made reached him. In the past he’d show them to her for her opinion, but since every evening was now taken up with homework, music practice and some activity or other, there was no time. She closed the door behind her. Shame really. She’d quite enjoyed being involved.

  Twenty minutes later she had lugged all the plants up into the bath to sit on wet newspaper. She buried her nose in the sweet fragrance of the tête à tête daffodils that had just unfurled, sad she would miss them at their best when they were away. Max had insisted they go skiing in March, which fitted in better with work. The beginning of the year saw the launch of new shows and schedules, and April was the international TV sales conference in France. As she arranged the colorful pots of spring bulbs, though, she knew she’d rather have gone in January before the snowdrops had even managed to push through, so she didn’t have to miss this feast of spring.

  “Het? It’s Saffron.” Saff pulled the washing out of the machine as she talked to her neighbor, phone to her ear. “Yup, all packed, thanks. Yes, yes, can’t wait to go and get a bit of snow. Now be honest, is it still okay about popping in to feed the hamster? Are you sure? I’ve left some food and bedding beside the cage… Wonderful. I’ll bring you back some Swiss chocolate… sorry? No! I’ll stick to the glühwein or I’ll never squeeze into my ski pants. Bye. Thanks, bye.”

  Unloading the drier and folding warm pants and vests, she refilled it with the wet laundry and turned on the kettle and picked up the phone again.

  “Hi, Bean, it’s Saffron. How are you?”

  “Daaarling.” Alex’s mother’s theatrical drawl strung the word out. “How lovely to hear from you! When are you coming to see me?”

  Saff smiled to herself, imagining the Bean holding court to visitors. “Oh, I’ll come very soon, I promise, but we’re off to Courcheval in the morning for the annual ski fest so I’ll pop in when we get back.”

  “Well, don’t make it too long, dear.”

  “Are you being well looked after?”

  Saff heard her snort with derision. “Simply frightful,” she whispered loudly.

  “But I thought… I thought Alex had sorted out someone marvelous. She said she was perfect.”

  “My dear, you’ve known the girl for years.” She sounded as if she was talking without moving her lips. “You know as well as I do how poor a judge of character she can be. Except for you, of course, darling. But the boyfriends! And this last one! Have you met him? He looks like Action Man without the charisma. All white teeth and rippling pectorals and about as much culture as a lamppost.”

  Saff couldn’t help giggling. “Oh, you are cruel. He’s not that bad.”

  “Hmm—a mild improvement on the last one, but the only way was up.” She lowered her voice again to a deep sultry muttering. “But this Ella. She’s only been here a few hours but I can already tell she’s useless. Useless. Couldn’t make a decent cup of Lapsang if her life depended on it, and when she’s not on her blasted mobile talking to her friends, she’s reading the paper in the kitchen. You should see her now—jeans round her hips and radio blaring. She’s even singing—listen to this for God’s sake!” She held the phone away and Saff could hear a tinny noise and a high-pitched voice.

  “Have you told Alex?”

  “How can I when she’s off doing something terribly important in Canada?” Her voice sounded sulky.

  “Oh, of course. I’ve had my head in a suitcase and forgot.” Saff searched her brain to think how she could help. “I could fly over this afternoon.” Knowing full well she couldn’t but she’d find a way somehow. “Make you a decent cup of tea and have a chat?”

  “Oh, you are sweet but I’m sure you’re far too busy. If only they were all like you.”

  “Now you take care,” Saff laughed. “I bet you’ll have her whipped into shape in no time. I’ll come over as soon as I get back.”

  “Have fun, dear. So glamorous. I remember going to St. Moritz with Alex’s father. We could wear fur in those days. Nothing flatters a woman more…” And she was off on one of her enchanting and wildly exaggerated stories in which she was always the heroine. Saff smiled and laughed in the right places. The Bean never failed to entertain her, and she had seen her charm a whole room in the past, but she did thank the Lord she wasn’t her mother. On those sorts of occasions, when the Bean was center stage, she’d seen Alex cringing in the corner, especially when the laughter in the room was at Alex’s expense—her clothes, her boyfriends, her total lack of interest in her looks. Alex was one of the most private people Saff knew and so completely straightforward—something the Bean saw as dull—that it must have been very painful for her. Perhaps the Bean hoped Alex would flourish with the light of attention turned on her. There was no doubt she loved her daughter, but she clearly didn’t understand her. It was as if they were speaking different languages.

  Saff had eaten another three biscuits before she finally extracted herself from the Bean’s descriptions of a past on the piste that made everyone sound like James Bond, and, by the time she had attached the table lamps in the hall and landing to timers—though whom would that fool?—telephoned Het again to remind her about the code for the alarm, made biscuits for the journey, prepared a chicken casserole for supper—something easy, they’d be rushed—and taken the car to have the bald back tire replaced, it was time to scoop up the children.

  She practically had to peel them off the walls. “We’re going skiing, we’re going skiing,” sang Millie at the top of her voice.

  “Sssh.” Saff shepherded them towards the car.

  “Why, Mum?”

  “Because not everyone is as lucky as we are. They might not have something so exciting lined up for their holiday.” She made sure they were strapped in and pulled out into the road. “I’ve just got to fly into the supermarket on the way back to get some blister plasters.”

  “Harry’s going to his nan’s ’cos his mum works.”

  “Exactly, so it’s not nice to crow about what you’re lucky enough to be doing.”

  “Isn’t ‘nan’ a common word?”

  Saff winced. Oh, the melting pots that were London state schools, no matter how sought after. “Well, people call their grandparents lots of different things. Now, how was your day?”

  She had them fed, bathed and quieted down by the time Max came through the door, inevitably late.

  “Hello, my darling.” He kissed her on the mouth. “You smell delicious. Sorry it’s later than I said. The inevitable got-to-get-it-done’cos-I’m-off-on-holiday stuff.” He dropped the paper on the table. “Got a couple more calls to make. Did you sort the tire, by the way?”

  Saff turned back to the sink. “Er, yes. How was your day?”

  “Crazy. How much did you pay for it?” he persisted. Cautiously she told him. “What! Oh, Saff. I bet they told you the more expensive ones were better, didn’t they?”

  She knew this would be his response and she knew too she should have held out for the cheaper ones, but the way they had looked at her at the tire place as if she’d be an idiot to settle for anything but the most expensive had made her cave in. “I know. I know, but maybe they’ll last longer?”

  “Mmm.” He opened the fridge and picked at some olives. “You are a ninny. It’s not like we bomb up motorways all day long. The most that car does is school and back. Is everything ready?”

  Saff laughed, relieved at the change of subject. “Cheeky bugger. I’ve packed your bag and supper will be ready in about half an hour. Can you tell me where you put the travel insurance documents? I can’t find them.”

  “I’ll dig them out.” Max walked out of the room towards his study.

  �
��And, Max…” But the study door was closed behind him.

  With the children finally asleep, their clothes ready for the morning laid out neatly on the chairs in their bedrooms, she went back down to the kitchen and put on the vegetables to steam, emptied another load of uniforms and school art overalls from the machine and ticked off “wash bags” on her list. Pouring a glass of wine for herself and one for Max, she made her way down to the study and, balancing the glasses in one hand, opened the door.

  “Sure, that would be great.” He was ending a call. “I’ll see you when I get back, Greta. Have fun.” He dropped the phone and turned to her. “Thanks, love. You okay? Now, what time are we off?”

  The 4:30 alarm dragged them all from their beds. Millie refused to eat any breakfast and cried that the hamster would be lonely without her. Oscar wouldn’t wear the trousers she’d put out and threw a tantrum when he wasn’t allowed to turn on the computer to download more songs onto his MP3 player for the journey, and Max, having forgotten to dig out the health policy, dumped the contents of the filing cabinet on the floor of the study before he found it in the car insurance section. The plane was delayed and Millie was beyond fatigue by the time they reached the hotel.

  It was when she’d unpacked the suitcases as Max and the children went to get a pacifying hot chocolate in a favorite café that Saff realized she’d been so focused on putting together everyone else’s skiwear, her own was still in the airing cupboard at home.

  Chapter 8

  How could you?”

  Ella clapped her hands together on a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, bursting it open with a pop and a puff of tangy shards, and offered them to Frankie, who shook his head in anger. “I don’t know why you’re being so sulky about this. It’s not like you’d got the job anyway.”