What Women Want. Fanny Blake
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do. But Africa?’
‘Well, it’s going to be hard to see him anywhere else.’
‘I can’t possibly. Not now.’ Panic crossed his face before he looked down at his bowl.
‘No, of course not. But we can make plans.’ If she pressed enough, she might be able to persuade him. Dreaming up and organising the trip of a lifetime might be just the thing to bring them together again. And combined with seeing their faraway son – what could be better?
‘I’m sorry, but now isn’t the moment.’ He picked up his fork and took a last mouthful.
‘Why not?’ Why wouldn’t he explain what was causing his withdrawal from her?
‘It’s been a heavy week.’ Paul finished his meal and put his head into his hands. ‘There’s no escaping the fact that we’re going to have to make more cuts.’
‘But I thought you’d been through that.’
‘We have. But our turnover’s still down and we’ve got to cut our overheads even further if we want to stay in business.’
‘But you’ll be all right, won’t you?’ Perhaps that was what was worrying him.
‘Oh, I’ll be all right. But there are plenty of people who won’t and it won’t be easy for them to get another job in this climate. I had a young guy in the office this morning, crying, pleading with me to reassure him that he’ll keep his job and I couldn’t.’ He sounded so despairing, but Kate knew she had nothing to say that would help him. The chasm that was opening between them was already too wide for her to reach across.
The mood of the evening had changed.
‘I’m sorry, Katie. You’re right, I’m still knackered. Another early night and I’ll be fine. Coming?’
‘Actually I think I’ll stay down here and clear up. I’ve got a few things that I want to get done.’ She began to gather up the plates and glasses.
‘Well, OK. If you insist.’ He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Good night.’
Despite her earlier resolve, Kate recognised that tonight was not for romancing. The moment had gone. Pottering about in the kitchen, she relaxed in the heavy peace that descended on the house at this time of night, only ever interrupted by the odd passing car, distant police siren or the sharp, high-pitched bark of a fox. With everything put away, she made herself a cup of tea and switched on her laptop, clicking on her latest emails. At last there was one from Sam. She opened it with a happy sense of anti cipation and relief.
Hey Mum
How are you guys? Can only get online when one of the boys takes me into town. That’s why the long silence. Although I’ve only been in Ghana for a few weeks, I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to be properly homesick. Coming here has been one of the best things I have ever done. After a week of acclimatisation and getting to know one another and making sure we had all the supplies we’d need, the five of us were driven to this tiny village where we’re now all living (photos to follow – have lost the lead!). I’m talking mud huts in a compound – the real deal. The villagers took to us straight away and have made us feel almost at home. I suppose they would, given we’ve come to help them build and run the school. Kev, our team leader, is dead keen that we should be helping the villagers help themselves. Enabling them by teaching them the processes rather than doing all the work ourselves. I hadn’t thought of that before but, of course, when we eventually leave, the whole point is that the project should be able to continue running without us. We haven’t actually started building yet because we’re waiting for more wood to be brought in, but in the meantime I spend hours playing football with the kids – not much of a strain! – and have even been taken hunting with the men of the village. When I’m not doing that we’re trying to work out the beginnings of a sponsorship scheme so that kids from other villages will be able to come here too . . .
As she read on, Kate couldn’t help feeling envious. What Sam was describing was as remote and intriguing to her as the photographs she saw in the pages of National Geographic, which they kept in the practice waiting room. She and Paul had always talked about how one day they would travel together but somehow they’d never got further than Europe. Early in their marriage, Kate had been happy at the centre of her new family, pitying her friends who were missing out on the joys of family life but were able to holiday where and when they wanted. But perhaps it was she who had missed out. In the end all her friends had caught her up: careers were chosen and babies were born but without the sacrifice of those early years of freedom.
She pulled down a favourite old photo from a shelf in the corner. There were the three of them, Megan, Sam and Jack, sitting in a blue plastic paddling pool in the garden. How could she and Paul have produced three such contrasting children? Smiling out at her were nine-year-old Megan, fly-away brown curls, blue eyes under fine wide-apart brows, a tip-tilted nose and a gentle mouth; Sam, at seven, with blond curls, freckles, eyes already with that faraway look despite the broad smile at the photographer, which revealed a front tooth chipped when he had fallen out of a tree; and Jack, four years younger, with short darker hair, a determined chin and a slight frown. The photo gave away exactly the people they would become: Megan married to Ned and working in the drama department of the BBC in Bristol; Sam, out of easy contact, adventuring in Africa; Jack, confident, charismatic and too soon out of university to have found his way.
Suddenly there was an almighty crash from outside, followed by the sound of something being dragged along the street. She jumped to her feet and ran upstairs into the living room where she pulled aside the curtain. There, in the middle of the road, a mangy brown fox was tearing through the contents of their food recycling bin. So much for Paul’s care in sorting out the rubbish. The animal had dragged the bin out of their front garden, forced it open, strewn everything across the road and was now sniffing round, scoffing the best bits. A sharp bark heralded the arrival of a second, which slunk between two cars further up the street, then loped towards its mate, eyes gleaming under the street light. Kate shuddered. Sitting on the back of the sofa, she knocked hard on the window to drive them away. For a moment they stopped, looked up. One stared straight at her, defiant, before going back to its feast.
The curtains drawn and lights switched off, she went upstairs to tell Paul but he was flat out, sound asleep, one arm flung across the bed, gently snoring. With a small sigh, she got herself ready for bed and slipped in beside him.
Chapter 7
‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’ Oliver came through the kitchen door, looking relaxed in his blue cashmere sweater, his hands behind his back. ‘Close your eyes.’
Oh, God. A present. Ellen knew she should have bought him the picture.
‘Hold out your hands.’
Apprehensive, unused to being given anything un expected, apart from the children’s half-baked efforts from art classes, Ellen put out a hand. She felt something, a bag, being hung over her arm. Then two more. ‘But I haven’t got anything for you.’ The part of her that had hesitated over buying the picture said that presents were reciprocal, to be given on special occasions; otherwise they were an unnecessary indulgence. Not even Simon had surprised her with something as spontaneous as this.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She felt his hand lightly on the small of her back, aware that if he moved it a centimetre lower, it would be lying right on the roll of fat pushed up by the too-tight waistband of her skirt. He didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, to care. ‘Right. Now you can open them.’
She moved away from his hand, opening her eyes to see three bags hanging off her arm, a small one from La Perla and two large ones boasting names she had never heard of. She became uncomfortably aware of her greying, almost elastic-free Marks & Spencer underwear that had absorbed the colours from everything else in the wash over the last couple of years, of her once comfortable skirt that had seen better days, and her loose disguise-it-all cotton shirt from the same period. Out of the tissue paper came a confection (there was no other word for it) of copper-coloured lace. At least he hadn’t gone for a G-string, she saw