What Women Want. Fanny Blake
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what sometimes happened to her patients was not going to happen to her.
Paul was still reading what looked like a company report when she came out of the shower. As she climbed into bed, he put it down and turned to her.
‘I’m sorry, Katie. Put it down to exhaustion. I’ll be OK tomorrow.’ He stretched out his arm and she curled into him, inhaling his familiar scent.
‘Forget it. Probably my fault.’ She ran her hand across his chest and down towards his stomach as she raised herself to kiss him. Sex was the one thing that had always brought them back together after the slightest disagreement. But she sensed him tense and he pulled back from her.
‘Not tonight,’ he murmured, turning his head and gently pushing her away. ‘I’ve got an early start. Sorry.’ He rolled onto his side and reached out to switch off his light.
Within minutes, his breathing had deepened and slowed until he was sound asleep. Kate propped herself against the pillows, unable to concentrate on her book, unable to switch off her thoughts. She looked at Paul, timing her breathing with his. This was the third time he’d pushed her away in as many weeks, each time citing tiredness or stress as his excuse. She couldn’t remember a time in their life together when this had happened, not even in those short-lived dark days when they had only wanted to hurt each other. Something between them had changed recently, but what? However often she had heard patients talk about lack of affection or intimacy in their marriages, however often she had listed the possible causes and counselled patience and understanding, she found it almost impossible to apply the theories to her own marriage and follow her own advice. There were any number of possible reasons for Paul’s behaviour, and his rejection not only made her question her own worth but, much, much worse than that, it hurt. It hurt deeply. She inched down under the duvet, switched off her own light and turned to lie with her back to Paul’s, waiting for sleep to claim her.
Chapter 4
‘’Bye, darling. I’ll be here when you get back. I’ll rustle up something for supper so you needn’t worry.’ Oliver put both hands on her shoulders and kissed Ellen’s forehead.
‘That would be lovely.’ She leaned into him, relishing his warmth, his solidity, the reassurance she felt when close to him. The long-forgotten feeling of being loved was pushing against the barrier of self-sufficiency and self-control that had protected her for so many years. She remembered Emma, when she was still a little girl, insisting that Sleeping Beauty was read to her every night. So, every night Ellen had picked up the illustrated Grimms’ Fairy Tales with a sigh, turned to the same page and begun reading aloud as her daughter snuggled up to her and drifted off to sleep. For the first time Ellen could almost empathise with Briar Rose, the sleeping princess who was woken with a kiss.
‘I love you,’ he murmured, as he raised his right hand to the back of her head and, somewhat to her amazement, stroked her wiry grey hair as if she was a woman twenty years younger. ‘Come home soon.’ He kissed her again, this time lingering on her lips. That’s more like it, she thought.
She pulled away, knowing that if she didn’t the temptation to go back inside and shut the door on the world for the rest of the weekend would be irresistible. ‘I’ve got to go. The gallery won’t open without me and Saturday’s my busiest day.’
‘I know. I’ll be thinking of you as I have another cup of tea, do a bit of weeding for you, read the paper.’
‘That’s right. Rub it in.’ Ellen laughed. As she turned down the front steps, she noticed her next-door neighbour staring at her curiously. ‘Morning, Mary. Isn’t it a lovely day?’
‘For some obviously more so than for others,’ growled Mary, as she hurled a bulging black bag into a bin and slammed down the lid before scuttling off down the street. Mary’s cage was easily rattled but today Ellen wasn’t in the mood to find out why. As her neighbour rounded the corner, Ellen walked down the steps and out of the gate, turning to wave, but Oliver was already inside. She imagined him walking along the corridor, straightening the pictures so they all hung exactly level. Already she knew that he liked things to be just so. Perhaps he would take himself down to the basement, tidy up their breakfast things before he went out to the patio with the paper. If only she could shut the gallery on Saturday mornings and be with him.
Their affair had been so sudden and unexpected. Only four weeks earlier, Ellen had been sitting behind her desk in the front room of the gallery, sorting through the accounts. The light had slanted through the small window behind her, reminding her that yet another summer was going by without her having bought the right blind. The back of her neck felt hot to the touch. Her headache was getting worse. She rustled in the desk drawer for the packet of ibuprofen she kept there. She stood up to get a glass of water from the small kitchenette behind her and felt a familiar prick of pleasure at the pictures that hung around the white walls.
This was the place where Ellen felt most comfortable. The hours she had spent alone here had been hours in which she had time for herself and for the quiet grieving and reflection that she needed to do after Simon’s death. Somehow the atmosphere of the gallery gave her an inner calm that she could never find at home with the children. Since her uncle Sidney had willed it to her three years earlier, she had worked hard at building up the business, extending the premises through into the large back room, knocking out one of the cupboards and the dividing wall behind it so a short passage led from the front to the back. Her uncle had taken her on at a moment in her life when she was directionless, kept going only by the need to support her kids. He had the mistaken belief that her art-college training would be qualification enough, but working there with him had taught her everything she needed to know. She had taken on the legacy and turned it into an increasingly vibrant business for him.
At the sound of the bell, she glanced up as the glass door opened and a customer came in. Him again! The same man had been at the latest exhibition opening, had been in twice during the previous week and once already this. Idle speculation had inevitably become Ellen’s way of passing the day as people wandered in and out of the gallery. The lean, angular planes of this man’s face and his dapper pin-stripe suit said ‘City’ although his unkempt, boyish, almost black hair suggested something more relaxed, perhaps in the media. He exuded a youthful self-confidence appropriate for someone in what she guessed must be his late thirties. When he’d put his hand on her desk yesterday, as he asked her a question, she had surprised herself slightly by glancing up to notice a pair of cornflower blue eyes edged with long dark lashes – eyes a girl would kill for. For a moment, he held her gaze, then turned to leave.
As she had expected, he walked past her desk, smiling as he wished her good morning. She returned the greeting. He went into the back room where, on the small black-and-white security monitor, she could see him standing in front of the same picture as he had before. Over the last couple of weeks, she had often stood there herself, transported by the richness and power of the colours. Rough semi-circles of neon pink, mustard yellow, Lenten purple and brilliant carmine were juxtaposed with others in shades of apple green, red and aquamarine, all roughly outlined and set against a background of cerulean blue edged by a darker, more mysterious night sky: Starship by Caroline Fowler. Caroline was one of the newer artists that Ellen had brought to the gallery, impressed by her use of colour and the bold statements made by her canvases. She had a strong following already and this, her second exhibition with Ellen, had cemented her success. Unusually, the man didn’t stand in front of the painting for long. As he walked through to the front of the gallery, Ellen hoped she might at last have a sale on her hands.
‘I love that painting, Starship,’ he said. ‘Every time I come in here, I’m drawn to it. I’d like to buy it but I don’t have anywhere to hang it at the moment.’
‘I could keep it here for you for a while, if you’d like.’ She opened the drawer where she kept her red stickers and receipt pads.
‘No. I don’t think that would work. It might not suit whatever place I buy.’
‘Are you moving to London?’ Ellen’s curiosity got the better of her.
That was how their conversation had begun. Within five minutes of