What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection. Fanny Blake
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‘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