What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection. Fanny Blake
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kitchen. ‘OK, I give in. Em and I can always do something else or watch TV in my bedroom, I suppose. Just this once,’ she added, to stamp on any impression that this might be a precedent for things to come.
‘Yes!’ yelled Matt, his fist punching the air. ‘I’ll go and tell Em.’ He shot upstairs before Ellen could stop him.
‘Oh, God,’ she groaned. ‘Wait for the fireworks.’
Oliver slipped an arm around her waist.
‘They’ll be down in a moment,’ she said. ‘You really shouldn’t have come, you know.’
‘It’s OK.’ He looked at her, before just brushing her lips with his.
She was glad he realised how inappropriate it would be to do more.
‘I’m going to make sure it all works out. Trust me. Let me get on with the cooking while you help them unpack.’
Lugging the cases up the stairs, she could hear raised voices from Emma’s room. Unable to make out exactly what was being said, she decided to leave them to it, dumping the cases on the landing before she retreated to the safety of her own room. Sinking onto the bed, she fell backwards into its embrace. She automatically turned her head towards her bedside table. For the last ten years she had gone to sleep and woken up beside Simon. He had remained a constant in her life even though he hadn’t been here to share things. Somehow she’d always drawn support from seeing him there, as if he was guiding her. Before she had a chance to think further, there was a shout, a slammed door and the sound of Matt laughing.
‘Well, we are and you can’t stop us,’ he shouted, above the noise of his footsteps clumping down the stairs.
With a sigh, Ellen got to her feet. Peeling off her jeans, she once again cursed the weight she’d put on during her week away as she squeezed herself into a green stripy skirt that Oliver liked, leaving the top inch of her zip undone and crossing her fingers that it would stay put, then rummaged for her long cream top in the cupboard. Slipping her feet into her most comfortable flip-flops, running her fingers through her hair, she emerged for the fray. As she passed Emma’s room, she noticed the door was ajar.
‘Mum!’
Unable to gauge the tone, imperious or upset, she pushed the door open, careful not to bring down the red-and-yellow sari fabric threaded with gold that was draped over the entrance. Inside, Emma had thrown herself face down on the gaudy Indian bedspread embroidered with tiny mirrors that twinkled in the light. In her left hand lay Lolly, a once yellow now grubby and almost threadbare pig that had gone everywhere with her until about five years ago when he had been relegated to pride of place on the mantel-piece. Ellen watched her daughter’s thumb working back and forth over the scrap of ribbon round Lolly’s neck, just as she had when she was a toddler needing comfort. She tiptoed in, taking a detour round the colourful spiky star lampshade, which was at exactly the right height to poke her in the eye, and sat on the bed.
‘Em. What’s up?’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Her daughter twisted round to face her, propping herself up on an elbow. She’d obviously been crying.
‘Oliver?’
‘Who else?’
Ellen was alarmed by how angry she looked. ‘He’s just a friend making us supper. That’s all.’
‘I don’t want him here.’
‘Why ever not? Nothing’s changed, you know.’
‘It has.’ Emma threw herself on to her side and curled into a ball.
Ellen sighed and reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair back from her face. Neither of them spoke. But deep down, Ellen knew that Emma was right. Something had changed in both of them this summer. They had taken an irreversible step in a new direction, she towards a new life with Oliver, and Emma towards adulthood.
‘Listen, Em. Sit up and talk to me.’ Ellen tried to engineer her into a position where she could at least see her face. But she wouldn’t co-operate.
‘I am talking to you.’
‘I mean properly. I want to try to get you to understand.’
‘I understand completely.’ Emma turned herself over and pushed herself towards the bed head so that she could sit up against the pillows. ‘The moment we go away you get some man who you think will take Dad’s place before you’re too old to find one.’
Wounded by the venom in her daughter’s voice, but infuri ated by what she had said, Ellen had to muster every ounce of self-control. ‘Em, you know that’s not true.’ She edged herself up the bed until she was sitting beside her daughter. ‘How could you say that? This wasn’t something I meant to happen . . .’
‘Then why did you let it?’
‘I know it’s hard for you to understand but as you and Matt grow up, get your own friends and start to go out more, I sometimes feel lonely.’
‘What about Kate and Bea?’
‘Of course they’re my friends but they have their own lives too. Their friendship means everything to me but it isn’t the same as this.’
‘You mean sex.’ Her tear-stained face twisted in disgust and she stiffened.
Ellen hadn’t wanted to have this discussion, but having come this far, she had to show Emma respect by finishing it. ‘Well, partly, yes. But it’s also having someone I can trust, having a friend at home to share things with when you’re out more and more.’
‘Mum, you don’t even know the man. You can’t do.’ Her voice sounded like a little girl’s. Then she sniffed hard.
‘Come here, Em.’ As Ellen put her arm round her child, she felt her give a little. They sat together for a few minutes in silence again, leaning into one another just as they had always done. ‘Why don’t I go downstairs and make us some hot chocolate? Then I’ll come back and we can talk about it together.’
‘Well, OK.’ Emma’s tone was grudging but Ellen could tell she’d begun to soften. Not that that meant she would necessarily change her point of view.
Just at that moment she heard footsteps in the hall.
‘Supper’s ready,’ Oliver shouted up the stairs.
‘I don’t want any,’ Emma muttered, her thumb working away at Lolly’s ribbon.
‘Come on, Em. I know it’s hard but do come down.’ She sat there for a moment longer, then stood up. ‘For me?’
Emma put Lolly on the pillow and looked up at her mother. Ellen couldn’t read her expression, but decided to make one more appeal. ‘Please.’
‘OK, OK.’ She stood up. ‘If Freya did it for her mother, I’ll have to try. But don’t expect me to like him.’
Ellen remembered gloomily that Freya was one of Emma’s schoolfriends whose mother had moved in a new lover before the ink was dry on the divorce papers. It had been the talk of the school for months. ‘It’s hardly the same thing. Freya’s dad had only just moved out. And Oliver certainly isn’t moving in.’ She hoped she’d be forgiven for the lie.
‘Isn’t he? I’m not a fool, Mum. It looks pretty much like the same thing to me.’
They went downstairs together. Supper was not a happy affair. Oliver passed Ellen a noticeably smaller helping of pasta than anyone else and piled the rest of her plate high with leaves. She knew he was only doing it for her own good, having learned she had the will-power of a slug, but she wished he could have been a little less obvious about it. The conversation, such as it was, revolved around Matt and Oliver’s assessment of various football players and teams, something in which she and Emma had absolutely no interest. Emma sat in silence, playing with her food, picking out the bits of ham and piling them on the side of her plate before announcing that she had become vegetarian. The minute they