What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection. Fanny Blake
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she ordered another glass of wine, choosing to ignore Mark’s raised eyebrow. They trailed across all the obvious topics, never stopping on one long enough to become too confidential – where they came from (she from London and him from Northumbria); where they lived now (Islington and Clapham); their marital status (both awaiting divorce); children (one to her – Ben, now sixteen; two to him – Bella, thirteen and Stevie, fifteen); where they were going on holiday (hadn’t decided because always left it to the last minute; golf and fishing on the Spey with two friends), favourite books (anything by Anne Tyler; Fever Pitch) and films (When Harry Met Sally – sad but true; anything starring Jackie Chan – even sadder).
The only time Mark became really animated was when he talked about his job as an investment banker. But he did so in such detail, bringing in all his colleagues and the negotiations they’d recently completed, that she soon lost the thread and began to think about the drive she was going to have to make the next morning to see her mother in Kent. What time should she leave to avoid the worst of the traffic out of London? Everybody leaped into their cars the moment the sun came out and drove towards the coast like lemmings. And she was going to join them. Was it all right to leave Ben on his own since he had refused point blank to go with her? Or did that mean she was an irresponsible mother?
Then she drifted on to her own work as publishing director of Coldharbour Press, an imprint of the giant publishing conglomeration Rockfast. Perhaps she should tell Mark more about that, but it would be hard to match his work-related animation. She’d lost her hunger for the business a couple of years ago – although she was anxious to get back to the office after this was over. Something was obviously happening: too many shut doors with senior execs in secret conferences. Someone had started the rumour that an announcement was going to be made this afternoon. That would be typical. Get the announcement off management’s chests so they could have a conscience-free weekend while all the workforce would spend theirs worrying about their future with the company.
‘Shall we?’ His voice suddenly interrupted her train of thought. Oh, God, what on earth had he just said? To ask would only show she hadn’t been listening at all.
‘Er, yes,’ she agreed uncertainly.
‘That’s wonderful. I’ll be in touch then.’ He reached across the table and took her hand, oblivious to the alarm that was registering on her face. What on earth had she agreed to? ‘I’m so glad we’ve met. To be honest, I was worried that you might be a proper ball-breaker but I’ve really enjoyed myself.’
‘Gee, thanks. I do my best.’ How condescending she sounded. ‘No, seriously. I’ve enjoyed meeting you too. Would you mind if I skipped coffee?’ Once she’d got out of here, she need never see him again – whatever it was she’d agreed to.
‘Not at all. I have to get back too. I’ll just be one moment.’ He extricated himself from behind the table and, after pulling a black bag from under his seat, headed for the Gents. At least they didn’t have the awkwardness of establishing who was going to foot the bill. Let’s Have Lunch settled up for them. So they damn well should, given the little they had to do for their money, mused Bea. Perhaps Mark wasn’t so awful, really. She must try to be less demanding. He wasn’t bad-looking, just a bit humourless. She imagined he might be quite a considerate lover, if not very inventive. She was a fine one to talk. What would she bring to that particular party? She was much more out of practice than she cared to remember.
‘Are you ready?’ At the sound of Mark’s voice she looked up to find herself eyeballing a Lycra-covered crotch that revealed much more than she wanted to know about any man outside the privacy of the bedroom.
‘I should have warned you,’ said Mark, looking understandably sheepish. ‘I must apologise for what isn’t the most attractive look. But cycling is much the easiest way to get around London.’
‘Mmm. Breathing in those traffic fumes must be so good for you.’ Her mother’s words rushed into her head: ‘Sarcasm is not the finest form of wit, especially from you, Bea.’
Bea assumed his trousers had been in the bicycle pannier bag that had been hidden under his seat throughout lunch. His shirt must be in there now having been replaced by an old white T-shirt that had long ago lost its shape. On its front was a washed-out photograph. Bea peered more closely. Yes, below the words ‘The World’s Best Dad’ was the near invisible image of Mark with his arms round two indistinct young children. Bea swallowed. ‘Yours?’ she asked unnecessarily.
But Mark didn’t hear her. He was already striding out into the street where she could see what must be his bicycle, chained to a lamppost. By the time she had caught up with him, he was ready to go. Bea yanked her eyes from his pale over-muscled and extremely hairy calves to his face, now crowned by a royal blue crash helmet – never the ideal fashion accessory. Mark removed the impenetrably black goggles over his eyes and leaned forward to kiss her cheek, catching the side of her head with the helmet. ‘So sorry, Bea. Stupid not to wear it, though.’
‘Yes, yes, it would be. Of course it would.’ For once in her life Bea was lost for words, torn between hysterical laughter and tears. How could the agency have made such a mismatched pairing? You couldn’t have invented it. But wait. Perhaps she should consider, just for a moment, the impression she had given the agency. Perhaps she actually looked like someone who would find this sort of person attractive. Impossible. Much more likely was the dearth of right-aged men on the market. There can’t be many who specified they wanted to meet a woman when the shine had rubbed off a bit. Most of them found themselves a younger model within weeks of ending a relationship – or before. She knew that from bitter experience. What was it they said? When a relationship comes to an end, the man finds another woman while the woman finds herself. She wasn’t in a position to be picky.
‘So, do you have a card? Then I can email you with a when and where.’ Suddenly he looked so vulnerable, the hope in his face contrasting with the faded vision of youthful certainty on his chest. She knew then that she couldn’t disappoint him. What had she got to lose anyway? Whatever she had agreed to do, it couldn’t be that bad. She delved into her bag, scratching her hand on a thorn of the rose, whose existence she’d forgotten, and failed to find her cards in the jumble at the bottom.
‘I’ll have to scribble my details on this.’ She knew she was probably committing herself to more than she wanted. But what the hell? He took the slip of paper then, to her surprise, offered his hand and gave her a vigorous handshake and replaced the goggles. Bea prayed that no one from the office had seen them together. In some disbelief she watched the back of what, if Let’s Have Lunch had their way, might be her future cycling off towards the City, then turned to look for a cab back to the fray.
Chapter 2
As Bea tapped in her security code, the plate-glass doors to the editorial and publicity floor clicked open. She walked past the reception desk, where the young temp manning it while Jean was on holiday was busy multi-tasking – nails, book and interrupting her too-loud conversation with her boyfriend to connect outside calls. Impressive as a feat of juggling, maybe, but not exactly what one looked for in a receptionist. Bea made a mental note to mention it to HR. The shelves in the reception area were crowded with Coldharbour’s latest books, primed for the bestseller list. In our dreams, she reflected wryly.
All the team knew that whatever the promises made to earnest young novelists or ego-bound celebrities, the reality was that only a few would really get the marketing push they’d been promised and only one or two might, just might, make it to the holy grail of the bestseller list. All the team knew the chances of making it were remote. The ratio of disappointment to expectation in her job was much higher than when she’d been an eager young editor twenty years ago. Back then she could take a punt on an unknown writer and expect to be supported. Calculations were done on the back of envelopes and editors shaped the profile of the publishing list, rather than accountants and salesmen. Was it any wonder that she had her increasing moments of disenchantment?
Only a few steps towards her office and Bea could sense the tension in the air. Something had happened since she’d left for lunch. Unusually, all four assistants in the open-plan area were at their desks, half hidden by piles of manuscripts, boxes