Busy Woman Seeks Wife (12 page)

She’d snarled as she trawled the shop racks. Max had been even more off when, out of spite, she’d come back to the hotel with
a very flash (and satisfyingly expensive) pair, paid for with his credit card. “What on earth do you need them for?” he’d
shouted. “They won’t make you go any faster.” And she’d done her best to out-ski him just to serve him right. Of course, he’d
beaten her every time and headed off with Oscar to much more challenging pistes. Leaving her to look after Millie.

“Muuum,” Millie sobbed now as Saff dug a hole with the spade under the lilac tree at the end of the garden. Even Oscar had
joined them and, after a stern look from Saff, was trying to appear suitably serious. “I can’t help thinking,” she sniffed.
“I can’t help thinking how the sunlight used to shine though his ears…”

Better than your father, thought Saff, putting all her weight behind her foot on the shovel, who thinks the sun shines out
of his arse.

“Dear God, keep Widget safe in heaven. Amen.” And with that, Millie ran, howling, up to her bedroom.

After lunch Saff stuck her head around Max’s study door. “Right, the children are upstairs playing. I’m going to nip over
and see the Bean. Please don’t just carry on with your work and ignore them?”

Max was dialing a number on the phone. “Sure. See you later. Are you sure she’ll be there?”

“She’s incapacitated, isn’t she? I can’t imagine she can go anywhere.”

“Hi there. How are you?” Ignoring her, Max began speaking into the phone.

Saffron maneuvered through the traffic, listening to something classical on Radio 3, enjoying a moment’s peace, something
she hadn’t really had all week. She had no idea who the composer was but it helped ease the tension out of her shoulders,
which she’d hadn’t even been aware was there. She took her time, driving around the common three times before heading off
for Alex’s road. She was looking forward to seeing the Bean—it was always a tonic. At school she would always turn up late
for speech days and sports days (pissing off Alex, who naturally excelled at everything and picked up all the medals), but
her arrival would always cause a stir, especially in the early days when she was still something of an icon.

The Bean would always have a little sports car and dispense champagne and Pimm’s from the back of it in paper cups so the
teachers wouldn’t know the girls were drinking, and she’d throw her fragrant arms around all of Alex’s friends. Alex, on the
other hand, would cower away and Saff would often find her drinking tea with
her
parents in the back of their camper van—a vehicle Saff found acutely embarrassing in a car park full of Mercedeses and BMWs.
The two of them used to joke that they should do a parent swap. Alex’s father, the utterly charming and rakish Johnny, would
never grace such events—he was always off on some unspecified business trip—and the Bean, who so hated to be alone, would
arrive with an actor she was working with in tow. One year she turned up with a man so breathtakingly beautiful the girls
just stood and stared, while he sat impassive in leather jacket and jeans, hidden behind dark glasses.

The cherry trees on Alex’s road were in full burst of pink when Saff turned the corner, and she had a relaxed, almost benign
sensation when she pulled into a parking space and put the pay-and-display ticket on her dashboard. She was looking forward
to this. How odd to imagine the Bean ensconced in Alex’s minimal and unloved flat. Saff rang the doorbell and waited. It took
a while before she heard the intercom being picked up.

“Hello, yes?”

“Hellooo! Bean, it’s me.”

“Who, dear?” The voice sounded small and nervous.

“It’s me. Saff.”

There was a pause. “I’m quite busy, dear. Can you come another time?”

This didn’t sound right at all, and suddenly Saff was worried. The ridiculous thought crossed her mind that perhaps she had
a lover there. She might even be being held hostage. She looked about her, not quite sure what she was hoping to find, then
pressed the bell again. “Bean, can you let me in? I’ve come all this way and I only wanted to say hello.”

There was another long pause. “All right, dear, but just for a moment. I… I have to wash my hair.” Saff pushed open the
door at the click and made her way up the stairs to Alex’s flat door, which was opened gingerly by the Bean. Saff noticed
her hair looked immaculate, and her welcoming hug, though familiarly laced with Arpège, was not as enthusiastic as usual.

“Hello, Saffron, dear. Come on through. I’m just in here… as one would be, I suppose.” Saff was led through to the sitting
room as if she’d never been here before in her life. Around the sofa the Bean had set up some kind of camp with copies of
Vogue
, her nail polish and a large pile of papers that looked remarkably like one of Max’s scripts.

“Are you auditioning for something?” Saff peered down at the papers. “Is this some long-overdue comeback?”

“Good Lord, no.” Confusingly, the Bean picked up the papers and stuffed them under the cushion. “Can I get you something?”
she enquired, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching questioningly. There was an uncomfortable moment. Being asked to sit
down would be a start, thought Saff. Instead the Bean hovered.

“Er, well, tea would be nice, but where’s Ella? Can’t she get that?”

“Ella?” If anything the Bean’s eyebrows rose even farther until they were almost at her hairline. “Ella, yes. She’s busy.
She’s very busy. She’s out actually!”

“Right,” said Saff slowly, not quite sure what was going on here. She put her bag down on a chair. “You sit down and I’ll
put the kettle on.” Before the Bean could argue, she turned on her heel and walked into the small kitchen. It was tidier than
the last time she’d been here and it smelled of bleach. On the side was a bag of groceries, half unpacked, with oranges escaping
from it, and beside the kettle laid out on a tray were a teapot containing two tea bags, a bowl of sugar lumps and two china
cups. Was the Bean expecting someone else? Well, Saff could add another cup to the tray if that someone turned up.

Once the tea was made, she carried the tray back through and put it down on the table between them. Instead of reclining comfortably,
Alex’s mother was perched on the edge of the seat, a distracted look on her face.

“Are you all right?” Saff asked. “Is your arm playing up?”

“Fine, dear, just fine. Now, how was your glamorous holiday? Do tell.”

So, pouring the tea for them both, Saff began to relay the holiday story, playing up the ski pants issue with a drama she
knew the Bean would enjoy.

But instead of laughing, the Bean gulped down the scalding tea, muttered something about “gosh, poor you,” then stood up.
“Now, I have to go out shopping, so if you don’t mind…”

Saff put down her barely touched cup. She’d been going to wash her hair, hadn’t she? “Oh. Right. Fine. Only, it looks as though
Ella’s already done the shopping from the bag in the kitchen—”

At that moment, from behind the closed bedroom door, came an enormous sneeze. Saff froze. So did the Bean. Christ, she’d been
right about the lover! How embarrassing. But now what? Should she just disappear? She looked from the bedroom door back to
the Bean, but instead of embarrassment as she had expected, the woman’s eyes were full of glee.

“Oh, Saff, dear, I’m so sorry. Can you keep a secret?”

E
lla searched through the pile of papers yet again, as if willing the list to be there would somehow make it appear. In the
office next door she could hear the staccato rattle of Mike’s fingers on the computer keyboard. Her new boss typed in spurts,
furiously active for a couple of minutes, then pausing for thought or inspiration, or something. Ah, inspiration. If only
Ella could dredge up some of that!

She’d had the crucial sheet of paper only that morning, after typing it out laboriously on Frankie’s laptop at home the previous
evening. At the time, he’d done a comedy double take, as if the sight of her working were so incredible he had to look again
in case his eyes were deceiving him. She’d pushed her hair irritably out of her eyes and paused in her hunt-and-peck two-finger
attempt at word processing to stick her tongue out at him, then had continued doggedly.

“This looks serious,” he’d mocked. “Homework? Last time I saw you do anything this close to hard work must have been—well,
let’s see now—never?”

Ella had simply gritted her teeth and continued, determined not to let him get her riled. The old Ella would have jumped up
and started a cushion fight. The new Ella was too busy for such nonsense—although she was still sorely tempted. Frankie had
knocked off teasing almost straightaway and had come to peer over her shoulder. Predictably, though, his first comment was
a criticism.

“You need to give that a bit of a spell-check. See those wavy red lines? Right-click and choose the right spelling.”

Count to ten, Ella. “If I
knew
the right spelling, I’d have
put
the right spelling,” she’d said with icy disdain. “I’m a bit dyslexic, not stupid.”

That had shut him up. But Ella had looked anxiously at the screen. She didn’t want Mike or anyone else at the radio station
laughing at her ideas just because they weren’t spelled right. Frankie was still hovering.

“ ‘New hospital wing delay,’ ” he’d read. “ ‘Mobile phone mast. Brown-field development. Environmental survey.’ What’s all
this, Ells?”

“Oh nothing really,” she’d evaded. “Just some ideas for a program I thought of. A sort of investigation thing, you know.”

He obviously didn’t from the look on his face. He’d stared at her as if she’d grown another head.

“What?” She’d shaken her head irritably. “Get lost, you goofball. I’m trying to concentrate.”

He’d raised his eyebrows in that annoying, supercilious way of his. “Nothing, nothing. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?”

Ella had snorted and carried on typing. “That would make a nice change. I thought I had to make you tea for eternity to make
up for you having to put up with the old bag.”

“Er, yes. Well, just this once, eh? Since you’re obviously busy.”

She’d waved him away, lost again in the ideas she was gradually formulating. Yes, something on sweatshops as well. That would
be a challenge.

And now, here she was in the office, five minutes to go until the ideas meeting and no trace of her ideas. She couldn’t write
out another list, even if she could have remembered any of the subjects she’d come up with, because then everyone would see
her spelling. Oh God, when would she learn to be more organized? She had a PhD in excuses for homework not completed, and
now for once she’d worked hard and the bloody thing had disappeared.

The other two researchers walked confidently into the room, so Ella gave up the frantic search, leaning back against the table
with studied cool. Both of them seemed to have pages and pages of notes, tucked into efficient-looking notebooks. She grabbed
a clipboard from a pile on the filing cabinet in the corner and held it against her chest. Mike threw open the door to his
lair. His wild, badly cut hair and monobrow gave him a dark, lupine look. He was rangy too, his top button was never done
up and his shirt was always hanging out at the back. It had clearly never come into close contact with an iron. In the month
or so Ella had been there, she’d heard him chew out an average of four staff members each week. So far she’d avoided the worst
of his temper, but maybe today was her day. She took a seat by the window and pretended to check over her nonexistent list.
He started with Kerry.

Her ideas for drive-time games were dissected minutely, and most dismissed before her grilling was over. Ella could feel sweat
breaking out on the palms of her hands. Luke’s scheduling ideas were well presented, with printed-out copies not only for
Mike but for Ella and Kerry too. She tried not to glare at him as he returned smugly to his seat. Creep.

Mike read through the notes carefully before throwing them in the bin. “Sell me your ideas,” he barked. “I don’t want to read
about them. This is radio. I want to hear, I want to be persuaded. I want to be
seduced
.”

Gross thought, winced Ella. He must be at least thirty-five, though for an old man he did have a Clive Owen-ish appeal, and
his dismissal of Luke’s ideas did offer a chink of hope for Ella. Luke stammered his way through an utterly unseductive pitch
before trailing off as Mike shook his head. “I’m not feeling it” was all he said before turning to Ella. “Okay, new girl.
Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ella cleared her throat. “Well, I sent you a copy of my ideas by e-mail this morning,” she lied, casually tapping the empty
clipboard. “But it’s probably better if I talk you through them. I see an undercover investigation series into local issues
that are bothering everyone in the area. This is a local station, after all. People can listen to national radio for world
events. We need to bring people in and get some community spirit going. Really find out what people are thinking, what worries
them, what they want…” She plowed on and, miraculously, under pressure last night’s ideas started to flood back. She
hardly dared look up but she instinctively knew she had them. She had them in the palm of her hand. Frankie might be the actor
but she was the improv queen today. Kerry and Luke were both glaring at her—an excellent sign—while Mike nodded thoughtfully,
throwing the odd question her way and making notes.