Busy Woman Seeks Wife (14 page)

Camilla brought over the initial press release Alex had drafted for her to check. “I think her presentations are a bit over
the top, to be honest.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s all a bit too flashy, don’t you think? That thing with flares at the Victoria and Albert Museum, for example.
Peter said he’d heard she could be tricky. Bit of a prima donna. But if you’ve got the budget and you seem sure, so…”

“Camilla, we need the best here. Something monumental. There must be a good reason why she’s so expensive and she gets featured
in
Vogue
, and people keep asking her back.”

Alex thought about Camilla’s reticence during the frantic afternoon that followed. Camilla had always been so behind Alex
with campaigns in the past. Always there to encourage, and superefficient when given a task to do. By the time Alex escaped
the office she was beginning to question her own judgment. Perhaps, she thought as she squeezed onto the packed Tube platform,
she’d taken too big a risk with Donatella. She glanced at the people around her—many of them wearing sneakers and football
tops, sweats and baseball hats, many sporting the company’s brand. Did she need to spend so much to get the message out there?

“The competition are on to this already, aren’t they, Peter?” Gavin had said earlier this afternoon, turning to the oleaginous
creep beside him. “Peter tells me some of them have already got a similar urban crossover idea on the drawing board. Someone
must have said something out of school, but frankly the idea is not that original, Alex. This launch will have to blow them
out of the water.”

Thanks, Gavin. Defeated even before she opened the door of the flat, she couldn’t bear the idea of an evening with her mother
nagging. How much nicer it would be to spend it with Todd—though she wasn’t even sure she had the energy for his American
enthusiasms tonight. All she wanted was to strip off her clothes, have a long hot shower, wash her hair and flop in front
of something inane on the TV. Instead, she was more likely to have an evening of her mother making her sit through an old
film and regaling her with reminiscences about how the leading man had once been in love with her. Sometimes it was hard being
the daughter of an icon. She pushed open the door.

“Hellooo, darling,” the Bean called cheerily from the sitting room. “I’ve struggled manfully to put the kettle on.” She opened
the door and stood in the doorway, her white hair neat and clean. For once she was out of her lounging peignoir and in navy
cotton trousers and a white shirt. Her face, under the ever-present makeup, looked fresh. Alex was taken aback. “Or would
you rather a gin and tonic, my darling? Oh look at you.” She held out her good arm. “You look knackered in your ghastly sweatshirt.
I do wish you’d get a job marketing something glamorous.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Alex dumped her bag on the chair and brushed her hands through her hair. “I am pretty bushed as it happens
and a cup of tea would be fab. Strong please, none of your fragrant nonsense.”

Her mother tutted and went into the kitchen, chatting as she went. “Have you had a hassley day, sweetheart? I do wish you
could relax.”

Alex sat down to undo her laces. If she could dredge up the energy she’d go for a quick run before her shower. “Yup, pretty
much, and relaxing is definitely not an option until the launch is over. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, this and that,” her mother called over the noise of tea making. “I went out for a lovely walk in the park actually. It
was gorgeous in the spring sunshine. London is so charming at this time of year.” She brought in a china cup and saucer balanced
precariously in her good hand and handed it to Alex, who would have preferred a mug. Her mother, however, had always thought
them vulgar.

“Thanks. That must be why you look so good.”

The Bean went to look in the mirror over the fireplace and put her hand to her cheek. “Oh, do you think so, dear? It must
have been the sunshine. Do you know,” she turned around to Alex, “we saw a heron scoop up a fish out of the pond—just like
that!”

“We?”

“We? Did I say we? Well, of course I meant all the other people by the pond. And that Ella girl, of course. Anyway, what shall
we eat? I’ve bought some lovely monkfish and some of that delicious Parma ham from that delightful deli. Antonio is becoming
quite a friend—”

“God, Mum, it’s so expensive there!” Alex spluttered her tea. “We can’t afford to eat like this all the time!” She sighed.
“We’ve been through this so many times before.”

Her mother brushed away her concerns with her hand. “Oh, you do fuss so. It will be delicious, we deserve a treat, and you
can’t expect me to eat that rubbish you call food. Now, you go and freshen up and I’ll put the lasagna er… Ella’s left
in the oven. Oh! I can’t wait to get this bloody cast off.”

Alex stood up wearily. “Crikey, Mum.” She stretched. “This Ella seems to have had a miraculous effect on you. You are almost
bearable to live with! You’ll be jogging next!”

“Pah!” her mother snorted. “At my age?”

“Ever so good for your heart, you know. Exercise is also good for your skin, and your bones.” Alex bent down and picked up
her sneakers. “Talking of which, I might go for a quick run before supper, if you don’t mind?”

The Bean had a look of disgust on her face. “Perfectly masochistic, if you ask me. I’ve always had the figure of a seventeen-year-old,
so what do I need with this power walking nonsense? And that awful stuff you wear! Can you imagine most people of my age in
one of those ghastly crop tops and the leggings? It would be like stuffing a bag of frozen peas into a balloon.” And with
that she flounced into the kitchen.

A swift twenty minutes around the block later and Alex was at last under a hot shower, letting the shampoo run down her back.
She rubbed the soap over her stomach and thighs, a body so unlike her mother’s, who had always embarrassed her enormously
by introducing her to people as “Amazonian, like her father.” The Bean had always been thin, hence the name, but that didn’t
mean she didn’t need to do some gentle exercise. Even so, in just a few days she’d begun to look better—Ella had obviously
heeded her note about getting out. As Alex rinsed her hair she thought about what her mother had said. She was right. Exercise
gear really was aimed at the young, with the gray market turning up at the gym in baggy T-shirts and baggier tracksuit bottoms.
A germ of an idea began to form in her head.

Toweled dry and feeling quite relaxed now, she padded into her mother’s room to get a fresh bath mat from the airing cupboard.
She looked around at her mother’s things strewn everywhere—clothes on the chair and hanging over the cupboard doors, flat
pumps in every color tucked under the dressing table, which was piled high with bottles and scarves, and beside them a little
pile of shells and grains of sand. Odd. Where had they come from?

M
ore tea?” Frankie called through the open doors to where the Bean stood clad in a vest top and jeans, cautiously prodding
her newly freed arm. Without the cast, sliced off a few days earlier, it looked terrible. Pale, slack, spindly. He looked
away quickly. But not quickly enough. She snatched up her habitual silk peignoir, wincing as her arm extended beyond its usual
restricted movement.

“For God’s sake,” she snapped. “Can’t I even have a moment’s privacy? Why do you do that all the time? Creep up on people?
It’s incredibly annoying.”

Frankie backed out and returned to the kitchen—fast. What did she mean? Creep up? He didn’t creep up! He’d never crept anywhere
in his life. He put the tray down firmly onto the kitchen counter. It wasn’t the first time the Bean had scolded him. In fact,
she was always on at him, picking on his posture, his diction, even the way his hair was always a mess. But it was usually
in an affectionate, patronizing, almost motherly tone that served mainly to remind him that he was merely Frankie, whereas
she was, and always would be, the iconic Bean. She’d never sounded this cranky before. This arm business must be getting to
her.

She was always hard to shift unless some entertainment was the incentive, but Frankie had noticed how much more reluctant
she had been to go out lately. It was as if she was more nervous with her arm exposed than she had been with it rigidly bent
and slinged. She had an appointment to see the physical therapist soon, yet she wasn’t even attempting to get it moving, as
the young orthopedic resident had advised. Frankie frowned. He had never seen the Bean at a disadvantage before. No wonder
he hadn’t recognized the signs. Slowly, he emptied the cup of cooling tea, then went to the door.

“Bean!” he called gently along the corridor. “Just give me the word and I’ll bring you a fresh pot.”

Her door opened slowly. She had done her makeup and slipped a jacket on but her arm was still bent and held defensively at
her side as she walked cautiously towards him. “Oh, you don’t need to do that, you silly boy! I’m here now.”

Frankie concealed a wry smile. Not a word of apology, of course. He cleared his throat. “I thought it might be fun to go out
today, just for a bit.”

She turned to him, alarmed. “Oh, darling, look at the weather.” She gesticulated at the pale blue sky. “I’m sure it’s going
to rain later. Anyway, I must catch
Countdown
today. That new chap is really very good. And there’s racing from Chepstow.”

He was going to have to be cleverer if he was going to get her moving about. “Well, there’s a new exhibition at Tate Modern.
We could drive up, just have a little walk around, grab a bite to eat, you know. Pay homage at the Globe while we’re at it.”

She sat down at the kitchen table. “Ah, dear Sam Wanamaker! What drive! What vision! Of course, it’s not really on the site
of the original Globe, but it doesn’t matter. I was at the opening, did I tell you about it?”

He poured her tea and set her toast in front of her, a little out of reach so she had to stretch for it. She barely noticed.
“Tell you what!” he continued. “Why don’t you show me round it later? I’m almost ashamed to admit, I’ve never even been there.”
He crossed his fingers behind his back. “I’d love to go.”

Putty in his hands! As long as he got her home in time for
Countdown
, she promised gleefully she’d give him a private tour. He smiled to himself as he tidied her breakfast things away into the
dishwasher, then picked up Alex’s note to read her list of suggestions for the day. He was rather enjoying now trying to guess
what she wanted before she even asked for it—and she had clearly noticed. The tone of her note was warmer than ever.

Hey Ella—thanks for turning my washing round so fast. Those trousers are my absolute faves—no VPL, so no need for the dreaded
thong! Could you possibly change my sheets today? Todd’s in town. And can you get Mum to at least try to move her arm? She’s
very stroppy with me if I dare to say anything. Any chance of you making some more of that yummy fruit loaf?

Ta—as ever. Cheque on the side.

Alex

Todd? Who the hell was Todd? This was the first he’d heard of any Todd! What a ridiculous name. And the more he said it, the
more ridiculous it became. He sounded like a cartoon character, lantern-jawed and bulging-biceped. He probably communicated
in grunts. How was it that attractive, clever women always fell for complete idiots, especially ones with stupid names? He’d
have thought Alex had better taste than that? “Yuck!” He shook his head decisively and glanced at his watch. He could change
the sheets before they went out. Ah—sod it. They could wait until later.

At Tate Modern, a couple of hours later, the Bean was typically and loudly scathing about the latest installation in the Turbine
Hall, but Frankie wasn’t really in the mood for a bitching session, and only nodded vaguely at her more outrageous comments.
As long as it kept her moving and entertained and, more important, away from her usual post in front of the television, he
didn’t really care.

“Just look at it, darling!” she groaned, gesticulating at the piles of carefully arranged
objets trouvés
through which they had to wind. “Thrown together! It looks like like Brick Lane on a bad day. It would take a greater talent
than this Gottfried character to make sense of a space like this. Mind you, it would be fantastic to stage something like
Beckett here, don’t you think? Or to do a production of
The Dream
like that fabulous Peter Brooke one. No one’s ever bettered that, in my opinion.
You
should do some Shakespeare, sweetie, before it’s too late. You’re still young enough for Hamlet, but you’re no Romeo anymore.”

Frankie felt suddenly dispirited. How miserable to have missed the boat on a great role before he’d really started. The Bean
made it sound as if it were all up to him to simply decide. As if he could choose between productions and make a considered
decision among a cascade of offers to steer his brilliant career in the direction he wanted it to go. She just didn’t get
it. His brilliant career was currently so far up shit creek that it had now entered previously unexplored territory. It had
been over six weeks now since he’d last heard from his agent, and only then because she wanted the mobile number for a girl
he knew from drama school. And it didn’t really help that his mates were ribbing him constantly about being a housewife. He
sighed deeply. The Bean was on to him straightaway.