Busy Woman Seeks Wife (3 page)

“No.” Alex paused. “The thing is, when I was at the hospital…”

“Yes, of course. How is she? Is she out yet?”

“No, not yet. They had to reset her arm under anesthetic. It’s not a very nice break, and she’s going to take a while to recover
but she’s the same old Bean.” Alex paused. “She even told me off for not having any makeup on! Oh, Saff, I hate to sound uncaring
and I want to make sure she’s okay, but this is when being an only child is so difficult. I’ve never been so busy at work
and I just can’t get away. The point is, the doctors don’t think she should be at home on her own at the moment.”

“Oh.” Saffron didn’t need the issue spelled out. “Well, sweetheart, I can’t have her here—much as I love her. We’re off skiing
next week, don’t forget, though I suppose we could have her when we get back. I have to say, though, Max’s mother staying
for that week here last autumn nearly precipitated a divorce.”

“God no, I’m not asking that!” Alex laughed. “Though come to think of it, the Bean would love it. You are much more the sort
of person she’d have liked as a daughter. A proper girl. No, what I wondered—gosh, I have to rush—could you possibly put an
ad in the local paper for me? I think they publish on a Friday so we might just catch it. Nothing fancy, just a ‘help wanted.’
I’ll leave it to you—just tell them it’s starting immediately. And, Saff, could you put in both our numbers? Yours and mine,
in case I’m tied up? Lord knows what Mum will think—whoever gets the job had better be resilient. But what can she expect
if she goes climbing ladders when I tell her not to?” Alex blew Saff a kiss before cutting off the call and dashing off to
yet another meeting.

Saff poured the boiling water into the spotty teapot and took down the matching cup from the dresser. They were her favorite
set, made by a little potter they had discovered in Norfolk while staying with friends. She tutted, smiling to herself—there
was she, thrilled by a piece of china. Small pleasures compared to the corporate whirlwind that made up the framework of Alex’s
day. But then Alex had never been interested in frippery. She’d always been destined for big things and her marketing position
at Zencorp, one of the world’s biggest sportwear companies, fitted her ambitions as neatly as Lycra running shorts. Tall,
athletic, though unenviably flat-chested, Alex could be a man with the men, especially with her font of locker-room knowledge
on just about every sport.

Saffron took down the floral biscuit tin and fished out one of the bars she’d made yesterday. There were only a few left since
the family had swooped.

She’d seen the corporate woman in action at a promo event that Alex had invited them all to a couple of years ago—Saff, Max,
Oscar and Millie. In her company T-shirt, shorts, and ID tag, Alex had stridden about the stadium utterly at ease in her role
and frighteningly efficient. So what Saff was doing writing an ad for her when Alex prepared global advertising campaigns
all the time she wasn’t quite sure, but if it helped her oldest friend, then she’d have a go. She had nothing better to do
today. So, picking up a pen and paper from the side, padding back to the table with her steaming cup and savoring the sweet
oatiness of her biscuit, she began to jot down ideas.

“Busy Woman Seeks Wife.” Would that sound like she was looking for a lesbian lover? Though on second thought, that might solve
Alex’s problems! “Efficient and capable person needed to make a working woman’s life easier, including caring for a convalescing
relative.” That didn’t sound right. Saff drew a line through the last six words. That would attract some psycho who might
do something awful to the Bean. The one and only time Saff had considered a nanny, a woman like that had answered the ad.
She’d had a manic look in her eye and kept asking to see the children’s rooms. Saff had given her short shrift and had vowed
that she’d never leave the kids with anyone. No, Alex didn’t want one of those. Or a Mrs. Danvers type who’d be all starchy.
The Bean would hate that. What they needed was a bright young thing who could be stimulating
and
listen to the reminiscences of Alex’s mother—a fascinating pastime for anyone—while still managing to run the domestic side
of Alex’s chaotic life. The more Saff thought about it, the more she knew a wife would fit the bill. Max always said he couldn’t
function without her running his life—though Saff wasn’t that stupid. A kiss on the forehead and the flattery were just a
man’s way of saying “I won’t bother learning so long as you are there to do it for me.” She sometimes wondered what would
happen to the family if she disappeared into thin air. How long before they were eating pasta out of a tin and wearing the
same underpants until they could stand up on their own? Saff shivered. Right.

“Busy Woman Seeks Wife… to put her house in order.” She decided not to mention the bit about caring for the Bean and
see who turned up. “Are you capable and efficient?” Obviously. “Self-motivated?” They’d have to be because Alex would never
be there. “Are you able to combine the skills of gourmet chef, top PA and chambermaid?” Did that sound patronizing? “Please
apply etc. etc. Immediate start.”

Saff read it back, then called the help wanted section of the local paper.

M
mmmakes you feel f-f-f-fruity!!!”

Frankie waited rigidly in front of the microphone until the recording light went off, then sighed deeply. How many times was
that now? He’d lost count somewhere around twenty-eight. He was pretty sure that one thing a banana should not sound was desperate.
The voice of the director, ever so slightly impatient, came over his earphones.

“Still not quite there. Could you make it a bit—a bit more yellow? You know—a really ripe banana, but not one that’s started
to go brown yet? No brown patches at all. All right? Nice and firm but soft as well. You know. Not just out of the fridge.
Go again.”

Frankie nodded slowly, trying to take in the flow of information. What the hell was he doing here? “Fruitacious Yogurt. Take
thirty-seven” came the bored voice of the technician. Damn it! He was too good for this. But why couldn’t he even get a sodding
banana right? It was now or never. He called on his years of training.

Frankie closed his eyes tight and saw—nothing but yellow. He dredged yellowness up from the pit of his soul. Yellow. Ripe.
Not brown. Zingy. Soft, yet firm. Right. His eyes popped open and he focused, like a Zen archer, on the screen in front of
him showing an animated banana tap-dancing along a spoon into a yogurt container. I
am
the banana, he breathed, I
am
the banana.

“MMMMMakes you feeeel f-f-f-f-FRUUUIIIITY!!!!!” he intoned.

It had been his best take yet. A triumph. He knew it. And from all sides, out in the darkened studio, he felt the stunned
admiration of the crew.

“That’s it!” exclaimed the client over the earpiece. “That’s our banana. Fantastic. What’s his name again? Frankie? Thanks,
Frankie. Tremendous. I think, er…” There was a muffled conversation and then the director’s voice came over the earpiece.

“Yes, I’m very happy with that. Sweetie, thanks very much indeed. That was tremendous. You can leave anytime you like, as
far as I’m concerned. We’ll be in touch. We’ve got the raspberry next. What’s her name again? Can we have the raspberry?”

So that was it? A whole morning, only to be dismissed in favor of a raspberry? Frankie straightened up from the banana-like
curve he’d found himself adopting over the course of the past couple of hours and stood tall, holding the door for the terrified-looking
raspberry. “You were great,” she whispered. “You really took his direction well. We were all listening.”

“All? Really?” In spite of himself, Frankie felt a surge of pleasure as he looked past her at a collection of other actors,
a few of whom he recognized, sitting huddled around a speaker.

“Yes, Adrian—he’s the mango, Fliss, kiwi fruit, and Germaine—she’s the friendly bacteria.” The raspberry couldn’t disguise
the envy in her voice. “She’s worked with the director before, so…”

Frankie nodded his understanding. “Ahh. Right. Well, thanks. Break a leg.” He joined the others. Glancing around, relatively
relaxed now that his work was over, Frankie was relieved that he hadn’t gone for the tropical fruit look he’d briefly considered
that morning. You could take a thing too far.

He conversed briefly with them—a studiedly casual chat about who was doing what and where, who’d gotten telly, who was spending
the summer at Scarborough, who’d changed their agent. But when raspberry girl started, all pretense at disinterest ended and
they listened, avidly, as she delivered her lines again and again. There was no more conversation to be had now, so Frankie
mouthed his farewells, shouldered his way out through the double doors into the corridor, down the stairs and out into the
sunny springtime of Covent Garden, busy as ever with the usual mix of shoppers, gawkers and office workers trying to get a
quick sandwich.

He hopped off the tube at Brixton, a copy of
The Stage
, already scoured and marked up, tucked under his arm. There were a few castings but nothing really inspiring. He’d have to
steel himself to call Marina—again. But meanwhile, the market on Electric Avenue beckoned. Sprawling along both sides of the
road, the stalls had the best range of fruit and vegetables he’d found yet, and Frankie roamed happily along, comparing prices,
filling up his backpack with the ingredients for a menu he was inventing as he went. Roasted eggplants with some of that nice
fat garlic—no auditions tomorrow. Maybe some red pepper soup. Frankie hummed contentedly as he stopped into the corner shop
for washing-up liquid, a floor cloth, some rice crackers. Was that everything? He was almost out of cash, so it would have
to be.

Letting himself into the flat without dropping everything took some doing, particularly as the door was sticking again. Frankie
made a mental note to speak to the landlord again and shoved his way in. The sound of Radio 1, turned up that bit too loud,
made his heart sink. He’d been counting on a little time to himself before Ella got back.

“ ’S’at you, Frankie?” she trilled.

He shouldered open the sitting room door—pointless asking her to help with the bags—and got his usual view: Ella’s bare feet
crossed at the ankles, poised on the back of the sofa he’d bought with the proceeds from a couple of lines in
The Bill
. He took the bags into the white-painted kitchen hung with strings of dried chilies and ropes of garlic, and looked around
in disbelief. How had she managed to make so much mess in so little time? He’d left that work surface immaculate before he’d
left—now it was ringed with sticky brown coffee residue and slopped with hastily poured milk. With a sigh, he picked up a
dishcloth and started to wipe it up.

Ella bounded over and her little round face appeared through the serving hatch, her hair, as always, sticking up at odd angles,
unmatched earrings dangling from her tiny lobes. “So? How did it go? Were you top banana?”

She was always doing this. Just when he’d managed to convince himself she was the most selfish, unthinking little brute in
the universe, she’d suddenly show she actually had been listening all along. He put the cloth down. “Well, they did my bit
second, after the passion fruit. He was quite good actually, although I thought his accent was a little bit off. They only
did twenty takes for him. By the time I’d finished, all the others had arrived. Honestly, Ells, the director was—”

“Bet you’re glad you didn’t wear that awful surf shirt, aren’t you?” she interrupted. “Anyway, listen. Dougie phoned and asked
if you were going to be at soccer later and your secret agent rang.”

Frankie winced. “Oh, you didn’t say anything stupid this time did you? You know Marina has no sense of humor.”

“That’s what makes it so irresistible!” Ella put on the smoky drawl of Frankie’s theatrical agent. “Daarling, she’s got you
lightly penciled in for another voice-over next week.”

Frankie’s face fell. “I don’t know. I’ve had enough of that stuff. She hasn’t put me up for a decent part in ages. It’s so
limiting, working like that.”

“Not as limiting as having no money, though. Anyway, that’s enough about you. Let’s talk about me for a while. My interview,
for example. You haven’t even asked me about it yet.”

“Give me a chance! I’ve only just got in—and I’ve got all the shopping to put away.” Frankie turned from her, pretending to
busy himself in the fridge. He’d completely forgotten about Ella’s interview and racked his brains for details—nothing. Knowing
Ella and her constantly changing enthusiasms, it could have been for anything from neurosurgeon to jazz pianist—and her complete
lack of qualification for either would not have been any deterrent. “So, how did it go?” he called vaguely over his shoulder
from the chilly depths of the fridge.

Luckily, Ella’s usual verve saved him and she plunged into an account of her morning at a local radio station. So
that
was it. “The control desk was really complicated—far harder than the one at university. I’d have quite liked a go but they
wouldn’t let me. Anyway, everyone seemed
really
nice. I made the station manager laugh and they said they’d be in touch, so I expect I’ll be starting in the next couple
of weeks. Isn’t it brilliant? I’ll be making loads of money. And it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.
And
I’ll be able to help you with the bills at last.”