Busy Woman Seeks Wife (7 page)

“Mmm.”

Alex ignored the circumspect tone in Saff’s voice. “Come on, Saff, I interview people all the time. I ought to know. I’ve
been on enough boring courses about it.”

“Maybe. What’s she called, anyway?”

“Her name’s Ella. Sweet, isn’t it?”

S
ki pants, gloves, sunblock, earmuffs for Millie—Saff ticked off the list as she put everyone’s ski gear in the bag, and eased
herself carefully off her knees. She had pins and needles in her feet now, but at least she had most things packed, except
the last-minute bits of course. They would have to go in at dawn tomorrow. The house was quiet after the morning’s excitement,
the children in a spin at the prospect of leaving for Courchevel first thing tomorrow, and all she could hear was the hum
of the dishwasher and the rustle of Millie’s hamster in its cage in the corner of the kitchen.

“For goodness’ sake, Oscar, calm down!” she’d shrieked at her son as she tried to maneuver around a trash truck on the way
to school, traffic hurtling towards her. “You’ll burst if you keep this up all day and there’s all the end-of-term business
to get through too.” It was pointless. The dark-haired eleven-year-old had ignored her and, relentlessly hyper, had continued
poking his sister throughout the morning rush until they had pulled up outside the school. “Leave Millie alone,” she’d said
through gritted teeth, getting their bags from the boot. “Now.” She’d turned down the collar of his shirt. “Don’t forget to
bring back anything that needs washing. Millie, here’s your ballet stuff, and Oscar. Oscar, hang on. Here’s some homemade
Easter biscuits for Mrs. Jackson… careful. I’ll see you both later and…” She watched as they both ran off through
the gates. “And have a good day,” she said quietly to herself, realizing she hadn’t had a chance to kiss them goodbye.

As she fished the passports out of the drawer in Max’s study, she thought about how she hated that. Kissing them goodbye was
like punctuating the end of a sentence, and not doing so made it all feel unfinished. Of course, they weren’t bothered, so
why should she be? She glanced briefly at the papers on Max’s desk. There was another hefty script, a TV drama it looked like,
with
Grass Roots
on the title page and the name of the writer, Greta Dunant—a name Saff recognized from somewhere. It must be good if it had
been given to Max to read—only the scripts likely to be made reached him. In the past he’d show them to her for her opinion,
but since every evening was now taken up with homework, music practice and some activity or other, there was no time. She
closed the door behind her. Shame really. She’d quite enjoyed being involved.

Twenty minutes later she had lugged all the plants up into the bath to sit on wet newspaper. She buried her nose in the sweet
fragrance of the tête à tête daffodils that had just unfurled, sad she would miss them at their best when they were away.
Max had insisted they go skiing in March, which fitted in better with work. The beginning of the year saw the launch of new
shows and schedules, and April was the international TV sales conference in France. As she arranged the colorful pots of spring
bulbs, though, she knew she’d rather have gone in January before the snowdrops had even managed to push through, so she didn’t
have to miss this feast of spring.

“Het? It’s Saffron.” Saff pulled the washing out of the machine as she talked to her neighbor, phone to her ear. “Yup, all
packed, thanks. Yes, yes, can’t wait to go and get a bit of snow. Now be honest, is it still okay about popping in to feed
the hamster? Are you sure? I’ve left some food and bedding beside the cage… Wonderful. I’ll bring you back some Swiss
chocolate… sorry? No! I’ll stick to the glühwein or I’ll never squeeze into my ski pants. Bye. Thanks, bye.”

Unloading the drier and folding warm pants and vests, she refilled it with the wet laundry and turned on the kettle and picked
up the phone again.

“Hi, Bean, it’s Saffron. How are you?”

“Daaarling.” Alex’s mother’s theatrical drawl strung the word out. “How lovely to hear from you! When are you coming to see
me?”

Saff smiled to herself, imagining the Bean holding court to visitors. “Oh, I’ll come very soon, I promise, but we’re off to
Courcheval in the morning for the annual ski fest so I’ll pop in when we get back.”

“Well, don’t make it too long, dear.”

“Are you being well looked after?”

Saff heard her snort with derision. “Simply frightful,” she whispered loudly.

“But I thought… I thought Alex had sorted out someone marvelous. She said she was perfect.”

“My dear, you’ve known the girl for years.” She sounded as if she was talking without moving her lips. “You know as well as
I do how poor a judge of character she can be. Except for you, of course, darling. But the boyfriends! And this last one!
Have you met him? He looks like Action Man without the charisma. All white teeth and rippling pectorals and about as much
culture as a lamppost.”

Saff couldn’t help giggling. “Oh, you are cruel. He’s not that bad.”

“Hmm—a mild improvement on the last one, but the only way was up.” She lowered her voice again to a deep sultry muttering.
“But this Ella. She’s only been here a few hours but I can already tell she’s useless.
Useless.
Couldn’t make a decent cup of Lapsang if her life depended on it, and when she’s not on her blasted mobile talking to her
friends, she’s reading the paper in the kitchen. You should see her now—jeans round her hips and radio blaring. She’s even
singing—listen to this for God’s sake!” She held the phone away and Saff could hear a tinny noise and a high-pitched voice.

“Have you told Alex?”

“How can I when she’s off doing something terribly important in Canada?” Her voice sounded sulky.

“Oh, of course. I’ve had my head in a suitcase and forgot.” Saff searched her brain to think how she could help. “I could
fly over this afternoon.” Knowing full well she couldn’t but she’d find a way somehow. “Make you a decent cup of tea and have
a chat?”

“Oh, you are sweet but I’m sure you’re far too busy. If only they were all like you.”

“Now you take care,” Saff laughed. “I bet you’ll have her whipped into shape in no time. I’ll come over as soon as I get back.”

“Have fun, dear. So glamorous. I remember going to St. Moritz with Alex’s father. We could wear fur in those days. Nothing
flatters a woman more…” And she was off on one of her enchanting and wildly exaggerated stories in which she was always
the heroine. Saff smiled and laughed in the right places. The Bean never failed to entertain her, and she had seen her charm
a whole room in the past, but she did thank the Lord she wasn’t
her
mother. On those sorts of occasions, when the Bean was center stage, she’d seen Alex cringing in the corner, especially when
the laughter in the room was at Alex’s expense—her clothes, her boyfriends, her total lack of interest in her looks. Alex
was one of the most private people Saff knew and so completely straightforward—something the Bean saw as dull—that it must
have been very painful for her. Perhaps the Bean hoped Alex would flourish with the light of attention turned on her. There
was no doubt she loved her daughter, but she clearly didn’t understand her. It was as if they were speaking different languages.

Saff had eaten another three biscuits before she finally extracted herself from the Bean’s descriptions of a past on the piste
that made everyone sound like James Bond, and, by the time she had attached the table lamps in the hall and landing to timers—though
whom would that fool?—telephoned Het again to remind her about the code for the alarm, made biscuits for the journey, prepared
a chicken casserole for supper—something easy, they’d be rushed—and taken the car to have the bald back tire replaced, it
was time to scoop up the children.

She practically had to peel them off the walls. “We’re going skiing, we’re going skiing,” sang Millie at the top of her voice.

“Sssh.” Saff shepherded them towards the car.

“Why, Mum?”

“Because not everyone is as lucky as we are. They might not have something so exciting lined up for their holiday.” She made
sure they were strapped in and pulled out into the road. “I’ve just got to fly into the supermarket on the way back to get
some blister plasters.”

“Harry’s going to his nan’s ’cos his mum works.”

“Exactly, so it’s not nice to crow about what you’re lucky enough to be doing.”

“Isn’t ‘nan’ a common word?”

Saff winced. Oh, the melting pots that were London state schools, no matter how sought after. “Well, people call their grandparents
lots of different things. Now, how was your day?”

She had them fed, bathed and quieted down by the time Max came through the door, inevitably late.

“Hello, my darling.” He kissed her on the mouth. “You smell delicious. Sorry it’s later than I said. The inevitable got-to-get-it-done’cos-I’m-off-on-holiday
stuff.” He dropped the paper on the table. “Got a couple more calls to make. Did you sort the tire, by the way?”

Saff turned back to the sink. “Er, yes. How was your day?”

“Crazy. How much did you pay for it?” he persisted. Cautiously she told him. “What! Oh, Saff. I bet they told you the more
expensive ones were better, didn’t they?”

She knew this would be his response and she knew too she should have held out for the cheaper ones, but the way they had looked
at her at the tire place as if she’d be an idiot to settle for anything but the most expensive had made her cave in. “I know.
I know, but maybe they’ll last longer?”

“Mmm.” He opened the fridge and picked at some olives. “You are a ninny. It’s not like we bomb up motorways all day long.
The most that car does is school and back. Is everything ready?”

Saff laughed, relieved at the change of subject. “Cheeky bugger. I’ve packed your bag and supper will be ready in about half
an hour. Can you tell me where you put the travel insurance documents? I can’t find them.”

“I’ll dig them out.” Max walked out of the room towards his study.

“And, Max…” But the study door was closed behind him.

With the children finally asleep, their clothes ready for the morning laid out neatly on the chairs in their bedrooms, she
went back down to the kitchen and put on the vegetables to steam, emptied another load of uniforms and school art overalls
from the machine and ticked off “wash bags” on her list. Pouring a glass of wine for herself and one for Max, she made her
way down to the study and, balancing the glasses in one hand, opened the door.

“Sure, that would be great.” He was ending a call. “I’ll see you when I get back, Greta. Have fun.” He dropped the phone and
turned to her. “Thanks, love. You okay? Now, what time are we off?”

The 4:30 alarm dragged them all from their beds. Millie refused to eat any breakfast and cried that the hamster would be lonely
without her. Oscar wouldn’t wear the trousers she’d put out and threw a tantrum when he wasn’t allowed to turn on the computer
to download more songs onto his MP3 player for the journey, and Max, having forgotten to dig out the health policy, dumped
the contents of the filing cabinet on the floor of the study before he found it in the car insurance section. The plane was
delayed and Millie was beyond fatigue by the time they reached the hotel.

It was when she’d unpacked the suitcases as Max and the children went to get a pacifying hot chocolate in a favorite café
that Saff realized she’d been so focused on putting together everyone else’s skiwear, her own was still in the airing cupboard
at home.

H
ow could you?”

Ella clapped her hands together on a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, bursting it open with a pop and a puff of tangy shards,
and offered them to Frankie, who shook his head in anger. “I don’t know why you’re being so sulky about this. It’s not like
you’d got the job anyway.”

“That’s not the point—you were underhand. You also have the most disgusting eating habits in the world.” Frankie glared at
Ella as she continued with her eclectic breakfast. So far she’d had a chocolate mousse, a slice of cold pizza, toast and peanut
butter and several glasses of milk. The chips were, Frankie fervently hoped, the dessert.