What She Wants (9 page)

born bad tempered. After knowing him for two weeks, she knew this to be true. ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. What do you think I should do to make it up to him?’ she asked sweetly, knowing that if anybody knew how to handle Steve, it was the poor woman who had to put up with him all day. ‘Grovel,’ was her advice. Grovelling didn’t work. Steve roared into her office just before lunch, evicting the two publicity people who’d been discussing a forthcoming album release with Sam. He hadn’t waited until they’d fled before he’d started shouting abuse at her. Sam sat calmly, then apologized for her mistake. ‘But,’ she said, naked steel in her voice, ‘coming into my office and screaming at me is not the answer. That isn’t the way I run my office and it’s not the way I expect to be treated, Steve. I am not some junior you can intimidate.’ Her tawny eyes were as hard as nails. She glared at him. Faced with resistance, Steve backed down. ‘Yeah, I guess I get a little riled occasionally.’ Sam smiled glacially, wishing he’d lose the American accent. He was from Liverpool. ‘I’m glad we understand each other,’ she said, then, knowing that it was time for her to kowtow a bit, added with a large dollop of fake enthusiasm: ‘and I loved Density last night. They were incredible on stage, they just blew me away. They were one hell of a find.’ Steve smiled smugly. ‘It was a good gig, wasn’t it?’ ‘We’re going to make a fortune with them,’ Sam added. Steve practically swelled with pride. He was so pathetically easy to manipulate. Was it because he wasn’t used to women standing up to him? Most of the female staff were so many levels below him that when he barked at them to make him a coffee, he almost expected them to hop. A woman who gave as good as she got unnerved him. Perhaps that was why Steve had been so keen to hire a man and not Sam. She sighed silently. This job

would kill her if she had to go up against Steve Parris every day.

It was a frantic Friday. Sam managed to eat half a sandwich at her desk before she had to attend the weekly marketing meeting. Then, she had to work on paperwork, talk to someone in production about a glitch in an album cover and return all her phone calls and internal e-mails. Lydia went at six and so did most of the rest of the staff but Sam stayed at her desk until half seven, wearily returning e-mails. The pain of her sore throat and throbbing headache were almost eclipsed by her exhaustion. On her way out, she popped into the loo and grimaced at her reflection. She looked like death microwaved up, all pale and pasty. The security guard nodded as Sam left. Outside, it was dark and raining, typical October weather in London. It was hard to remember that only a month ago there’d been a week of Indian summer sunshine. Feeling miserable, Sam trudged along to the Underground, stopping only to buy some milk and a couple of lemons for her lemon and honey tea. She got a seat on the train and sank into it gratefully. Around her, people were visibly relaxed, happy that the week was over. A crowd of young women all dressed up to the nines stood like colourful birds of paradise just inside the train doors, too fired up to bother sitting down even though some were wearing ankle-breaking stilettos. Sam leaned back in her seat and watched them laughing and chatting. She remembered being like that once, young and thrilled to be going out. Full of joie de vivre and enthusiasm for life. Now, the only thing she felt full of was flu remedy. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t just being sick; it was something more. But what? At home, she boiled the kettle and made herself some lemon tea before heading to her bedroom to change clothes. On the off chance that Hope might have sent her an e-mail, she switched on the computer while she drank her tea. Hope had been in touch. Sam grinned. Why was it that she loved the words: ‘you’ve got

mail’ when she was at home and hated them in the office? Probably because the home mails were nice, friendly ones and the office ones were generally staccato demands to get statistics, information and updates now!

Hi Sam, You sound terrible, you poor thing. I bet you’re not looking after yourself at all. I know you: all work and no play. And never feel you can’t moan to me about work and stuff. That’s what sisters are for. Matt says thank you for your card. He had a dinner party that was more corporate hospitality than wild fortieth birthday party. But I do have one piece of news. Matt and I are thinking of moving to Ireland for a year. I know it sounds a bit sudden but we’ve been thinking about it for ages and now seems like a good time. He thinks he can go on sabbatical and it’s not as if I’m exactly on the fast-track to promotion in Witherspoon’s. It’s still only a plan right now so I’ll tell you more when I know more. It’s a bit of a long story. See you soon, love, Hope.

Sam stared at the screen, stunned. Move to Ireland? Matt taking a sabbatical and Hope giving up her job? Weird wasn’t the word for it. Hope always discussed things with Sam; it was so strange of her not to have even mentioned this startling new plan, unless … unless. Sam’s eyes narrowed. Bloody Matt. This was some damn fool plot of his, she’d swear to it. As ever, Hope was going along with it. Sam quickly checked out the train times to Bath on Saturday mornings, then phoned her sister. Flu or no flu, Hope needed sense talked into her and face to face was the only way to do it.

They stowed Sam’s small weekend bag in the boot of the Metro with the groceries, Hope marvelling that her sister

could always look so immaculate and yet bring so little with her. To look half-way decent when she travelled, Hope needed a giant suitcase and would still forget something vital. Though very pale, Sam looked Vogue-fresh with just a small, squashy bag. Her flu had improved miraculously, probably due to the quantity of anti-flu capsules she’d been consuming. ‘Let’s go for a coffee in town before heading out,’ suggested Sam to her sister, pleased that, for once, Hope hadn’t brought the kids, which gave them the opportunity to have a private chat about the madcap idea of moving away for a year. In fact, Hope hadn’t told the children their beloved aunt was coming so she could have some time alone with her sister. If Millie had heard the news, she’d have thrown a complete tantrum wanting to go along too. Hope had also told Matt she preferred to pick up Sam alone: Matt wouldn’t have been able to resist arguing with Sam if she criticized his precious plan. ‘Is this quiet cup of coffee on our own so that you can give me the “are you insane?” lecture without Matt butting in?’ inquired Hope with a faint twitch to her mouth. She wasn’t stupid. Her sister wasn’t given to last-minute visits and you didn’t need to be a nuclear physicist to figure out why she was here now. ‘Yes Sherlock, that was precisely the plan,’ admitted Sam, grinning. ‘I’m shocked that you saw through me that quickly. I must be losing my touch. I can remember the far off days when we were small and I could make you do anything I wanted purely by using the correct tone of voice.’ ‘I remember that too,’ Hope remarked, ‘and I have moved on a bit.’ ‘Only a bit,’ Sam retorted. ‘Matt certainly manages to make you do exactly what he wants.’ Hope locked the car. ‘How about we have a cease-fire on the question of our trip, at least until we’ve got a cup of coffee in our hands.’ ‘Done.’

It was only half ten in the morning: a crisp early October day with a watery sun low in the sky. They strolled past the Abbey, vast and majestic in the sunlight. ‘This is such a beautiful city,’ Sam sighed. ‘I never seem to get the chance to spend any time here, just wandering around like a proper tourist.’ Hordes of tourists meandered through the streets, some excitedly wielding high-tech cameras and taking endless photos, others looking weary, as if the tour bus had just dumped them there and they were feeling the strain of a whistle-stop tour of the hot spots of Britain. Hope and Matt had done all the touristy things when they’d moved there first. They’d sipped the sulphuric water in the Pump Room. ‘Disgusting,’ gasped Hope, wishing she could spit it out. ‘A bit like tonic water,’ said Matt, reflectively. They’d toured the Roman baths and listened to stories about when the city was Aqua Sulis, the Roman stronghold with lots of gracious villas complete with proper underfloor heating. Mart’s favourite part of the tour had been the Roman sites, while Hope’s romantic soul loved the Georgian history of Bath. As a teenager, she’d secretly adored the Georgette Heyer romances where Bath often featured as the fashionable watering hole for wealthy aristocrats. She was fascinated by the Assembly rooms where both Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer’s heroines had swirled around in Empire line dresses; she loved the Museum of Costume and she liked nothing better than idling around the pretty, curving streets with their yellow sandstone colonnaded buildings, imagining ladies stepping from carriages and sedans into the houses. The sisters walked past a trio of classical buskers playing something that Sam instantly identified as Mozart. Two years as product manager of a classical label had taught her a lot, and she no longer immediately thought of the Lone Ranger theme music when she heard the first strains of the ‘William Tell’ Overture. ‘It is lovely here, isn’t it?’ said Hope, who practically

never came into Bath to do anything other than rush into work or rush into some shop or other. Simply coming in to wander around aimlessly was sheer heaven. Sam insisted on going into Sally Lunn’s cake shop, a spot where Hope insisted that true Bathites would never set foot. ‘It’d be like you walking round London’s Piccadilly Circus with your mouth open in awe or having your picture taken right outside Buckingham Palace,’ she said as Sam dragged her into the cosy, tourist-filled spot where the scent of the unique Sally Lunn buns rose into the air. ‘My reputation for being cool and trendy will be ruined. Locals don’t “do” Bath!’ ‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ said Sam, suddenly aware that she’d eaten practically nothing for the past few days because of her flu. She could murder one of those Sally Lunns covered in salmon. ‘Next time you come to London, I promise I’ll get my picture taken with a Beefeater. Deal?’ ‘And in Madame Tussaud’s and outside Harrods too?’ ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Sam sighed. ‘I’ll even buy a “My friend went to London and all she brought me was this lousy T-shirt” T-shirt, OK?’ Sam ate her Sally Lunn and had the left over half of Hope’s too. Hope was currently on what she called her ‘half diet: she got to eat half of anything she fancied. Half her dinner, half a biscuit,
etc.
It was very difficult. Sam chatted as she ate, being funny about work, how she’d missed an important meeting and how her social life was suffering as a result of the new job. ‘Mad Malcolm upstairs accused me of having a party,’ she said, licking crumbs from her fingers. ‘Honestly, I’m in the office so much, there’s as much chance of me having a wild party as there is of Steve Parris developing a nice personality.’ ‘That bad?’ Hope asked, knowing that her sister used humour and funny stories to hide how she really felt. For a moment, Sam’s eyes were opaque. ‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ she said quickly. ‘Pardon me,’ said Hope. ‘As you’ve come all this way to

deliver a lecture to me on living my life, at least let me get my two penn’orth in about your life.’ ‘I don’t have a life, I have a career. There’s a difference,’ Sam said sourly. Hope leaned forward over the little table in a ‘spill the beans’ manner. ‘It’s this flu,’ Sam said quickly, sorry she’d revealed so much. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit low lately, I don’t know why. I’ve had two 24-hour bugs since September, although it’s one way of keeping my weight down. I keep getting the most awful periods that put me out of commission for two days each time, and to cap it all, Steve Parris, my new boss, is a complete asshole, excuse my language, but he is. I’m going to have to keep proving myself until I’m a hundred, which feels like it’ll be any day now.’ Hope reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘Sam, you should go to the doctor and have a check up. That’s three bouts of illness in nearly two months, it’s not good. And the periods … you need to get it checked out. I bet you’re anaemic, heavy periods can do that. You need a tonic or something.’ ‘Don’t mind me, I’m grumpy today. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m strong as an ox,’ Sam said. She managed to laugh convincingly: ‘Too much sex and not enough sleep, probably,’ which was a lie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex. Well, she could; she and Karl had been in Paris. That was the last time, the last bittersweet time. ‘You’re seeing someone?’ asked Hope delightedly. It was time to change the subject. ‘I’ll tell you about my love life another time,’ hedged Sam, who didn’t want to have to admit that her last relationship had ended two years ago. Career women appeared to scare men off faster than saying you had herpes. ‘So, what are you going to do in Ireland? I know Matt has it all worked out but he hasn’t thought about you.’ ‘He has,’ protested Hope. ‘I’ve wanted to spend more time with the children for ages. You’ve no idea how soul

destroying it is to send them into that nursery every morning when I’m going into work to smile at total strangers, knowing Toby’s doing new things every day and I’m missing it. Somebody else saw him walk for the first time.’ That memory still haunted her. ‘Fair point,’ Sam conceded. ‘But you like going out to work, it’s part of your life too. How will you cope in a strange country with no work mates, perhaps no nursery nearby and no old friends to rely on when you’re miserable?’ Hope had no real answer to this. ‘What about at night, what about going to the theatre, or the movies, or to the latest restaurant?’ Sam continued. ‘Oh come on, Sam, let’s be real here,’ interrupted Hope. ‘This is me you’re talking to. I’m a woman with two small children, not some socialite who spends her life in the Gucci shop wondering what dress to wear to the movie premiere. I can’t remember when I last went to the theatre. We saw Miss Saigon in London with you that time and I haven’t been since. And as for films, by the time we get the kids in bed, I’m too tired to think about going to see a film. I prefer to get videos.’ ‘Oh well, that’s OK, then,’ Sam said fiercely. ‘You’ll settle in fine as long as there’s a video shop in this village at the back end of nowhere.’ She knew she sounded cruel but she had to say it. Hope wasn’t one of life’s outward people. Well, she was chatty and bubbly when she was with Sam, but with other people she was one of the quietest women imaginable. Hope was the woman who liked sitting in corners at parties, watching others instead of joining in. Some people would thrive in a new country, relishing the opportunity to meet new friends and become part of a thriving community. Hope was not such a person. ‘You’ve never been the sort to join in,’ Sam pointed out. ‘You’re not into amateur dramatics or joining the choir or becoming the stalwart of the parents’ association. That’s fine and dandy when you’ve got a job and you live on a housing