What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection. Fanny BlakeЧитать онлайн книгу.
too soon out of university to have found his way.
Suddenly there was an almighty crash from outside, followed by the sound of something being dragged along the street. She jumped to her feet and ran upstairs into the living room where she pulled aside the curtain. There, in the middle of the road, a mangy brown fox was tearing through the contents of their food recycling bin. So much for Paul’s care in sorting out the rubbish. The animal had dragged the bin out of their front garden, forced it open, strewn everything across the road and was now sniffing round, scoffing the best bits. A sharp bark heralded the arrival of a second, which slunk between two cars further up the street, then loped towards its mate, eyes gleaming under the street light. Kate shuddered. Sitting on the back of the sofa, she knocked hard on the window to drive them away. For a moment they stopped, looked up. One stared straight at her, defiant, before going back to its feast.
The curtains drawn and lights switched off, she went upstairs to tell Paul but he was flat out, sound asleep, one arm flung across the bed, gently snoring. With a small sigh, she got herself ready for bed and slipped in beside him.
Chapter 7
‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’ Oliver came through the kitchen door, looking relaxed in his blue cashmere sweater, his hands behind his back. ‘Close your eyes.’
Oh, God. A present. Ellen knew she should have bought him the picture.
‘Hold out your hands.’
Apprehensive, unused to being given anything un expected, apart from the children’s half-baked efforts from art classes, Ellen put out a hand. She felt something, a bag, being hung over her arm. Then two more. ‘But I haven’t got anything for you.’ The part of her that had hesitated over buying the picture said that presents were reciprocal, to be given on special occasions; otherwise they were an unnecessary indulgence. Not even Simon had surprised her with something as spontaneous as this.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She felt his hand lightly on the small of her back, aware that if he moved it a centimetre lower, it would be lying right on the roll of fat pushed up by the too-tight waistband of her skirt. He didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, to care. ‘Right. Now you can open them.’
She moved away from his hand, opening her eyes to see three bags hanging off her arm, a small one from La Perla and two large ones boasting names she had never heard of. She became uncomfortably aware of her greying, almost elastic-free Marks & Spencer underwear that had absorbed the colours from everything else in the wash over the last couple of years, of her once comfortable skirt that had seen better days, and her loose disguise-it-all cotton shirt from the same period. Out of the tissue paper came a confection (there was no other word for it) of copper-coloured lace. At least he hadn’t gone for a G-string, she saw with relief, as she separated a pair of flounced lace briefs in cotton tulle from a bra that frothed with more lace than she had ever seen on one garment. ‘Oh, God! They’re . . . well . . . beautiful.’ (And totally unsuitable.) ‘Thank you.’ (Please don’t make me try them on now.)
‘There’s more. Look again.’ Oliver had sat down and was wearing a strange expression that Ellen didn’t recognise. For a split second, it was as if the spontaneous, generous man she loved had disappeared, to be replaced by someone far more cool and calculating. Disconcerted, she looked away, reaching into the bag again, this time to find a white (more my colour) push-up (oh, no, I don’t want to show off my wrinkled cleavage) bra with matching briefs.
‘Now look in the other bags.’ The Oliver she loved was back – caring and attentive. Uncertain what she should say, Ellen sat down without a word and continued to unpack. After five minutes, she was surrounded by his purchases – an elegant lime-green belted button-through linen dress, a floral silk skirt that hugged the hips, then flared in panels from just below to be paired with a simple grey T-shirt, and a second dress in lined smoky pink cotton lawn that was low cut and fitted at the top (too fitted), empire line (will at least hide my stomach) and sleeveless (has he not noticed my flabby upper arms?). Despite her reservations about their suitability, there was no denying that he had great taste.
‘They’re beautiful. I would never have bought them for myself.’ Ellen was dreading the moment she was going to have to go upstairs and try them on, confident that she would look utterly ridiculous out of the comfort zone of her normal don’t-notice-me-I’d-put-a-bag-over-my-head-if-I-could look. ‘You’ve even got my size right.’
‘I know you wouldn’t. When did you last buy yourself something?’ His question didn’t need an answer. They both knew it must be months, if not as much as a year ago. ‘But it’s important that you look good at the gallery,’ he went on. ‘In charge.’ What was he saying? That she normally didn’t?
‘What’s wrong with the way I look now?’ Ellen’s voice sounded muffled as she began to fold the wrapping paper, returning it to the right bags ready for when she would secretly sneak the garments back to their shops. To her horror, she could feel her lower lip begin to quiver and her eyes sting.
‘Nothing, darling, nothing at all. But just try them on to see. Please. For me.’ She couldn’t resist the appeal she saw in his eyes.
Oliver was pouring two glasses of chilled Sancerre when, half an hour later, she came back downstairs in the lime linen, having tried on the lot and been almost pleasantly surprised by what she saw. Having those moments alone had given her a chance to steady herself. Turning back and forth in front of the mirror, she could see that somehow he’d chosen lines that actually flattered her far from perfect body, taking attention away from the worst bits. Even her upper arms looked better than she remembered them. Was it a fluke that he’d done so well or did he have a good eye? And she had to admit that the touch of silk underwear gave her a frisson that didn’t come with M&S cotton.
She’d picked up the photo of Simon she kept by her bed, wondering if he’d understand. He looked back at her: a confident man with a high forehead, thick dark eyebrows and a nose that had been knocked out of shape in a childhood bicycle accident. His eyes were kind, his chin strong and his mouth tilted up at the corners. He wasn’t a man to turn heads but he had been a dependable, kind and loving one. He would never have thought to buy her clothes. That wasn’t what their relationship was like. She had known that and hadn’t wanted it any different. Her priorities had been him and their children, not the irrelevance of the way she, or indeed he, had looked. But things had changed. She wasn’t the same woman she had been when he was alive. How could she be?
‘You look gorgeous,’ said Oliver, giving her a glass. ‘Let me see. Mmm. I thought that green would suit your skin. I was right.’ Despite her discomfort at being so closely scrutinised, Ellen was surprised to find herself simultaneously melting under his attention. Nobody had ever treated her like this. Even though she had only known Oliver for a short time, she realised he was already pushing her towards a reassessment of her relationship with Simon. She was beginning to see that there were perhaps sides to it that hadn’t been quite as perfect as she had previously believed. Not that Simon hadn’t adored her, but he was a man of few words and by nature not particularly demonstrative. A pat on the back or a slap on her bum was the most appreciative she remembered him being. And presents, other than on her birthday or at Christmas? Never.
‘Now, tell me one thing.’ Oliver took a couple of steps towards the french windows and looked out down the carefully planned and planted garden to the small greenhouse where Ellen had spent so many happy hours sowing her flower seeds, pricking out seedlings and potting them on. ‘I am right in thinking that the gallery is closed on Monday, aren’t I?’
‘Yes. Why?’ Just the two of them alone together. She’d like nothing more.
‘I’ve booked you a hair appointment. No, wait . . . Let me finish. And they’ll give you a facial and a manicure at the same time. I just thought you should have a day all to yourself, being pampered.’
‘Oliver, stop. I can’t possibly accept all this. It’s too much.’ She knew his generosity was well meant but, instead of adding to her confidence, paradoxically she felt the little she had gained over the past weeks with him ebbing away. ‘Besides, I like my hair the way it is.’
‘I