What Women Want. Fanny Blake
knows. I hope so. But as I haven’t met him how could I possibly know?’ Bea was as relieved as Ellen that they’d reached a conclusion but was impatient to catch her friend up on her own news. As she was wondering, with an unusual degree of tact, how to change the subject, the sitting-room door opened, a shaft of light illuminating the hall, falling across the multi-coloured woollen rug Bea had lugged home from Marrakesh, regretting it every step of the way. Inveigled into a shop in the souk, she’d been unable to resist either the mint tea or the guile of the shopkeeper. The light hit the long mirror over the radiator, illuminating the reflection of the Bryan Pearce harbourscape hanging on the opposite wall, a reminder of family holidays in St Ives. Ben emerged from the sitting room to slouch into the kitchen, an empty glass in one hand and a plate in the other.
‘Hi, Ben. How are you getting on? Must be nearly A-2s, isn’t it?’
Bea envied Ellen’s breezy chat-among-equals approach, not to mention her ability to ignore the expression of non-cooperation that was making itself plain on Ben’s face.
‘Yeah. All right,’ he muttered, avoiding Ellen’s eye by keeping his own fixed on the floor. He put the plate and cup on the side, before opening the fridge to take a beer.
‘Darling! Not on a week night,’ said Bea.
Ben returned the can with a grunt, exchanging it for a carton of milk and a yoghurt. He lifted the carton and tipped it towards his mouth.
‘Ben! How many times have I—’
‘Bea,’ hissed Ellen.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But, honestly, I—’
Ellen silenced her with a glare. As Ben opened a cupboard and started piling biscuits on his plate, she tried again: ‘Which subjects have you gone for?’
‘Haven’t decided yet.’ Ben shook his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Maybe English, history, media studies. Maybe I’ll just leave school and get a job.’
Don’t rise to it, Bea said to herself. Don’t rise to it. Simultaneously, she heard her own intake of breath and her sharp ‘Ben! Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’
‘Well, I might.’
‘Perhaps now isn’t quite the right moment to discuss it.’ Ellen was the epitome of family conciliation as Ben disappeared, armed with his supplies, his thunderous mood adequately communicated by the hunch of his shoulders, the slam of the door and the increase in the music’s volume. Bea took a swig of wine. ‘Bloody child! Sometimes I think I can’t get through to him any more.’
‘He’s only saying it because he knows exactly the reaction he’ll get,’ said Ellen. ‘And you know nagging never works.’
‘I can’t help it. He drives me mad.’
‘He’s just at that age,’ Ellen reassured her. ‘You’ve got to ignore it. He’s still a great kid underneath all that.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Give him a couple of years and you’ll see.’ Ellen got up to put the kettle on. ‘Now, where were we? I think it’s your turn.’
‘How long have you got?’ So saying, Bea launched into her latest news from the work and dating front, giggling about Mark and bemoaning Tony Castle. For the next couple of hours, they would go back and forth over the same well-trodden ground, as they examined and re-examined their lives, loves (or lack of them) and children. They had spent countless similar evenings in each other’s company, enjoying the friendship, discretion, support and advice. Even if Bea’s feathers were ruffled from time to time, Ellen took that in her stride. That was what friendship was about, thought Bea. Ultimately, nothing was strong enough to break the bond between them.
*
Before she went to bed, Bea made herself a cup of hot chocolate and took it to the sitting room, ignoring the debris that was evidence of Ben’s earlier occupation. Mothers and children – who’d have ’em? She opened the box Ellen had brought and took out the distinctive brown tub of pink and black pepper caramels. As the fusion of sweet and savoury flavours melted in her mouth, she thought with affection of Adele and with some sadness of the last conversation they’d had together when she’d dropped her mother at home.
They had sorted out the shopping and sat down with a cup of tea before Bea had touched on the subject of Adele moving house. To her surprise, an uncertain look crossed Adele’s face and she said what she must have been bursting to say all day.
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Bea. I’ve been putting it off because I don’t know how you’ll react. Janey Blythe has asked me to move to Bournemouth with her. There.’ She sat back, looking pleased but apprehensive, waiting to see the effect her announcement would have on her daughter. Janey Blythe was Adele’s near neighbour, a sprightly, slightly younger woman who, like Adele, was widowed, with her children long established in their own lives. The two had grown particularly close after the deaths of their husbands and Bea knew they spent hours talking about their own and their children’s lives. Janey was always keen to try new things. Her last idea had been to encourage Adele to go to the local pottery class with her. The three wonky vases on top of the old upright piano suggested lots of enthusiasm but little skill.
‘Ye-es.’ Bea was hesitant, worried she’d been wrong in her assessment of her mother’s state of mind. She’d clearly completely lost her marbles. ‘But where? And what about the house?’
‘I’m going to sell it. I’ve been rattling around it for years. We’ve found two flats – actually, Janey has – in a new development principally for old crocks like us very close to the sea front.’ Adele was beaming at the prospect of something so different.
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