Busy Woman Seeks Wife Read online

  Eventually footsteps came down the stairs and Saffron entered the room, her neat little frame in a white linen shirt, green checked capri pants and pumps. Alex felt herself beginning to relax from the day.

  “Hi, good to see you, sweetie.” Saffron kissed her friend warmly on the cheek. “Have you got a drink? How’s the Spanish scrubber?”

  “Oh Gawd, Saff.” Alex put her head in her hands. “It’s so vile! I’ve chucked all the bedding into the Dumpster. The nasty little creep who was giving her one even pulled out some cash to pay her! In front of me! Can you imagine?”

  Saffron looked suitably shocked as she bustled about putting on her apron and preparing the green beans to cook. She placed a bowl of chips in front of Alex. Max, already informed about the day’s outrage and suspecting shrieked outpourings of grief, scooped up a handful and escaped the room for his study.

  “You have to admire the woman’s business acumen,” Saffron said, tying her wavy blonde hair into a ponytail on top of her head. “With you away so much, she didn’t let the grass grow under her feet, did she?”

  “Little slapper,” Alex replied through a mouthful of chips, realizing how hungry she was. “And now I’ve got to get a new mattress or I’ll never see Todd. Not that we have time to see each other anyway. And my neighbor downstairs is getting nasty about the leak in my shower. But I just don’t have time to get someone in to sort it. I can’t take a day off, and I’ve got a pile of stuff to get to the cleaners or I’ll have nothing to wear in Toronto. Oh, and the sodding washing machine is on the blink, again, and then there’s the little matter of work. Bloody Gavin can’t make Toronto, so rather than spending the time I should be to consolidate all the information from the last few days and preparing for the launch, I’ve got to put together a huge presentation, which is critical—it’s critical, Saff. If I get this wrong, it’s going to affect how we are perceived in Canada and then—”

  Saff put her hand on Alex’s arm. “Hey! Calm down, love. Stressing isn’t going to help.”

  “But it’s all stress. There’s just no time to do anything, even to buy milk, for heaven’s sake. And I haven’t managed to see Mum for ages. And now she’s threatening to—” Alex was cut off by her mobile buzzing in her bag. “Hello?”

  “Alex? It’s Letitia, dear. From next door to your mother.”

  Alex could feel her anxiety rising.

  “Sorry to bother you, dear, but it’s your mother. I think she fell off her ladder. Anyway, I’m here at the hospital with her.”

  “Oh, bloody hell. Oh no, is she all right?”

  “Don’t fret. It’s not too serious but they think it’s her arm. The thing is, she won’t be able to go home tonight. They said something about having to reset it, and I’m afraid I’m off on a cruise to the fjords tomorrow first thing or I’d gladly help.”

  “Oh, thank you, Letitia. Please don’t worry. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll be right there.” Finding out exactly where her mother had been taken and thanking her again profusely, Alex clicked off her phone and looked across at Saffron’s concerned face.

  “Is she okay?” she asked cautiously. “What do the doctors say?”

  Alex relayed what Letitia had said, her heart sinking at the implications. “Oh, Saff! What the hell was she doing cutting back the ivy at this time of night? She was bound to fall! I told her I’d do it. I should have been more insistent. Oh God, what am I going to do?” Alex rubbed her eyes, smearing the remaining mascara over her cheeks. “Who’s going to look after her? I can’t have her come and stay with me. I mean, how can I? I’m never there…”

  “Well, it might not be for long. She might be able to go home again by the time you go to Canada. At least you’ll be there at night and she can watch TV—”

  Alex sat bolt upright. “But there’s no bed for her!”

  “I’ve got a camp bed.” Saff tried to look helpful.

  Alex stood up. “Bless you. Can I let you know? Oh, why couldn’t she have waited for me?”

  Saff looked up at her friend and laughed ruefully. “Come on, Alex, you know how stubborn she can be. She’s always done exactly what she wants. Why don’t you have some food before you leave?”

  “Thanks, Saff, but I’d better go and see her straightaway— much as I’d love your yummy supper. I seem to have had nothing but airline meals and packet soups lately. Soon I won’t be able to cope with anything that doesn’t come on a plastic tray. All I wanted to do was talk to you.” She suddenly felt very weary.

  “What you need,” said Saffron, standing up and rubbing Alex’s arm comfortingly, “is someone to take away your worries, someone to cook you lovely meals and deal with all the boring details of life.”

  “But I’ve got a bloke already,” protested Alex. “When he’s in the country at least.”

  “No, no!” replied Saffron. “I mean, what you need is a wife.”

  Chapter 2

  Saffron climbed down from the ladder and admired her morning’s work. The turquoise-blue paint had definitely been the right choice. She glanced at the swatch of purple-blue floral fabric draped over the chair, the result of a wonderful hour and a half at the interiors shop trawling through the sample books—her favorite pastime second only to having her nose in a cookbook. Millie would love it. What nine-year-old girl couldn’t? How excited she’d be when she came home from school.

  Absently pushing away the hair that was tickling her nose, she wiped the excess paint from her brush onto the edge of the tin. Slipping off her flip-flops on the dust sheet so as not to risk walking paint over the new landing carpet, she carried the brush downstairs, careful not to touch the newly stenciled walls. She looked at them with immense pride as she passed. Who needed Jocasta Innes when, with a two-week course and the right kit, she could do it herself?

  She’d washed the brush and was putting on the kettle and thinking about what she could do for the next few hours, and what to make for the children and Max for supper, with half an eye on the dramatic purple tulips in the tubs outside the back door bobbing about in the brisk wind, when the phone rang.

  “Saff?” Alex sounded breathless. “Look, I’m about to go into a meeting but—”

  “And hello to you too!” Saff smiled.

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit rushed.” Wasn’t she always? “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night—you know that wife thing you mentioned? We didn’t really expand on it. Did you mean like a housekeeper?”

  “Well, I don’t know really. I was sort of joking.” In Alex’s haste to leave to see her mother, Saff had thought her ridiculous remark would have been forgotten. “It just seems to me that you needed someone like—well, me, really. Someone who does all the things Max doesn’t have time to do. Making dentist appointments, letting in the washing machine man, taking clothes to the cleaners, cleaning the loo. Oh, I don’t know.” The more she thought about it, the more stupid an idea it sounded. “I don’t suppose there’s really enough that you need doing to keep one person busy. Not when you are away such a lot of the time.”

  “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.”

  “Go
d 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.

  Chapter 3

  Mmmmakes 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 Elec
tric 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?”