a new direction, she towards a new life with Oliver, and Emma towards adulthood.
‘Listen, Em. Sit up and talk to me.’ Ellen tried to engineer her into a position where she could at least see her face. But she wouldn’t co-operate.
‘I am talking to you.’
‘I mean properly. I want to try to get you to understand.’
‘I understand completely.’ Emma turned herself over and pushed herself towards the bed head so that she could sit up against the pillows. ‘The moment we go away you get some man who you think will take Dad’s place before you’re too old to find one.’
Wounded by the venom in her daughter’s voice, but infuri ated by what she had said, Ellen had to muster every ounce of self-control. ‘Em, you know that’s not true.’ She edged herself up the bed until she was sitting beside her daughter. ‘How could you say that? This wasn’t something I meant to happen . . .’
‘Then why did you let it?’
‘I know it’s hard for you to understand but as you and Matt grow up, get your own friends and start to go out more, I sometimes feel lonely.’
‘What about Kate and Bea?’
‘Of course they’re my friends but they have their own lives too. Their friendship means everything to me but it isn’t the same as this.’
‘You mean sex.’ Her tear-stained face twisted in disgust and she stiffened.
Ellen hadn’t wanted to have this discussion, but having come this far, she had to show Emma respect by finishing it. ‘Well, partly, yes. But it’s also having someone I can trust, having a friend at home to share things with when you’re out more and more.’
‘Mum, you don’t even know the man. You can’t do.’ Her voice sounded like a little girl’s. Then she sniffed hard.
‘Come here, Em.’ As Ellen put her arm round her child, she felt her give a little. They sat together for a few minutes in silence again, leaning into one another just as they had always done. ‘Why don’t I go downstairs and make us some hot chocolate? Then I’ll come back and we can talk about it together.’
‘Well, OK.’ Emma’s tone was grudging but Ellen could tell she’d begun to soften. Not that that meant she would necessarily change her point of view.
Just at that moment she heard footsteps in the hall.
‘Supper’s ready,’ Oliver shouted up the stairs.
‘I don’t want any,’ Emma muttered, her thumb working away at Lolly’s ribbon.
‘Come on, Em. I know it’s hard but do come down.’ She sat there for a moment longer, then stood up. ‘For me?’
Emma put Lolly on the pillow and looked up at her mother. Ellen couldn’t read her expression, but decided to make one more appeal. ‘Please.’
‘OK, OK.’ She stood up. ‘If Freya did it for her mother, I’ll have to try. But don’t expect me to like him.’
Ellen remembered gloomily that Freya was one of Emma’s schoolfriends whose mother had moved in a new lover before the ink was dry on the divorce papers. It had been the talk of the school for months. ‘It’s hardly the same thing. Freya’s dad had only just moved out. And Oliver certainly isn’t moving in.’ She hoped she’d be forgiven for the lie.
‘Isn’t he? I’m not a fool, Mum. It looks pretty much like the same thing to me.’
They went downstairs together. Supper was not a happy affair. Oliver passed Ellen a noticeably smaller helping of pasta than anyone else and piled the rest of her plate high with leaves. She knew he was only doing it for her own good, having learned she had the will-power of a slug, but she wished he could have been a little less obvious about it. The conversation, such as it was, revolved around Matt and Oliver’s assessment of various football players and teams, something in which she and Emma had absolutely no interest. Emma sat in silence, playing with her food, picking out the bits of ham and piling them on the side of her plate before announcing that she had become vegetarian. The minute they finished she said she was going round to see Freya. Ellen didn’t stop her, hoping that Freya might make her see some sense.
When she finally found herself alone, a protesting Oliver having been chased out to his flat and Matt up to bed, she sat down to wait for her daughter with a cup of tea and a slice of cake that Oliver didn’t know existed. This was going to be much harder than she had thought.
Chapter 17
Standing on the balcony, a glass of champagne in her hand, Bea could see below her the race-goers milling like moths around the on-track bookies who were barking the odds, jabbering into mobile phones. She looked down on tweedy jackets, the odd designer outfit that had probably been pulled out of a perfect home-counties wardrobe or bought weeks ago for the occasion. Contrast Bea’s – the result of a department-store dash two nights earlier. Just when she was being forced to give up, with the store closing, she had found a purple and blue swirled sleeveless silk dress, and a blue slightly fitted hip-length jacket. She just prayed she wouldn’t get so hot that she’d have to take the jacket off and reveal what Ben insisted on calling her ‘bingo wings’. Minutes later, on her way out of the store, by some miracle she had spotted a blue pillbox hat with a discreet pink trim. The whole outfit made her feel quite the thing, and a little bit Jackie O. Her new-found confidence was confirmed when she had met Mark at the station. From his expression she had seen that she’d made quite an impression.
They had arrived at Ascot early, at which point she could see that his impression might have been that she was completely over-dressed. She’d imagined that the races would be full of women sporting the sort of outfits she’d seen photographed on Ladies’ Day. But this wasn’t Royal Ascot. The truth was a revelation. Brushing past more Barbours than she could count, corduroy trousers, brown trilbies and an overwhelming assortment of tartans and tweeds, she hoped the dress code would improve once they hit the Members’ section. Her prayers were answered. As they made their way through the brand new grandstand, riding the escalator up through the airy state-of-the-art building to the corporate box hired by Mark’s co-directors, she began to feel she wouldn’t stick out like quite such a sore thumb after all.
In the dining room, a long table was laid with a smooth cream tablecloth, a vase of creamy roses in its centre. She counted twenty-four places laid with gleaming cutlery and sparkling wine glasses while in a corner a flat-screen TV was anticipating the start of the racing. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be a sit-down do.’ Bea was wishing she’d gone with her original impulse to refuse the invitation.
‘Don’t worry. I know you’ll get on fine with them.’ Mark’s reassuring best was far from convincing. ‘Although I don’t really know their wives. Let’s grab a glass of champagne and take a look at the course from the balcony.’
She followed him out, trying not to let her nerves make her drink too quickly. It was hard not to be impressed by the modern curved grandstand that looked over the course. Their box was positioned just before the winning post, giving them a clear view of the finish. They chatted easily together as gradually the other guests arrived and Bea was introduced one by one. As she relaxed, she began to think that perhaps the afternoon wouldn’t be such an ordeal after all. Mark was turning out to be rather a considerate host who made sure she was never left standing alone but at the same time didn’t stick to her side like glue. His frequent laugh as he chatted to colleagues
