‘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 know you do. But I want you to feel even better about yourself. I was just walking past that salon on the high street and I thought you’d like it. That’s all.’ The smile left his face and he began to snap his left thumbnail with the nail on his middle finger. ‘I can easily cancel the whole thing, if that’s what you want.’
Ellen had always thought of the beauty business as an excuse for absurd self-indulgence, something for women with more money than sense. Although Bea’s and Kate’s battle waged against the onslaught of time had always amused her, she had no wish to join them. Shouldn’t women accept the inexorable march of time, and age the way nature intended? She was used to a quick trim with Angie at the small hairdresser’s on the corner, with the result that style and chic had eluded her for years. But she was happy with that. Overcoming her discomfort and accepting Oliver’s present gracefully would be hard, but she could see he was going to be so disappointed if she didn’t. Weakened by his forlorn expression, she waved her hands. ‘No, no. I’d love to go. It’ll be a real treat. I haven’t done anything like that for years. Thank you.’
‘Right. Well, that’s agreed, then. The other thing I wanted . . .’
Before he had finished his sentence, Ellen had picked up the empty bags and was halfway up the stairs with them, crying, ‘Back in a minute. Let me show you the skirt . . .’ She stuffed the bags into the bottom of the wardrobe, just in case she changed her mind and needed to return anything, and sat on the bed to take a few deep breaths. No more! This generosity was overwhelming. Since Simon’s death she’d had to get used to being in control of her own life, but since Oliver had visited the gallery, her world was spinning off its axis and she couldn’t right it. She had been swept into this unlooked-for relationship with a man she didn’t know yet felt as if she’d known for ever. She was besieged by unfamiliar feelings that thrilled yet threw her off kilter.
Close by the photo of Simon, there was another of him with Emma and Matt on the last family holiday they’d had together in Cornwall. The four of them together on a family picnic at an isolated cove not far from Towan beach, a favourite spot that the summer tourists to the Cornish Roseland rarely discovered. The children were due to come home in just over a couple of weeks. What were they going to think of all this? She had wondered whether she should ask Oliver to move out until she’d told them, but she didn’t want him to go. Their relationship had given her a new recklessness that had overthrown almost everything she’d held close. At the same time she was frightened by what was happening to her, not knowing how to pull things back under her control but at the same time not wanting to. She felt as if she had climbed aboard a giant switchback, increasingly petrified as it neared the top of each peak, her stomach rising into her mouth as it tipped over into the descent, screaming to get off yet wanting the excitement never to end.
She looked beside the radiator where she always left her shoes, never having got round to organising a shoe rack in the wardrobe. To her surprise, the jumble that