Falling for You (11 page)

It was probably PMS, but that didn't make all the little irritations of the day any less irritating. Estelle, having stacked the dishwasher and discovered that the only things she actively disliked washing wouldn't fit into it anyway, was at the kitchen sink scrubbing futilely at a roasting pan that was determined not to relinquish its welded-on bits of caramelized parsnip.

This wasn't turning out to be one of her better days. Kate had been so snappish all morning that when she had taken Norris out for a walk after lunch, it had been a relief. Oliver had, in the space of the last couple of hours, managed to criticize Estelle's roast potatoes, her fashion sense,
and
her less-than-intellectual taste in novels, leaving her with an ego like a deflated condom and the urge to punch him in the nose. Now Oliver had left as well, departed for London for the day, and as far as she was concerned, London was jolly well welcome to him.

“Oh,
fuck
it.” Estelle leaped back from the sink as her vigorous scrubbing caused a wave of dishwater to sloosh down the front of her turquoise linen shirt. Not lovely, clean, bubbly dishwater, of course, but brackish, greasy water complete with floaty burned bits. Just what you needed to accessorize a linen shirt.

“Shit,
shit
,” whispered Estelle, snatching up the tea towel and pressing it to her front—for all the good it would do.

“Are you OK? Did you cut yourself?” Will's voice behind her made her jump. She hadn't heard him come into the kitchen.

Turning around, shaking her head helplessly, Estelle showed him her sopping wet front. “Just making a mess of this, like I've made a mess of everything else today.”

“Well, I'm glad it's only water. Can't stand the sight of blood.” Will's eyes crinkled reassuringly at her behind his glasses, and he was holding something wrapped in a plastic bag that looked as if it might be a large bone for Norris. “Go change into something dry,” he went on gently. “And don't be silly, you haven't messed up anything else. That was a fantastic lunch.”

Upstairs, Estelle stripped off her shirt and, as an act of rebellion, changed into a pale pink sweatshirt—the one that, according to Oliver, made her look like a giant marshmallow. And not in a good way.
Screw Oliver
, Estelle told herself resentfully, thinking she really should run a comb through her hair and deciding she couldn't be bothered. He wasn't even here, and she liked this sweatshirt. At least Will, with his nonexistent fashion sense, wasn't likely to criticize it.

He was leaving too, heading back up to London this afternoon with the first few hours of recorded videotape under his belt. As she made her way downstairs, Estelle realized how sorry she'd be to see Will go; he was such a genuinely nice, easygoing character, which certainly made a change from Oliver's air of preoccupation and picky, often pedantic, manner.

“Oh!” Estelle stopped short in the kitchen, overwhelmed by the sight of the roasting tin, now scrubbed sparkling clean, propped up on the drainer. “Oh, Will, you didn't have to do that!”

“Hey, it's only a roasting tin. It's not as if I built a conservatory.” Waving aside her protestations, he reached for the bag on top of the fridge. “Anyway, this is for you. A little thank-you present for making me so welcome. It's not much, but…” As he handed it over, Estelle saw that his flapping shirt cuffs were now damp where he'd neglected to roll up his sleeves before setting to with the Brillo pad. Taking the bag and opening it, she saw that it didn't contain a ham bone for Norris but an assortment of bath products. Tears sprang into her eyes as she saw that Will had bought her a bottle of lavender oil, several cellophane-wrapped bars of fruit-scented soaps, a tube of geranium foaming shower gel, and a loofah.

He either thought she stank to high heaven and was keen to remedy the situation fast, or he was the sweetest, most thoughtful man she'd ever met.

“Oh, Will, this is just…”

“Are they OK? I'm rubbish at buying presents, but the girl in the shop said they'd be fine.” Eagerly he went on, “And I'm sorry I didn't wrap them properly, but I'm hopeless at wrapping stuff up too—oh God, don't cry;
please
don't cry.” Will moved toward her, attempting to grab the bag back. “What's the matter? Did I buy the wrong things? I know you're probably used to more expensive brands, but the people in the shop were just so friendly… I can't believe I've upset you like this…”

“You haven't. I promise.” Shaking her head vigorously, Estelle managed a watery smile. “Will, I love my presents. It's not them, and it's not you. I just…well, I'm not having a very good d-day, that's all, and people being unexpectedly nice to me always makes me cry. And yes, OK, maybe I
am
used to expensive brands”—the gloriously gift-wrapped baskets that Oliver ordered over the Internet every Christmas from Jo Malone sprang to mind—“but these mean so much more. You chose everything yourself and that's wonderful.” Wiping her eyes, she hiccuped. “Especially the loofah. Nobody's ever given me a loofah before.”

Will looked relieved. “Really? You're not just being polite? To be honest, I'm not absolutely sure what a loofah does, but… Hey, you're still crying. It's not just the present, is it? Come on, tell me what's wrong.”

Feeling utterly drained, Estelle allowed him to steer her onto a kitchen chair. Will took a glass down from the wall cabinet and filled it to the brim from the half-empty bottle of Beaujolais left from lunch.

“It's nothing. I'm just being silly.” Nevertheless her hand sneaked out and clutched the glass.

“You aren't being silly.” He paused. “And I'm not stupid. I do have eyes in my head, you know.”

The room-temperature wine slipped comfortingly down Estelle's throat, warming her stomach and soothing her frazzled nerve endings, but she didn't dare speak. To cover the awkward silence, she took another hefty gulp instead.

“It's OK,” Will said eventually. “I can guess what's bothering you. You're loyal to Oliver and I'm a TV journalist. But I promise you, I'm not the blabbing kind. I don't do hatchet jobs; that isn't my style. If I did,” he went on with a brief smile, “I'd soon run out of subjects. Nobody would let me film them. So, you see, it's not even in my interests to dig the dirt. You can talk to me as a friend and I swear I'd never use anything you told me. But I do think you shouldn't bottle things up. And, as I said, I do already have a pretty good idea.”

Estelle found a hanky in her pocket and blew her nose. Of course he had a pretty good idea. He was a documentary maker, for heaven's sake. Trained to observe everything and never miss a trick. Then again, he was right about it not being in his interests to dig the dirt. Having now had a chance to see videos of his previous programs, she knew that Will's style was affectionate and quirky, never underhanded or mean.

“The thing is, I know how lucky I am.” Hearing her voice wobble, Estelle took another gulp of wine to steady it. “Living here in this beautiful house with a swimming pool, a nice car, no money worries—hell, that's what everyone dreams of, isn't it? It's why people buy lottery tickets. And I'm healthy. I'm not dying from some horrible, incurable disease. What reason do I have to moan and feel sorry for myself? But sometimes I just… Oh God, I don't know. Most women would give their right arms to have my advantages…”

“But you're not happy,” Will said gently. “And you feel guilty because you think you should be. Estelle, millions of people buy lottery tickets thinking that hitting the jackpot will solve all their problems, but only the ones who've actually done it discover the truth. If you aren't happy in yourself, no amount of money will change that. It isn't going to solve fundamental problems in, say, a marriage.”

Estelle swallowed hard. It was so obvious he already knew. What was the point of even trying to deny it?

“Oliver's not a bad man.” Her voice was low. “He doesn't drink, or beat me up, or flaunt mistresses under my nose. But sometimes he's…hard to handle. He has his career, he gets picky sometimes, and he can be a bit abrupt.”

“Autocratic, even,” Will suggested mildly.

“OK, yes, autocratic. But we've been together for twenty-seven years. Since I was eighteen. For heaven's sake, you'd think I'd be used to it by now.”

“He's always been the same?”

“Well, no. I mean, Oliver was always the one in charge, but that was just his character. Over the last year or so, though, it's gotten worse. I've started to feel completely unimportant. I don't know why I'm
here
anymore. I just feel…pointless.” Feeling her eyes fill with tears again, Estelle took a shuddery breath. “Fat and pointless, that's me. And I've been trying so hard to pretend nothing's wrong, but having Kate back here doesn't help. I know she doesn't mean to, but she's treating me just like Oliver does. I feel like one of those plate spinners, rushing from plate to plate, desperately trying to keep everything up in the air… All I want is for us to be a normal happy family, but it's just not w-working and I don't know what else I can possibly d-do…” Her voice breaking, Estelle covered her face with her hands and wailed, “Because no matter how hard I try, nothing I
do
do ever seems to be good enough!”

“Hey, hey, don't blame yourself.” Will's voice was wonderfully soothing. Whereas Oliver, if he were here now, would have barked, “Oh, for God's sake, don't
cry
,” Will simply passed her a handful of paper towels and allowed her to get on with it. “You mustn't blame yourself, you know. I'm sure Oliver doesn't mean to upset you. And Kate's…well, she's having a hard time adjusting, that's all. She's going through a prickly stage.”

Bloody prickly
, thought Estelle. And in all honesty, when something had lasted for fifteen years, did it still count as a stage? She could barely remember a time when she hadn't felt intimidated by her daughter.

“But what am I supposed to do?” Blowing her nose on a paper towel, she watched resignedly as Will refilled her glass.

“Ah, well now, that
is
up to you. Do you want to stay with Oliver or leave him?”

Estelle's bottom lip trembled. “Stay, of course. I still love him. I
want
us to be happy again. I just don't know how to make it happen. I'm not even sure there's anything I
can
do. Sometimes, as far as Oliver's concerned, I just feel invisible.”

“I can't advise you,” said Will, which was a massive letdown. She'd secretly been hoping he might have the most brilliant plan. “But if it's any consolation”—he leaned back on his chair and fixed Estelle with a smile that told her he was on her side—“you don't deserve to be treated like that. If I were lucky enough to be married to someone like you, I'd be over the moon. Then again”—he looked almost comically disconsolate—“who'd ever want to be saddled with a case as hopeless as me? My last girlfriend was always complaining that I looked as if I'd gotten dressed in the dark. She once found a moldy sausage roll in my bathroom cabinet. And when we went to her uncle Bill's wedding, I called the bride Megan, which was the name of Uncle Bill's first wife.”

Despite everything, Estelle found herself snorting with laughter.

“That's terrible. And Megan, the first wife, was…?”

“Dead.” Will heaved a sigh of resignation and nodded. “I'm just a walking disaster. No wonder my girlfriend dumped me.”

“Just because of that?” Estelle felt absurdly indignant on his behalf. “But anyone can make a mistake!”

“You're forgetting the sausage roll. Actually, she compiled this whole list of reasons why she deserved better than me. Read them out to me like a school register.” Will pulled a face. “It took ages. So you see, it's no wonder I'm still single. But that's enough about me. Are you feeling any better yet?”

He'd made her laugh, with his self-deprecating humor and gentle encouragement. God knew he was the polar opposite of Oliver, who was hardly what you'd call encouraging and who'd never been self-deprecating in his life. Smiling back at Will, Estelle nodded and discovered there was a lot to be said for getting things off your chest. She'd never confided her feelings of inadequacy before, not to a living soul. Pretending that everything was fine had always been her way of muddling through.

“Much better. You won't say anything about this to Oliver, will you?”

“I told you, you can trust me. I won't breathe a word,” Will said comfortably. As he fiddled with the damp cuff of his shirt, the button pinged off and he watched it roll across the floor. When it disappeared under the freezer he shrugged, unconcerned. “You could always give it a go yourself, though. Sit him down and tell him how you feel.”

This really did make Estelle smile. “We'll see.” There was more chance of her swimming the Channel with bricks strapped to her feet. “Thanks anyway. I can't believe I've told you all this.”

“Ah, well, that's me. I have a listening face.” Will tilted his head at the sound of the front door being pushed open. “And here's Kate back now. I suppose I should be making a move.”

Estelle wished he didn't have to go. As Norris noisily emptied his water bowl, Will lugged his battered weekend bag out to the car and said his good-byes. Feeling as if she'd lost her only ally, Estelle waved as the dusty Volkswagen bumped off down the drive. Back in the kitchen beadily eyeing first her mother, then the almost-empty bottle of wine, Kate asked, “What's been going on?”

“Nothing. Will helped me with the dishes. He's a nice man, don't you think?” Quite daringly for her, Estelle said, “So thoughtful.”

Kate's gaze narrowed as she surveyed her mother's pink-rimmed eyes.