Liz Fielding: Her Ideal Husband

‘It’s true,’ Rosie added, helpfully. ‘Aunt Dee said so.’

Dee was undoubtedly right, but she wished her sister would keep her thoughts to herself. Or at least not voice them in front of the girls.

Fat chance. Her sister was hell-bent on fixing her up with a new husband, someone who fitted Dee’s idea of what was suitable for a little sister who couldn’t be trusted to choose someone for herself. Someone steady. Someone who wouldn’t, under any circumstances, ride a motorcycle.

An accountant, perhaps. Or, even better, an actuary, like her own husband. A man genetically programmed not to take unacceptable risks.

Unfortunately, much as she liked her brother-in-law, Stacey just couldn’t get terribly excited at the thought of being married to his clone. Her thoughts strayed to the stranger camping on the far side of her garden and she found herself smiling. There were some things that money couldn’t ever compensate for.

But as Stacey handed her younger daughter her ice cream, she promised herself she would have that door repainted, with its furniture in place and working when her sister came to lunch on Saturday. If it killed her.

Actually, though, her encounter with Nash Gallagher had given her an idea. Well, more than one, but she was a realist. Sex among the strawberries was fine when you were young and fancy-free but mothers had responsibilities. Mothers had to be sensible.

She let the tempting thought slip away and concentrated on the sensible one. Her house might not be fit for a feature in one of those ‘beautiful homes’ magazines, and it might not appeal to fussy buyers with a world of houses to choose from, but it was habitable. And she had a spare bedroom. Two, if she included the attic. Nash might be happy to sleep in a tent, but there were plenty of other people who would rather have hot water and clean sheets. Maybe she could let the rooms to a couple of students.

At her present rate of progress it would be a while before she could lick the house into shape and two students would make quite a difference when it came to paying the bills. And if they were a couple of willing lads, or girls, the kind who knew one end of a screwdriver from the other, it would be even better. In return for a little home cooking, they might achieve the same purpose as a capable man without all the disadvantages that went with the kind of husband a widow approaching thirty, with two little girls to bring up, could hope to attract.

Nash found himself grinning as he cleared away the broken glass, smiling as he remembered the way Stacey had coloured up when he’d caught her with her hand in the strawberry patch. He’d have sworn modern women had forgotten how to blush.

He should be feeling guilty for embarrassing her like that: a young widow with two little girls. Thoroughly ashamed of himself. Hell, he was ashamed, but that blush had been worth it.

Then the smile faded as he looked about him.

Industrial units.

Landscaped, low-rise industrial units. On paper it hadn’t sounded so bad. Standing here with the gentle slope of the wheatfield rising to a spinney that broke up the smooth line of the earth against the sky and with the peach trees basking against the centuries-old wall, it wasn’t quite so easy to be dismissive of the destruction.

On paper the choice had looked simple. Putting down roots had no appeal to him. He wasn’t sentimental about the past. His childhood hadn’t been the kind to get sentimental over.

But standing there, surrounded by the few good memories, it wasn’t quite so easy to dismiss.

‘You’re not getting any younger and children are a high-cost luxury.’

‘Make a record, Dee; it’ll save the wear and tear on your vocal cords,’ Stacey said, without rancour. She knew her sister meant well.

‘I would if I thought you’d listen to it. You need a husband and the girls need a father.’

‘I don’t need a husband, I need an odd-job man. And the girls have a father. No one can replace Mike.’

‘No.’ Dee, apparently about to make an unflattering comment about his parenting skills, hesitated, and went for tact instead. ‘Mike’s not here, Stacey,’ she said, kindly. Tact? Kindly? This was more than her usual ‘it’s-time-you-moved-on’ speech. She was up to something, Stacey thought. ‘You owe it to them to find them a father…a father-figure,’ she amended, quickly. ‘Someone who could give them all the advantages they deserve.’ Stacey began clearing the table in an attempt to avoid what was coming next. Dee was not to be distracted. ‘Lawrence Fordham for instance.’

So, this wasn’t just a general buck-yourself-up-and-get-out-there pep-talk. This was altogether more serious.

‘Lawrence?’ she repeated. ‘You want me to marry your boss?’

‘Why not? He’s a nice man. Steady, reliable, mature.’ Adjectives that could, by no stretch of the imagination, have been applied to Mike. But then, at eighteen, Stacey hadn’t been looking for those qualities in a man. Which was just as well, since she hadn’t got them. ‘He’s just a bit shy, that’s all.’

‘Just a bit,’ she agreed. She’d been put next to him at a recent lunch party at her sister’s house... Ah. So that was it. She wouldn’t make an effort, so her sister was making it for her. It should have been funny. But once Dee got an idea in her head she was harder to shake off than a shadow. ‘Small talk drips from his lips the way blood drips from a stone.’

‘That’s not fair. Once you get to know him—’

‘I do know him and you’re right, he’s a nice man.’ If you enjoyed talking about cheese production, or yoghurt culture. ‘I just wasn’t planning on anything more intimate—’

‘Okay, he’s not pin-up material, but let’s face it, sweetie, how many men-to-die-for do you know who are lining up, panting for a date?’

‘He’s panting?’ Stacey enquired, wickedly. ‘Lawrence?’

‘Of course not,’ Dee snapped. ‘You know what I mean!’ Stacey knew. She’d had her man-to-die-for and there was only one of those per lifetime. Which was probably just as well. Now she had to be sensible, but the prospect of dating men like Lawrence for the rest of her life, or worse, settling down with someone like him, was just so depressing.

‘He’s solid, Stacey. He wouldn’t let you down.’

Meaning that if he was inconsiderate enough to die on her, he wouldn’t leave her with a house that swallowed money, two children to bring up single-handed and no visible means of support, Stacey supposed.

‘He couldn’t let me down, Dee. We are acquaintances. Nothing more,’ she added, just to make her position quite clear.

‘Well, that’s about to change,’ Dee replied, ignoring her sister’s position. ‘I told him that you’d be his date for the firm’s dinner next Saturday.’

‘You did what!’ Stacey didn’t wait for her sister for repeat herself. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘Why? He’s personable. He’s got all his own hair and teeth and no bad habits.’ Stacey wondered if her sister was prepared to guarantee that in writing, but didn’t want to prolong the conversation. ‘He’ll make someone a wonderful husband and you need one more than most.’

‘Husband? I thought we were just talking about a date.’

‘We are. But you’re mature people. You’d be good for Lawrence, bring him out of himself. And he’d be very good for you. He wouldn’t even mind if you turned his garden into a weed patch.’ Because he wouldn’t notice. ‘You do the best you can, but don’t pretend it isn’t a struggle.’ Stacey wasn’t about to. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference if she did, because Dee knew better. ‘You will come on Saturday, won’t you?’

‘Oh, Dee…’