Free Busy Woman Seeks Wife by Annie Sanders Page A

early sixties. That short straight nose, the full lower lip, the hair, now white, caught back
     in a velvet bow that nestled in the nape of her neck, just as it had been in that groundbreaking film with Terence Stamp.
     She turned and stared straight at him, the wide-apart, slightly feline eyes pinning him where he stood.
    He realized he’d been holding his breath. “You’re the Bean,” he exclaimed.
    She shrugged, and a hint of her bewitching smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. “Of course I am, darling. And you, I
     assume, are the ‘trusted friend’ sent by that wretched girl. Because if you’re here to rape and pillage, sweetie, I’m afraid
     you’ll have to come back tomorrow, once my daughter gets home.”
    Frankie knew he was gawking, but couldn’t quite seem to close his mouth. So this was Alex’s mother. This icon of swinging
     London, actress turned beatnik model turned screen goddess, nicknamed for her long, slender figure, was sitting right in front
     of him. Ella couldn’t have had a clue who she was. He’d dreamed of a moment like this, of what he’d say and how he’d be. And
     all he could do was stand there like a goldfish. The Bean took charge.
    “I’m gasping for a cup of tea.” She looked him up and down. “You do know how to make tea, don’t you? Because your friend is
     useless.”
    He found his voice. “She’s my sister actually.”
    The Bean looked unabashed. “Hope it’s not genetic,” she sniffed. Frankie smiled.
    “Lapsang, isn’t it?”
    She clapped her hands together and raised her eyes. “Heavens be praised! Someone with a little culture, at last. And perhaps
     even a lightly boiled egg?”
    Frankie nodded, still bemused. “Toast with that?”
    “Perfect. Not too well done though, darling.”
    “Anything on it?”
    The Bean shrugged eloquently. “If you can find any butter in this hellhole. I’m afraid my daughter’s tastes are a little unrefined.
     The best you’ll probably find in the refrigerator is a tub of that utterly unspeakable spreadable stuff.”
    He headed for the kitchen and found the list of instructions left by Alex before she’d gone away, along with the car keys
     and details of the outpatient appointment. After putting together the most tempting breakfast tray he could from the almost
     empty cupboards, he returned to the Bean and watched in pleasure as she picked daintily at the little triangles of toast and
     sipped her tea, then asked for more. Once she’d finished and had sat back in her chair with a contented sigh, he set about
     the tasks on the list, tackling a pile of ironing left undone by Ella from the day before, making up the Bean’s bed and vacuuming,
     with the Bean watching him closely from her chair by the window whenever he came into view. As the time for the appointment
     came closer, the Bean closed the bathroom door firmly and Frankie could hear the sounds of running water. She was taking a
     shower. It seemed odd to think of her as an old lady now when she was most famous for that iconic Terry Donovan photograph
     of her that, like loads of students, Frankie had had on his wall.
    When she reemerged she was fragrant, chic and, beneath her immaculately applied makeup, rather nervous-looking. She held on
     to his arm tightly as they walked downstairs together. Driving through London with the Bean beside him, Frankie had to pinch
     himself hard. Although he was concentrating on the unfamiliar car as he drove towards Chelsea and Westminster, he was intrigued
     by the running commentary she was keeping up in her throaty, patrician tones.
    “Went to the most fantastic party in that house there.” She pointed a varnished nail at an imposing front door. “Everyone
     was there. Alan, Julie, Glenda, Vanessa, dear Terence—remind me to tell you all about Terence one day, darling. Oh, it was
     the most tremendous fun…”
    At the hospital, Frankie found a space as close by as he could, then helped her out of the seat. She