Kitabı oku: «A Year of New Adventures»

Chapter Two

I once made the mistake of telling my boyfriend how hard it was to write a book and get it published, and Matt sneered and said writing was just drinking coffee and making stuff up. Why would that be difficult? He then added some pithy comments about how many Mint Clubs I had been getting through recently under the guise of plotting. In my defence they were on a BOGOF offer, and of course once they’re in the cupboard …

We broke up soon after that – I put up with a lot from him in our two years together but even I have my limits – still, I think he was partly right. I like Mint Clubs. I’m not ashamed to admit it. OK, I like most things that mix chocolate and biscuits, if I’m honest. Perhaps that’s why my figure is always slightly out of control.

It wasn’t a very merry Christmas last year. We had been about to go to New York as he had finally persuaded me there were holidays to be had outside Europe. I was fizzing with excitement. These sorts of trips were few and far between but Nan had left me a small inheritance that I’d been hanging on to and I’d just been paid for some private pre-Christmas catering, so for once I had some savings.

Unfortunately, I gave the money for my part of the holiday to Matt and I still haven’t got it back. Swine. We had been living together in the tumbledown Cotswold stone cottage my grandmother had been in the middle of renovating when she died. When we split up he left with my holiday to New York, most of my DVDs and all the decent towels.

New Year’s resolution: never do anything spontaneous.

My sister inherited the picture-perfect holiday house in Cornwall. Typical. In her will Nan said Josie ‘needed’ it more than I did. I guess that’s because Josie and Mark have two boys and their school has longer holidays than some members of the British aristocracy, while I had no kids and no prospect of any.

*

I started trying to write when I was doing English A level, and had just read Forever Amber. I quite fancied being a writer of historical fiction. After all, it didn’t need specialist equipment, formal training, or a particular level of physical fitness; the only thing it did require was aptitude.

Unfortunately, I was rubbish at it but for some reason I just couldn’t give up. I’ve been trying for eleven years. An eleven-year apprenticeship for God’s sake! I could have got a PhD. I could have learned how to rewire a house or renovate a canal boat in the same amount of time. Or at least had something to show for it other than a dead laptop and an unhealthy interest in stationery shops. I was always looking for that magic notebook that would make all the difference.

So, there I was at twenty-nine, living in the front bit of Windrush Cottage, Lower Bidford, while I waited for a miracle that would allow me to afford the renovations of the back part. The only increase in my net wealth was locked up in the value of the cottage. I still hadn’t got a proper career path mapped out. I was working part time in my uncle’s bookshop, and doing some occasional catering and cake decorating.

I suppose I still assumed I would one day magically produce a saleable book to make my fortune. Meanwhile, I had joined forces with my genuinely talented best friend Helena to run occasional writing retreats. And that’s what I was trying to do when Oliver Forest turned up at the last minute with his seafood allergy, his aversion to perfectly good chocolates, and his dark blue eyes, hell-bent on wrecking everything.

OK, the dark blue eyes bit shouldn’t matter; I don’t know why I mentioned them.

*

After he had rudely slammed the door in my face, Oliver Forest and Pippa stayed closeted in his bedroom for the next half-hour.

‘Perhaps they’re having sex?’ Helena whispered at one point, when it had all gone a bit quiet and we couldn’t hear him barking out instructions to the poor woman.

She edged closer to his door, crouched down, and angled her ear towards the keyhole. ‘Perhaps they’re doing it really quietly.’

‘I doubt it!’ I said. ‘I don’t think people like him do anything quietly.’

At that moment Pippa opened the door and stuck her head out. She looked down at Helena and seemed rather startled for a moment.

‘Could we have coffee?’ she said. ‘And I’d love one of those cookies.’

‘Of course,’ Helena said sweetly, pretending she had been about to re-tie her shoelaces, which was the wrong thing to do as she had slippers on. She recovered quickly by picking up a bit of fluff on the floor. I saw her checking to see if Pippa was in any way dishevelled. ‘Just come out when you’re ready.’

‘We’ll have it in here,’ Oliver said loudly.

Pippa gave a weak smile. ‘I’ll pop out in a minute for a tray shall I?’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ Helena said.

The door closed and we exchanged a look.

‘This is going to be a very long week,’ I said.

Helena, as is her way, tried to make the best of the situation. ‘Well let’s try and make sure he has nothing to complain about.’

She went and found a tray and wiped it over before she put out two matching mugs, a sugar bowl, a milk jug, and two polished teaspoons. Then we scrabbled around looking for the cafetière and some real coffee. I selected a pretty plate and put out some cookies before Helena found a nice little wicker basket and tipped them into that instead. Then, we took them all out again and this time lined the basket with a paper napkin. At last, after a bit of artful arranging – because there is only so much one can do with six choc-chip cookies – we took the tray up to the closed door and I knocked.

Pippa came to open it and took the tray from Helena. We both peered round her, trying to see what was going on.

‘Everything OK?’ I said cheerily, craning a little.

I could see Oliver Forest sitting in the armchair next to the window with a large notebook on his knee. He was writing, his dark hair tousled as he ran one hand through it. Almost as though he could feel my gaze on him, he looked up. His eyes really were beautiful, and he stared at me for a moment in that funny way writers do when they are deep in a plot and they aren’t actually seeing you.

Bloody hell.

#Rathergorgeous.

He was beyond handsome. How had I not noticed this before? He could have been a prototype for any dark and brooding hero. His long legs, one of them in the plastic boot, were stretched out on a footstool. He looked to be in his late thirties, had a clean jawline, strong straight nose, and rather kissable mouth.

He blinked a couple of times and came back into the real world with the rest of us. ‘What now for heaven’s sake? Is there a problem?’

‘No, no, no, absolutely not,’ I said, covered in confusion.

I backed away and trod on Helena’s foot, making her yelp. She started hopping around – her knee held very high – and I hopped after her, apologizing. We must have looked a right pair of clowns.

Luckily there was a knock on the back door and we scurried off to welcome the first of our other guests.

Happily it was a couple of old friends from our first retreat: Nancy and Vivienne, both retired teachers who had travelled down together from Shropshire.

‘Well the roads were really clear,’ Vivienne said, shedding her soft silk scarf and folding it neatly into her coat pocket. ‘We made excellent time. Have we missed anything?’

‘No, you’re the first to arrive. Apart from our unexpected extra,’ Helena said. She lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘He’s in his room. His name’s Oliver Forest.’

Nancy frowned. ‘Oliver Forest – that name’s familiar. Has he been before?’

‘No, believe me you would remember him,’ I said with feeling.

‘Did we ever teach a boy called Oliver Forest?’ Vivienne asked Nancy who had spotted the coffee and was already halfway through a cookie.

‘Maybe,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Short boy? Ginger?’

‘No, he’s dark-haired and’– ridiculously good-looking – ‘quite tall,’ I said.

‘Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Come on, Nancy, let’s go and get settled in. It’s always the exciting bit, finding out what our rooms are like. Are we next door to each other again?’

We took them upstairs and along the corridor that divided the house in half. The floorboards – centuries old and polished by time to a wonderful patina – were warped and uneven. The house was scented with wax polish and wood smoke and bowls of potpourri in odd little nooks. I began to calm down again. Oliver Forest was only one person. There was no reason why he should monopolize the week. It would be OK.

I trundled Vivienne’s suitcase into the front bedroom where a high four-poster bed was waiting, piled high with snowy bed linen and pillows. There was a built-in wardrobe whose doors lurched unevenly to one side, wedged shut with a scrap of cardboard, a huge tapestry armchair in one corner, and a rickety Indian carved table.

‘The bathroom is down there, between your room and Elaine’s.’

‘I thought Elaine was going to have the downstairs room,’ Nancy said. ‘I remember because it’s got an en suite, and I wanted it.’

‘She did, but Oliver Forest has a leg in a boot and he commandeered it before I could stop him. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Elaine,’ I said.

Nancy went into her room – a large single with an exceptionally ugly turquoise sink in one corner.

‘Goodness, this is a ghastly thing,’ Vivienne said, evidently pleased that she had the better room. ‘How did they get away with putting this in? I thought this house was listed?’

‘Ah but just think! This could be the very sink where Charles I brushed his teeth before the Battle of Bosworth,’ Nancy said.

Vivienne snorted. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake. So what time is lunch? One o’clock? Good, there’s time to get freshened up and have a power nap.’

Nancy went into her room and closed the door and I went downstairs to help Helena with lunch. I was going to make soup and she had arranged a fresh fruit platter. There’s no point loading people up with large meals in the middle of the day; they only go to sleep and miss out on good writing time in the afternoon.

Suddenly the door to Oliver Forest’s room opened and Pippa came out, struggling into her coat. She looked like a condemned prisoner seeing the cell door left unexpectedly open.

‘Are you off then?’ I said.

Pippa closed Oliver’s door quietly behind her and came towards me, her eyes slightly wild.

‘Yes, I’m … absolutely … I’ll avoid the traffic if I go now … Paris … I might …’

She had already missed the armhole of one sleeve three times and I went to help her.

‘Are you sure you’re OK? Would you like a drink of water or something?’

‘Yes fine. No. Really. Absolutely.’

She had an outstandingly pretty face, but it was clouded with unease. I could almost feel the stress coming off her in waves.

‘I wonder if you could take Mr Forest in some more coffee in a minute? Black, no sugar. And don’t bother with those silly little mugs – I think he’d prefer a bucket if anything. He has lunch between one-thirty and two p.m. But no shellfish and definitely no cheese – it makes him sleepy and grouchy.’

‘No cheese; thank you for the warning. I don’t think we’d want to risk making him grouchy would we?’ I said. ‘But surely he’d want to come out and meet everyone?’

Pippa shot me the smallest smile. ‘Good luck with that then.’

I trailed after her as she edged towards the back door. I was curious to find out more before she disappeared in a flurry of angst.

‘Back to London are you? I expect you’ll enjoy a few days off,’ I said.

‘Yes, I mean no … I have plenty to keep me occupied. Paris – I should – Oliver’s work, difficult, you know how it is.’ She stopped to blow her nose on a tissue and take a deep breath. I swear she was about to burst into tears. ‘And, of course, the blasted launch has been postponed. It’s far from ideal … but then needs must. Anyway, I’ll be along on Friday to collect Mr Forest.’

‘We have to be out by ten-thirty, remember? Don’t be late! We don’t want to have to leave him on the doorstep!’

‘Yes of course. God Almighty! No, please don’t! He’d go mad!’ Pippa said, wide-eyed at the prospect.

‘I was joking,’ I said.

‘Oh. Were you? OK. Well you’ve got my mobile number. Right, I’ll be off.’

Pippa shot out of the door and round the corner of the house. I closed the door after her and went back to my vegetables, wondering what it would be like to work for someone who was so terrifying.

Five minutes later Oliver’s door opened and the man himself stood there. ‘I thought you were bringing me coffee?’ he said.

Ah! I had of course forgotten. I gave a nervous little laugh.

‘Yes, just coming. Awfully sorry, you see I was a bit busy with …’

‘In your own time,’ he said and closed the door again.

I pulled a face at where he had been and went to flick the kettle on. Black, no sugar, and in a bucket. Right, I could do that.

There was a knock on the back door and a worried little face at the glass peering in. She gave a big smile when she saw me.

‘You must be Elaine!’ I went to open the door and helped her in with her suitcase that was almost as big as she was. ‘How lovely to meet you at last. Come on in and make yourself at home. We’re very glad to welcome you. Helena is upstairs with our other guests Nancy and Vivienne, although I think Vivienne was going to have a nap.’

Elaine took off her fingerless mittens and unwound her woolly scarf.

‘What a lovely house – lots of character in these old half-timbered places. You can almost feel the history can’t you? If these walls could talk eh? I bet there would be a few tales. Do you know, I was saying to Frank the other day …’

Oliver’s door opened again at this point and Oliver stood there, his face dark and irritated.

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Coffee?’ he said. ‘Today?’

‘Of course, sorry I was just getting Elaine settled. This is Elaine by the way. She’s …’

Oliver closed his bedroom door again with a noticeable slam.

‘… the one whose bedroom you nicked,’ I finished.

‘He’s in my room?’ Elaine said, and turned her worried round face to look at me.

‘I’m sorry; it seems he’s injured his ankle. He’s in one of those boot things. He just went in there before I could stop him. I would have got him out but he’s not very friendly.’

‘No,’ Elaine said looking at the closed door thoughtfully. ‘He’s not very polite either is he?’

I stood up and went to make a cafetière of coffee and poured out a cup for Elaine. She was busy looking through her handbag and pulling out paperwork, charging cables, spectacles, and all sorts of odds and ends.

I found one of those awful oversized mugs decorated with a slogan for chocolate that usually come with Easter eggs and are really only useful for storing pencils. I put it on the tray with the cafetière and went and knocked on Oliver’s door.

‘Come.’

I went in. He was still sitting with his feet up on the footstool, writing in his notebook. He didn’t look up as I came in.

‘Leave it on the table,’ he said.

‘Please,’ I muttered.

He seemed not to hear.

‘Anything else I can get you?’ I said.

‘I want lunch at one-thirty,’ he said.

Oh do you?

‘Yes, Pippa said you did. Well we generally have it ready from one, as we explained in the joining notes. But just come out when you’re ready and help yourself. Everything will be out on the table. I’m making vegetable soup …’

‘I’d prefer it in here,’ he said.

Oh would you? Would you indeed?

Well I’d prefer to be a stone lighter and six inches taller.

I’d prefer to drive an Aston Martin.

I’d prefer to have swishy, glossy hair instead of this unmanageable brown mop.

I plastered a smile on my face and moved the table closer to his chair so he could reach it. I’d made him an eight-cup cafetière in a rather sarcastic way; if he got through that lot before lunch he’d be crashing off the ceiling.

‘Fine, of course. Whatever you want. It would be nice to meet the others though wouldn’t it?’

He looked up, his expression stony. ‘What others? I didn’t know there would be any others. Is that what all that noise is?’

‘Oh, but I told you …’

‘Pippa assured me I would have the house to myself. I made it perfectly clear what I wanted. I assumed she had listened. I assumed you had.’

Assume? Hmm.

I started to edge away from him and towards the safety of the kitchen. ‘Pippa must have misunderstood. I could give you a hand to get to the table if you need one?’ I said.

He looked up and fixed me with a dark blue stare. The sort my school sports teacher used to give me when I said I had forgotten my gym kit for the fourth time.

‘I don’t need a hand,’ he said, ‘just lunch. At one-thirty. Is your name really Billie? What’s that short for then? Wilhelmina?’ He gave a snort of amusement.

‘No, actually it’s short for Billericay,’ I said sadly. ‘It’s been a complete nightmare all my life.’ I bit my lip and looked away.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Really? I’m so sorry, I mean I didn’t mean …’

I took pity on him. ‘I’m kidding. It’s short for Sybilla, which is just as bad really isn’t it?’

He didn’t answer.

I went back to the kitchen and when I had closed the door I’m afraid I stuck my tongue out at him.

Elaine was still rifling through her capacious handbag and pulled out some printed emails with a little harrumph of satisfaction.

‘Look, I did ask for the ground-floor room. I thought I had. Is there another one perhaps?’