The Mini-Break

by Maddie Please

  By now an hour and a half had passed and all I had to show for it was a load of flour over the front of my favourite jeans and some residual crunching underfoot.

  Eventually I encouraged the blasted cake into the hotter of the two ovens and I set to clearing up the devastation I had left in my wake. It looked as though there had been a badly behaved playgroup through the kitchen. It wasn’t like this for Nigella. She just seemed to swap one cashmere cardigan for another through choice not because she was filthy dirty.

  At last I sat down with a very large glass of red wine and realised my feet and my back were aching. This cake-making business was exhausting too. How come Mary Berry looked so trim and clean when she finished cooking? All she had to do was wink at the camera and say this is a bit of all right. Perhaps unlike me she remembered to put the flour guard on when she started the KitchenAid? Maybe she had a team of people to scrape the cake mix off the wall?

  *

  By the time it was done it was nearly seven thirty and I was shattered. I went upstairs and had a shower and put on my warmest pyjamas (SpongeBob SquarePants) and a man’s tartan dressing gown Sally had left hanging behind the bedroom door. I even had some slippers; rather disreputable things Jassy had bought me for a joke at Christmas that looked like gorilla feet, hairy and with claws. So I looked a sight. Still when I went back to the kitchen the cake was just about cool enough to wedge together with some raspberry jam. I looked at it with a critical eye and compared it to the picture in the book. There was of course no comparison. Mine looked as though it had been run over. Mary Berry would have wept.

  I cut myself a chunk and refilled my wine glass and went to sit next to the fire. Just as I took a bite – I mean the exact second – someone rang the doorbell.

  It seemed the Cakes for Lovers had worked its magic. There on the doorstep – dressed in a waxed jacket and wellington boots – was Joe Field. And I was still chewing. I had to. Far from being as ‘fluffy as a cloud’, my cake was claggy, clogging up my palate, gluing my teeth together and resisting my attempts to swallow it. We stood and looked at each other for a second.

  ‘Bwaro,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, running a hand through his curls. He looked me up and down, his expression rather puzzled. ‘Are you going to bed?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘I’ve been making a cake,’ I said as though it was an obvious reply.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ he said, biting his lip. He was laughing at me – I know he was. And why wouldn’t he? I always seemed to be covered in food.

  ‘… and I got a bit messy.’

  ‘Yes, I see. I saw your card through the door.’

  ‘I would invite you in, but well, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Of course not, I thought I’d just pop by and see if you were okay.’

  The man was always popping. How could I get him to stop? How could I get him to come in at a time when I was dressed, clean, relatively sane and sober? And where had he been?

  ‘I’m fine!’ I said a bit too enthusiastically.

  We stood in silence for a moment and then we both spoke at once.

  ‘I’ve been …’

  ‘You could …’

  ‘So you’re settled in?’ Joe said at last.

  ‘Yes. I needed a change. I was finding life a bit hectic,’ I said.

  ‘Yes I can imagine. Lots to do.’

  ‘How is Ivy?’ I said.

  ‘She’s great. She gets tired easily but you wouldn’t know we’d had all that drama. My mother called in to sit with her while I came over.’

  ‘I’m so pleased! That’s fantastic news.’

  His face softened and he smiled. ‘Yes. Ivy was asking about you too. Wondering how you were and where you were.’

  ‘Was she? That’s amazing! I didn’t think she would remember me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Oh Ivy notices everything. She’s taken rather a shine to you.’

  We stood and shuffled a bit and I thought well blow it, he’s seen me in all my glory I might as well invite him in.

  Too late. He spoke first.

  ‘Well I’d better get back. I just wanted to … you know … call in and make sure you were okay.’

  I fought down the rather lovely memory of him with his shirt off the last time we had met and felt myself blush.

  ‘Brilliant! Lovely! Yes I’m absolutely fine. Very happy indeed,’ I said, trying to hide my gorilla slippers by half closing the door.

  He stepped away. It was only afterwards that I realised he probably thought I was closing the door on him. That’s how daft I am.

  ‘That’s good. Of course you are. Well, I’ll be off then.’

  ‘Super!’

  Super? Since when did I say things like that?

  He gave a tight little smile and turned and walked away. A second later I heard a vehicle start up and the gleam of headlights shone out across the darkness. Whatever he was driving sounded pretty heavy duty; maybe it was his Land Rover. Not one of the poncey Chelsea Tractors you get in Notting Hill with leather seats and air conditioning and Yankee Candle air fresheners hanging from the rear-view mirror, but a throaty roar of something that was probably much muddier and had a bale of straw and a sheepdog in the back.

  Buggeration.

  I dawdle about the Devon lanes for days waiting for an unexpected sighting of the man, and when he eventually turns up I am dressed like an oversized child, have a gob full of cake, am devoid of any make-up and am wearing gorilla feet slippers.

  Just brilliant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was probably coming across as slightly crazy, possibly even weird. It seemed that just about every time Joe saw me I was doing something stupid, wandering about with no shoes on or covered in food. Perhaps I should calm down a bit. If I was going to stay here for any length of time I ought to behave like a normal, local person. What did local people do?

  I went and had a shower while I thought about it. Then I narrowly avoided spraying under my arms with some hairspray instead of deodorant, went downstairs and prepared a civilised breakfast. Toast and marmalade and coffee. I didn’t spill anything or drop anything down my front. I could do this. I was after all old enough to know the difference between being a delightfully kooky young woman in the manner of Goldie Hawn at her best and a slightly off-putting eccentric who couldn’t be relied upon not to make a scene in a pub.

  Of course! I would go to the pub!

  I was going to be here for some time so I would make the Cat and Convict my local hang-out. I would be friendly and approachable and take an interest in whatever it was that people did here. Perhaps there would be a fete in the offing or a Women’s Institute Sale of Produce? Good decision. I would start today.

  I made a pact with myself: I would spend all day working on Choose Yes and as a reward for good behaviour I would go to the pub for dinner. I would eat sparingly and sensibly through the day and that would mean I could have something gloriously filling later. And not have to wash up afterwards. And maybe Joe would be there. Or not. It didn’t actually matter, did it?

  I stuck to my plan, made myself a cafetière of coffee and went to sit next to the wood burner. It was such a great place to work, warm and comfortable, and when I needed something to look at and think, there were few things better to look at than a fire. I got right into my writing in a way I hadn’t been able to do for a very long time. Although somewhere along the line I managed to eat half a packet of custard creams.

  There was some sludgy-looking soup left over from my last attempt to be domestic, so I had that for lunch. I was doing well. Apart from the salt and vinegar crisps. But they were part of a multipack and everyone knows they aren’t as full as single ones. #Clutchingatstraws.

  At five thirty I set off for the Cat and Convict. Then I turned the car round and went back home to pick up my laptop so I could check my emails while I had the chance for reliable Wi-Fi. If I was the only one in there because there was something more interesting going on that evening I
wouldn’t have to read old copies of the parish magazine.

  I’d almost set off again when I remembered my laptop was almost out of charge so I went back for the charging cable. Honestly you wouldn’t think there were so many things to consider. I’m sure life wasn’t so complicated back in London. But then in London there weren’t roads with grass growing down the middle, unexpected views of moorland and distant glimpses of snow, packed hard against the rocks on the horizon. I stood for a moment watching a buzzard soaring above me, circling lazily in the still evening air and felt a jolt of pure happiness shoot through me.

  In the Cat and Convict there were a few people already there propping up the bar, and some nice tables free. I went to sit down near a handy plug socket and opened my laptop.

  ‘’ere she is! Nice to see you agin.’

  It was Pete the barman, standing next to me, wiping his hands on what looked suspiciously like the same tea towel he had been using the last time I was there.

  ‘Oh hello. It’s Pete isn’t it?’ I said, trying to look approachable and pleasant and not as though I was still worrying about his Food Hygiene Rating certificate.

  He stood grinning broadly at me for a moment and then handed me a menu.

  ‘Once seen ne’er forgit!’ he said. He sounded pleased to be remembered. ‘So what kin I getcha, me duck?’

  I translated and thought for a moment. ‘A large glass of red wine and—’

  ‘Pie du jewer is snake and pigmy,’ he said, chuckling at himself, ‘just kidding you, me duck. Steak and Kidley I means to say. With mash, chips or bless me, both if you’m feeling adventurous?’

  Pie and chips. Yes, and Joe wasn’t there to watch me eat it. Perhaps I’d risk it.

  He brought me back about half a bottle of wine in a large glass and ten minutes later a pie the size of a small hatbox accompanied by a glistening pile of chips and an apologetic-looking salad garnish, which Pete nodded at with some pride.

  ‘There you is me duck. I know you ladies like a bit of greenery.’

  Oh well.

  Over at the bar three elderly men were silently downing pints of beer and staring at their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. Another was reading something on an iPad and a fifth was doing a crossword. Pete decided to lighten the atmosphere with some piped music and switched on a selection of country and western music that had the beer drinkers frowning in annoyance until one of them yelled at him to turn it off.

  ‘Jes tring to raise the tone,’ he grumbled, ‘and mind yewer language, Dick Marrick, ladies present.’

  The men all turned to look at me and I blushed over my pie and tried to chew daintily.

  ‘Waiting to see Joe Field I’ll be bound,’ Pete said with a cheerful wink.

  ‘Who is?’ asked one of the beer drinkers – distinguished by his jaunty maroon knitted waistcoat.

  ‘You’m blind as a white cat with a blue eye,’ Pete said, wiping the bar down with his trusty tea towel.

  They all turned to look at me again.

  ‘Oh!’ said the waistcoat wearer. ‘I see.’

  Pete turned the music back on – a selection of slightly less frantic oldies – and the beer drinkers went back to their self-appraisal. The man with the crossword read out a clue and the others sucked their teeth and offered inaccurate suggestions.

  Pete came out from behind the bar, his tea towel tucked into his belt.

  ‘Now how are you getting on, me duck? Few more chips with that?’

  I swallowed my mouthful. ‘I’ll never finish all this lot, but thanks all the same.’

  He dabbed at the next-door table with the end of his tea towel. ‘Joe Field don’t often come in mid-week.’

  ‘No?’ I tried to look disinterested. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘More likely tomorrow lunchtime, what with Ivy in school and that,’ he added with a meaningful look.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But sometimes he comes in of a Friday evening when young Ivy’s off at Brownies. Curry night, Fridays are. Curry and a pint of Cat’s Piss. Very popular that is. I’ll mention you was looking for him when I see him, shall I?’

  ‘God no! I mean no thank you,’ I said, taking a gulp of my wine.

  What on earth was I doing here? Making a fool of myself. It would be all over the local paper if I weren’t careful.

  Obsessed and sex-starved London exile looking for love. Lulu Darling, 35 39, was seen in the Cat and Convict yesterday pretending to work on her laptop but in fact hoping for hunky farmer Joe Field to turn up and take her back to his farmhouse where he would …

  Would what?

  What was I hoping to achieve? More of the same? More hot sex? I thought about it for a second. Worse things could happen, I suppose. But really, I just wanted to see him, talk to him. Find that feeling again, the one that had made me do this in the first place.

  I realised Pete was still hanging about, rubbing at a couple of the gleaming horse brasses hanging from the mantelpiece on leather straps.

  I put my knife and fork together. ‘Thanks, that was really great.’

  Pete picked up my plate. ‘Puddin’, me duck?’

  ‘No, no I’m full; I couldn’t manage anything else. Just the bill please.’

  He took my plate away and I opened up my laptop again. A couple of emails pinged in. Discounted holidays in India, final reductions on some overpriced handbags.

  The bar was filling up now with some jolly-looking people and an older, tweedy couple who seemed to know everyone. They had brought in two muddy spaniels that were obviously torn between wanting to lie by the fire and being only too aware of the pub cat lurking on the chair next to it.

  The woman removed one of her tweed layers and came to warm herself in front of the fire. She threw me a friendly look.

  ‘Evening. Raw out there isn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ I said.

  I typed a few words, aware that she was watching me.

  ‘Not seen you in here before, just visiting?’

  In my usual London haunts no one would dream of asking such a question, so it was a bit unsettling.

  ‘Um yes, I’m staying up the road for a few weeks. Working.’

  ‘Just – I think I know you? Have we met?’ She pulled off her gloves and extended a cold hand. She was probably in her sixties, very slim with bright intelligent eyes and a nose glowing red with the cold. ‘Isobel Trevose.’

  ‘Lulu Darling.’

  She grinned. ‘Lulu Darling? I knew it! The writer? I thought I recognised you. How marvellous. I’m such a fan.’

  She turned to where her companion was ordering drinks and almost fell over a spaniel crouched behind her feet and casting terrified glances at the cat.

  ‘William! Come over here. You’ll never guess who this is!’

  By now of course everyone in the pub had turned and were unashamedly staring at me.

  Maroon Waistcoat pushed his spectacles up his nose.

  ‘Who is she then? Not that Holly Willoughby, is it?’

  Isobel’s companion came over, pulling off his fleece hat. He stared at me a bit, looking nonplussed. He was very tall and his ruffled grey hair stood up like a crest.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sure I should know …’

  ‘It’s Lulu Darling, Will! The writer! I’ve got all her books. Well, I did have until I gave them to the church jumble.’ She rolled her eyes at me and then peered down at my open laptop. ‘Honestly, men! Are you working on your next masterpiece?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘What’s it about? No, don’t tell me, I want it to be a surprise. I’ve only just finished one – the one where the girl fell down the cliff and had to be rescued. And then she met that man with the Labrador and she thought he didn’t like her because he ignored her on the train and then she found out he was deaf. That one.’

  ‘Listen to My Heart?’

  ‘That’s the one. I thought it was terrif. And before that I read the one about the doctor who knocked the nurse on the bike down. And she w
as concussed and kissed him in the ambulance.’

  ‘Best Before Date?’

  ‘Yes and then …’

  Will put a glass of red wine in her hand.

  ‘Izzy love, I think you’re probably interrupting Miss Darling’s train of thought.’

  Isobel took a slurp of wine and stared at me, her eyes round. ‘God, I probably am. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine, really. I was about to go anyway. I was just doing some tinkering. I’ve been writing all day. I needed to get out and I’m not a brilliant cook.’

  ‘The food here is great isn’t it? I say, you wouldn’t come and talk to our book group would you? We meet every other Thursday. We’ve just started a new book, the last one was dire. A Girl in something. Girl in a Garden? Girl in Hysterics? I can’t remember – that shows how good it was. But anyway I’m sure we would all like to hear you instead. Some of the books we read are really hard going with hardly any plot to speak of. The one before last was just a series of pretentious ramblings about an old man with Alzheimer’s talking about the war and how he led a bombing raid on Dresden when in fact he’d been in prison for desertion. Connie was incandescent. Her uncle was one of the Few. What do you say?’

  ‘Um I don’t know,’ I said, feeling a bit winded by Isobel’s vivacity. Will meanwhile had gone to sit at the adjoining table and pulled a packet of pork scratchings out of his coat pocket. He threw one each to the spaniels and they caught them with an ease born of long practice. The cat hissed at them.

  Isobel clapped her hands together. ‘Well, look, think about it. I’ll leave you in peace. We meet in the Village Hall this week at two thirty; you’d be awfully welcome, even if it’s just for a chat. We’ve never had a celebrity before. Although Sue brought her mother along once – she was engaged once to someone in a group. The Tremeloes, I think, or it could have been the Merseybeats, I can’t really remember. She had some great gossip though once she’d had a couple of glasses of vino.’ She reached into her handbag, pulled out a card and handed it to me. ‘That’s me, give me a ring if you like.’