She went to sit down at the adjoining table and I packed up my laptop, coiling up the cable.
‘We’ve not driven you away have we?’ she called across.
‘Wouldn’t blame her,’ Will said.
‘No not at all, I was on my way home anyway.’
I made my excuses and got as far as the door before I remembered I hadn’t paid the bill and had to go back.
Pete took my money and I dropped the change into the half coconut shell by the till marked ‘tips’.
‘I see you made a friend,’ Pete said, nodding his head towards Isobel. ‘That’s nice. You want to ask her about Joe – she’d know.’
‘I’m fine, really it’s not important.’
Too late. Pete shouted across the room to where Isobel and Will were studying the menu.
‘Izzy me duck, where’s yon Joe got to? Young lady here would like to know.’
‘No I wouldn’t, I mean it’s really not important,’ I said, feeling rather hot and bothered.
‘Joe? Who wants to know?’
Pete pointed at me. ‘You want to ask Izzy. She’s his mother after all.’
I turned back open-mouthed. Isobel pulled a funny face and waggled jazz hands at me.
‘Guilty as charged,’ she said, ‘we’ll both have the chicken pie, Pete.’
Chapter Fourteen
Over the next couple of days, I read through Choose Yes again and was frankly appalled. No wonder Sally hadn’t liked it. It was cobblers. I should have known better. I couldn’t quite understand how it had happened. I was well known for being able to churn out at least one publishable book every year; I’d never had any problem before. I knew what my readers liked and I gave it to them. Sometimes with a medical slant, sometimes a hint of mistaken identity, adultery or unexpected illness. Everyone was happy in the end; the Amazon reviews were always very cheering. Well, nearly always. There’s always someone who likes to dole out snide comments and one star when they obviously haven’t read the book at all and couldn’t produce one themselves if Jilly Cooper held their hand all the way through.
I had taken Sally’s hard copy of the blasted book to work through and a box of sharpened pencils. Page by page I crossed things out, scribbled notes, screwed up pages in disgust and then had to smooth them out again. It was really boring. I mean, the book was boring and that’s unforgivable.
Eventually after a couple of days I came up for air and realised I needed to do something drastic. Right. What? How drastic?
I was out of milk and bread and biscuits, three things I couldn’t do without, so I went out shopping first thing, wondering if Superfine did home deliveries. Apparently not.
Maureen, the assistant I recognised from my previous visits, was there and ready to chat despite the fact that my trolley contained several hazardous foodstuffs.
‘Hello again,’ she said, examining a chocolate Swiss roll that had found its way into my shopping. She chuckled. ‘I remember these. My old mum used to think they was puddin’s and she gave ’em to us with custard.’
Brilliant idea, I thought.
‘And when we told her they was cake she was mortified. How have you been? Not snowed in that time?’
‘No, all fine,’ I said.
‘Busy day is it?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I said with a bit of a shrug.
I hardly ever tell people I’m a writer because more often than not the person hasn’t heard of you and then it gets embarrassing. Or they have a story to tell about a friend who wrote a book and couldn’t get it published. Or they think you earn as much as J.K. Rowling and look at you sideways.
Maureen wasn’t about to give up. ‘So back to work now?’
‘Yes, cup of tea and a Penguin. That will keep me going.’
Maureen looked carefully at the new pack of propelling pencils I’d bought. They were really pretty with patterns of leaves and shells and I never could resist.
‘What do you do, me duck? Are you a teacher?’
‘No, I’m a writer.’
‘Writer. That’s nice. I like a good book.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Murder. I like a good murder. I can’t be doing with all the sloppy stuff. Love and such. My sister lent me a book about a girl who met a billionaire and all they did was argue for two hundred pages until the last chapter when he ups and proposes. Now how can that work eh? You tell me.’
‘Difficult,’ I agreed, shoving my shopping into bags and wondering how I could change the subject.
‘So what do you write?’ Maureen said, peering at the calorie values of some ice cream tubs.
‘The latest one is a bit of a horror,’ I said truthfully, ‘but I’m trying to do something about it.’
*
I got back to Barracane House, unloaded my shopping and realised it was Thursday. There was something I was going to do but for a while I couldn’t remember what. I made coffee and had some elevenses and scrawled across a few more pages of Choose Yes before I remembered Isobel’s book group – that was it. I’d been invited to go along by Joe’s mother. An opportunity I couldn’t really miss if I wanted to find out more about him.
At two thirty I parked outside the village hall, watching half a dozen women filing in carrying books and a couple of cake tins. Inside there was a general hum of chatter that halted quite dramatically when I came in.
‘Oh my, you came after all! Look, everyone! It’s Lulu Darling! The one I told you about!’
It was Isobel Trevose, hurrying across to greet me, then introduce me to everyone and usher me to a chair next to hers all in the same breath.
‘Janice, Mary, Trisha and Hilary. And this is Connie and the one with the plate of flapjacks is Sue.’
The other ladies sorted out teas and coffees and put the cakes out onto plates, sat down, introduced themselves and then looked at me hopefully as though they were expecting me to do tricks or reveal the secrets of the universe.
‘So, Lulu, tell us all about yourself,’ Isobel said.
‘Nothing like putting her on the spot,’ Sue said and they all laughed.
‘What are you all reading?’ I said instead.
Isobel picked up her paperback and showed me. ‘Hector’s Walk by Jessie Clara Jones. It’s had such rave reviews. Have you read it?’
‘No, I never seem to have the time to read other people’s books these days,’ I admitted. ‘I mean I get sent a lot of books but I hardly ever get round to reading them.’
Isobel dropped the book on the table with a dismissive hand. ‘Well don’t start with this one. We’re finding it very hard going aren’t we, ladies?’
There was a general hum of agreement.
‘Lulu, tell us how you got started as a writer. I’m sure we would love to know, wouldn’t we?’ said another. I think it was Connie, distinguished by brightly hennaed hair and an orange batik scarf that clashed quite alarmingly.
There was a lot of nodding at this.
I’ve done this a lot. Hearing about how writers got their toes on the publishing ladder endlessly fascinates people. I’ve told the story so often I could do it in my sleep.
‘I was in my first term in university and I ran out of money after a fortnight. My parents were in China – they were going through the period when they described themselves as travel writers. I think it was just an excuse to keep on travelling. My younger sister Jasmine was at boarding school so she was no use. So I sent a load of my short stories to a magazine editor my father knew and he bought four. In those days you got paid almost immediately, well I did anyway. Perhaps he was just being kind. And he asked me to do some more. They eventually bought a dozen and I made enough money to get through the term without admitting I’d spent my entire term’s allowance at the student union on beer and fags.’
Everyone laughed.
‘And then he called me in for a chat – he looked like Father Christmas and his name was Cornelius Maximillian-Alexander – he suggested I write a book. So I did.’
‘Just
like that?’ Sue said.
‘Pretty much. And I sent it to him and he sent it on to someone he knew. I didn’t have an agent or anything; things were different all those years ago. And then I got an agent – Sally Gardener – and, touch wood, I’m still with her. And then three years later my sister Jassy wrote a book and Sally took her on as a client too and we became this sort of brand – the Darling sisters.’
‘You make it sound so easy,’ Janice sighed. ‘Do you know, I think I might give it a try. I mean with this book being so, well, awful. I bet I could do something just as good. Gosh I hope the author isn’t a friend of yours.’ She suddenly looked worried.
I laughed. I’d met Jessie Clara Jones at some book launch or other last year and it was mutual dislike at first sight. Particularly after she’d made some disparaging remarks about chick lit and self-published writers as though they were the scum of the earth. She was the sort of writer who sits up and begs for praise before she’s got her coat off and then commandeers the whole room with a lot of self-deprecating tosh until everyone is shouting at her how marvellous she is.
‘Well no, but Jessie Clara Jones had a massive hit with her debut and an even bigger one with the following book. I mean you must remember Knowing Nancy and the follow-up Baby Fall? Well I’m sure Hector’s Walk will be another bestseller, despite the reviews being a bit mixed. She’s got the backing of one of the best publishers in the world and there’s been a bidding war for the film rights of Knowing Nancy.’
‘So what are you writing now?’ Sue asked.
‘I’m doing a structural edit of Choose Yes. I’m nearly six months late delivering it to the publishers. That’s why I’m here, trying to get it whipped into shape.’
‘And is it going well? No distractions?’ Isobel said.
Well, only your son.
‘I’m getting there,’ I said with a smile. The sort of smile that’s supposed to convey how in control and cool I am. I wasn’t sure it worked.
‘Perhaps we could help?’ Janice said, helping herself to a flapjack and pushing the plate towards me. ‘What’s the problem with it?’
‘You’re very nosey, Janice,’ Mary said.
‘Yes? And?’ Janice said, taking a bite of her cake.
It was quite good fun actually. Once the talk had veered away from me and on to what makes a good read. The general consensus was it needed to have 1) a heroine who was a bit weird but still interesting 2) a good plot and 3) a satisfactory ending.
I suddenly realised Choose Yes didn’t have any of these things. Why not, for God’s sake? I knew how to create captivating heroines. I could write decent sex scenes without making readers feel queasy but I’d left my main characters still arguing about whether they loved each other or not. No wonder Sally had given me an earbashing. The chatter went on around me as I drank my coffee, gnawed at a rather gritty flapjack and I wondered how to address the problems with my wretched book. The very thought of it was exhausting.
About an hour later after some desultory talk about the problems of fly-tipping, the new recycling bins and various questions about Jessie Clara Jones that I had to avoid answering for fear of legal ramifications, I realised the meeting was breaking up. Janice and Mary were pulling their coats on and talking about what they were going to cook for their evening meals.
Isobel locked up the hall and walked with me to my car. ‘So you’ve met my son?’
‘Joe? Yes, he changed a tyre for me when I first came here.’
Her face changed and her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God, it’s you! You’re the woman who saved Ivy’s life! Oh my stars! How can I have been so slow? Of course! Lulu! Louisa. I didn’t put two and two together, I must be losing the plot.’ She put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me. ‘Thank you so much. If you hadn’t said something I don’t know what would have happened. I can’t bear to think about it.’
‘I’m glad I was there,’ I said. ‘Really it was the paramedics who did the hard work, getting through the snow.’
‘Honestly I shall have a few words with Joe when I see him again! Why is it that men only give one half of the story and nearly always leave out the important information?’
At last we had got on to Joe.
‘So he’s your only son?’
‘Yes, he’s lovely. Although as his mother I would say that wouldn’t I? And when his father died he was absolutely splendid. He took over the farm even though he was barely out of his teens and he did just about everything. I mean Will helped as much as he could but he had his own place to run. Sorry, I should explain, Will is my second husband; we married nearly fifteen years ago. Look, you must come round for dinner. No, I won’t take a refusal. We’ll come and get you one evening soon and you can come over and let us thank you properly.’
‘Really there’s no need …’
‘Nonsense! My only grandchild! There’s every need! Now—’ Isobel started to rummage about in her cavernous handbag and pulled out a diary and a pencil ‘—next week is a nightmare, the week after is worse, um, um, what about tomorrow? Yes tomorrow. Friday. Are you busy?’
Of course I wasn’t busy; after all, I was staying here on my own in an area of the country where the number of people I regularly talked to could be counted on the fingers on one hand.
‘Then that’s settled. We’ll come and get you. No, don’t argue – Great Tor Farm. We live at the end of a muddy track and it’s easy to miss especially in the dark. Your poor little car would never cope with it. Seven o’clock? Fine.’
I got into my car and she got into hers and then she got out again and rapped on my window.
‘You’re not a vegetarian are you?’ I shook my head. ‘No – thank heavens for that! Right, I’ll see you tomorrow evening!’
Chapter Fifteen
I was rather excited at the prospect of meeting some new people and finding out more about Joe and Ivy and of course the question that had never been satisfactorily addressed: Ivy’s mother.
I got a bit more of the dreary editing work done that morning then went to choose my outfit for the evening. It wasn’t easy. A pair of tailored black trousers, a white cowl neck sweater and a grey herringbone jacket. I finished off with some black suede ankle boots. Then I realised the trousers were rather tight around the waist courtesy of all the junk I had been eating and to think of wearing black trousers and a white cashmere sweater to a place where I’d already been warned about the mud was sheer madness. Not to mention the suede boots. I changed into some dark jeans and a white T-shirt topped off with a leather jacket. I looked like a Rock Chick manqué.
Then I tried a dress and heels (ludicrous), a skirt and matching jumper (dull) and eventually went back to the jeans, the white T-shirt and a cheerful red cardigan. By the time I had sorted that out it was nearly six thirty so I went downstairs to watch out of the sitting room window for Isobel to arrive. At six thirty-five I went to find a sneaky glass of red wine to give me a bit of Dutch courage, which is ridiculous when you think I’ve been to gala evenings at the Mansion House and Hampton Court, even a thing at Sandhurst when I was dating a man who looked like Tom Cruise but who turned out to have obsessive-compulsive disorder and had brought his own cutlery in a Tupperware box.
I finished my wine, washed up the glass in a rather guilty way and put it back in the cupboard. Five minutes later I saw a four by four making its way up the lane so I went to fetch my coat. The front doorbell rang and I went to answer it.
There on the doorstep, looking more blisteringly attractive than even I had remembered, was Joe.
‘Oh,’ I said rather faintly, wondering if he was going to kiss me and whether he would smell the alcohol on my breath if he did.
‘Hello,’ he said and he grinned at me, ‘my mother sent me to fetch you.’
‘Did she?’
Suddenly, as piercing as a knife blade, all I could think of was the way it had felt to have his body on mine, his warm breath on my throat, his hands in my hair.
He leaned forward and kissed
my cheek and then he looked at me his eyes sparkling, and I could tell he was remembering exactly the same things. I turned out the light in the hall so that he couldn’t see me blushing.
‘Ready?’ he said.
I picked up the bottle of wine and chocolates I was taking and followed him out into the dark evening. Not the muddy Land Rover this time but a rather smart four by four with leather seats and the heating full on. Joe opened the door for me and waited while I tried to get in elegantly. He got in and looked over at me, his eyes glowing.
‘You look lovely,’ he said.
I resisted the temptation to say something stupid and said, ‘Oh. Do I?’
I mean that’s a bit pathetic but it was the best I could do.
‘You do,’ he said and he looked steadily at me for a moment before starting up the car.
I don’t think either of us said anything much during the rest of the journey. It took about twenty minutes to get to Great Tor Farm and I have no idea what he was thinking all the way there, but I was remembering Joe with no clothes on. His mouth on my body, his hands warm and clever. His voice in my ear, the feel of his hair under my fingertips, the way he said my name over and over. Louisa. Louisa.
When we eventually pulled up outside his mother’s house I was so turned on I could hardly walk. It took a serious effort of will to get out of the car and make my way to the front door.
For the first few minutes I must have appeared to be simple-minded at best. Isobel looked elegant in an olive green sweater, tweed trousers and a beautiful silk scarf at her throat. She was there to meet me with a hug and the tall and equally tweedy Will kissed my cheek and called me a hero. I passed over the wine and the chocolates, then out from behind his legs came Ivy – still wearing her bright yellow Brownies T-shirt – who cannoned forward to hug me round the waist and butt my hipbone with her head.
‘I’m so pleased you’re back,’ she said a bit breathlessly. ‘I wondered where you’d gone.’
I put my hand on the top of her head and was surprised how nice it was to feel her warm hair under my palm.
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