The Mini-Break

by Maddie Please

  People say that when you drown your life flashes before your eyes. It was the same with that moment. Any number of random thoughts crossed my mind. He was here. I had put on some mascara. His wife had been called Clare. I was wearing a pale pink sweater. I’d erased all traces of Benedict. I’d changed the sheets on my bed.

  I felt a smile spread across my face. ‘Come in,’ I said, holding the door a bit wider.

  Joe didn’t return my smile. ‘I’m returning this,’ he said and he held something out to me. It was Benedict’s new blue coat. ‘Your friend left it behind in the Cat last night.’

  My friend.

  I took it. It felt heavy and unpleasant, slightly slimy with the feel of new wax on the fabric.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right then.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Would you like something? A cup of tea? Coffee?’

  Would you like to come upstairs for an hour or two? I was already thinking I might go back to bed. It would be much more fun if you came with me.

  ‘No. I’m fine thanks,’ he said.

  His eyes were cold, polite, as though we were strangers. But we weren’t strangers were we? We’d been more than that hadn’t we?

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I said.

  ‘Fine.’

  I watched as he walked away towards the Land Rover, trying to think of something to say that would bring him back.

  Benedict. This was all because of Benedict.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I called.

  Joe turned as he reached the car and opened the door.

  For a long moment he hesitated and then he spoke. ‘I don’t like people lying to me. I don’t like people who say one thing and do another. I don’t like to see Pete’s wife Betty being insulted and verbally abused like that and I don’t like being made to look a fool particularly by someone like him. And Col has a heart condition. He’s seventy-one for God’s sake. He’s not one for brawling.’

  My mouth was dry with the shock. God, what had Benedict done?

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He got into the Land Rover and turned it round in the lane before he stopped next to me and wound the window down.

  ‘You could have told me. You should have told me,’ he said.

  I couldn’t speak; there was so much hostility in his eyes. Helplessly, I held out a hand to him.

  Tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand.

  ‘You’re getting married, and to that ill-mannered oaf of all people. The things he said … That’s what I don’t understand. You could have told me. Before I—’

  He shook his head, and drove away, the Land Rover bumping down the rutted lane.

  I went back into the kitchen and sat down. My legs suddenly seemed too weak to support me. What the hell had Benedict said? What had he done?

  I closed my eyes. I could still see Joe’s expression – cold, offended. But just as quickly I remembered his face above mine again. Passionate, so masculine, his features softened by the lamplight.

  Look at me. I want to see you. Look at me, Louisa. Look at me.

  I don’t know how long I sat there thinking. Going over what he had said, what I had said. He thought I was going to marry Benedict. But I wasn’t. I really wasn’t even considering the possibility. Not in my wildest, weakest moments. What was I going to do now?

  I almost got into my car to drive after him, to explain. But that would make me look like a complete flake. Or I could ignore the whole thing, pretend nothing had changed? No, that was unacceptable. That was what Benedict had tried to do and it hadn’t worked.

  Or I could write Joe a letter. Phone him up? Morse code? Go and see his mother and get her to explain? Carrier pigeon? Semaphore? Of course none of these things were ridiculous.

  Eventually I came back into the real world and decided I would spend the rest of the day calming down and working out a strategy. Then I would go and see him and talk to him sensibly and rationally about the misunderstanding. And then I would find out what Benedict had done or said and then I would probably cringe all over again.

  I was startled out of my thoughts by hearing my mobile ring. It was the first time it had rung in ages, mainly due to the unpredictable phone reception. First of all I had to find the blasted thing. It must be in the kitchen because I could hear it jangling away somewhere. Then the ring tone cut out, which was annoying.

  Ring again, I willed and fortunately it did – long enough for me to track it down under a pile of tea towels.

  ‘I was beginning to think you must be dead,’ was the cheerful greeting.

  ‘Christy!’ I said, recognising the gravelly tones and throat-clearing.

  ‘This is the fifth time I’ve rung you today,’ she said, sounding distinctly aggrieved.

  ‘Sorry, I did tell you the reception was …’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve got you now. Look I’ve had an asking price for the flat. Mr and Mrs Ramsey, did I mention them before? No? Well they tried to put in a spurious offer some weeks ago and I told them where to shove it. This morning they are back with the full price. Cash buyers wanting a second property for one of their kids. What do you say?’

  ‘Wow,’ I said.

  Christy clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘Yes but “Wow” is not a satisfactory answer. I have them on the other line now, waiting for your response. Do you accept?’

  ‘Of course!’ I blurted out.

  ‘Fine, full speed ahead then. I’ll send something over to your solicitor immediately. They are in a tearing hurry as the little dear starts a new job at some ghastly high-end fashion place soon. Job; that’s a laugh. I went past there the other day, five tatty-looking T-shirts in the window with random splashes of paint across them. Well I assume they were merchandise; they could have belonged to the builders for all I know. Now then, you’d better get yourself organised. I’ll be in touch in the next day or two so stay where you are so your phone picks up my call. Though why you have to hide yourself down there in the back of beyond …’

  Christy rang off and I sat a bit shell-shocked. Yes I’d liked the concept of selling my flat but now it looked as though I had. The days of walking around the corner to join up with the Gang, of buying overpriced bread or vegetables from shops with artfully distressed floorboards, of drinking weird cocktails in dark bars, glamorous parties in after-hours museums – all these daily possibilities were coming to an end. How did I feel about this? Was I glad? Sad? Scared? Was I going to chicken out at the last minute and change my mind?

  Even this week there had been an article in one of the Sunday papers advising against what I was planning to do. Don’t go; you’ll never afford to come back. As though London was the Promised Land and the gates were going to clang shut behind me forever.

  I’m not someone who usually harbours unrealistic or sentimental thoughts about my parents but just at that moment I would have given a great deal to talk to them. I wondered where they were. The last I heard from them they were on the Pacific coast, thinking about going to see the Great Lakes. I imagined them bowling along an empty Interstate highway through Wyoming in a massive Winnebago, my father singing along to Eagles classics and my mother shouting at him to shut the fuck up.

  Actually I knew what my mother would say: Go on, what’s the worst that could happen? My father would shrug and say: Well I don’t know sweetie, whatever makes you happy.

  Neither sentiment was particularly helpful.

  I wiped away silly tears that were tingling my eyes and took a deep breath. I had a book to finish. I had my sister’s pregnancy to think about too. I’d not been the slightest bit involved or offered any support up until now; I must do something about that. And on top of all this I was soon going to be effectively homeless. Okay, I wasn’t actually going to be homeless, but I was in a way.

  There was so much to think about, to worry about. In less than three months I was going to be forty. Forty, FFS! In November I was going to be an aunt. Auntie Lulu. Aunt Louisa. God that sounded old. Was I going to turn into
a crumpled old spinster aunt, rambling on about men and politics and complaining about young people?

  Right, calm down. This was the next bit of my life, but I’d got this far and it hadn’t been that bad. Surely I could do this. If I finally got a grip.

  That night I went to bed early, walking upstairs in the gathering darkness; knowing where the stairs ended, where the bedroom door was. I knew this house so well now, I could avoid falling down the small step into the bedroom, knew how the bathroom light above the sink worked. It was funny; I was comfortable with the occasional creak of old timbers, the way the east wind could yodel through the letterbox. It was almost like home. I didn’t miss the noise of London or the crowds. I didn’t actually miss Jassy that much although I was fascinated by the thought of her as a mother. I certainly didn’t miss the traffic. Life in London had been punctuated by the constant worry about finding a parking space. I now lived in a place with grass growing down the middle of the lane leading to Barracane House. I could have parked ten cars in the overgrown wilderness that was the garden.

  I stood at the dark window and looked across the valley, aware of the waning moon and the wink of stars between the clouds. Somewhere in the darkness were people and houses, curtains closed against the night. People were watching television, eating meals, drinking champagne, or Ovaltine. Out there were children going to bed and people going on night shifts. Somewhere there was a man with bright blue eyes who could change tyres and make a beef stew. A man who loved his daughter and nursed a broken heart. Joe.

  I leaned my head on the cold windowpane. Suddenly I wanted him so much I couldn’t think of anything else. I wanted to feel his arms around me, to rest my head on his chest and breathe him in. I knew he wasn’t the solution to my problems but he was like a rock in the middle of the swirling river of my life. What a ridiculous thing to think about someone I hardly knew. Still, I had kissed him, met his mother, I’d had sex with him several times. Surely that counted for something? Perhaps I did know him in the biblical sense.

  All that so and so knew someone and begat someone else.

  I had known Joe Field. I liked him. I loved him.

  Tomorrow I was going to do something about this. Tomorrow I was going to sort this out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I was up early the following morning having slept as badly as it was possible to do without actually staying awake all night. I showered, pulled on a checked shirt and some jeans and looked at myself with a critical eye. Did I look as though I was capable of persuading Joe that I was worth taking seriously, that I was the woman who would make a difference to him in the same way he had done to me? Did I even look vaguely okay? I went to check.

  I looked terrible. Pale and weary with purple shadows under my eyes.

  Massively alluring. Not.

  I tried to rectify the damage to my face with some artfully applied cosmetics. Hmm, now I looked like a tired woman with blusher on. None of my clothes seemed to go together or even fit me properly any more. I shambled downstairs and made some toast and peanut butter and sat at the kitchen table munching. I’d hatched a plan in the middle of the night that had seemed to make sense but now I couldn’t remember much about it except it seemed like a desperate attempt to humiliate myself.

  Then I had a revelation.

  I was overthinking this. I couldn’t defend whatever Benedict had done, and why should I? He was after all nothing to do with me. All I could do was explain the facts to Joe and hope for the best. If nothing else, at least we could remain on friendly terms. Maybe. It would be nice to see Ivy again too, and see if she had taken her two kittens in yet. And then there was Isobel who was a lovely woman. She and Will could almost be my surrogate parents, although I’m sure the idea would have surprised them.

  I couldn’t be held responsible for Benedict or Jassy or anyone. Only for myself.

  I felt as though a great weight had lifted from my shoulders. All the bollocks that Jassy kept banging on about – our so-called brand. The need to appear at various charity events wearing complementary outfits. As the elder sister it had been decided I would stand on the right, Jassy on the left like some sort of double act. A literary Morecambe and Wise or Ant and Dec. I doubted we would be doing that again any time soon.

  Last time we had been to our joint book launch Jassy had been ill and wandered the room with a glass of champagne and a temperature of over a hundred when surely, she would have been better off in bed. I’ve got to be there, she’d said, her eyes a bit glassy, our brand …

  Sally had worked it so our books had to come out together so we shared a book launch at a glitzy venue in London. I’d work one side of the room and Jassy the other and then halfway through we would get the nod from our publicists and change over. What a load of nonsense. Why on earth did we agree to do it? Jassy was a far better writer than I was. She would be more than capable of having a book launch on her own. She’d probably like being the centre of attention instead of having all the double act fuss.

  When I went to see Joe I’d be calm, polite and pleasant. I could bake a cake for Ivy. No, perhaps that was taking things a bit too far. Especially remembering my last effort.

  I needed time to think. Perhaps I would go for a walk. Like country people did. Of course!

  I’d seen them parking their cars in the special council car parks halfway up Dartmoor. They wrapped up warmly in tweedy things and hats and proper gloves and pulled on woolly socks and boots and strode out, arms swinging. Some seemed to have ski poles too, although I didn’t quite understand that. And they had maps on strings around their necks. Well at least I had the map, although I wasn’t sure where I’d put it. And they had compasses and GPS tracking devices and backpacks filled with thermos flasks and Kendal Mint Cake. I didn’t have any of those things. It seemed a lot of trouble and expense to go to, just to walk two miles.

  Okay, forget the walk. Did I have any excuse to drop in on Joe? No.

  But I would go over to Lower Tor Farm in a purely neighbourly fashion to ask about his sheep and Ivy and I would take the car, so if it all went terribly wrong I could escape quickly.

  *

  I knew that it was still term time and that every afternoon the school bus dropped Ivy at the end of her drive. So I really should time my visit for late morning or early afternoon. And perhaps I should organise a suitable excuse in case I needed to leave within a few minutes. A library book that needed changing perhaps, or an appointment at the dentist or hairdresser. Hairdresser; that was a joke. I had taken to pinning my fringe back with one of Enid’s unicorn-decorated hair slides I’d found in the bathroom.

  The nearer I got to the lane leading to Lower Tor Farm the more nervous I became.

  Hi, I just thought I’d drop in, sort out that little misunderstanding. You seem to be under the impression I’m engaged to Benedict? Well obviously nothing could be further from the truth. He says he’s in love with me but in fact …

  Hi, I just thought I’d drop in. Benedict? Yes we were an item, I mean we lived together and I guess there was a possibility that he thought … I might have considered it at one point but then he got a bit …

  Hi, now, about Benedict. I changed the locks you see and he was sleeping next to Percy’s axolotls … He kept dropping hints last year, a week before Valentine’s Day about a special thing he was going to buy and I thought he meant an engagement ring and then he came back with a bike.

  No, that sounded pathetic.

  Hi, I just thought I’d pop in on my way to the shops. Can I get you something for the weekend?

  Nooo!

  Hi. I just thought I’d drop in, see how you are. Benedict is slightly off his head at the moment. I mean any man who thought they were in love with me would have to be crazy wouldn’t he …

  No.

  When I got to Lower Tor Farm it looked as though there was no one home. I parked the car and got out, listening to the utter quiet of the place with pleasure. Above me the sky was clean and cloudless, the sun warm on m
y shoulders.

  Suddenly there was a cacophony of woofing and the two sheepdogs came cannoning out of a barn towards me, tails thrashing. They circled me happily, as though they were hoping to herd me back toward the house, and then they ran back to the barn yelping their excitement.

  Joe came around the side of the house a few seconds later, dressed in a well-worn blue shirt, jeans and wellingtons.

  He hesitated just for a moment when he saw me.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’

  I didn’t know what to do next. I just stood with my hands hanging, probably looking rather foolish. He stopped a few feet in front of me.

  I screwed up my courage. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  He wasn’t making this easy. Well why should he?

  ‘I don’t know what Benedict did the other night in the Cat or what he said, but he had no right to behave badly.’

  ‘He was very drunk,’ Joe said.

  ‘Yes, judging by the state he was in when he got back he must have been.’

  There was another uncomfortable silence, which Joe made no effort to fill.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Well maybe I am too,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ I wasn’t expecting this at all. ‘For what?’

  ‘I had no business holding you responsible for your fiancé’s behaviour. I was just a bit shocked, you know? Surprised.’ He gave a tight smile, obviously ill at ease.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to mess about. I just wanted to be honest with him.

  ‘I’m sorry. He’s not my fiancé,’ I blurted out. ‘I don’t mean I’m sorry he’s not my fiancé. I don’t know what Benedict has been doing or what he said but he’s not my fiancé.’

  Joe ran one hand over his hair trying to flatten the curls that had been ruffled by a sudden breeze.

  He sighed. ‘It’s none of my business, Louisa. I have to say he didn’t seem the sort you would go for but what would I know?’

  ‘You do know. I didn’t know. I mean I know now. He’s not. I mean when I change the locks and put my flat up for sale it’s usually enough to get through to someone you don’t want them living there. But Benedict refused to get the message. And I don’t think it was me he was besotted with, just the location of my flat.’