by Andy Tilley
Chapter 1
My name is Rose Williams and today, I can’t stop smiling. I can see a reflection of the reason for my persistent, dimpled grin through the mess of powders and pencils exploded across my dressing table. Backwards those letters may be (and illegible too as my left eye is still smarting after being stabbed by an errant eyeliner) but I know that text as well as any words I’ve ever read.
ROSE IT CAN BE WHATEVER YOU WANT IT TO BE.
My god Rose, this is really it! He really does think of this as a date!! My heart has set off banging again now, as it did the previous million times I read those words. Just to be sure though, I think I’d better check my question again so putting the eye pencil down I pick up the phone and begin to scroll. It doesn’t take me long to find the sent box and open the last message.
So is this a date then lol
Good. I’m happy with that little exchange. Not too pushy, no pressure put on anyone. Just the right level of intimacy I’d say, and no ambiguity either. Absolutely clear to all parties concerned that this is going to be a date. Or is it? I’m starting to panic again so as I twist my lipstick ready for action I can’t help but begin to read the texts once more. This is a big mistake because this time, as the words are mouthed by my silent lips, the sense of them smudges and twists too and try as I might there’s nothing I can do to stop them. The ones that I sent now seem childish; his have a paternal feel about them, barely tolerant and impatiently covering up his realization of a mistake made, his regret that he ever even asked me to dinner.
‘Damn it! I should have left that bloody lol off. Makes it seem like a big joke! As if a man like Cristian is going to get serious about a nineteen year old girl who laughs out loud after everything she says. You idiot Rose!! And now look what you’ve done! You look like Angelina during the lip plumping operation.’
Talking to yourself whilst applying lippy is definitely a bad idea, right up there with watching a bottle of foundation tumble over and pour its contents over your dress instead of launching balls of cotton wool at it. That’s what I’m doing now, watching instead of launching; that and waving my arms around, screaming.
‘What’s all the racket! Rose, are you okay!’
It’s mum, shouting from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Mum this outfit is ruined! Do you know where my black dress is, the one I wore for Ruby’s graduation?’
‘It’s in the ironing. I’ll pop it up. Now try and get a move on Rose, it’s almost half past seven.’
Half past seven and my face still isn’t done. In fact, it’s the opposite of done. It’s undone, by blotches of mascara, badly drawn lips and that spot on my chin that only goes out when I do. I feel like crying so that’s what I’m going to do. My eyes will need re-making anyway so best to get it over with, finish my hair whilst I sob a little and before I start them again. Crying has always helped me through these small hiccups to my perfect vision of how life should treat me and I can already feel the first tear rolling down my cheek, blown toward my ear by a blast of curling hot air. It feels strange to have your tears dried like this, denied their opportunity to fall, and by the time I’ve finished contemplating this (and selecting the next clump of blonde to volumise), I’m already starting to feel better. No doubt about it, when a girl needs to feel good about herself and berate how victimized she is by this crappy world, crying (even such wasted tears) definitely helps.
Five minutes later, hair’s done and the eyes are looking a whole lot better too. The left one has finally settled from red to white and my electric blue iris’s soon begin to dazzle as I apply the finishing touches to shimmering silver lids and sharp black underscores. Must admit, they are bordering on spectacular tonight, sexy too! And I know it sounds vain but hey, so what; they’re the best thing I’ve got. Now, all I need is the dress and that’s me ready to go on my date! But whilst I wait for mum and the dress, I guess it won’t hurt to read the texts once more. I reach for my phone. There’s an icon flashing and the instant that my heart is informed by my head that this is a new message, it races away to match the buzzing rhythm. Select, open.
So how is date goin n u heard from Ruby 2day?
Disappointment floods through me, swamps my rising excitement and, whilst it doesn’t bring me down completely to earth, the mood change does make it impossible to fly any higher. This is typical Jonathon. He has a knack of stepping in to the most precious of moments and treading all over them until they’re menial.
Haven’t seen her since lunch and its NOT a date!!!!!!!!!
Okay, so nine exclamations is possibly a little over the top but I reckon that that’s about the going rate for such a pathetic attempt at a tease
Dont get ur knickers in a twist. It’ll b harder 4 him 2 rip em off
Right, I’m not even answering that! Although I must admit that Jonathon’s lewd comment does raise rather a good point; a first date this maybe but Cristian and I do go back a long way. What if I’ve totally misread all of this? What if I’ve allowed my desire to get out of this place to knit myself a life line from nothing more substantial than romantic mist? Great, now I’ve got something else to stress me out! I’m not sure which would shatter my dreams more completely either; to find out that tonight is simply a catch-up in the kitchen where we sometimes snacked crisps whilst waiting for mums, or that its been contrived to quench a desire seeded by one too many clumsy kisses swapped for chewing gum years ago. One thing is for sure though; whatever this night isn’t it most certainly is inevitable and I’m running late. Still mumbling to myself I carry on stepping into the dress that magically appeared on the hanger at the back of my door. I can’t be sure what I might have voiced out loud and what my mum might have heard but no matter, I’m sure there will be plenty bigger mouths to put my feet into tonight. Anyway, here goes. Time for one last glance in the mirror as I open the bedroom door.
‘Brace yourself Mr Cristian Chevalier because, ready or not, Rose ‘bud’ Williams is on her way.’
Chapter 2
It’s with some relief that I finally arrive at the gate house of Hartford Manor. The road behind me was deceptively slippery, its’ dusting of snow having been whipped away by a low, busy breeze that left only polished black ice to drive on. Although the road out of the village is only a couple of miles long, I’d almost lost control on at least two occasions and I’m glad that mum had convinced me to take her less trendy but heavier car. Even so, four deep treaded tires muscled by traction control weren’t enough to stop me from skidding as I jab at the brakes and begin drifting slowly toward the set of heavy iron gates that suddenly appeared in my headlights. I’ve lost control (undeniably so as my open palms are flapping at the steering wheel and my eyes are screwed shut) but the car somehow manages to keep it together and when it feels safe to take a peek I’m amazed to see that the front bumper is merely nuzzling the iron work, hopefully with no damage to either. These gates are new, and very black and very poorly lit by ridiculously small (but probably period) lanterns mounted on stone pillars either side. All this must have been installed recently because Ruby and I had passed this way only last Friday, on our way to Hartford Heights in search of early sledging opportunities. That recollection makes me cringe and remember why I’m here.
‘Christ you really need to grow up Rose, and quickly too!’
There’s an intercom on the left hand post and a sign above it invites me to press for attention. Trouble is, I really don’t want to get out of the car. It’s freezing and my cream shawl looks good but fails miserably to live up to its fluffy promise of warmth. My reluctant hand is already pulling on the door handle though, when a loud click buzz interrupts my whining and heralds the silent swinging of the gates. Whilst I wait for them to fold back fully I remember my manners and lean forward to crane my neck up
wards into the windscreen, turning from side to side and mouthing ’thank you’ to who ever it is that has spotted me on a monitor and opened the entrance. Although I can’t actually see the camera, I know that there must be one because the manor house itself is still out of site, waiting behind the woodlands that gather on either side of the car as I roll forward. Even with my lights on high beam this mass of grey trunks and branches are so tightly packed that it’s impossible to see more than two or three strides into the gloom on either side. Wallop! Without any warning at all, my childhood fears are back. Damn it! I can’t believe that this place still gives me the creeps, a feeling that’s particularly worrisome considering that I’m going to be living here one day. This cheeky thought makes me smile but not enough to push the trees back. I’d been so convinced too, that there wouldn’t be the slightest recollection of what I had imagined to be in these woods as a child. I was absolutely certain that ten years away from this place, ten years of growing up actually, would have rationalized all those unseen eyes and stalking shadows away. But here we go again; hairs rising on the neck and a cold sweat beading on my powdered brow. And now a third physical response to my fears kicks in, or to be more accurate, kicks down on the accelerator. My flight reflex only lasts an instant but it injects enough momentum into the car to set the back end sliding as I try and correct the problem and bang on the brakes which immediately lock and set the world into a slow, silent spin apparently eager to show me every demonic face that its twigs and bark can muster in the moonlight. This ghoulish panorama reminds me of those crude paintings that kids are bombarded with as they set off into the ghost train, only this lot is for real and no more than the thickness of a window away!
‘Don’t panic Rose, and for Christ’s sake don’t touch anything either.’
The car is slowing its spin already and with any luck, if it goes around just a little bit further… and ….and…and yes! I’m pointing the right way!
‘Yes!! In your face Clarkson!! Jesus, imagine what would have happened if you’d have tried all that macho ‘steering into the spin’ stuff.’
Talking out loud at times of extreme stress is a bad habit of mine. Thinking about it, it’s a habit that I more than likely developed in these very woods, trudging through leaf fall in my anorak, on the verge of tears trying to find Cristian who was exceptionally good at hide and seek back then. I wonder if he…
‘Jesus what’s that!’
A second burst of scratching scuttles across the roof of the car, freezes me so completely that even my mouth slams shut. There’s something on the car. It can’t be branches because they’re well out of reach. Maybe it was…shit, there it is again!
‘What the hell could it….’
I love squirrels, have done ever since I fed them at the petting center in Appleby, but never have I been so pleased to see one. He’s a comical little fella too, spread eagled and clumsily sliding his white furry belly down the windscreen, tiny little claws scrabbling and eventually finding the wiper blade before tumbling onto the bonnet and finding his hairy little feet.
‘Awwwe. You are soooo cute mister! But hey, try not to be so scary next time eh?’
Pressing the button over my head turns the interior lamp on. Hopefully this will give me enough light and time to get a decent look at him before he’s startled and dashes back to the trees. He’s a grey, as pretty much all the squirrels round here are nowadays, but to my mind these are just as handsome as the reds. Sat in that traditional nut munching position, the squirrel seems far from startled though. Strangely, he appears somehow focused, not the slightest bit phased by his tumble into this pool of bright light. It’s a weird posture he’s taken; twitchy nose pushed out toward me and beady black eyes (reduced to an almost squint by serious looking lids) staring hard into the car.
‘My my we are a serious little man aren’t we. What’s got you so….’
Before I can finish asking him my question, he’s gone. Not disappeared back to his acorn stash though, I mean really gone; dead. And as I watch eyes bulge and blacken, teeth snarl and limbs stiffen, my love for squirrels dies with him. It’s an awful thing to see but thankfully I don’t have to look at this twitching corpse for long as it soon slumps and slides off the bonnet and into a leaf filled ditch beside the road. I have no idea why an animal should die like this, right in front of my eyes, but I can’t help but suspect Hartford woods. I’m starting to hate this place. It’s already tried to kill me twice tonight and managed to dispose of Mr Squirrel rather effectively. I need a hug! This desire turns out to be a lot stronger than the confused cocktail of fear and disgust that has stunned me into a motionless, wide mouthed gape and I’m able to set off again, perhaps with a little more speed than is safe but as there is only one, long sweeping bend left before I reach the forecourt of the manor house and the journey is concluded without any further slips and slides. It is so good to hear the pop-crunch of small loose stone under the tires, giving the car grip and me the confidence to relax a little and absorb more of the detail of my slow approach to the front doors of the house. Someone is there, black against a row of huge Georgian windows, stood under an unnecessary umbrella and I have to slow the car down. As ridiculous as this crawl might seem to who ever it is waiting there I have no option because my heart beat is doubling with every roll of the wheels and I need time, days even to get a grip of it and slow it down if I’m to avoid the same fate as the squirrel. The silhouette ridiculously close now but still I creep forward and even consider hitting the gas and racing back into the woods. My nerves are unbearable and made worse by the fact that, although I suspect it to be him, I dearly hope that this tall and broad figure isn’t Cristian because the man has a head that is bulging with what can only be described as the mother of all beards. I hate beards, and as the headlamps roll around to reveal the mystery figure my heart finally stops racing and sinks; it is Cristian, my Prince turned into some stinky ol’ crazy hermit lord of the manor type dude. Well, I’ve come all this way and I still need that hug so here goes. I open the door and march quickly towards him, head down a little but held high enough to see his arms open to receive me. They close tightly as he speaks my name and with them comes the divine scent of a fragrance applied so perfectly that it doesn’t cover but delicately embroiders his natural, male odour.
‘Hello Cristian, it’s so good to see you after all…’
I have to stop these well rehearsed words because something has flopped into my mouth, something acrylic and hairy and altogether disgusting that makes me think of dead squirrels. It’s his beard! I step back to try and understand how I’ve managed so effortlessly to commit the ultimate faux pas that is eating your hosts beard before the aperitifs but the beard comes with me, snagged by my front teeth and stretching a thin band of elastic looped around Cristian’s head.
‘Careful now Rose! If that snaps we could both be….’
I spit the thing out and laugh hard as it twangs back into his face.
‘You! You know I hate beards you, you bloody fool!’
I realize that I haven’t heard Cristian’s laugh for far too long. It is so sincere and although a little deeper now than it had been all those years ago, just as rewarding.
‘I do, I do. I remember the email you sent too, on the day you first saw Beck’s with his beard and how you were disgusted with yourself for ever thinking he was good looking. Anyway, thought it might break the ice a little.’
The joke has indeed broken the ice but I’m kind of surprised that he was expecting any chill other than from the November night. I can’t help thinking that there’s maybe a little clue here as to how he sees tonight going. Surely that’s the smoking gun right there; his nervousness at our meeting proves that this really is going to be a date! Any doubt that lingered unreasonably beyond this conclusion was totally discredited by his next words.
‘You look beautiful by the way. Come on, let’s get inside and I can show you what I’ve been up to.’
Gently we hold hands as we
walk into the hallway. It is so good that neither of us are even pretending that this isn’t happening. It’s like I’m in an instant relationship and it feels so good. I want to hug him again and I’m already planning how that first kiss might happen when I’m invited back to the real world to take in my surroundings.
‘So, what do you think?’
In front of me is the most beautiful staircase I have ever seen; oak and iron that has been beautifully crafted and accented with golden curls, dancing in the light of a huge chandelier and leading my eyes up towards a central landing. Here the staircase splits to take tired and overindulged guests to their bed rooms in either wing of the house. The walls are for the most part oak panels but not that stuffy dusty affair that so many period houses seem to have. No, this oak is light and crisp and the pattern of motives carved through it (vines and crests and all kinds of stuff) looks to be continuous, breaking only at doorways that lead off to equally sumptuous lounges and drawing rooms. There’s a library too. I can see its shelves through the door behind the stairway, bathed in the incandescent orange of large low table lamps that make the oxblood leather of the chesterfields look like they were tanned only this morning.