But then there’s no sense in doing things in half measures…
Letting Dotty in, I sit down at the table nursing my tea. It’s Saturday, so I’ve got two more days before I have to start making an effort to drum up business. I toy with the idea of phoning Kit, but eventually decide against it. She doesn’t need any more of my troubles heaped onto her already overflowing plate. I wonder if I should start writing down a list of possible strategies – it seemed to work with Kit’s problems. Yep, feels like a good plan…
Half an hour later I’m sitting chewing my pen, a piece of paper in front of me on which I’ve written the number one in the top left corner. The rest of the page is covered in heart shaped doodles. Tactics have obviously never been my strong point. Now if this was my father, we’d probably have an operation worthy of inclusion in the top fifty most daring military tactics of all time. Sighing, I put down my pen - as much as my head balks at the whole idea, I think I’m going to have to ask for his help. Suddenly, as if by magic, Pickles dashes through the back door, heralding the great man’s arrival, so I get up to put the kettle back on and dig out some biscuits. This could take awhile.
I’m just pouring the hot water into the tea pot as dad finally stomps into the room – at least five minutes behind the elderly Springer. ‘That bloody hound’ll be the death of me,’ he grumbles, leaning on to kitchen table to get his breath back. ‘Can’t keep chasing him all over the bloody countryside.’
‘You’ve never chased him anywhere,’ I respond mildly over my shoulder, ‘Pickles knows these woods like the back of his paws – you couldn’t find him because you obviously left the gate open again.’ Responding to my comment with a single grunt, my father looks suspiciously at the tea and biscuits on the table. ‘What’s this in aid of?’ he asks abruptly and I know he’s afraid he’s in for another extended blubbering session. It’s not that he doesn’t care, but dad’s always been a man of action – which is basically the reason he’s got himself up the creek without a paddle so many times in the past. He really doesn’t do wailing and weeping and ritual hammering of breasts. But that’s okay, I’m done wailing and weeping and I’m ready for action – even if in truth I’d prefer to be tied to a chair and forced to listen to Barry Manilow tunes while having my tonsils removed with a rusty spoon…
‘I need your help dad,’ I say sitting down and shoving the plate of biscuits towards him. He raises his eyebrows slightly and, after a slight pause, sits down – I’m unsure whether that’s because of the chocolate digestives in front of him or the fact that he can’t pass up a possible opportunity to meddle. ‘I need to talk to Noah,’ I continue in a rush, wanting to get everything out before he has chance to speak. ‘I can’t leave it like this dad, I just can’t. Our break up was totally my fault. Noah wanted to support me, he wanted to help, but, you know me, I wouldn’t let him. There’s a real possibility that he hates me now, but I just can’t get on with my life without at least trying to put things right.’ I take a deep breath, feeling the tears threatening again. ‘I still love him dad,’ I whisper finally, forcing the words through my clogged throat, ‘And I need your help to get him back.’
In the end we go through two packets of chocolate biscuits before we finally come up with the following strategy…
1. Go up to Noah’s house.
2. Speak to him.
Seriously, that’s my father’s cunning plan. After going all round the houses, this is what it boils down to. A plan I could have worked out all by myself. ‘There’s no bollocking way round it,’ is his terse response, when I express my disappointment that his proposed course of action seems to be a trifle less, well, multifaceted than his usual schemes. ‘He won’t come to you Victory. You know it. I know it. Now, what we don’t know how long he’s here. The longer you leave it, the more likely you’ll lose him forever to the looker he’s currently shacking up with.’ I wince visibly, but he continues mercilessly. ‘You’re not going to bump into him somewhere in Dartmouth. The bloke’s not going to risk any chance of running into you accidently. It’s either put your money where your mouth is, or leave the poor bugger alone.’
‘That’s hardly an accurate way to describe Noah Westbrook,’ I retort, stung a little by his brutal assessment of the situation. ‘You’re my daughter Victory and I love you, but after listening to your whingeing, I’m beginning to think that any bloke who gets involved with you and your bloody hang-ups is not only a poor bugger, but possibly wants his head testing,’ is my father’s decisive reply as he gets out of his chair. ‘If you want this man Victory, you’ve got to step out of your bloody comfort zone and go get him.’
And with that, he stomps off towards his study, yelling to Pickles that if he wanders off again today, he’s off to the knackers’ yard. I’m assuming he’s referring to the dog, not himself…
It’s now five o’clock in the afternoon and I’ve been pacing up and down my bedroom for the last three hours. Dotty, in the beginning watching me walk back and forth anxiously, got bored about an hour ago and is now snoring happily underneath the covers of my bed. My stomach is in complete knots and my mind is simply going round in circles.
It’s Saturday. What are the odds that Noah’s not doing something potentially romantic with his new love interest on a Saturday night? How can I just turn up in between the Champagne and the chocolate covered strawberries to announce that I’ve made a mistake and want him back? But what if he leaves Dartmouth tomorrow morning, and I miss my chance altogether? The thought of that happening when he’s so close brings me out in a cold sweat. I glance at the clock for the umpteenth time before sitting down abruptly on the bed, only narrowly missing Dotty’s tail. I have to do this. Even if he doesn’t want me, and tells me so in the most demeaning and public way possible. I. Have. To. Do. This.
Or I’ll never forgive myself.
Before I can change my mind, I throw open my wardrobe doors to find a little number that will shout, ‘look what you’re missing,’ to Noah, when he opens his front door to find his ex standing there, (and which will also make him pause before slamming said door in my face). Helplessly I stand staring at the row of dresses in front of me. Although my closet is much fuller now than it was before Noah and I became an item, it doesn’t mean I’m any better at choosing the right costume for the right occasion. I so wish Kit was here now to help. She’d instinctively know which one to go for. Hurriedly I go through the wardrobe, throwing dress after dress on the bed, until Dotty’s forced to come up for air or risk being buried alive. Then unexpectedly I have a sudden epiphany. I know exactly which dress to wear – the navy and white Sophie Loren number I wore the first time Noah and I set eyes on each other. Perfect. It takes me a couple of precious minutes to unearth the dress, and when I finally manage to drag it out, there are more than a few creases, but I’m sure they’ll drop out. After giving the armpits an experimental sniff and checking for any stains, I give the dress a hard shake and we’re good to go. Then I add it to the pile on the bed before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.
A half an hour later, I’m ready. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I realize I’ve had a song in my head since first getting into the shower. Experimentally, I sing it out loud…
Presto presto
Do your very besto
Don't hang back like a shy little kid
You'll be so glad that you did what you did
If you do it with a Bing Bang Bong
A Bing Bang Bong
Smiling for the first time since my dad dropped his bombshell, I realize the song is from the movie Houseboat which Sophia Loren starred in with Cary Grant. I can’t believe how appropriate it is. ‘Wish me luck Sophia,’ I whisper to the image before marching to the door determinedly, Dotty scurrying behind. Once at the door, I stop so abruptly that the little dog bumps into my heels. In my haste to prepare myself for my potential metaphorical public flogging, I’ve forgotten a couple of somethings.
How am I going to get there and who’s going to l
ook after Dotty?
Bugger. I can’t walk – it would take too long, and besides in these shoes, I’ll end up looking more like Quasimodo than Sophia Loren by the time I get there. Of course I could drive, but two glasses of wine masquerading as Dutch courage have put paid to that. A taxi would just prompt more gossip. Maybe dad will give me a lift. I can’t help but quail at the thought of him being anywhere near Noah’s house at the same time as me, but beggars can’t be choosers. Hurriedly, I run downstairs, hoping that dad hasn’t gone off to the Ship. Luckily (or not as the case may be), my father’s still in his study when I knock.
As he throws open the door, I’m fooled for a second into thinking his expression softens a little on seeing me all dressed up like a dog’s dinner, but it’s probably a trick of the light. After staring at me for a moment, he says simply, ‘So you’re going to do the business then?’ I nod my head, then suddenly needing some kind of validation, even if it’s from someone whose fashion sense is mostly based on what doesn’t itch, I ask if I look okay. To my amazement, he nods his head in approval before saying gruffly, ‘You look just like your mother.’ Tears fill my eyes in response to his words and I quickly rummage around in my handbag for a tissue, only to be handed a large square linen handkerchief, pulled from the depths of one of my father’s pockets. The gesture takes me back to when I was a child. Dad always had a hankie – wherever we went. It was used to mop up ice cream, bandage knees, blow noses, dry tears – very often all on the same day with the same hankie. The one my father offers me is none too clean either, but I take it, feeling like I’m eight again – warm, secure and above all loved. He might not say it often, but I know my father loves me still.
After blowing my nose, I hand the square of linen back to him and he stuffs it back in his pocket without looking, causing me to wince slightly as I picture its grubby folds. It didn’t seem to matter when I was little. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get there dad,’ I murmur, still more than a little immersed in primary school mode. His answer however, not only snatches off my rose tinted glasses, but throws them on the floor and tramples on them for good measure.
‘Mabel’s son Oscar is picking me up in fifteen minutes. I’m going over to her place for dinner. I’m sure he won’t mind giving you a lift.’
‘You’re having dinner with Mabel’s son?’ I query a little more sharply than I’d intended, suddenly unable to prevent an onslaught of impending step-sibling jealousy to rival Baby Jane at her worst. ‘Well, of course Mabel will be there too, and her daughter Amanda,’ my father answers, completely oblivious to the green mist now rapidly turning me into Regan from The Exorcist. ‘Why wasn’t I invited?’ The aggressively petulant tone of my voice finally gets his attention and he frowns at me for a second before answering. ‘She only asked me this morning after we had our chat. Of course you were invited, but I told Mabel you had other plans. I was hoping you’d see sense and want to take yourself off to sort things out with the Yank.’ He shrugs, indicating his bafflement at the idiosyncrasies of women. ‘So, do you want a lift or not?’
His words shove me off my huffy soap box, and slightly mollified that I’d at least been invited, I acquiesce less than graciously to the offer of a lift, asking a little sullenly if he thinks Mabel will mind him taking Dotty. ‘Well Pickles is coming, so I don’t suppose one more will make much difference. Oscar’ll be here in a jiffy, so go and get your coat if you’re taking one.’ He steps out, shutting the study door behind him as I hurry to grab a jacket. ‘Just one more thing Victory,’ he shouts to my back as I start up the stairs, ‘If you use that bloody tone with your actor, he’s likely to throw you out on your ear.’
To my horror, Oscar’s car turns out to be a nifty little sporty number and really only designed for two. Consequently, the back seat is more like a shelf. The top is also down, obviously taking advantage of the unusually clement weather. My nerves are strung like cheese wire, and the prospect of arriving at Noah’s house in an open top sports car with my knees hunched up around my neck, is really not helping matters at all.
Oscar himself is an affable looking man in his mid twenties with a plethora of tattoos decorating every exposed section of his body. ‘When he dies, I wonder if he wants to be buried, cremated or framed,’ my father mutters as he watches him jump nimbly out of the car. Stifling the urge to kick my rude insensitive parent, I content myself with giving him a quick glare, before plastering a smile on my face. Hopefully Mabel’s son was too far away to catch my father’s little quip, or his hopes of marrying the merry widow this side of never will have taken a distinct turn for the worst.
I decide to take refuge in Dotty, always available to take the awkwardness out of any potentially embarrassing situation. Perhaps I should hire her out. I drop her leash and let her do her thing. Oscar is immediately entranced, obviously no more immune to Dotty’s wiles than anyone else who has a penchant for cute furry things. Crouching down, he rubs her tummy as she rolls over delightedly. Unfortunately, Pickles’ attempt to get in on the action is slightly less endearing as he dashes over and enthusiastically attempts to hump Oscar’s back.
Five minutes later we’re off. As predicted, I’m folded into the back seat with Dotty squashed on the floor beside my feet. Dad is ensconced in the front passenger seat, but any feeling of authority he might have derived from that has been completely ruined by Pickles sitting practically on his head. The spaniel appears to be loving every second and is lifting his nose to the wind, panting excitedly. Unfortunately the same wind is ensuring that the resulting slobber is blowing directly into my father’s comb over. Still, it probably gives a better hold than Brill cream. Dotty on the other hand is not so keen on the whole open top car thing. I can feel her shivering from the depths of what is laughably called the rear foot well. By the time we get through Kingswear and are onto the road winding round the headland, the enchanting, slightly tousled style I’d painstakingly managed to tease my hair into has now been replaced by a tangled unkempt mess. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I haven’t bought a mirror, so as I get out of the car - after instructing Oscar to park it two hundred yards down the road (better to be safe than sorry) - I do my best to run my fingers through it in an effort to remove some of the tangles. Dotty tries desperately to follow me as I go to leave, so we waste another five minutes re-assigning the animal passengers. By the time I start my hike up to Noah’s house, Pickles is wedged into the back seat and Dotty is sitting trembling in my father’s lap. It’s not ideal and, as I walk, I can’t help but torture myself with visions of my little dog throwing herself out of a moving vehicle in a desperate effort to get back to me. In my heart I know she really isn’t that stupid (especially as I handed dad a couple of treats to give her), but it definitely keeps me from hyperventilating over the prospect of my forthcoming meeting with Noah.
As I get closer to the house, my footsteps slow until I finally halt under a copse of trees about thirty yards away. My heart is now slamming against my ribs and for a minute or so, I’m really not sure I can actually go on. What on earth was I thinking? Why the bloody hell would Noah Westbrook, who could have any woman he wanted on the entire planet, want to take another chance on little old overanxious me? Then I hear his voice in my head the last time we were together. ‘You just don’t understand that all of that Hollywood stuff – it’s not real. What we had – me and you – that was real.’ And I think about tomorrow, how I’ll feel if I never even tried. Unexpectedly a sudden calm fills me. What’s the worst that could happen? He throws me out, then sells the story to the newspapers. Big deal. Humiliation for a couple of weeks before the world moves on to the next juicy piece of gossip. I got through it the last time, and the time before that. I pause for a second wondering if there was actually a time before the time before that. Nope, only twice so far – a breeze.
I. Can. Do. This.
I square my shoulders, give my hair a last tease and march to Noah’s front door with a lump the size of England in my throat.
Cha
pter Eighteen
As I raise my hand to ring the huge antique ship’s bell hanging next to the front door, I pause for a second, helplessly feeling my eyes well up as I recall bringing it back one day from Kit’s gallery. Noah had loved it and proclaimed it perfect. Oh God, don’t let me start crying now. Furiously I blink back the tears, and, taking a deep breath, ring the bell sharply before I get chance to change my mind. Then I stand, heart thudding, hands nervously smoothing down my dress over and over, just to give them something to do. For a heart stopping minute there is no sound from inside. Then I hear voices. And footsteps. Coming towards the door…
‘Hey, great to…’ The woman who throws open the door stumbles to a halt as she sees me. While obviously expecting someone, that someone is clearly not me. She frowns slightly, then her brow clears and she steps forward. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks in a soft melodious voice. I just stare back at her and want to jump into the deepest, darkest hole I can find. She’s simply the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Long smooth chestnut coloured hair frames a face that is both serene and seductive and she gazes back at me with eyes the colour of clear water. Tall and willowy, she is absolutely everything I am not.
I have nothing to say. Nothing at all. All I can think is, I shouldn’t have come. Stupid, stupid, stupid. As she raises her beautifully shaped eyebrows in enquiry, I finally open my mouth to mumble some kind of apology as I back up slowly, just wanting to escape. In my haste to get away, I stumble slightly and she steps forward, hand outstretched in a futile effort to halt my almost certain fall. Fortunately I manage to avoid actually landing on my backside which would have been the icing on the cake as far as my total mortification is concerned, and as I struggle to right myself, she finally manages to take hold of my arm to steady me. My face is now the colour of a ripe tomato and my mouth simply refuses to work at all. As she helps me regain my balance, she’s looking at me with a slight frown as though she knows me from somewhere – which of course is impossible. I could never forget a face like hers. Letting me go, she steps back still frowning, and then all of a sudden she smiles and I feel as though I could gaze at her forever. After a second though, her words penetrate the cabbage that is currently my brain. ‘You’re Tory aren’t you?’ Surprise renders me speechless (well it would’ve done if I’d actually said anything coherent), and without warning, she steps back into my personal space and bizarrely gives me a quick hug. All my poor brain can think is WTF? I feel like Jamie must have when he used his magic torch to helter skelter himself into Cuckoo Land.
Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Page 16