by Jane Linfoot
I’m not sure this hot desking idea of Rafe’s is working. As I walk into the farm office the desk is stacked so high with Farming magazines, I can barely see the man himself behind them.
‘What are you doing here?’ Rafe looks up from the letter he’s reading, making what sounds more like a complaint than a welcome.
‘Delivery in the next village,’ I explain. Taking in his glazed stare, on balance I decide not to tell him about the three tier silver-wedding cake I’ve been slaving over. Or that it’s left my fingers tingling from hours of squeezing icing out of piping bags.
‘I thought I’d pop in and put some text together for the website as I was passing.’ Good thing I have too, another day out of the office and I get the feeling I might have been re-located into the yard.
Rafe carries on flicking through the pages of the letter he’s reading. It’s only as he reaches behind the stack of magazines for a pen that a flash of russet coloured feathers makes me gasp.
‘Omigod, is that Henrietta sitting on the bloody desk?’ I hear myself shrieking.
He looks up slowly, with a pained expression. ‘Sorry, do you have a problem with that?’ It’s not an apologetic kind of sorry. It’s more the ‘don’t have a clue what you’re going on about’ kind of sorry.
‘Livestock in the office.’ It’s certainly on my list of issues to tackle this week, I just wasn’t fully prepared to do it right now. ‘It just isn’t right.’ Even I know that was lame, so I blurt out the next thing that comes into my head. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be out milking cows or something?’ I’m surprised how fast I’m learning to talk like a farm person. ‘For a farmer you spend a remarkable amount of time indoors.’
He gives an exasperated sigh and slams the letter down on the desk. ‘Haven’t you got a wedding to go to?’ then with a bad tempered snarl, he scoops up Henrietta. Two flaps later he deposits her on top of the filing cabinet, then turns to me with a sneer. ‘Happy now?’
As the letter hits the table, I glimpse the edge of a bank logo. No doubt he’s been counting up his millions again. I might have been happier if he’d opened the door and put the hen outside. I’m trying to think of a stinging verbal comeback that covers health and safety, office tidiness, bad temper in the work place, and male territoriality when my phone beeps.
I momentarily suspend the argument, to open a text from Cate.
Immie and I both free 2nite. Bring Rafe to Jaggers for 7. Operation #HappyFarmer is live! ;) xx
Damn. If the text had come five minutes earlier, I’d have been less snarky. Although looking at Rafe’s stormy frown, even a Strawberry Daiquiri wouldn’t sweeten that to happy. As for getting him to Jaggers, I’m thinking of snowballs in hell. Not a chance. My phone beeps. Cate again.
This has taken a LOT of organising, it’s the only way forward for an easy year for ALL of us!!! Think of my wedding, get Rafe here ASAP! DO NOT BAIL ON ME!!! ;) xx
So like Cate to send a second message, just to be sure. If you ask me, she’s been on too many motivational courses. I grit my teeth, which is exactly what she meant me to do. As for her wedding, it’s come from nowhere, and now it’s ruling my life. Somehow I’ve got to do this, I just don’t know how. It’s pointless making comparisons, but if Rafe had even a tenth of Jules’ charm and positivity, this would be a walk over. And suddenly, remembering Jules, I have a light bulb moment. Jules didn’t have any problem making Rafe do what he wanted. Maybe I need to be more like him?
14
At the Goose and Duck, Rose Cross Village: Pointers and pork scratchings
‘Works drinks with Rafe? How did you manage this then?’
Immie’s unwinding her scarf as she marches down the bar towards me. I shrug, and hope that the mention of Jules isn’t going to put her off the main objective. I don’t want her swooning at the thought of that ‘photographer from heaven’ – her words – when we’re here to get her together with Rafe. Not that we’ve told her that part.
‘So I took a few pointers from Jules.’ I admit. ‘I didn’t ask Rafe or suggest, I simply told him. “Drinks down the pub. Get in the car. Now” ’ I can’t believe how well it worked, although to be fair, Rafe was pretty short of excuses. It all happened in a bit of a rush. ‘My main tactic was surprise. With the implied threat of force thrown in too.’
The Goose and Duck has been given a makeover since Brett and I last came here with Cate and Liam and the kids for Sunday lunch. As I take in the wall to wall checked taupe decor, I can’t remember when I was last in a bar. Drinking and falling off stools might be the perfect antidote to heartbreak for some people, but I never quite reached the wild nights out, drowning my sorrows under the table stage.
‘Rafe hasn’t exactly got a lot going on in his life.’ Immie points out. ‘Apart from the odd cow giving birth, he’s completely uncommitted.’ Good point well made. She plumps up a grey tartan cushion, and settles into a substantial oak chair. ‘Remind me why we’re doing this again?’
Now I’m the one who’s short of excuses. ‘Cate thought it would be a nice if we all got together.’ I’m bluffing here. ‘Smoothing the way for her wedding …’ One mention of the ‘w’ word, and Immie gets it.
‘So this is a first.’ Immie beams at Rafe incredulously as he delivers her pint of lager, and two cokes. I’m wishing she’d cut back on her ‘what-the-hell?’ stare. This is only part one of the plan. Starting down the village pub is the easy bit. The hard part is going to be making the move to Jaggers. I’m already shifting in my tweed arm chair, psyching myself up for that part.
‘Am I the only one drinking?’ Immie downs half her pint with the first gulp.
Take it from me, this woman could drink for England.
‘I’m designated driver,’ I say, although Rafe has no idea we’re about to whisk him to St Aidan for a drinking fest at Jaggers. Cate’s plan is that if Immie and Rafe down enough cocktails, they’ll fall drunkenly into each other’s arms. Job done.
Rafe lifts up his coke. ‘And I’m driving too.’ Despite Gav the barman’s jokey banter, and the free pork scratchings by the till, Rafe still hasn’t cracked a smile.
‘That’s a very nice jumper you’re wearing,’ I say to Rafe. Given he has more cashmere sweaters than anyone I’ve come across, and that he also keeps sheep, I reckon wool’s a good subject to start with. And it works, because his mouth twitches into an almost smile.
‘A present from my mother.’ His embarrassed shrug softens him. ‘She’s always turning up with them.’
‘Trying to make you presentable no doubt, so you’ll catch that elusive woman she’s so desperate for you to meet.’ Immie laughs, and gives him a surprisingly free and friendly pat on the knee.
‘Does she live nearby?’ I ask. Somehow, despite Immie talking about her, I can’t imagine Rafe having a mum.
‘We built her a bungalow at my brother’s farm, but right now she’s travelling in the States.’ From the grimaces he and Immie exchange, it looks like a relief all round.
‘She loves country music,’ Immie chimes in. ‘At least it gives you a couple of months off from her matchmaking.’ She follows that with a loud guffaw as she sinks the rest of her drink, and adds a matey dig in the ribs for Rafe. ‘Anyone for another?’ She raises her glass, gets up and sets her sights on the bar. So far so good. Immie and Rafe are surprisingly relaxed with each other, and it looks like Immie’s hell bent on drinking enough for both of them.
I glance at my phone, knowing we should be moving this into town.
‘The next one’s on me.’ I jump to my feet. ‘And I promised to meet Cate.’ I rack my brains, imagining how Jules might put it if he wanted everyone to drive ten miles to the next drink. The knack is to say it like there’s no alternative. ‘We’re having the next round at Jaggers.’ Despite my inner doubts, I manage a big grin, and it comes out pretty damned forceful. ‘I hope you like mojitos.’ Whoop, I’m on a roll here.
No idea if this is going to work, but I don’t wait for them to argue. Immie’s ban
ter is getting a great response from Rafe. Cate’s right, if we can pour enough cocktails down him, he’ll soon feel the friends to lovers vibe.
‘Jaggers it is then!’ Without a looking back, I pick up my coat and head for the door.
15
In Jaggers Bar: Lost property
‘Great evening then, thanks a lot for dragging me along.’ Rafe’s cheek is almost rubbing on mine as he puts his mouth up to my ear, and he still has to yell for me to hear him over the shouting and the techno music.
Thursday night’s Cocktail Happy Hour was in full flow when we got here, and the place was heaving. I have no idea about the hour, because it already seems to have lasted forever. As for the cocktails, they’re strong enough to make your head spin with the first slug. Then you man up. Unlike everyone else in the place, I’m just having the one. But you know those times when the more you drink, the more you want?
‘Quick, grab those seats!’ Rafe’s grip is tight on my shoulder as he steers me through the crush of bodies, and shoves me up onto a purple plastic bar stool.
I take it he’s being ironic when he says about a great evening. No-one could actually be enjoying this mayhem.
At some point he’s stripped off his jumper, and now I’m sitting beside him, I can see that under his ragged T-shirt, he’s pretty ripped. I squint as I try to make out the logo on the fabric folds.
‘If found return to the farm,’ Rafe says helpfully, then sighs. ‘Not what I’d usually wear out, I wasn’t expecting anyone to even see it, it’s supposed to be a joke.’ Which is so funny for someone as un-funny as Rafe that it sends me into a fit of giggles.
I know what he means though. I wasn’t expecting anyone to see my skimpy vest either, but it’s so damned hot in here, it was a choice between stripping down and showing off half my bra, or expiring.
‘Top up of margarita?’ Cate squeezes in from behind with a jug as I put down my glass. One slosh later, my glass is full again.
So much for not drinking. The last thing I remember eating is a banana at breakfast time, which is probably why I’m feeling a bit light headed now. ‘Last one.’ I yell, as Cate whirls out of view. As for Rafe getting legless, he hasn’t actually started drinking yet.
‘That has to be the sixth time you’ve said that.’ Rafe’s lips twist into a smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll carry you home.’
‘No.’ That really doesn’t sound right. Seven cocktails? Maybe that’s why the neon signs around the walls are beginning to blur. I lean over a little unsteadily to Rafe, and end up grabbing his arm to get my balance. ‘You’re supposed to be carrying Immie home, not me.’ As I release my grip on his biceps, it’s the most natural thing in the world to share this with him. I grab his knee, as I push myself back into position on my stool, and stage whisper. ‘You know, you two are supposed to be an item,’ I confide.
For some reason, instead of taking me seriously, he cracks up at that. I had no idea the man could actually laugh at all, so his deep seated roar takes me by surprise.
‘So I’m going to have to fight the surfie guy?’ Rafe says. He’s suddenly serious now.
‘Fight who?’
He nods over his shoulder. ‘The guy she’s with over there.’
I follow his glance. ‘Shit.’ Behind us Immie’s all over a blond guy in torn denim, who between you and me can’t be much older than Morgan. As she catches my eye she gives an enthusiastic wave of her glass, empties half the contents over the guy’s bulging biceps, then goes straight in for a head-lock snog. Looks like she’s skipping courtship, and going straight to mating.
Rafe raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.
‘Sorry, I might have a witty logo on my T-shirt, but I can’t compete with jeans like that,’ he laughs. ‘Although aren’t drop crotch very 2013?’
I’m glad someone finds it funny. That’s our whole evening wasted, not to mention our only hope for making Rafe half way human. I need another drink.
‘Damn.’ I study Immie carefully as she stretches up, peels off the guy’s headband, and puts it on herself. ‘From the way she’s staggering, I’d say she’s pity prissed.’ I’m vaguely aware of mixing up my words. ‘Pity pissed I mean.’ I try again. ‘Pretty prissed.’
‘You don’t say.’ Rafe rubs his chin.
‘Is there any more drink in that jug down there?’ I ask, and then I see Cate coming over. Great, with any luck she’ll be bringing more cocktails.
As I wave frantically at Cate, my foot slips, and I lurch forward, but before my head hits the bar, someone catches me, and pushes me back onto my stool.
Wow, near miss there. These stools are way too slippery. ‘I need more mojitos,’ I call as I re-orientate myself on my seat. As Cate arrives at my elbow I update her.
‘Immie’s rilly rilly prissed.’ I say, knowing it isn’t coming out quite right, but not knowing how to correct it. ‘She’s pitty much trying to dev … dev … eat that guy back there whole. Where’ve you put the mojitos? She’s supposed to be snogging R …’
Cate’s hand lands on mine before I say the name Rafe, but her smile sails over my head. ‘I was coming to say, is it time we made a move?’
How the hell is she still work-perfect, in her shirt and suit skirt after all this booze? And why’s she talking to Rafe not me?
‘Still okay to do what we said before?’ Cate’s still ignoring me. ‘I’ll do the honours with Immie, and you take Poppy?’
Sensing they’re talking transport here, I rack my brain about mine. ‘I need my car,’ I say, ‘I need my car tomorrow.’ That much I know, the rest is hazy. There’s something about nine o’clock too. ‘Where’s my car? It’s only an old one, I had to give my new one back to Brett, I can’t lose this one.’ I’m working up to a wail as I slide off my stool, knowing I have to find my car. But as my foot hits the floor it slips, and the next thing I know, the room is tipping.
‘Poppy …’ Rafe’s shout is loud and urgent, and he’s not laughing any more.
Then there’s a jolt as my head smashes backwards and hits the ground.
16
In Rafe’s Kitchen: Possibly even purple
‘Coffee, Poppy?’
When I stir next morning, the voice coming through the fog in my brain is Rafe’s, and I assume I must still be a) asleep and b) dreaming. I mean when did Rafe ever offer me hot drinks? As I shift on the pillow my head pounds, but I open my eye a crack, enough to see an unfamiliar checked quilt covering me. Where the hell am I? I’m face down, my feet are pushing against the end of a sofa, and I’m looking down on a stone flag floor. If someone embedded an axe in my skull while I was sleeping my brain couldn’t hurt any more than it does now. I have a vague recollection of bumping my head yesterday. I dare to open my eyes a bit wider and some legs in jeans come into focus.
‘Milk no sugar, right?’
So it must be Rafe in the jeans. Flashes of what happened at Jaggers yesterday evening are coming back to me. Somehow he avoided drinking the whole night, was last man standing in charge of a Land Rover, and he brought me back to his. Presumably to sleep on the sofa in his kitchen.
I let out a long groan, and not only because of my sore head. I don’t even remember drinking much. As I push up to sitting, I see there’s a bucket next to the pillow. Oh shit. Surely I can’t have?
‘Tell me, what’s with the bucket? I wasn’t, I didn’t?’ I search Rafe’s face for clues, appalled.
He shuffles and passes me the coffee. ‘I’m afraid you did, but it’s not a problem.’
Worse and worse. My stomach clenches with shame as I take the mug. My first night out for six months, and I end up legless enough to fall over, then I’m sick. How embarrassing is that?
‘I’m a farmer don’t forget, I’ve seen a lot worse. I spread muck on a daily basis.’ He’s shrugging it off by talking in T-shirt slogans. ‘Good thing you weren’t in the best guest room. Much easier to check you were okay down here.’
Across the room, I notice a rug and a pillow draped over an a
rmchair. ‘You stayed up all night?’
‘No problem, I do it all the time with the stock.’ He’s playing it down. ‘You were pretty out of it though.’
I already gathered that much thanks. ‘I never used to be this much of a lightweight before …’ I stop before I say too much. There’s no way I want to whine about Brett. But this guy just stayed up all night watching over me like some wounded animal, I owe him some explanation. ‘I just mean my alcohol tolerance used to be way higher. I had a break up, and I haven’t been out much since.’ Hopefully that keeps it to a minimum.
‘I seriously doubt many people could have drunk what you did, and still be standing. Although those jugs are deceptive.’ Note the way he’s harshly, horribly realistic, but builds in a last minute excuse. ‘And I’m guessing you’re probably better off without whoever it was you were talking about last night.’
‘I mentioned Brett?’ Excuse me for my high pitched panic. If throwing up was mortifying, this is so much worse.
‘Once or twice,’ he says, which tells me absolutely bloody nothing at all. ‘Take it from me, being on your own has a lot to recommend it,’ he goes on. ‘Pleasing yourself is great, once you get the knack.’
‘Spoken like a dedicated loner,’ I say. If he’s being coldly observational, I can be too. That would be the loner who we were trying to pair off with Immie. From the way he’s talking now, yesterday evening was doomed before it began. Except for the getting totally off my face part, which I managed like a pro.
‘Whereas Immie could do with the right guy in her life,’ he says, as he picks up a neatly folded pile of clothes from the table. I’m vaguely surprised that Rafe’s table is so designer. I’d expected country farmhouse, not hewn wood and steel.
Rafe considering Immie’s private life comes as a shock too. ‘Surf boy from last night wasn’t right.’ I sigh. As the rest of the huge room pulls into focus, I take in a seriously stylish kitchen. I’m not sure if the mechanical parts scattered around the worktops are part of the decor, or more of Rafe’s chaos.