Helena went upstairs to get a coat ready for her walk into the village. She came down with fresh lipstick and her red hair tousled artfully into a messy chignon, two things I’m sure weren’t necessary just to go and get milk and low-fat spread.
Helena then remembered she had forgotten the coat so, giggling, had to go back upstairs again to fetch it.
The two of them shuffled off into the village like the Start-Rite kids, not holding hands exactly but definitely connecting. Well lucky Helena, I thought. I could see he was certainly rather cute. And Helena – like me – had been going through what I think is referred to as a ‘dry spell’ over the last few months. Heaven knows why Helena should be unattached. She’s really attractive. Trouble is she’s never really realized that and she spends most of her time in libraries surrounded by elderly newspaper readers, young mothers, or school-age children.
And me? I’m lying fallow, like a field that’s recently had all its vigour drained out of it through over-cropping, courtesy of my last significant other. Matt was really gorgeous-looking, a skilled carpenter and furniture restorer who was more than happy to spend a week buffing a table but didn’t bother to spend more than five minutes polishing me.
My mother said he was a Neanderthal and I would be better off buying furniture from IKEA rather than expecting him to do anything for me. He also chiselled away at my self-confidence with horrible precision, alienated most of my friends, and laughed at my feeble attempts to diet, manage my hair, and find a serious job.
I can see all of that now, but at the time of course I just put up with it. The trouble is I have the memory of an elephant and I never forget any slight no matter how small. (I think I might be developing the figure of an elephant but that’s another story.)
Anyway, I did learn something; when we split up I realized how much easier life could be. I could do what I liked when I liked, and no one said should you be eating that? I didn’t have to do his laundry, and my hoover no longer clogged up with the wood dust that fell out of his clothing. I decided having a serious boyfriend was far too difficult and time-consuming. Not to mention expensive. I wasn’t bothered about being alone. Well not much.
I now qualified as what the government describes as ‘just managing’. Good job I could type and was a whiz at conjuring up incredible meals out of very little. I really should find a proper job though. A route through to the future and my perilous old age. It was a topic that, often in the stilly watches of the night, bothered me a great deal.
I finished assembling the beef casserole – with button mushrooms, baby onions, bay leaves, and a bouquet garni – and sacrificed a whole bottle of red wine in the process. Well, minus a tiny bit.
I’d brought the apple pie with me so all I had to do was knock up some duchesse potatoes, prep some green beans, and I was done. I began clearing down and arranging cutlery in the formal dining room.
It was a glorious setting too, with twelve chairs and a highly polished table; it would have had Matt dribbling with pleasure.
If the cheating bastard had been here to see it.
And if he’d had the brain to actually write a book in the first place.
And needed to go on a writing retreat, which obviously he didn’t – having the brain the size of a peanut and the attention span of a woodlouse.
#Arse.
The two alcoves either side of the fireplace were filled with shelves and a wide selection of books. It was a room just made for huge family lunches and a coterie of rosy-cheeked little girls in sparkly Monsoon party dresses.
Helena and Nick didn’t return until an hour and a half later. Considering the local shops were five minutes’ walk away, I guessed they had been wandering about aimlessly, casting shy glances at each other. It seemed highly unlikely they had got lost unless they had both developed the most diabolical sense of direction.
Nick went off upstairs to unpack and do some writing in his room and Helena mooned around, fiddling with her hair and going over every detail of their unremarkable and entirely predictable conversation. It seemed to consist of tedious teenage topics.
Favourite colour, best subject at school, ideal holiday?
I fully expected them to progress over the course of the week to deeper interests: preferred biscuit for dunking, favourite film, and best chocolate bar.
I left Helena tidying up, collecting coffee mugs, and putting out slices of the fruitcake I had made the previous day. I went to get changed out of my food-splattered jumper and pull on a new shirt, dithering about how many buttons to undo. I eventually did most of them up as I thought it was a bit early to be showing off my rather generous cleavage on purpose. It makes a surprise appearance fairly often; perhaps I should go for a proper bra fitting one of these days? My mother was always trying to get me to do that. I shuddered at the thought.
I spent ten minutes applying a fresh layer of eye shadow – blended in for that smoky-eyed look that obviously is important when you’re about to make tea for seven people and open up a packet of chocolate digestives. Then I messed about for a further five minutes with lipstick. I eventually wiped most of it off and went down into the kitchen and slunk into the pantry to have a sneaky glass of red wine before anyone caught me.
I grabbed my laptop and returned to the corner of the kitchen I had earmarked as mine. It had a comfortable chair and it wasn’t overlooked, which meant in an instant I could swap from writing my deathless prose to checking Facebook undetected.
It also had a nice view of the garden. It was probably filled with colour in the summer but now at the tail end of February it was dull and rather ugly with the straggling stems of last year’s plants drooping over the borders. As the last of the frail light of the afternoon faded, a thin fog began to form over the lawn, hovering and curling like smoke.
I shivered although the room was warm and glanced over towards Oliver’s room. I wondered what he was doing in there and why he was so irritable all the time.
Helena went to look at the guidebook on top of the sideboard, left by the homeowner, and flicked through a few pages, humming tunelessly.
I looked up. ‘Go on then,’ I said.
‘Go on then what?’
‘Tell me some more about Nick.’
‘Oh …’ she waved a careless hand ‘… he seems lovely. Nothing more to say really. He lives quite near my mother.’
She put the guidebook down and went to look at one of the dull watercolours on the wall next to the telephone.
‘And? You like him don’t you?’ I said.
Helena shrugged, feigning disinterest very badly.
‘Oh he’s easy to talk to. You know.’
‘He likes you,’ I said. ‘Pity we’ve just missed Valentine’s Day.’
Her face brightened. ‘Do you think he likes me? Really?’ Finally the floodgates were unleashed. ‘He’s so funny too. Do you know we both went to the Slimbridge Wildfowl place a couple of years ago at Easter? He was taking his nieces and I went with my mother. Just think, we could have met then, or passed each other on the way to the bird hides.’
‘Just think!’ I said.
Helena stuck her tongue out at me and went to fill the kettle.
*
The writers left their lairs and returned to the kitchen promptly at four-thirty for fruitcake, biscuits, and tea.
Everyone was happy with the house and how comfortable it was. Nancy had been reading through her book, trying to sort the muddles out and attempting to plot it properly. Vivienne had read the house guidebook and discovered the tale of a shocking relationship between a gentleman who lived there in the nineteenth century and his ward, a girl more than half his age. They seemed to have produced three children who were passed off as foundlings and when the girl had threatened to confess the truth to the local rector, her guardian had strangled her – a crime for which he was hanged. Vivienne was thrilled and determined to transpose the tale into the twenty-first century, adding more scandalous detail and possibly some bondage.
There was no sign of Oliver for which I was grateful and eventually people went off to their preferred chairs to continue writing. I was washing up and about to wrap the remnants of the cake in foil when Oliver’s door opened.
‘Oh! Have I missed tea?’ he said looking around rather bleary-eyed.
I swear to God he’d been sleeping again.
‘No problem, I’ll make some more if you want it,’ I said. He was doing this on purpose. Just to be bloody difficult. ‘It won’t take a moment.’
‘Go on then,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
I flicked on the kettle and made more tea, rinsing out the pot and dropping in fresh tea bags. No sooner had I dowsed them in boiling water than he said, ‘I don’t want tea. I’ll have coffee.’
I gritted my teeth, chucked the tea away, and made coffee instead.
Back at the table he was looking into space. I put the cafetière down in front of him and offered him one of the giant mugs.
He looked at it for a moment and then pushed it back across the table to me. ‘I don’t know why you always give me those. I’d really prefer an ordinary one.’
‘But Pippa …’ I bit back the protest and went to find him another mug, which I placed in front of him. ‘Sorry.’
He didn’t answer but poured himself some coffee and took a slice of cake.
‘What have you been doing?’ he said.
‘Cooking, clearing up, washing up,’ I said cheerfully as I put some dirty mugs into the dishwasher.
‘Nothing exciting then?’
I swear he was laughing at me and I felt my hackles rising in annoyance.
No, I would be calm and not lose my rag. I would take a deep cleansing breath and think nice thoughts. I would not knock the milk jug over accidentally on purpose so it soaked his legs.
‘I like doing it. I like looking after people. And I might get some writing done later, after I’ve abseiled off the roof,’ I added under my breath. ‘And you? What are you writing about?’
Oliver topped up his coffee.
‘Sandstorms. War. Nothing to appeal to you. I mean there are no cupcakes or shoes. So you really enjoy doing this?’
I bit back my annoyance at such a patronizing attitude.
‘Do I like running retreats? Yes I do.’ Otherwise I wouldn’t do them. ‘Are you enjoying being here?’
He shrugged and took another bite of cake.
‘I mean are you sufficiently relaxed to write? No plot holes or – you know – writer’s block to worry about?’
‘What?’ he looked up rather sharply.
‘I said plot holes and writer’s block. You don’t suffer from those then? Oh no that’s just lack of discipline or something isn’t it?’
He stood up, favouring me with a hard look, and without a word stomped back into his room, taking his coffee with him.
Well someone was grumpy. I mean grumpier than usual. It must have been the Stilton.
Chapter Five
That evening Oliver didn’t come out to join us for a drink before dinner. And he still hadn’t come out when we sat down to eat.
Helena and I did Rock, Paper, Scissors and went to the best of three. She lost so I made her go and knock on his door. She returned very quickly, pulling a face. We went and had a muttered discussion in the hall out of earshot of the others.
‘Blimey, he’s in a mood. He practically growled. He’s writing. He says he’ll grab something later.’
‘It’s gone eight o’clock. We’ll have tidied up and set the things out for breakfast by the time he comes out. Does he want something in his room?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He’s looking very thundery – I couldn’t wait to get out of there,’ Helena hissed.
‘Jeez. Come on, let’s get back to the others.’
‘I’ll open some more white wine. The red is already on the table.’
Oliver Forest must have been in the middle of a really determined sulk because the aroma of the beef casserole was wonderful. It would have persuaded anyone else out into the open but not him. I almost felt like wafting it towards his door with a tea towel, but undoubtedly he would have caught me doing it, so I didn’t. It wasn’t as though I minded that much to be honest. He could eat when he liked really; it was just his attitude that got me going.
‘No Mr Forest this evening?’ Elaine asked as we came back into the dining room. ‘Perhaps he’s finding the distance from his bed to the dining room too difficult as well?’
I looked at her and caught the twinkle in her eye before she returned to her meal.
‘Lovely casserole,’ Nancy said. ‘Really delicious sauce.’
‘It should be – it’s ninety per cent red wine,’ I said.
‘Fabulous. So how have people got on today?’ Vivienne asked, helping herself to more green beans. ‘I did awfully well. I’d been having trouble with the scene involving a pair of handcuffs and some tangerines—’
Nancy put her knife and fork down with a clatter. ‘Viv, leave it!’
Across the table Nick laughed. ‘I’ve been researching sandstorms. My main character has parachuted out of his plane in the Western Desert; well, he’s been shoved out. Do you know sandstorms can blow at one hundred kilometres an hour? And in the sixth century an army of fifty thousand soldiers was lost in one?’
‘You ought to ask Oliver Forest if you want to learn about sandstorms,’ I said acidly. ‘He’s writing about them too. Well he said he was – he might have been winding me up. He thinks all women ever read about is cupcakes and knitting—’
‘I love cupcakes,’ Helena said, ‘although I’m not so hot on the knitting.’
‘And running teashops. I bet if I asked what he was writing about it would just be bombs and submachine guns.’
Nick stopped and looked thoughtfully at me for a moment and then shook his head and carried on eating.
‘So how about you, Elaine? How is your work progressing?’ I asked.
Elaine was staring into space and jumped as she realized I was talking to her.
‘Well this house has given me a marvellous idea for a plot twist. Do you think it would work if my doctor – who’s just married the vicar’s daughter, remember – was the one to poison the squire because he found out the squire was actually her father … and after the wedding … no, of course the squire was in India for twenty years so perhaps not. Although he could have just stolen the child couldn’t he? Or found her at the end of the garden? I wanted to use a bit of folklore about the fairies and how awful they are. Always stealing babies apparently. Oh dear, if I imply he found her I’d have to re-work the whole of the first part yet again. I need to think it through properly. I’m beginning to wonder if Mr Forest isn’t right and I should plot the whole thing out properly. It goes against the grain though.’
‘I saw someone do a plot sheet once. It looked very complicated,’ Nancy said. ‘There was something to do with Post-it Notes and different-coloured pens. I don’t know what all that was about.’
I passed round the wine again and went to get some more water. In the kitchen I glanced at Oliver’s door. It was still closed. I filled the jug and found some ice. I began to worry. What if he was unwell or – encumbered by his plastic boot – had fallen over?
I imagined him prone on the bathroom floor, his head banged up against the radiator, lying in a pool of gore. I’d have to phone an ambulance and there wasn’t any phone signal. I could almost see myself running down the road waving my mobile above my head like an Olympic torch …
I’d better check.
I edged over towards his room on tiptoe and stood listening. Nothing.
I stepped closer, cleared my throat and made sort of ‘goodness me I wonder where Oliver is’ noises. Nothing.
I knocked and received no reply, so I knocked harder.
After a moment’s hesitation I opened the door and looked round. No sign of him anywhere. The room was immaculately tidy, the curtains closed, the bed tightly made, and no
sign of Oliver or any of his possessions. I relaxed a bit; perhaps he had left? No, his suitcase was still tucked in next to the wardrobe.
He must have gone out. But how? And why? After insisting he couldn’t manage the stairs, would he just go off for a walk? Bloody cheek of the man! I had a good mind to get all his gear together and just move him into another room upstairs and put Elaine into the room she had booked months ago. I’d have to change the bedding though. I mean, I wouldn’t want to sleep on someone else’s sheets. Even if he wore pyjamas.
I bet he didn’t.
I bet he slept with nothing on.
Shut up! Shut up! Stop thinking such ridiculous thoughts! He’d probably kept his clothes on during his nap. Hadn’t he? I would.
I didn’t think I could bring myself to do it. There would be all sorts of man stuff. I remembered only too clearly what it was like when I went on holiday to Cornwall with Matt. Clothes and shaving kit and personal things with plugs and chargers. I couldn’t just, you know, rummage around in his drawers. I snorted with laughter despite myself.
There was a sudden movement just out of my eye line.
I turned.
There in the shadowy corner was a naked, one-legged man.
I screamed and instinctively clutched the water jug to my chest. In the same second that the iced water splattered all over me and a couple of ice cubes sneaked down my top into my bra, I realized it was Oliver with his injured leg in a black bin liner. He’d been having a shower. The only correct part of my assumption was he was naked.
Don’t look! Don’t bloody look for God’s sake.
Too late!
Jeeezus!
I shut my eyes as tight as I could and took a step back and of course fell over something. And tipped the rest of the water over myself.
I heard myself yelping like a trampled puppy and someone roaring with laughter and then I fled out of the room. Nancy and Vivienne, alerted by the noise, had come out of the dining room and were standing there. Nancy was still chewing.
A Year of New Adventures Page 4