Helena went round the table topping up people’s wine glasses.
‘I met quite a few celebrities when I worked for BOAC,’ Elaine said. ‘I used to go all over the world.’
We all turned to look at her.
‘Did you? How fascinating.’
‘I was part of the medical team, looking after the staff. We hardly ever did any actual work, but we used to get free travel. I met Audrey Hepburn and Bette Davis. A number of genuine Hollywood stars. People who definitely wouldn’t have been able to walk down the street without being recognized. And without exception they were charming. It was part of the price of fame I suppose. Being pleasant to the fans who paid for your ritzy lifestyle. Doesn’t take much does it?’
‘I saw Graham Greene in Fortnum and Masons once. He was buying a pork pie. No one took any notice,’ Nancy said.
‘I once saw Nigel Mansell buying petrol,’ Nick offered.
No one seemed to think much of this.
‘Why don’t we do a bit of sharing on Thursday evening?’ Vivienne said suddenly. ‘So we can show what we’ve been doing?’
The others discussed this and agreed it might be fun although Helena said she didn’t have anything worth reading out. Nick came to her rescue, gallantly insisting she had made her latest book sound wonderful. We discussed how many words and decided on five hundred maximum.
‘So what about Oliver?’ Nancy hissed, jerking her head in the direction of his room.
I got up and started stacking the dessert plates. ‘You ask! I’ll bet he says no.’
There was one crème brûlée left and I scarpered out into the pantry with it before anyone could nab it.
*
Well I was wrong. He didn’t say no.
Vivienne nabbed him when he came out of his room for more refreshments and asked him. He tilted his head to one side and considered her suggestion and a rather strange expression crossed his face.
‘Maximum five hundred words to show what we have been doing this week? What an interesting idea. I think I might have a piece to share if you’re really interested?’
‘Oh we are, of course we are,’ Vivienne said, nodding enthusiastically.
‘It would be a real treat,’ Nancy added.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Oliver said.
Well this little exchange was more than enough to cause a minor sensation in our group. I don’t think there had been a more keenly anticipated literary offering since the last Harry Potter book came out.
*
We always do a curry on the last night of a writing retreat. It’s a sociable meal with lots of sharing and it’s always popular. Well, other than last time when one guest, having been inhaling curry spices all afternoon, smugly announced she was allergic to garam masala ten minutes before the meal.
Trust me, there are few things more depressing than watching someone eat a cheese omelette and saying no it’s fine honestly while everyone else is troughing away at Chicken Dhansak and Vegetable Biryani and all the side dishes imaginable.
Anyway no one had voiced a similar reluctance so the curry was well under way and smelled fantastic. Outside the weather had deteriorated still further and the rain was lashing against the windows. We lit all the wood burners, and everyone settled down for an industrious last day, typing fit to burst.
Nancy, Elaine, and Vivienne shared the dining-room table; Oliver of course was cloistered away in his room; and Nick was pretending to work at the kitchen table while sneaking looks at Helena and occasionally offering to help her with some mundane task. It’s one of our rules that guests shouldn’t have to lift a finger while they are with us, but Helena was flagrantly disregarding this and eventually she and Nick sat at the breakfast bar, firstly slicing tomatoes and onions and then making raita. And giggling.
In the end I left them to it and went to do some writing of my own. What was I happy to share with the group? I read through a few pages, trying to find something that didn’t make me cringe. It was awful. Why was I doing this? I wasn’t any good at it. In fact, I had the growing suspicion that I was just trying to go along with Helena and she was the one with the talent. I preferred the catering and the fussing around people.
What would Oliver read to us? I wondered. Some shoot ’em up, bomb-blasting heroism? Perhaps we would learn more about how he made his books so successful, even if I didn’t fully understand their appeal.
I was already determined to get The Dirty Road on DVD when I got home to watch it again properly. Perhaps I would watch it as a research project and not as an excuse to buy a tub of Häagen-Dazs vanilla and a jumbo bag of Maltesers?
If I didn’t have Matt next to me, ignoring me and crunching away on a jumbo bucket of sweet popcorn when he knew I preferred salty, perhaps I would find it more entertaining?
That evening we made the table pretty with two candelabra and some silvery tablemats and sprays of artificial holly left over from Christmas that we found in a bin liner under the stairs. By the time we had finished it looked rather smart and we began to bring out the many dishes of chutney and accompaniments to go with the meal.
‘Can I help?’
It was Oliver. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
Can I help?
‘No, no, I’m fine thanks,’ I said, more than a little flustered.
You just sit down and keep out of the way!
Well this was a turn-up for the books. Firstly he was on time and secondly he wasn’t snarling. Thirdly he had changed into a glorious cobalt shirt that contrasted well with his dark hair and brought sparks of light to his eyes.
At this point I had to scurry off to the kitchen at speed and stop being quite so mushy. His shirt was tucked into chinos, accessorized with a well-worn leather belt. He looked presentable. Well more than presentable actually. He looked bloody gorgeous. And he must have just had a shower because his hair was still wet …
Shower. Mmmmm.
Shut up, woman, for God’s sake.
I pretended to check I’d turned the ovens off to give myself a few minutes to recover. Then I rinsed out the end of a tea towel in cold water and pressed it to my throat.
Calm down, Billie; stop being such a prat. He wouldn’t look twice at you.
Why was I being so ridiculous? I didn’t fancy him did I?
Did I?
Oliver had been nothing but a pain since he got here. He’d been rude, disruptive, unfriendly, and pompous. He’d be leaving in the morning and I’d never see him again. There was no point developing a crush on him now.
Crush? I didn’t have a crush. I was just a bit distracted.
Chapter Ten
Although Oliver was sitting in what I had come to regard as my place at the end of the table, it turned into an enjoyable evening. For once I was feeling quite happy with my appearance. I’d saved a rather nice gypsy sort of blouse to wear. Perhaps I would keep it when I did my clothing cull. It hid the muffin top I seemed to be developing for some reason.
We had done everything we could to make the dining room attractive and welcoming and we had some nice wine to finish up. It was definitely getting colder and the rain was battering against the windows behind the thick curtains.
‘I’ve had such a lovely week,’ Elaine said. ‘Really set me up. I honestly think this might be the year I get this book finished. It’s only been three and a half years since I started it.’
‘Oh God!’ Nancy said. ‘Don’t! I’m just as bad.’
‘Right so are we all ready for the sharing our work bit of the evening? I for one can’t wait to start showing off,’ Vivienne said.
Everyone started chattering at once and collecting plates up except Oliver who evidently considered himself exempt from domestic drudgery. Instead he swivelled around and pulled his laptop out from the bag he had looped over the back of his chair. I felt a tremor of excitement despite myself. I had the feeling we were in for a treat; after all it’s not every day you get to hear an internationally successful writer share their f
irst draft of something.
Helena and I spent the next ten minutes clearing the table and wiping off the rice and splatters of food from the silvery placemats; it was like a posse of toddlers had been over for dinner.
‘Go on then, Viv, if you’re so keen,’ Nancy said. ‘Let’s get the rude stuff over with.’
Vivienne looked haughty. ‘It’s not rude actually – it’s a thoughtful piece about Zen, the meaning of life, and existentialism.’
‘Is it?’ Nancy said, her eyebrows disappearing into her fringe.
‘No of course not! It’s the bit with the tangerines and the handcuffs.’
‘Oh God.’
Vivienne chuckled and started reading her piece out while we all braced ourselves. It really was quite alarming what her brain had come up with and I don’t think any of us would ever look at a fruit bowl again in the same way. I could see Nick slowly sinking down in his chair, his shoulders up by his ears.
Nancy was next, and she read out a piece from her detective-led mystery. It left all of us, including her, confused.
Oliver made a couple of suggestions and asked a few questions.
‘I have a really great plotting sheet I’ve used in the past,’ he said. ‘You can have one if you think it would be any use. Just let me have your email address and I’ll send one through.’
Nancy sat back, her face one big beaming smile as though she had won the lottery.
Then Elaine gave us five hundred rather spine-chilling words about a man living behind a mirror. It was a sort of time slip thing and just as she got to the climax when an avenging warrior lifted his head off his shoulders, the wind gave an extra blast and upstairs a door slammed somewhere. I nearly had a heart attack.
‘And who have you sent that to?’ Oliver said.
‘Oh the usual suspects,’ Elaine said. ‘I went through Agent Hunter and found all the agents who claimed to like paranormal and no one was interested. I had some nice refusals but it’s still a refusal isn’t it?’
‘You shouldn’t give up,’ he said. ‘There’s a home for it somewhere. You should enter some competitions – ever thought about it?’
‘Well no, I haven’t. You think I should?’
‘Why not? It’s certainly as good as some of the winners I’ve read.’
She fiddled about with her laptop before closing it with a snap. ‘I jolly well will. Now come on, Helena, let’s see what you’ve been up to.’
Helena took a deep breath and read out part of her children’s story, a sort of adventure mystery set in Scotland. There were some lovely details of castles and a potential sighting of the smaller, shyer cousin of the Loch Ness monster. It was really lovely and when she finished we gave her a spontaneous round of applause.
‘Oooh thank you! I’m glad you liked it! I know there’s a problem with the middle section. The bit with the monster needs to happen more quickly too.’
Across the table Oliver reached into his laptop case and fished out a business card.
‘When you’ve finished editing, get in touch with this lady. Maryam is a friend of mine; she’s just started an agency on her own. She’s very good and looking for YA clients. You could do worse.’
We all gasped our approval and Helena clasped the card close to her chest.
‘Golly thank you,’ she said, close to tears.
‘Can’t promise anything – mention my name by all means,’ Oliver said rather gruffly. ‘Now come on, Nick.’
Nick hummed and haa-ed for a bit, undecided which bit to share with the group before launching into a segment that was littered with hand grenades, the rattle of machine-gun fire, and doors being burst open by burly shoulders. I sneaked a look at Helena and saw she was enraptured. I began to think this wasn’t just a bit of a flirtation but something more serious. As he finished, Nick looked across at her for her approval and she grinned at him.
Nick looked across at his hero and Oliver gave him a thumbs up.
‘Good work,’ he said. ‘I liked that a lot. Very claustrophobic.’
Nick scribbled in his notebook, his eyes wide with hero worship. ‘Cool, thanks, Oliver.’
Oh God, now it was my turn. Suddenly my stomach gave a swoop of dread.
I’d chosen a paragraph earlier on but now it seemed trite and silly. What could I possibly read out? This had turned into almost an interview: a one-to-one with someone a million times worse than my headmistress. And she could kill with a look from fifty yards.
‘I’m not sure …’ I hedged.
It was the part when my heroine throws herself in front of the queen and pleads for the hero’s life. Even as I read it out I knew it was half-baked. And did they actually have curtains in the sixteenth century?
‘Excellent,’ Helena said.
The others made encouraging noises, but I wasn’t fooled.
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Early days yet?’ Oliver said.
Yes, only eleven years, I thought.
‘A work in progress,’ I said.
We all looked hopefully at Oliver.
He didn’t wait to explain himself or set any scenes; he just dived in. I’ll never forget his first sentence.
‘He had loved a woman he didn’t like. He had liked a woman he could never love. But this woman: she was everything. Cold hands, warm heart. She was different.’
We sat in respectful silence while he read out what I presume was Major Harry Field’s new perspective on the female sex now his creator had received valuable advice from a nitwit who burned a perfectly good Victoria sponge while he was typing it out. I didn’t know what to think. Did he mean it? Was he poking fun at me in front of everyone?
‘Brilliant,’ Vivienne sighed when Oliver had finished. ‘Just wonderful.’
‘Wow,’ Nick said, ‘she must be quite a girl.’
Oliver busied himself shutting down his work. Then suddenly he gave a funny little half-smile.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to think she might be.’
And then he looked at me.
I swear to God, in that moment he saw right into me. And he carried on looking. There was understanding in his eyes, a sharp, clever knowledge. It was frightening. The hairs on my arms prickled to attention.
I couldn’t breathe properly.
I was imagining it, of course I was. I was reading far too much into the situation. Why would a man like Oliver look at me with anything other than amusement? Why would he look at me at all?
I wanted to get away from him. I was used to men ignoring me. Or flicking me a glance to compliment my cooking. I wasn’t used to them actually looking at me. Seeing me.
We had all been closeted together for the week – that was all it was. We had the literary equivalent of cabin fever. I was clumsy and impatient and boring; he was brilliant and bad tempered. It was time for us all to go our separate ways.
Everything was quiet for a second and then people started talking, laughing, passing around the After Eights, and arguing about whether the paper envelopes should be left in the box or not. Almost as though nothing at all had happened.
Everyone else started asking Oliver questions. How did he structure things? Where did he get his ideas? How could they make their stories more attractive to agents?
Far from being standoffish and irritated, Oliver started to unbend a bit. He was almost chatty. Suggesting things, offering advice – it was really strange.
I picked up an empty dish and took it out into the kitchen. Then I unlocked the back door and went out into the porch. After the heat and food-scented dining room it was wonderful – cold and very shocking.
The wind blew my hair across my face. I wanted to breathe out every last molecule of air in my lungs and fill them up with the storm. I could smell wood smoke, the cold scent of wet earth, and dead leaves. Back in the house I heard a burst of laughter and the scrape of a chair on the flagstone floor.
If I had been writing this story, Oliver would have left the table and come out after me. I wo
uld have seen his silhouette in the doorway and turned away, a shiver of anticipation running down my spine. It wouldn’t have been a cold February evening with the rain slashing down, filling the leaf-choked gutters either; it would have been a glowing, sunny afternoon in September, maybe in Tuscany with the warm slopes of countless vineyards behind us.
He definitely wouldn’t have had his leg in a plastic boot. He would probably have been in an evening suit with the bow tie carelessly looped around under his collar. Perhaps he would have a couple of champagne flutes in one hand, an open bottle of Bollinger in the other. And then he would have come towards me. He would have known what to say and what to do. And so would I.
But then I would have been someone different. I would have been taller, thinner, beautiful, more interesting. Not me at all.
*
I hardly slept that night. Around midnight I increased my theoretical lottery winnings to fifty million and even that didn’t work.
I pulled out my list of things to do and clicked on my illuminated pen. I had items to add to my plan:
11) Go back-packing to Thailand on my own. Join group of fun-loving students who are going to Thailand. Go to Thailand on package tour with group of elderly people in air-conditioned coach and with English-speaking guide. Go on a plane by myself.
12) Colour hair blue. No green. Get decent haircut.
13) Finish book. Get agent. Move to Monte Carlo. Accept am not really getting anywhere with writing and find something productive to do with my time.
14) Become really picky about future boyfriends. Do not form relationship with selfish, penniless git with morals of failed Seventies’ rock star. Even if Matt does come crawling back.
15) Stop eating biscuits. Restrict biscuit intake.
16) Buy new towels to replace the ones Matt took.
17) Get money back that Matt owes me.
The following morning I staggered downstairs just after five o’clock and flicked the kettle on. While I waited for it to boil I started quietly packing away the things we wouldn’t need into plastic storage boxes. Then I laid the table for breakfast. I drank two cups of coffee and checked my emails. I quickly ate some toast and marmalade, went back upstairs, dressed, and packed my case. We had to be out by ten-thirty. Pippa would be here early to collect Oliver with any luck.
A Year of New Adventures Page 8