‘Did you have a good flight?’ Oliver said turning to include me in the conversation.
I sipped my champagne and wished I could have had Helena on Skype with me so she could see what I was doing.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I love flying. I love airports too.’
Lies, all lies. Although to be honest it hadn’t been as bad as I’d feared. I hadn’t pulled the arms off the seat, the window next to me didn’t crack at thirty-five thousand feet, and despite the alarming whooshing noise I didn’t get sucked down the toilet.
Pippa remembered something.
‘That man Wesker from The Times was on the phone again. He won’t take no for an answer will he? I told him we were going to be out of the country for a few days. I’m awfully sorry. I’ll put him off as much as I can but maybe you’ll need to speak to him when we get back.’
‘Wesker?’ Oliver said.
‘An interview. Photo session.’
‘Tell him no.’
‘I tell him no and he rings back again.’
Oliver gave an exclamation of annoyance. ‘He shouldn’t even be speaking to you. Give him Bea’s number and tell him to speak to her if he can ever find her in the office and not on holiday. Jake, this is your department.’
We turned to look at Jake who was asleep among the cushions, his empty champagne flute resting against his chest.
‘I’d better show you to your rooms,’ Oliver said.
‘Oh yes, that would be nice,’ I said, trying not to whimper with gratitude.
I couldn’t stay awake much longer.
He woke Jake up and I followed them upstairs and on to the galleried landing.
‘I’ve put name cards on the doors,’ Oliver said. ‘Someone did that recently and I thought it was a good idea. Even if it didn’t work.’
He meant me didn’t he? That thing with Elaine’s room when he’d been so rude?
Jake’s room was first. He disappeared into it with a relieved groan.
Then we passed a room with Pippa’s name on it and finally we got to my room. There was a card with my name on it and a picture of a snowman, which was a rather sweet touch. I sneaked a backwards glance at Pippa’s name card and hers didn’t have a picture on at all, and that made me feel incredibly smug.
#OhFFS.
‘Anything you need let me know,’ Oliver said.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
My only wish was there would be a bed.
There was a bed.
A huge bed with rows of pillows and a plump quilt calling me with a siren song to creep underneath it. A bay window stretched across one wall and opened onto a balcony. There was a bathroom, a walk-in wardrobe and a sitting area. I seriously thought I had died and gone to heaven.
I cleaned my teeth and got into bed. A bed high and wide and soft and warm. A bed that gave new meaning to the word comfortable.
I was asleep in seconds.
*
When I woke the room was still in darkness, only a thin sliver of light creeping between the curtains. I lay back on the pillows and stretched. I went to the loo, admiring the glass basins and marble floors and surfaces. There was a delightful selection of toiletries; piles of white, fluffy towels in a wall unit; and a lovely new pale-blue dressing gown folded up and tied with a satin ribbon, waiting for me to unwrap it. Which of course I did.
Then I tinkered about with the shower, which was more of a wet room with a giant shower rose and dozens of water jets shooting out all over the place and a black slate floor that must be a nightmare to keep clean. Perhaps I could have a shower before I started on breakfast?
I checked my watch and staggered with shock. It was half past nine. Bloody jet lag.
I raced back into the bedroom to dress, cursing myself for not setting an alarm.
I could just imagine Oliver, sitting at the table waiting for breakfast and glowering because I wasn’t at my post. I dragged on some clothes (jeans; new white T-shirt because once you’ve worn them, spilt food down them, and washed them a few times they’re never quite the same; trainers).
I went out onto the galleried landing. There were lights on downstairs, but I couldn’t hear anyone moaning about me or asking where I was. I went through the glorious sitting room with the floor to ceiling stone fireplace and the floor to ceiling windows. Oliver’s grandfather certainly did things on a huge scale.
I peered out at the view; it was still dark outside but – and this was very exciting indeed – it was snowing. The biggest, fattest flakes of snow I’d ever seen were falling and settling into a thick white duvet over the garden. Occasionally there was a gust of wind, which blew them against the windows.
Perhaps later on we could go for a walk and have a snowball fight? I allowed myself a brief fantasy where Pippa and Jake decided not to come with us and Oliver and I walked through the trees together, the branches bowed with snow and tipped with crystals. He would have to throw off his bad temper though.
In the kitchen I started off by having a look around to find where things were kept. Why I had thought I needed to bring my own stuff I had no idea. On the black granite worktop was a block with a selection of Henckels knives and in the drawers were every kitchen gadget, appliance, gizmo, and saucepan known to man.
I went to look in the fridge, which of course was massive. There were two doors to pull open and as I did so a blinding light came on; it was like going on stage. I paused for a moment to bow, kiss my hands, and smile modestly at the giant milk containers and the huge glass jugs of juice. There was a similar-sized freezer, a utility room with a washer and dryer big enough to cope with the England Rugby team’s post-match washing, and two dishwashers. Two!
I carried on opening cupboards and finding where things were kept. Of course, the thing I wanted was coffee. There was a complicated coffee machine on the worktop. On closer inspection I saw it was loaded up with coffee beans. Bean to cup eh? I’d never tried one of those; this was going to be fun. Another adventure. Well, a small one.
I pressed a few buttons and lights came on and went out in a very perplexing way. Perhaps it needed time to heat up. I left it and went off to look in the walk-in larder. Walk-in larder! I mean how brilliant! It was about the same size as my sitting room back home. I admired the labelled glass jars of flour, sugar, pulses, and pasta. There were dozens. Plus enough canned and bottled stuff to stock a small supermarket.
I went down the shelves, enjoying the unusual food labels and puzzling over some of the products. I mean what was Rice-A-Roni? Reddi-Wip? Snapple? Tofutti?
Back in the kitchen a red light was blinking on the coffee machine and I pressed another few buttons. There was a sort of rumbling, hissing noise and a green light flashed twice followed by a single polite beep. To me this seemed like progress. I went back through the cupboards, found a mug, and stuck it under a metal nozzle. Then I got another one and stuck it under a second nozzle at the side just in case. Better to be safe than sorry. I didn’t want coffee to flood out all over the granite.
The possibility of coffee flooding anywhere was unlikely at that moment, but I was excited to hear new noises coming from inside the machine. Sort of glugging, ticking noises. Nothing was actually happening so I went back into the pantry to see if there was any instant coffee. Or failing that, tea bags. Hmm, how complicated could tea be in America? I mean builders tea not herbal, compost teabags.
There was White tea, Black tea, Green tea, Red tea, Wild tea or Roasted dandelion root presumably for people who were tired of tea and were searching for a new tea-like experience.
By this point it’s quite possible my tongue was hanging out and dragging along the floor. I hadn’t been this far away from imminent coffee for about twenty years. And still no one else had come downstairs, which was a shame in the grand scheme of things because someone could have helped me with the infernal machine.
I pressed all the buttons again and the machine started grinding beans! Yes!
After my heart rate had settled down to normal I st
ood watching the machine, sure at any moment something would happen.
After a few minutes I decided not to watch it in case it had stage fright and went to set the table. This was a long slab of golden wood as though someone had cut a slice out of the biggest tree ever and then polished it to a mirror-like glaze. There were twelve chairs set around it and a pile of slate placemats stacked up at one end.
I put out some cutlery, crockery, and glasses and tried to decide what to do for breakfast. Would they want eggs, bacon, corn bread, grits? Whatever they were. I wondered if I had time to google ‘grits’ and find out. They didn’t sound very appealing, but they might be the most delicious things ever?
I got the three jugs of juices out of the fridge and about six different sorts of jam and arranged everything artistically on the table. And then I put the radio on.
There was some sort of country music playing, a woman singing in a sobbing voice about Little Joe not coming home. Perhaps he’d gone out to find some proper tea?
Then there was a man’s excited voice welcoming me to PXVO The Voice of the Green Mountains and a special showcasing the talent of The Lorna Brothers Band. This heralded a lot of banjo music and foot stomping. I wasn’t really in the mood for either but if I couldn’t work a coffee machine I certainly didn’t feel I could retune the radio.
I went to stare at the coffee machine and after pressing a few more buttons gave it several hefty whacks with a rolled-up tea towel and pressed all the buttons again.
‘You miserable, useless, lazy bitch! All I want is a bloody cup of coffee! Why? Why can’t you just co-operate? It wouldn’t kill you would it? You have one job—’
‘What on earth are you doing?’
I spun round and almost fell over. Oliver was standing in the doorway, barefoot and in a dark-blue dressing gown. He ran one hand over his hair and blinked at me.
‘I’m trying to make some coffee. Would you like some?’ I said, trying to calm down and look efficient. ‘Or breakfast? What would you like?’
‘Neither. And could you turn that awful music down? It’s only ten to five,’ he said.
We stood and looked each other for a minute and the truth dawned on me. Jet lag. Time difference. The other way. Ah.
‘God I’m such a …’
‘I wondered what the hell was going on out here. All that banging cupboard doors and crashing about – is this how you always work? It was just the same in the retreat.’
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘Well I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t do it here. I’m only down the corridor’ – he waved towards his room with one hand – ‘and I can hear every bloody sound.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
How was I to know?
‘Right. I do appreciate you have jet lag, but do you think you could have jet lag quietly?’
‘Yes of course, I—’
‘I am going back to bed, and I am going back to sleep. I don’t need breakfast for at least three hours. If other people do, then please ask them to keep the noise down. Right?’
Someone’s grumpy.
‘Right.’
He turned away.
‘Oh, Mr Forest,’ I said.
He turned back with a weary sigh. ‘What now?’
‘Before you go, could you turn the coffee machine on? I’ve been pressing buttons and stuff but I’m not entirely sure …’
I needed coffee, I really did.
He looked at me and I gave him a weak smile. ‘Sorry.’
He closed his eyes for a moment and then came across the kitchen towards me. He pressed one button on the side of the machine and the blasted thing sprang obediently into life, grinding beans from the hopper and making all sorts of exciting shushing and humming noises heralding imminent success. He moved one of the mugs to a different space and gave me a hard look.
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘Right.’
He went back across the kitchen and down the corridor and I heard a door close with more than a hint of a slam.
Oh well.
Meanwhile, the machine was politely dispensing coffee into my mug and releasing a glorious smell into the kitchen too. I took my drink and went to sit by the window.
On the horizon dawn was breaking over the mountains in a yellowy, snow-tinged light. I could see snow, snow, and more snow everywhere. Not the sort of pathetic sprinkling you get in England when everyone gets excited and starts panic buying bread and shutting down airports. This was deep and crisp and even.
Every tree was covered; the lawn/field whatever it was that stretched away from the house was hidden and smoothed out under an undulating white blanket. And it looked glorious. It was a childhood dream come true.
It was how winter should look and seldom does except on a wildlife special about Canada with a David Attenborough commentary about bears.
It would be the perfect backdrop to a Michael Bublé Christmas Special too. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a one-horse open sleigh had come up to the house, harness jingling, filled with laughing people and huge presents.
I almost felt the need for a chunky Scandi-Noir sweater. Actually, I did wish I had thought to bring warmer clothes and some wellingtons. And thick socks. And a cute woolly hat with a giant furry bobble. And a proper coat. And a scarf. What had I been thinking? I’d brought jeans and everyone knows jeans are no use in the snow. They get wet and shrink and cut off the circulation and then your feet fall off. Oh well.
I went and got more coffee and decided – as it was only quarter past five – I’d go and find my phone charger and then see if I had more luck with the shower in my bathroom.
No phone charger. How come? I know I had packed one. I even had a handy plug adaptor tucked away that I’d bought at the airport once I realized I was going to America.
I sat on the edge of my bed and thought back to the last time when I used it.
Of course, I’d left it in the airport.
I opened the Toblerone and broke off the first chunk.
#Officiallyanidiot.
Chapter Seventeen
Eventually Pippa and Jake came downstairs for breakfast grumbling about jet lag although by my calculations they hadn’t lost any sleep at all. By the time we had sorted out what they wanted (pancakes, maple syrup, and smoked bacon, bleugh – I mean who thought that was a good idea?) Oliver had joined us.
As I doled out the food – all of which to be fair looked quite appetizing, just not together on one plate – the three of them discussed plans for the day. Pippa managed to make every event, from driving into the village to talking to the caterers, sound like a world trade summit.
Apparently Very Important Gideon was going to join us at some point but before that they were going to spend time in the village sorting out the final preparations for the launch party. Although Oliver had rejected The Times, he seemed quite happy to be giving an interview to both the local paper fetchingly named the Green Mountain Trumpet and the local radio station that I’d already listened to (PXVO – The Voice of The Green Mountains), both of which were apparently run by one man and his mother.
They would all be away for most of the day so I had hours to myself. Excellent; it would give me a chance to have a poke about and explore the house and perhaps even send a couple of emails.
Despite complaining that the pancakes, etc. were like soooo fattening, Pippa managed to tuck away three and even wiped the syrup from her plate with a finger. Jake meanwhile was evidently not great at chatter in the mornings and sat at his end of the table packing away pancakes with dedicated resolve.
Huge amounts of coffee with something deadly called heavy cream were drunk. At least I now knew how to get the demon machine topped up and working, and then just as I was about to tidy up they started on some of the fresh fruit salad I had made as an antidote to all those calories.
Eventually Pippa and Jake we
nt back to their rooms, ready to drive into the village with Oliver, and I cleared away and stacked one of the two dishwashers. Oliver seemed quite happy to stay at the end of the table as I did so.
‘Your leg’s better then?’ I said as I wiped the syrup off Pippa’s chair.
‘Yes, I can’t ski yet, but it’s fine otherwise.’
‘I can’t ski either.’
‘Ever tried?’
‘Well, once on a dry ski slope near Gloucester, but all I did was fall over.’
‘I learned to ski out there on the field. It’s a gentle slope, very easy.’
‘Hmm, easy for you,’ I said. ‘That might be an adventure too far for me before you suggest it. Going home with a broken leg isn’t my idea of fun.’
Apart from anything else I couldn’t see myself skiing in trainers and jeans.
‘So how is this adventure going?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘I wasn’t expecting it I can tell you! I thought I was going to Shropshire!’
‘Not disappointed then?’
‘No.’
‘Were you tempted to say no?’
‘Absolutely not!’ I lied.
‘I bet you were!’
I changed the subject. ‘Will the roads be OK? I mean it’s been snowing quite hard.’
‘Oh this is nothing,’ he said. ‘Do you know what they say about the seasons in Vermont? Almost winter, winter, still winter, road construction. There’s a thaw due tomorrow. Did you see I wanted you to make cottage pie this evening?’
‘Yes I saw that on my instruction sheet. That’s a strange thing to ask for,’ I said. ‘It’s not exactly fine dining.’
‘I don’t want fine dining. I want what you made at the retreat. I liked it.’
I could feel myself blushing and I turned away to start wiping the hob. ‘You’re the boss,’ I said trying to sound nonchalant.
‘So will you be OK here on your own? There’s an SUV in the garage you could borrow if you wanted to go out? I mean you can if you want to.’
The chances of me doing this were nil. I’ve never driven on the wrong side of the road and I wasn’t about to start now. Still, I wasn’t going to admit it.
A Year of New Adventures Page 15