A Year of New Adventures

by Maddie Please

  Could I imagine him fancying me? Hmm. Most of the time I’d spent with him I had been in jeans and sweatshirts, red-faced from the oven. Not much to fancy there I would have thought.

  Outside, the first fingers of a new dawn were brightening the sky, throwing the mountains into sharp shadows. The snow had all gone now and the pine trees at the edge of the garden were tipped with funny little tufts of juicy, green growth. I thought about the spring, the fresh life in the world. It was a time of surging growth and new birth.

  I hadn’t had sex for … well ages. I couldn’t actually remember. Probably when Matt and I got pissed together because we knew we weren’t really going to go the distance. And that was two weeks before we were supposed to go to New York, and three days before he dumped me and took sodding Dee instead.

  Still, I think I had a grasp of the basics when it came to the finer points of bedroom cavorting? I bloody well hope I remembered when the opportunity next arose, so to speak. What if I’d forgotten? What if I did it wrong? What if I’d always done it wrong?

  It was quarter to six. I needed to get dressed and finish my packing then search under the bed for lost socks and T-shirts. Maybe Oliver would stand on the balcony waving us off? Or maybe he would come in the car with us, muttering about how glad he was that it was all over and looking forward to getting back to civilization? I imagined him crowding me into a corner with his huge leather laptop bag and his mobile phone bleeping away like a Geiger counter as all his emails rolled in.

  Pippa was going to be horribly hung-over.

  Hung-over, embarrassed, and resentful.

  Hung-over, embarrassed, resentful, and … well never mind. I was a bit sad about Pippa. I’d tried to stick up for her too and that was the thanks I got for it: abuse. Betty Crocker indeed.

  Still, perhaps I should go to her room and make sure she hadn’t choked on her own vomit. That would be the kind thing to do.

  I pulled on my dressing gown and tiptoed along the corridor. Her door was open. From inside I could hear the sort of snoring I might have expected from a dinosaur asleep on its eggs, not a size six, adult woman. I deduced she wasn’t dead and went back to my bedroom to shower and pull on some warm clothes.

  When I am hung-over – which of course is hardly ever as my body is a temple and I adhere strictly to a clean-eating policy – I like a full English, orange juice, and as much toast as I can get my hands on. Perhaps Pippa and Jake would be the same? I’d get everything ready, and fix a smile on my face.

  *

  Jake was up and dressed and practically ready by eleven o’clock, which was pretty impressive. There was no sign of Pippa. I left Jake eating scrambled eggs and mushrooms, as apparently the other alternatives were ‘too noisy’.

  Pippa was still in bed, still snoring, and her room was an absolute tip. It was reminiscent of scenes from Lord of The Rings after the Orcs had been through. I wondered not for the first time how Pippa could emerge from such devastation looking as flawless as she did. I opened the curtains and admitted the sunlight. Then I opened the windows and let in the fresh air. Pippa gave a grumbling squawk and pulled the duvet over her head.

  ‘Time to move, Pippa,’ I said brightly. ‘It’s eleven o’clock. You’ve got an hour till the car comes to take us to the airport.’

  ‘I’m dying,’ she said with a rather pathetic sob in her voice.

  ‘Quite possibly but you still have to get up.’

  I pulled her case out and lifted it onto her bed. Pippa moved her legs and grumbled a bit more.

  ‘I’m packing your case,’ I said. ‘There’s breakfast downstairs. Jake is eating scrambled eggs. If you’re quick, he won’t have eaten them all. Or I could do some bacon?’

  Pippa gave a whimper and shot out of bed and into the bathroom where I could hear her retching and complaining.

  I carried on folding up her clothes and stuffing them as tidily as I could into her bag. Luckily, as she had come business class, she had a bigger baggage allowance and there were two cases instead of one. Even so she seemed to have brought enough clothes for a month. I took an executive decision and left out a pair of sweat pants, a cashmere hoody, and a T-shirt for her to wear. I was guessing those tight leather trousers would not be the way to go.

  Seconds later I heard her shower running so I took her bags out onto the landing and went downstairs to make sure Jake hadn’t fallen asleep in his breakfast. He was still sitting there, drinking coffee and looking a bit white around his mouth.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Never better,’ he said. He put his mug down and his shoulders drooped as he sat looking washed out, his mouth slightly open.

  The back door opened and Oliver came in. I hadn’t even known he was awake.

  ‘Everyone up and jumping?’ he said. He didn’t look at me.

  ‘Well I’m up.’ Jake rubbed a hand over his face.

  ‘Job done,’ Oliver said. ‘Where’s Pippa?’

  ‘Last heard of in the shower,’ I said. ‘I packed her bags and they’re on the landing.’

  ‘I’ll go and get them.’

  Oliver went upstairs and returned with her cases.

  ‘I heard her on the phone to someone so she’s still alive,’ he said. ‘Let’s have some coffee.’

  Luckily at that moment Pippa came out of her room and came very carefully down the stairs, holding on for dear life to the banister.

  She sat down next to Jake.

  ‘Where’s my stuff?’ she said through stiff lips.

  ‘All here!’ I said cheerfully.

  Pippa pressed her fingers onto her forehead. ‘Coffee and two aspirin,’ she whispered, ‘please.’

  ‘Not feeling well?’ Oliver boomed.

  Pippa winced. ‘I’m dying. Sorry.’

  I passed her a mug of coffee and went to get the aspirin. ‘Breakfast? Eggs, bacon, French toast?’

  Pippa blew her cheeks out a little. ‘I know you mean well but please shut up.’

  ‘OK,’ I said cheerfully. ‘You need to finish your packing I’m afraid. It’s twenty to twelve.’

  Pippa finished her coffee and slunk back off upstairs. We could hear her on the phone muttering into her mobile and thumping around slamming doors to convey her misery to the rest of us.

  ‘Got all your stuff? Charging cables, adaptors? Got all your washing out of the dryer?’

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s like having my mum here,’ Jake grumbled.

  ‘The van is just pulling up,’ Oliver said a few minutes later. ‘Any sign of Pippa?’

  I went up to her room and found her curled up on her bed asleep.

  ‘The minivan’s here!’ I said.

  She moaned and turned away from me.

  ‘You can sleep on the drive back to the airport,’ I said.

  ‘Tell me when everyone’s got their stuff in and you’re about to go,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got about five minutes.’

  Downstairs Oliver had put Jake’s cases in the back of the van and Jake himself was standing next to it looking vague. He got into the seat at the back of the van, made a pillow from his coat, rested his head on it, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Pippa?’ Oliver said.

  ‘Wants to be called at the last minute.’

  ‘This is the last minute.’

  ‘I’ll go and get her,’ I said.

  Pippa was fast asleep and didn’t appreciate being woken up. I got her downstairs and into the back of the car and Oliver put her bags in.

  She slumped across the next row of seats and then realized perhaps it wouldn’t work. She sat up and moved across to let me in. I caught her eye and passed her a bottle of chilled water.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said in a tiny voice.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said.

  I took a last look around before I got in beside her. The sun was high in a dazzling blue sky, the air was clean and cold and filled with energy. This had definitel
y been an adventure. I’d seen a tiny part of a huge country I knew hardly anything about. It was vast and beautiful and different. I promised myself I would come back one day, I would explore. I would get fit what with clean eating and losing weight. Perhaps I’d hike the Appalachian Trail? I could almost imagine myself triumphantly breasting the brow of a hill and looking down on a verdant valley filled with red grain silos and black and white cows, where American people made quilts and had yard sales. Whatever they were.

  Then I thought about the bears. Perhaps not.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I got back to my house the following day to find everything spotless. Of course it would be. With Godfrey and Peter staying there, every surface from the skirting boards to the fridge had been cleaned and polished. They had left a bunch of flowers in a vase on the worktop, a welcome home card, and a helium-filled balloon decorated with the Stars and Stripes.

  I dragged my case in, shut the door, and slumped down at the kitchen table. Then I found my spare phone charger and put my mobile on to charge.

  Of course, a barrage of texts, emails, and messages arrived within seconds. Lots from Helena with a blow-by-blow account of the journey and how she was enjoying herself in Scotland. One from my mother who was back home from Nottingham. The twins had brought some of the scenery down at their school play but other than that everything had been great. And lastly, an email from Gideon March. Offering me a job. Unbelievable.

  I clicked on the reply button and then hesitated. Would I accept or decline or even bother to reply? Perhaps it was a joke? I deleted it.

  Nothing from Oliver at all. Why on earth had I imagined there would be? What would he say?

  I went to empty my case and then, seeing the beautifully made bed with its fresh, clean, ironed sheets, I just kicked my shoes off and got in. After all what bloody time was it anyway? Who cared? While I was trying to puzzle it out I went to sleep.

  I woke up some time later to hear someone knocking on the front door. I dragged myself out of bed. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, it’s Peter. Are you decent? Come on, open the door, petal.’

  Godfrey and Uncle Peter stood there with a bag of groceries.

  ‘We’ve brought you some milk and some bread and stuff,’ Peter said.

  Godfrey stepped forwards. ‘Can we come in? Have you had fun? Are you all right?’

  ‘Thank you for leaving this place looking so lovely and clean. I can’t thank you enough,’ I said.

  ‘Pish! It’s the least we could do,’ Peter said. ‘We found some interesting things at the bottom of your fridge, including something that may be a form of life not previously encountered. I hope you don’t mind we had a bit of a clear-out?’

  ‘God no I don’t mind!’

  ‘Good. Now let’s have some wine and then we’ll have the chicken casserole I’ve made,’ Godfrey said.

  ‘Oh you didn’t need to—’

  ‘No but we have. And you can tell us all your news. Well some of it. You know, just the edited highlights. You’re not that fascinating,’ Godfrey said with a wink.

  We sat around my kitchen table and talked, and I had no idea what time I thought it was or even whether I wanted chicken. We drank some more wine and I told them about the job offer I’d had from Oliver’s publisher Gideon.

  ‘Gideon March? Now that rings a bell. We heard something about him didn’t we? Godfrey’s friend works in some seventh circle of hell all to do with publishing and apparently the hot rumour was your Oliver was looking for a new American publisher.’ He pulled a face.

  ‘What happened to Gideon March?’

  ‘Let go. Sacked. Something to do with creative differences. That’s what they always say. I googled Gideon March. His eyes are too close together. He looks like a well-groomed weasel.’

  Yes, I could agree with that.

  ‘Your Oliver looked nice though; very handsome,’ Godfrey added.

  ‘He’s not my anything,’ I said.

  ‘And muscular,’ Godfrey added, ‘but in a good way.’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ I said not knowing if I was going to laugh or cry.

  *

  I went back to see how they were getting on a couple of days later when my jet lag was just about sorted out. Peter and Godfrey were in relentlessly good form, chatting effusively with the few customers who came in. It was obvious they really didn’t need me there too. There were only so many cups of tea and cakes they could get through and the chap fixing the shelving only drank diet cola and ate chewing gum as far as I could tell.

  I wandered around, straightening piles of books and dusting shelves for a bit, and then went to see Helena.

  She looked exceptionally happy and had enjoyed her trip to the frozen North a great deal. Scotland had been delightful. The scenery unrivalled, the hotel romantic, and of course Nick had been wonderful.

  We were having coffee and biscuits in the cupboard officially known as her office, while she pretended to catch up on work emails. She was still filled with a happy wonder about Nick and wanted to go over all the details.

  ‘He made me tea in bed every morning we were there. And did I show you the photos? He wants us to go back there next year too. Our room was covered in tartan. I mean plastered. Tartan curtains, tartan carpet, and tartan mugs, and there was even tartan trim on the towels.’

  ‘But there wasn’t an aged retainer called Angus? That’s very disappointing.’

  ‘There wasn’t; all the staff were Polish I think, absolutely charming of course. Dressed in their kilts and frilly shirts. They must think we are absolutely mad over here.’

  ‘And Nick? Is he still Mr Wonderful?’

  Helena blushed and giggled and wriggled in her chair a bit. ‘He’s lovely.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s coming over at the weekend. I’ll have to tidy up a bit.’

  ‘Helena, your house is always immaculate. Unless you’ve discovered some new way to torment yourself cleaning moss off the roof tiles.’

  ‘Well I’ll have to change the sheets then.’

  ‘Good one. And all is still well in that department?’

  ‘Oooh yes, I should say. Do you know last weekend I was still asleep and I was really surprised when he—’

  The door opened and I never did find out what Nick had done to surprise her. Perhaps it was just as well.

  It was one of the other librarians, a worried-looking girl with her hair in several plaits.

  ‘Helena, has The Duke’s True Love come back yet? Only Miss Timpson is out there kicking off. You’ll have to come and calm her down. I can’t lay my hand on the Jackie Collins title she’s looking for and she doesn’t like Barbara Cartland because there’s no sex.’

  Helena rolled her eyes and shoved in the last of her shortbread, brushing the crumbs off her skirt as she stood up.

  ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve got work to do. I’m going to expand the writing retreat business.’ I was making it sound like a multinational takeover. ‘But first I need a book on building a website. Can you point me to the right section?’

  *

  I wandered back down the high street, picking up milk on the way and stopping at the bank. I stuck my card in the machine to check the balance. I hate doing that. I’m nearly always disappointed or confused why there’s no money in my account. And then I have to go through the depressing business of reconciling trips to coffee shops and book purchases on Amazon. Usually there was a balance of a few hundred pounds; sometimes it dipped into the red.

  Today there was nearly a thousand pounds in there.

  I checked it three times and even went to use the machine inside the bank too. Then I got a mini-statement and checked it. Then I did a full printed statement and took it into the nearest café.

  When I was settled with a cup of mint tea and a toasted teacake, I spread the papers out on the table and looked over them to make sure.

  Payment for some birthday cakes I had made had gone in and anothe
r from the writing retreat to reimburse me for groceries I had bought. But on top of that there had been a bank transfer for six hundred pounds, two days ago, from the account of Ross Black Limited, HPGD Bank, Chelsea Branch.

  I sat there for some time looking at the figures. This was surely more than I had been offered to do the job. Why would Oliver do this? Was it some sort of fat-finger mistake?

  I drank my mint tea but after a few sips I realized it was tepid, unpleasant, and I pushed it away. The teacake wasn’t much better. The butter had soaked into it and now it was cold and greasy. I couldn’t eat it, and I have never in my life left a toasted teacake uneaten. Perhaps this would be a good time to start point 2 on my list, my clean-eating plan? Well, when I’d finished the new Toblerone I’d bought at the airport …

  I felt tired and a bit sad, not even the sight of a load of unexpected money in my bank account cheered me up. In fact, it made me feel a bit worse. Why did it make me feel worse? It was like charity. I wanted to get my life back on track by my own efforts. I didn’t need or want charity.

  I’d done the job and now I was being treated like a broken-down old warhorse being put out to pasture.

  Well more like a young-ish horse being put into a paddock.

  No, what was I talking about?

  A young, attractive horse being escorted to a lovely, flowery field where it would have a pleasant and fulfilled life.

  There was no doubt about it I was losing my mind.

  I wasn’t a horse of any sort. I wasn’t being put out anywhere. I’d just been paid more than I was expecting.

  I paid my bill and, after a moment dithering about, decided this was the day when I would buy some new bras. Point 3 on my list. Now this was an adventure I hadn’t expected when I woke up this morning. I’d been meaning to do this for years.

  The bra fitter was nice but very determined I was not going to leave the shop without at least three. She brought me armfuls of the things, something I’d always avoided doing because putting the right one back on the right hanger in the right way is almost impossible unless you’ve been on some sort of training course. She didn’t seem to mind though, and was delighted to find how badly my existing underwear was fitting. Or not fitting. I felt I had given her plenty to use at the next Bra Fitters’ Seminar she attended.