I suddenly realized something.
‘Is that why you prefer to sleep downstairs? In Vermont in that little room, not upstairs? Why you had to have the ground-floor bedroom in the writing retreat? It was nothing to do with your ankle was it? And it’s why your books are so sad, the heroines always die or leave Harry Field for someone else. That’s why.’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Just ignore me, forget what I just said. I’m an idiot to even tell you. I’ve never told anyone before.’
‘I’d never tell anyone!’
‘I couldn’t stop you anyway.’
‘Oliver, I know I’m noisy and a bit on the crazy side on occasions, but I don’t lie and I don’t let friends down.’
He looked at me. ‘Am I a friend? You hardly know me.’
‘But I want to.’ I took his hand between both of mine.
‘I’m not used to trusting people,’ he said. ‘I’ve been alone so long.’
‘I know.’
He pulled his shirt on and went into the kitchen, putting his empty mug in the sink. I followed him. He opened the back door and we walked out into the pale, clear morning. The wet grass was cold under my bare feet. I watched him.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ he said. ‘I’ve felt more chilled in the last two days than I have for years. I wonder why that is?’
‘You don’t have to worry about anything here,’ I said. ‘That’s the point isn’t it? You sent Kitty here, she spread the word, and the others followed. It wouldn’t have worked if it hadn’t been for you. She even came and signed some books in my uncle’s shop. And then so did my other guests. I was hoping you would too?’
He took my hand and squeezed it.
‘Yes, you’re good at looking after people. I just got the ball rolling. I think I need someone like you, Billie. Now Pippa has gone, and Fee is just a temporary solution.’
Somehow my heart sank. He didn’t need me. He needed someone like me.
‘What happened to Pippa?’
‘She left. She and Jake fell for each other. Didn’t Kitty tell you? They’ve moved in together. That’s the triumph of hope over experience.’
‘Oh but I’m so glad! Not that Pippa left, but that she and Jake realized they would be good for each other.’
Oliver turned to look at me. ‘How did you know? You hardly knew either of them?’
I shrugged. ‘It was obvious.’
‘Was it? Not to me! I couldn’t believe what they had been up to in Vermont.’
‘Good for them I say! And what about Fee?’
‘Temporary contract. She’ll be leaving soon. I don’t suppose …’ Oliver spun round to look at me, his eyes bright with hope.
‘What?’
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come and work for me?’
I laughed. ‘Not a chance!’
His face fell. ‘Why not?’
‘It wouldn’t work, Oliver – you know it wouldn’t. As you said, you don’t need me; you need someone like me. Anyway, I have my own stuff to do.’
‘You could go back to writing? I could help you. I could put your stuff on the right desks, get you going.’
I held my breath for a moment, thinking about what this might mean.
‘Of all the ideas I’ve heard that is one of the worst, Oliver. I know you mean to help but that’s not the way is it? Think about it!’
He dropped my hand and walked away from me to the end of the garden. Not My Cat came slinking out of the long grass and sat staring at him.
I went back into the house, my feet freezing. Should I wait for him? Should I go back out? What was the right thing to do?
What I wanted, what I needed, was a hot shower.
I went upstairs, found a clean towel, and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Much as I might have wanted Oliver to come in after me and share the experience, I was suddenly shy again. Just for a brief moment I hadn’t cared. I had felt sexy and desirable. Now I was only too aware of the faults in my figure. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and blushed.
When I came out of the bathroom Oliver’s bedroom door was open. He was dressed.
‘Are you ready for breakfast?’
He hesitated. ‘No, but thanks. Bit early perhaps. I need to go back to London. I’ve had a call from the office. I’d like to deal with it from here, but I think it would make more sense to drive there.’
‘Oh.’
We were strangers again. I went downstairs, my wet hair hanging limp and unbrushed, still in my dressing gown that smelled of Oliver and sex and sweat. I didn’t think I would ever wash it again.
At last we stood looking at each other in my little hallway next to the front door.
My sadness had settled like a stone in my throat. Oliver bent to kiss my cheek. A cold, dry kiss of brief acquaintance.
‘I’ll see you,’ he said.
I wanted to throw my arms around him, beg him to tell me what I’d done but I didn’t. At that moment the doorbell rang.
I opened it. My mother stood there, rattling her car keys in her hand. She was dressed in her gardening clothes and a disreputable old fleece hat.
‘Sorry I’m so early. I’ve come for the fish kettle. Oooh!’ She visibly jumped when she saw Oliver and her eyes flicked from him to me and back again, taking in my dressing gown and wet hair. ‘Sorry, am I interrupting something? Do introduce me!’
‘Mum, this is Oliver Forest. Oliver, this is my mother …’ For a moment I couldn’t remember my mother’s name and I screwed my eyes up in my attempts to remember.
Mum leaned forward and they shook hands.
‘I think Billie’s having a senior moment. I’m Penelope, always delighted to meet any of Billie’s …’
Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
‘… many boyfriends.’
Oh great. So now I sound like the town bike. Thanks, Mum.
‘Sorry to rush off but I must be going,’ Oliver said. ‘Nice to meet you, Penelope.’
He walked past her, got into his car, and drove away.
‘Have I spoiled a tender moment? Did I say I’d be calling in? He looks nice by the way,’ Mum said with a thoughtful look. ‘Is he special?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I went to look for the bloody fish kettle and eventually found it in the lean-to shed by the back door. It was covered in dust and spider’s webs and I had to give it a good scrub before Mum would even touch it but at least it gave me time to calm down. Then we had an infuriating half-hour when I told her how to use it and she refused to listen or understand and I had to write out a recipe for her. With diagrams. Why she couldn’t just look on the Internet like everyone else I don’t know.
All the time I wondered where Oliver had got to.
‘Come over and see the boys. They’ll be arriving round about lunchtime. They’d absolutely love to see you,’ Mum said.
This was so unlikely that I thought I was going to cry.
Hector and Finn would be far more interested in their X Box than a dull aunt mooning around with a face like a wet week. And was watching them play some shoot ’em up game enough to distract me from remembering how this day had begun: with the best sex I’d ever had with the handsomest man I’d ever known?
No was the answer I was looking for.
‘I’ll be over sometime, Mum,’ I said.
Mum was wandering around picking things up and putting them back in the wrong places, which meant I had to wander around after her. I wished she would leave but she had other ideas.
‘Shall we have coffee?’ she said, opening the back door. Next door’s cat shot in and straight out again in a scurry of flying paws. Even it seemed to know that Oliver wasn’t there anymore.
I began to think I was losing my mind. I didn’t talk much. All I could see was Oliver sitting next to me, his fingers curled around his wine glass, talking about the body count in Death in Damascus.
‘So that good-look
ing man who was leaving, tell me about him,’ Mum said as we settled down with coffee and a full biscuit tin.
‘Oliver Forest, also known as Ross Black,’ I said.
‘He’s the chap who took you to Vermont isn’t he? He must be keen!’
‘He’s not keen, Mum. He’s just another writer who needed a space to write without interruption.’
‘So do you always look so miserable when your writers leave?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, Mum. I hardly know him,’ I said.
I pulled out a broken Hobnob and ate it. Why did I do that? Did I think I didn’t deserve the whole ones? Did I really believe that two broken halves were less fattening than one biscuit?
I threw the pieces into the bin and took a Mint Club.
‘But you like him,’ Mum said, determined to pry as always.
‘He’s a bit difficult, moody, clever.’
Brilliant in bed.
‘Sounds like your father,’ Mum said, unwrapping a KitKat. ‘When are you seeing him again?’
‘I’ve no idea. He had to go back to London. Unexpectedly.’
‘He likes you,’ Mum said. ‘I can tell.’
‘You can’t possibly know that on a ten-second acquaintance,’ I said, irritated.
Mum laughed in that annoying way she does sometimes.
‘I’m never wrong. Anyway, I’d better get on with things. I have a fish to cook after all. Come round later and you can see how I manage. And I know Josie would like to see you. She and Mark are thinking of selling the cottage in Cornwall and buying a place in France for holidays and weekends. She’s had a load of stuff through from French estate agents. You wouldn’t believe how cheap property is over there.’
I felt exhausted just thinking about it. I wanted to go back to bed, bury my head under the duvet, and sleep.
*
It was awful being in the house remembering Oliver wasn’t upstairs writing or out in the garden so I accepted her invitation and spent the afternoon at Mum’s house. I could distract myself listening to my sister’s tales of Hector’s brilliance at cricket when he had bowled someone out who was almost County standard apparently; unlikely for someone on an under elevens team. Finn had staggering ability at coil pots – an example of which stood filled with cocktail sticks we didn’t need on the dinner table. And, of course, there was the prospect of a French bolthole to consider and discuss.
Josie was looking fantastic. I mean she always has been taller, thinner, and prettier than I am but she was also looking toned and tanned and altogether buffed. As the day wore on it became apparent she spent most of her time in the spa or the gym, so that would explain it. I bet she didn’t have to worry about her electricity bill. I expect elves came round at night to service her car too.
‘So what do you think of the salmon?’ Mum said later, poking at her plate.
‘Lovely,’ I said obediently.
‘It hasn’t got any breadcrumbs,’ Finn said, his mouth an arc of dissatisfaction, ‘and where are the fingers? They’re the best part.’
‘We’re working up to actual fish fish,’ Josie said sotto voce.
‘And there aren’t any fries,’ Hector added.
‘Well maybe later,’ Mum said. ‘It’s my favourite thing ever for dessert …’
Across the table the boys brightened up.
‘… Butterscotch Angel Delight. I saw it in the supermarket the other day. I didn’t know they still made it. I’d assumed it was banned under European law.’
The boys looked blank as well they might. I hoped they didn’t get their hopes up too high.
After we had parked the boys in front of the TV for the rest of the afternoon the three of us went into the kitchen to drink wine and – in my sister’s case – complain about her husband Mark who had discovered fishing as a hobby and now spent most of his spare time sitting by the side of a river near Worcester. In my opinion it seemed a reasonable exchange for a French holiday home and a lifestyle of doing not much, ably assisted by a gardener and a cleaner.
I sort of zoned out while she discussed his fishing habits and friends and only came to when my mobile rang.
‘It’s me, Helena,’ said Helena. She sounded as though she was about to burst with excitement.
‘You sound happy – what’s happening?’
‘I’ve just had an email from that agent. Do you remember? Oliver’s friend who was setting up a new agency? Maryam Delaney. And he said give her a try when the book was ready?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well I did. I sent off some stuff to her last week and she’s just been on the phone. She wants to be my agent!’
‘Wow, that’s fabulous news! Well done you!’
‘I know! I’m so excited! I can’t believe it! Is Oliver still there? I mean apart from wanting to tell you, I’d like to speak to him and thank him. If he’s not busy?’
‘Well, no actually.’
I explained as best I could about Oliver’s sudden return to London while my mother and sister shamelessly eavesdropped, their eyes boggling with interest.
‘I don’t understand why he would leave early. You said he was OK, that you were getting on with him? What happened?’ Helena said.
Oh God.
‘I’ll tell you another time,’ I said. ‘I’m at Mum’s and I have Mum and Josie earwigging at the moment.’
‘We aren’t!’ Mum said indignantly.
‘Well I am,’ Josie said.
‘Did you have a row?’ Helena said.
‘No.’
I stood up and walked off out into the garden where they couldn’t hear what I was saying.
‘Look I know you’re going to tell me off, and I probably deserve it. And I don’t know what I was thinking but I did all the same. And it was probably the most stupid thing I’ve ever done. Well not the stupidest, I mean you were there when I looked down the hosepipe to see what was blocking it. But actually it wasn’t that stupid, not really. I mean …’
‘What are you talking about?’ Helena said.
‘I slept with him,’ I hissed.
‘Oliver? You slept with Oliver Forest? You didn’t!’
‘I did. I woke up and he was downstairs having a nightmare and I went to see … anyway one thing led to another.’
‘Flipping heck. I can’t believe it! He slept with you? I’m assuming you mean you had sex?’
‘Well I didn’t have to persuade him or anything. Yes we did.’
‘And?’
‘And it was fantastic. But then the next minute he’s packing his bags and saying he has to go. He needs to think, all that usual bollocks.’
‘Flip, what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve no idea. Nothing I suppose.’
‘Seems a shame. And I mean it; I really would like to thank him. But that doesn’t matter. I would pop round to hear all the details but Nick’s coming round after work to go through our travel stuff one last time.’
‘It’s fine. Anyway, I’m thrilled you have got an agent. We’ll have a drink when you get back from holiday.’
‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes, I’m great, like I said I’m at Mum’s and Josie and the twins are here.’
I felt a bit depressed all of a sudden. God, I was such a wuss.
‘OK, speak soon.’
I took a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen where Mum and Josie had opened another bottle of wine. I’d forgotten what they are like when they get together.
Mum was ready for me, her eyes like gimlets.
‘You slept with him? You told me you hardly knew him!’
Oh great.
*
The rest of the afternoon passed with my mother and sister casting knowing looks in my direction and talking in a strange sort of cryptic language whenever one of the twins turned up looking for more food or bleating on about the weird pudding Granny had tried to fob them off with.
‘More wine? I mean have you had enough generally or would you like some more of the same?’ Josie said at one point.
‘I’m fine thank you and yes I would like a top-up. After all too much of a good thing is marvellous,’ I said. I think I was a bit squiffy at this point. It’s a good job I wasn’t driving.
Hector looked at me from under his dark fringe. ‘Why are you talking funny?’ he said. ‘It’s like you’re talking in code.’
‘Is it? How strange – perhaps it’s because Mummy and Granny are a bit deaf.’
‘Is that why she said she didn’t hear when I asked if we could go to Alton Towers?’ he said, leaning on the back of my chair and rocking it.
‘Probably,’ I said.
‘Can I have a biscuit?’ Hector whined.
‘Ask Granny,’ I said.
‘May I have a biscuit,’ Josie corrected him.
‘I don’t know, ask Granny,’ Hector said, kicking my chair leg.
*
I was feeling quite mellow. Well a bit pissed actually. But it was a good thing to be. It went with the way I felt. I needed to get my act into gear, focus on the future, and stop wishing stuff.
Wishing I were thinner, had better dress sense, or more money. Wishing I had some sort of love life and perhaps the prospect of children. I mean Hector and Finnegan were fine in small doses, but I was sure my children would be better behaved, want to cook with me, and would sleep through the night from six weeks. And not poke about looking for biscuits.
My children would have nutritious, home-grown vegetables and fruit on a daily basis. They would not think Chinese takeaway menu B was the same thing as Sunday lunch. They would not steal my chocolate. They would not pull the scenery down at school plays or roll round on the floor in the supermarket kicking each other.
Buoyed up by this pleasing scenario I got home without thinking about Oliver once. But then of course I had to wonder who was going to be the father to these exceptional children. And then I was plunged into gloom again and the first thing I did when I got my shoes off was knock back a slug of vodka. Because that helps.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I spent the rest of the week tidying up and moping. I was expecting a writer called Patsy Poole on Friday evening. She was a vegetarian and gluten intolerant and needed absolute peace in order to finish her twenty-sixth book. I’m assuming it was going to be like the previous twenty-five, all of them sweet Georgian romances, rich with dimity dresses, blushing maidens who shook their curls and said Fie, Lord Winchester, you may not kiss me ’til we are wed. The dark-browed heroes generally crushed the heroines to their broad chests with lines like: You are my destiny, Seraphina. I will speak to your father.
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