by Alice Ross
‘As long as Izee is taking all the Instagram pictures.’
By the time we leave the pub two hours later, I have a splitting headache. I’m not sure if it’s because of Caitlin’s incessant ramblings (which covered a range of topics, including the advantages of gel nails over acrylics, and how many glasses of champagne you can cram in during a first-class flight to New York), or the fact that I’ve felt so miserable watching her fawning over Tom all evening and chanting ‘we’ this and ‘we’ that. The sickening scene turned me right off my food, which I merely toyed with. And in an effort to dim the whine of her voice, I knocked back far too much alcohol than intended. Which I suspect is the reason I’m feeling a bit tipsy when we arrive home.
After the slightly surreal day I’ve had, I can’t wait to crawl into bed and drift off to sleep.
But, an hour later, I’m still tossing and turning, as an incessant round of images of Tom and Caitlin plays on a loop in my head.
In the end, I can’t stand it a minute longer. I drag my inebriated self out of bed and down to the kitchen, being careful not to bump anything along the way. Reaching my destination, I find the blinds still open and the room flooded with silvery moonlight. Not bothering with the lights, I pad over to the fridge, from where I remove the Brie and - recalling Dimitri’s lunchtime comment - the punnet of cherry tomatoes. Both of which, along with some crackers, I’m munching on a stool at the breakfast bar, when the shadowy outline of our visitor appears in the doorway, in his orange pants.
‘Hello, lovelee Izee,’ he rasps.
With my mouth full of cracker, I don’t reply.
He slinks over and slides onto the stool next to mine.
‘Ah. The Brie.’ He plucks a tomato from the punnet and holds it a centimetre from my lips. ‘It is tasting much better with the tomatoes, no?’
Instinctively, I flick out my tongue to touch the tomato.
Then, the next thing I know, Dimitri’s spun my stool around to him and I’m flicking my tongue against his tonsils.
When I wake up the following morning, the first three words to barrel into my head are:
Oh. My. God.
Followed by: Oh. My. God.
And then another round of: Oh. My. God.
I can’t believe I snogged Dimitri again last night. What was I thinking?
Well, obviously I wasn’t thinking. At all. The combination of gin, moonlight, orange pants, and my stonking mood (courtesy of Caitlin and Tom), had short-circuited my brain, resulting in a momentary loss of senses.
Thankfully, despite Dimitri’s wandering hands, things hadn’t progressed any further than snogging. The hoot of an owl outside had startled me, rebooting my head and restoring some of my equanimity. Mumbling something incoherent about the moon – which had made no sense to me, let alone poor Dimitri - I’d then shot out of the kitchen faster than a turbo-charged rocket and retreated to the safety of my room.
And now I daren’t leave my room. How can I go downstairs and look Dimitri in the eye? Let alone anywhere else, if he’s parading about in his pants. And it’s not just the shame of kissing a man I seem to find irresistible whenever I’m tipsy, that’s making me burrow further under the duvet. I’m also depressed about the whole Caitlin/Tom thing. Watching them being all coupley last night had made me want to vomit. And on top of that, there’s also the sickening fact that Caitlin is sitting on a life-changing lottery win. Which further accentuates the pathetic state of my life.
As today is Saturday and my services aren’t required at the library, I vow to do something about that pathetic state today, and am mid-ponder about what that something should be, when there’s a rap on my door.
Panic zips through me. Crap! What if it’s Dimitri?
I yank the duvet right up, so that only one eye is visible, before whimpering a feeble ‘Come in’.
‘Goodness, Isobel. What are you still doing in bed?’ tuts my mother. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what’s happening today.’
‘Er…’ I scour my brain for clues. And find none.
‘It’s the final WI meeting before the garden party next week.’
Oh God! I’d totally forgotten about the WI Annual Garden Party. Which is held in our garden; takes more planning than the Buckingham Palace event; and propels my mother into the tizz of all tizzes during the lead-up. Normally, because I’m not here for the lead-up, the only part of the tizz that I’m subjected to, is on the telephone for an hour each evening. During which, I once left the phone on the coffee table, nipped to the loo and toasted a couple of crumpets, without her even noticing I’d gone. But this year, even though it’s the last thing I need, I’m in for the long haul. Beginning with this meeting.
‘Would you mind taking the minutes for me, darling? It would be a huge help.’
Frankly, I’d rather eat a plate of earthworms than take the minutes. But on the other hand, it would be the perfect excuse to keep out of Dimitri’s way.
‘Of course,’ I therefore say. ‘How many people are coming?’
‘I’ve printed ten agendas, but there will inevitably be at least two last-minute cry-offs. We’re due to start in half an hour, so can you please hurry up and have your breakfast before they arrive.’
Right. If I can do without breakfast and stay upstairs until the WI committee arrives, then that will eliminate any chance of me being alone with Dimitri. But as I’m completely starving – and ever so slightly hungover – and in desperate need of sustenance, I have a quick shower, tug on a pair of denim shorts and a baggy checked shirt, sweep up my hair into a messy topknot, and lug my butt downstairs.
To find another butt – in skimpy black pants, which I think may be embossed with the Star Trek logo, but I daren’t look too closely – on a kitchen stool.
And a fully clothed Tom at the table.
Whaaaaaat?
As if facing Dimitri wasn’t bad enough, now Tom’s here too. The last person I expected to see, given he and my dad don’t usually work weekends.
For a few seconds, I hover in the doorway, not knowing where to look (- although I’ve already ruled out the possible Star Trek logo) or what to say. I’m wracked with mortification after my snog with Dimitri, and I suspect, after knocking back too many gins last night, that I might have grown increasingly narky towards Tom and Caitlin.
‘Ah, here is the lovelee Izee,’ gushes Dimitri, slipping off the stool and sidling over to me, in the time it takes me to blink. ‘We are having the good time last night, eh?’ He slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his armpit.
Feeling like my feet are glued to the floor, I can do nothing but stand there, silently cursing my cheeks as they begin to burn.
‘Izee and I were having very good time last night,’ he says to Tom. With a wink – which has the effect of making an already cringeworthy moment, all the more cringeworthy.
Tom’s lovely mouth forms an ‘O’ shape as he gawps at me for a couple of seconds, before sputtering, ‘Oh. I… I see.’
The fact that I detect a hint of what could be disappointment in his tone, makes me paradoxically happy and furious at the same time. Maybe he thinks that I shouldn’t be getting it on with Dimitri, so soon after splitting with Giles. Not that I am getting it on with Dimitri (- apart from last night’s snog). But even if I was, it’s none of Tom’s business who I get it on with. So he can just go and mind his own blooming business, while he’s having his blooming breakfast in bed with Caitlin blooming Harmer and her five and a half million quid.
Anger now fizzing up inside me, I contort my lips into an enigmatic smile and say to Dimitri, ‘Yes, we, er, did have a good time, didn’t we?’
He beams at me. ‘Now, what you want to eat, Izee?’ He takes my hand, leads me over to the breakfast bar and lifts me onto a stool.
Aware of Tom’s eyes on me all the while, I allow myself to be led and lifted. ‘Um, I’d like some toast, please.’
‘Not the problem.’
As Dimitri and his Star Trek pants scuttle
over to the toaster, I can feel Tom’s gaze searing into me.
I turn to him, clear my throat and say, ‘So…’
At exactly the same time he does the same.
We exchange awkward smiles.
‘You go first,’ he says.
Ugh! Thanks a lot! ‘I was, um, going to say that I didn’t think you and my dad would be working today.’
‘We wouldn’t normally. But Caitlin has decided to change the layout of the utility room. The heating engineer is coming on Monday, which means, if we haven’t moved the cupboards around, he won’t be able to fit the boiler.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘It should only take a couple of hours. Then we’re going to look at this place in Doddingflower.’
‘Oh yes. The seventeen-bedroomed mansion.’
‘The converted vicarage. Which is marketed as having seven bedrooms, but you can bet your bottom dollar at least three will be the size of cupboards.’
He grins.
I don’t. ‘Sounds like a lovely family home,’ I mutter, to the plate of cupcakes – still on the bench but now covered with clingfilm.
Tom sputters on a mouthful of coffee. ‘That’s, er, not very high on our agenda. Or at least not on mine.’
‘Hmph,’ I huff.
Just as my mother waltzes into the room, with Mrs Platt from the WI scampering behind her, bearing a large chocolate cake.
‘Oh. Hello, Tom. Hello, Isobel,’ says Mrs Platt. ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit early for the meeting, but—’ She stops, eyes growing as large as the cake, as Dimitri and his Star Trek pants spin round from the toaster. ‘Oooo. And this must be—’
‘Dimitri - something-long-and-ending-in - opolous,’ says Dimitri, striding over to her and shaking her free hand. ‘Very pleased to be the meeting of you.’
‘Ooo, how charming,’ gushes Mrs Platt, flushing scarlet. ‘I, um, made this for you.’ She slides the cake onto the table. ‘As a welcome to our little village. It’s not often we have foreign people here.’
‘Especially not ones related to the Onassis family,’ sniffs my mother imperiously.
Mrs Platt jerks out an arm and grabs the back of a chair to steady herself. ‘You don’t mean Onassis as in…’
‘I most certainly do,’ confirms my mother smugly. ‘Dimitri’s family is in the hotel business.’
‘Goodness, how glamorous.’
‘It is. We are very lucky to be associated with him. And, needless to say, extremely excited about his relationship with Isobel.’
At this remark, Mrs Platt furrows her already lined forehead. ‘I thought Isobel was going out with that banker chap. The one whose mother goes to the same hairdresser as Anthea Turner.’
‘Actually, it was Carol Middleton – mother-in-law to Prince William,’ corrects my mother.
‘Oh. That’s a shame. I always think Anthea Turner has such healthy-looking hair.’
‘Yes, well, Giles and Isobel have decided to part company,’ my mother surges on. ‘You know what these young people are like. Always chopping and changing.’
‘Ooo, I do know,’ says Mrs Platt. ‘And it keeps things very interesting. I keep up to date with it all by watching Love Island. Ooooo, Dimitri should go on Love Island, given how good he looks in his, um…’
Tom clears this throat.
‘And so should you, of course, Tom,’ she adds hastily. ‘I’m sure you look every bit as good in your, um…’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, Mrs Platt,’ says Tom, tossing her a curt smile as he pushes back his chair and thrusts to his feet. ‘I’ve got some stuff to sort out in the van, so I’ll see you all later. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Irving.’
Then, without even looking in my direction, he stomps out of the kitchen. And Dimitri slides a plate of buttered toast, slathered in marmalade in front of me, garnished with a bit of tomato.
Chapter Five
By the time the WI meeting gets underway, Dimitri and his Star Trek pants are sprawled on the sunbed in the garden; I have changed into one of my work suits following my mother’s comment that I should ‘look a bit smarter’; and somewhere along the line we have acquired more ‘welcome to the village’ gifts for our visitor, in the form of a lemon drizzle cake, a batch of rock buns, and a plasticine model of the Acropolis with a bit of tinsel on top.
The most surprising development, though, is the number of attendees at the meeting. Rather than the eight to ten my mother had predicted, there are approximately thirty women milling about our house, in a blur of floral prints and tan stockings. All gawping at and cooing over Dimitri like he’s the male equivalent of the Mona Lisa.
Eventually, standing on the stepladder, my mother calls order, everyone who can find a chair sits down, and the meeting begins.
And it goes on.
And on.
And on.
At one point, I’m on the verge of nodding off, when things become a little heated.
‘So,’ ploughs on my mother, sticking to her agenda like Teflon to a frying pan, ‘if we can now move on to the sixth bullet point in Section C, Point Three…’
‘Where?’ asks Mrs Platt.
‘The sixth bullet in Section C, Point Three,’ affirms my mother impatiently.
Mrs Platt looks more baffled than the time the local hairdressing salon updated its hood dryers. ‘I’m sorry, Pru, but all these bullets are very confusing. Do we really need to have so many?’
My mother sucks in a sharp breath. ‘Of course we do. The WI prides itself on its use of bullets. If it weren’t for bullets, where would we all be?’
‘I really don’t know,’ mutters Mrs Platt.
‘Exactly!’ sniffs my mother. ‘Now, moving on to that bullet, which is concerning the presentation of prizes, I’m sorry to have to report that our famous village author, Ms Erica Rowland, has now left Chollingflower for pastures new.’
At this piece of news, I almost drop my pen. Erica Rowland is the woman with whom my ex, Giles, has been ‘fraternising’. I’d been dreading seeing her again, but now it sounds like I won’t have to.
‘Where’s she gone?’ somebody asks.
‘London. Where she has apparently found the inspiration she’s been seeking all this time.’
An ironic snort escapes me, which I quickly turn into a cough.
My mother glares at me, before setting her reading glasses straight and moving on. ‘Anyway, as I’m sure you’ve all realised, this leaves us with the problem of finding another esteemed person to present the prizes. Does anyone have any ideas?’
‘What about Bruce Forsyth?’ somebody suggests.
‘He died a couple of years ago.’
‘Are you sure that wasn’t Terry Wogan?’
‘I quite like that man off that daytime TV quiz show. Steve something or other. Or is it David…?’
‘What about that tennis player?’
‘Ladies, I think we have to be realistic here,’ cuts in my mother. ‘Somehow, I can’t imagine a TV personality or a tennis player dropping everything to come to Chollingflower.’
‘Not when they’ll be gearing up for Wimbledon,’ somebody chips in. ‘I know, why don’t we ask Dimitri?’
All eyes swing to the window where Dimitri and his Star Trek logo knickers are soaking up the sun.
‘What a marvellous idea,’ they all coo in unison, before picking up their agendas and fanning their faces with them.
By the time the meeting finishes, I have lost the will to live. As, it seems, has my poor dad, who’s been sitting in his van for the last hour, not daring to enter the house until the coast was clear.
‘Blimey, that’s a few more than usual, isn’t it?’ he puffs, as the last member shuffles off.
‘I’m delighted to say that it is,’ says my mother. ‘I think the recruitment campaign we ran last month has really worked.’
‘I think it’s more likely the To Boldly Go slogan on Dimitri’s knickers that’s upped the interest,’ snorts my dad, as Dimitri wanders in.
‘Wel
l, the good news is that they’ve eaten all the cakes, which is a weight off my mind, because I had no idea what to do with them. Oh, and Dimitri’s very kindly agreed to present the prizes at this year’s garden party,’ says my mother.
‘Bloody hell, whose idea was that?’
‘A unanimous one, actually.’
‘I am all the yes-your-honour to be asked, Mr Irveeng,’ says Dimitri, whirling around from the sink where he’s filling a glass with water.
My dad laughs. ‘If nothing else, it’ll be something to tell the folks back home. So, can we assume then, that you’ll be staying with us until next week?’
‘Yes, Mr Irveeng. I stay as long as I need to be presenting the prizes.’
While my dad is chatting to Dimitri, I mumble something about needing to change out of my suit and hurtle upstairs to my room, from where I phone my best friend, Gemma. Gemma and I went to school together, where she paid much more attention than me. Which is why she is now a high-flying, high-earning solicitor in London, and I’m sitting in Chollingflower with fifty-two pounds and seventy-three pence in my bank account. I’d already had a quick chat with her the evening Dimitri turned up. A development she found so amusing, she laughed for a full six and a half minutes.
‘Hi, you. I’ve been thinking about you. How’s it all going?’ she asks now - still chortling.
‘You really don’t want to know,’ I puff.
‘Oh God. You’ve snogged him again, haven’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’ I blurt in amazement.
‘Ha! I didn’t. But I do now. And I want all the details.’
I groan. ‘Careful what you wish for there, because you know I told you Caitlin Harmer is in the village?’
‘Yep. Going out with Tom Anderson - which I still can’t believe. She was such a cow at school and he was so shy and geeky.’
Of course, at this point, I could rave on to Gemma about how Tom has morphed from a geek into a devastatingly gorgeous man, who I fancy like mad. But I’m not going to. She’d only harp on about it and I really can’t cope with any harping. Especially now I know nothing can happen. Because Tom is with Caitlin. And on the subject of Caitlin…