The Truth About Ellen: A feel-good romantic comedy

by Sarah Louise Smith

“Busy, but good. I went on a stag weekend in Brighton.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty good. How was your weekend?”

  “Quiet. So how’s it going, are you settling in?”

  “Yeah, I really like it. How long have you worked here?”

  “About five months. It’s a good company, I think.”

  “Yeah, the people seem really nice.”

  He hadn’t really spent any time with Darby, so I suppose that would be his opinion. No one else was quite as annoying as her. I couldn’t think of anything else to say so I started looking at my nails intently as if I was going to find the meaning of life in my cuticles.

  The kettle flicked off and I looked up to see Jamie looking at me with amusement. He turned his attention to the kettle and poured water into each of our cups. I put a tea bag and milk in mine and smiled at him again. He really did have very lovely eyes.

  “See you later,” I told him, reluctantly walking away and wondering if he had a girlfriend. Perhaps it was time to move on and get out there again. I hadn’t really given any new men a thought since Jon-the-wanker had stamped all over my heart. Perhaps it was time to get a new crush, go on a date even…

  Later that day, Oscar came over to tell me more about my induction week.

  “So, the next one is in three weeks. I hope that’s not too much short notice?”

  “That should be fine,” I told him. It wasn’t as if I had a busy social life.

  “And it’s in our Carlisle office.”

  Hmm. No plane trip to an exotic location, but there were worse places to go.

  “Right okay, that’s fine.”

  “There’s a hotel next door you will be staying in.” He glanced across at the girls. “Tammy?”

  Tammy looked up from her computer. “Send Ellen all the details for the Carlisle induction would you?”

  She nodded and went back to her screen.

  “There you go. Keep up the good work.”

  Oscar wandered back to his office and left me only wishing Jamie had been working here a bit longer; a week in his company would have been much more appealing. Still, Carlisle was near the Lake District wasn’t it? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

  I repeated as much to Zoe during my lunch break. She worked for an insurance company in an office ten minutes’ walk away so we met up regularly to moan about work, plan our next girls’ night in or out, and bitch about our shoddy love lives.

  “You should go up on the Friday, spend the weekend in the Lakes. Get some fresh air.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a bit pathetic, on my own?”

  “No! You don’t need a man.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I’ve got my mum’s birthday that weekend. Anyway, it’d do you good. Take the Friday off and book a spa hotel or something. Chill out. Read some books.”

  I’d never have thought of the idea myself, but it was kind of appealing. Why not go away on my own? Get a change of air, relax somewhere nice? Without allowing any time to doubt myself, I went back to the office, asked for the Friday as holiday and then booked Bob the ginger cat into the kitty hotel. Then I found a nice hotel in the Lake District to spend the weekend preceding my week of, what Darby assured me, would consist of boredom and bad food.

  My weekend hotel, however, looked like something out of a Jane Austen adaptation from the outside; a huge manor house in beautiful grounds. There was a pool and a small spa. I couldn’t really afford it, but what the hell, I needed a mini break.

  I was quite proud of myself for planning a trip on my own. I’d have an amazing time without the need for others for company. Who needed a man? Not me!

  My mum didn’t think it was such a good idea, and told me so over Sunday lunch, the week before I was due to go.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay in the Lake District all on your own?”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, she’s 30!” chimed in my brother Kevin.

  “28!” I corrected him.

  “Your mother’s worried Ellen’s going to climb a hill,” Dad told him, “slip, break an ankle, and be stranded there until wolves find her.”

  “That does sound like something I’d do,” I admitted. “But I’ll be careful, I promise. I’m planning to just chill at the hotel and use the spa, not go off gallivanting.”

  “I think it’s great you’re going away on your own,” my other brother Matt chipped in.

  “Thank you.” I smiled at him gratefully.

  “Make sure you take plenty of warm clothes,” Mum said. “And don’t forget to take a coat.”

  “Good job you said that,” I told her, “I was planning to only take beach wear.”

  She shook her head and ate another mouthful of turkey. I reluctantly had some more of mine, too. Everyone says that no roast dinner compares to their mother’s; that your mum’s is always the best. Well, not in my case. My mum believed in over-cooked meat, lumpy mash, and hard carrots. Still, it was a family tradition to get together for dinner on a Sunday and I was grateful to be fed at least once a week. And she did make the most delicious puddings, which made up for the dry tasteless main course.

  “Apple crumble today?” Kev asked.

  “Nope.” Mum shook her head.

  “Jam roly-poly with custard?” I suggested, hopefully.

  “Nope.” Another shake of her head.

  “Chocolate gateau?” Matt’s turn. She made chocolate gateau last Sunday, but I’d happily take it again.

  “Nope.”

  “She’s on a diet,” Dad told us. “No pudding today.”

  “What? You could’ve made it for us!” Matt put his fork down, no doubt wondering the same as me; if there’s no pudding next week, should I bother coming?

  “There’s some fat-free yogurt in the fridge,” Mum told us. Ugh. Let’s hope the diet lasted as long as her passion for Pilates had; which was approximately two days.

  We played cards after dinner, Kev winning as usual and me coming last as usual. Dad made us all a cup of tea, and Mum told me she’d like me to sort through some of my old stuff, as she was turning my bedroom into a gym. I tried not to consider the depressing fact that I might need that room again someday and just nodded.

  “I’ll do it next Sunday,” I told her.

  “You’ll be in the lakes next Sunday.”

  “When I’m back, then.”

  Another half hour and I was free again, but not before Mum gave me more safety instructions for my week away and Dad handed me a grubby, faded, old map of the Lake District from a holiday we took there when we were kids. I had no intention of exploring far and wide; after all the hotel had a spa and several acres of lovely-looking land. I was planning to read, swim, sit in the sauna, stroll around the grounds, and maybe get a facial. But I took the maps and thanked them for dinner.

  I got in my car and watched them waving at me from the door, a mixture of relief that I had my own house and joy that they loved me enough to drive me crazy every Sunday.

  On my way home I stopped at my grandma’s for a cup of tea. She only lived around the corner from my parents but didn’t like to come for Sunday lunch as she said she wasn’t ever hungry enough in the middle of the day. I suspected it was also that she couldn’t stand my mother’s cooking.

  “Your mum didn’t send any dessert today?” Grandma asked as I hugged her.

  “She didn’t make one,” I told her. “She’s on a diet.”

  “Oh that’s her thing of the week is it? I don’t like to speak badly of your mother,” she began, “but that woman is so fickle.”

  “I know,” I agreed, closing the front door behind me. “I don’t know how Dad puts up with her whims.”

  “Oh, he’s always been a laid back fella, even as a lad.”

  We drank our (sweet, as always) tea and talked for a while about her youth and Gordon some more. She had prepared a piece of paper, where she’d scribbled his full name, date of birth, and some information about his family.<
br />
  “I know he might be dead, or living in Australia or somewhere but I just want to know, that’s all.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I promised.

  “I know you’re busy, so there’s no rush. Wait until you get back from the Lakes if you like.”

  I didn’t tell her there might be a rush; Gordon would be 88 now and could be on his death bed for all we knew. But I didn’t get much time over the following few days, anyway. Work was busy and I had to pack for my trip.

  Chapter Five

  On Friday I took Bob to the cattery – much to his disgust – and then made my way to the M6, where I cruised along, eating sweets and singing along to a mixture of 90s music, including Four Apes of course.

  I’d been thinking; maybe a Four Apes reunion wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, what if the twenty year old lads I’d loved were now a bunch of thirty-something old has-beens?

  After what felt like ages, I finally came off the motorway and started down some pretty country lanes, passing villages and admiring hills until finally, I reached my retreat.

  The hotel was wonderful; a former stately home in beautiful grounds with tall oak trees and squirrels running about. If only Jon had not turned out to be a total bastard, it would have been the perfect place for a romantic escape, I thought to myself as I drove along the sweeping gravel driveway and to the car park around the back of the building.

  I heaved my suitcase along the gravel and up some stone steps and looked up at the building. Six pillars aligned the front. There were ornate marble statues of angels either side of the front door and I couldn’t wipe the grin off of my face as I passed by them and into a plush reception with jade green sofas, golden rimmed mirrors, marble flooring and a huge sweeping staircase. I rolled my case to a relatively small reception desk and smiled broadly at a little woman with greying hair in a bun who was sitting there, smiling sweetly back.

  “I’m Martha, welcome,” she said.

  “This is beautiful,” I told her.

  “It is something special isn’t it? Let me take your details.”

  She checked me in, told me about the dining times, and set me on my way to find my room. I pulled my case up the stairs, wondering how a place like this didn’t have a porter, and then rolled it along the corridor until I found my door. I opened it and walked into my period drama bedroom. The walls were decorated with fine flowery wallpaper; there were big, old, heavy-looking mahogany pieces of furniture, a huge four poster bed and a view out to the grounds that took my breath away. On the horizon were mountains, and I was pretty sure there was a big lake on the other side of them, if I had my geography right. Which I probably didn’t.

  I’d wanted a little quiet escape, and that’s exactly what I’d found. I unpacked the things I’d need for the weekend, washed my face and then flopped on the bed, which was even comfier than it looked. There were ornate swirls carved into the ceiling. I followed them with my eyes and let my body relax into the soft duvet.

  Worried I’d fall asleep and waste my day, I forced myself up and went over to the window and stared out, wondering what to do next. I spotted a bench out by a lake in the grounds and decided to take my book and go and sit outside. It was warm out and I wanted to enjoy the last of the day’s sunlight before it got dark.

  I rummaged around in my bag for my book, locked up my room and then attempted to gracefully glide down the grand staircase as if I was Elizabeth Bennett wandering around Pemberley. I nodded at Martha as I passed reception, went to the back of the house, out of the doors, down some steps and then ambled across the lawn towards the bench.

  Only when I got there, did I see the man sitting on a green fleece blanket further down near the water. He was lying on this stomach, his elbows propped up in front of him, reading. I suddenly wished I’d bought a blanket, too. The bench looked hard and he had a much better view of the lake than I did. I sat down, and dropped my book in doing so. The man turned to look at what had made the noise. He smiled at me and turned back to read.

  Was that who I thought it was?

  He looked older, for sure. But then it’d been ten years since I’d seen his face. No. It was him, I was sure of it. I stared at the back of his head, willing him to turn again, but he didn’t. So I did the only thing I could; I dropped my book again. With a bit more height and force this time.

  He looked around again, this time with a confused, quizzical look. It was! It was him!

  I lifted my book and rolled my eyes, shaking my head slightly to show what an imbecile I was for dropping my book twice in the space of a few minutes.

  Then, Tom Green – yes, the Tom Green, who wrote the lyrics and played the bass in Four Apes; Tom Green, the one I’d fancied least but respected the most – got up off his blanket and came over to me.

  He looked older, but not in a bad way. Time had filled him out; he’d gone from skinny and lanky to broad and sexy. His dark hair was much shorter and neater than when I’d last seen him on TV with just a couple of silver flecks above his ears. His eyes were the same; grey-blue. He was wearing a checked blue and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows and slim fitting jeans. Holy crap, he’d turned out good. He held up his paperback.

  “We’re reading the same book,” he said simply, a small smile forming on his lovely, lovely face.

  “Oh wow, so we are,” I said, holding mine up for him to see, as if he hadn’t already. Why hadn’t I put any make-up on this morning?

  “Are you enjoying it?” he asked me.

  “Well, I’ve only read a few pages.”

  “I’m about a quarter of the way through. It really gets interesting after chapter four.”

  I nodded. “Good to know, thank you.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure.”

  He smiled and dropped his blanket on the floor, then sat beside me on the bench, immediately opening his book and continuing his reading.

  Was he staying at this hotel? He must be! What were the chances? I mean, I know I’d met a Four Apes member before, but really, I had to be the luckiest fan in the world. I felt the familiar moistness developing on my hands. Now was not the time to get nervous and sweaty. I tried to take a subtle deep breath.

  Oh. My. God. This was amazing.

  I told the 13 year old inside me to shut up and calm down before I strangled her.

  I opened up my book but didn’t read one word. I kept stealing sideways glances at Tom. Tom Green. Sitting on the same bench as me. Of all the benches in the world… and of all the books…

  Now that he was closer, I realised I was right about him being better looking now than he was back then; he was never ugly, but just kind of ordinary looking. Now, he had a fuller, handsomer face and muscular arms. His dark hair was trimmed at the sides but a little longer on top, and he had a thin layer of stubble, which suited him.

  And he smelled amazing.

  I stared at my book and tried to read the sentence I’d been on before he’d come over.

  “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” he asked me. I looked up from my book and at his lovely, lovely eyes.

  “Wonderful.”

  “Did you arrive today?”

  “About an hour ago. You?”

  “I’ve been here three weeks.”

  “Oh wow.”

  “Yeah, I just came for a few days initially, but I loved it, so I stayed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “How lovely.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m on a training course on Monday in Carlisle, so I thought I’d come and treat myself to a little break here first.”

  “Well, it’s a lovely place to take a break.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say next. I tried to subtly wipe my hands on my jeans. I really had to chill. I could not mess this up; I could not say anything that would make him stop talking to me.

  “Where are you from
?” I asked, searching my bank of small talk questions for the next one.

  “London. Well, I’m from London. I’ve also got a house in the south of France, and spend a lot of time there too.”

  “Ah, nice.”

  “Sorry, what a pretentious wanker that makes me sound!” He laughed. “I don’t mean to sound so conceited.”

  I laughed. “Not at all.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Milton Keynes.”

  “Ah, I’ve been there. Lots of roundabouts.”

  I know you’ve been there, I wanted to tell him. I was one of the fifty or so girls screaming as you walked in and out of the radio station for an interview.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Lots.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m in HR.”

  “I could never figure out what human resources really meant.”

  I laughed. “Well, I specialise in recruitment.”

  “And do you like it?”

  “It’s alright.” I shrugged. “What do you do?”

  Well, I had to ask, if I was going to keep up this charade of not knowing who he was, didn’t I?

  He hesitated. What was he going to tell me?

  “I’m taking some time out, but I’m a song writer.”

  Did he still write music? Were any of the pop tunes I’d been enjoying on the radio lately penned by him? I had to google him as soon as this conversation was over.

  “Oh cool. Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said, smiling. “Without wanting to sound like a wanker again, I have a pretty chilled lifestyle. I travel a lot. I made some money when I was young and I don’t need to work, so…”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah, mostly. I admit, I do get bored sometimes.”

  “Life’s too short to get bored!” I told him, with a little more passion and louder than I’d intended. “If I had enough money to not work, I’d be getting out there, meeting people, seeing new places, taking up hobbies, doing charity work… the list is endless.”

  He looked at me, a playful grin on his lips, and a little surprise in his eyes.

  “You’re…”

  “Sorry,” I jumped in quick, feeling my face turn red with embarrassment. “Rude? Condescending?”