by Karen Clarke
‘And all this time, you never said a word.’
‘I’ve been trying to forget it.’
‘Did he want to take things further?’
‘Of course he did,’ she said. ‘But only because it’s what he expects. Luckily, I came to my senses.’
‘Not your type?’
‘Do you need to ask? I could never be one of “those girls”.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘He kept asking if I was sure I wouldn’t change my mind, in that gentlemanly way he has. He tried to win me over for a bit, then he started seeing Tattie and lost interest. It’s not like he’s short of options.’ She sounded a bit gloomy, probably at being reminded that she’d been briefly taken in by him. Maybe she wasn’t as immune to showbiz types as she made out.
I was quiet for a moment, letting her words settle in. ‘Was kissing Ollie a reaction to… you know?’ I meant The Actor leaving.
‘Oh god, no.’ It was said with such conviction, I believed her. ‘I fancied the pants off him, pure and simple. Like I told you he’s…’
‘Very persuasive.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Not that ours was a proper kiss.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Maybe he hypnotises women, like those vampires in True Blood.’
The funny side hit and we were suddenly helpless with laughter.
‘You called him a tosser,’ I said, between unladylike snorts.
‘He is.’ Her runaway giggle made me laugh even more. ‘A handsome, trumpet-playing tosser with amazing hair and abs.’
‘He does have amazing hair,’ I whimpered. ‘How does he get it so shiny?’
‘I think it’s gold-plated,’ she yelped.
‘Or he washes it in Windowlene.’
‘Or uses a special serum made of unicorn milk.’
I felt a bit bad for laughing behind his back. ‘Poor Ollie,’ I said, wiping my eyes, recalling my first impression of him as a fairy-tale prince. ‘He probably thinks a kiss is enough to make any woman fall for him.’
‘Probably because they do. At least in the television world.’
‘Maybe that’s why he’d like an “ordinary” girlfriend.’
‘But not you,’ said Erin, sobering up.
‘Or you.’
‘Never.’ It came out a bit strangled, probably from laughing, but I sensed she felt a bit guilty too.
‘It’s hard not to like him, though,’ I said, pouring myself some more wine.
‘I know.’
She broke the little silence that fell by asking, ‘How come you’re home alone?’
I didn’t want to tell her about my conversation with Craig. ‘I fancied getting on with my novel,’ I said.
‘How’s that going?’ Like Mum, Erin had initially expressed doubt about my new venture, before declaring that teaching’s loss would be the reading public’s gain.
‘Slowly,’ I admitted. ‘I haven’t settled on a genre yet.’
‘Well, you’ve plenty of material there. And you’ve heard enough stories from me to fire your imagination.’
‘True.’
‘In fact, I’m having dinner with a potential new client tonight. She’s an ex-mob wife, so she’ll have a few tales to tell.’
‘Better stay on her good side,’ I said.
Once she’d rung off, after extracting a promise that I’d keep her updated with Ollie’s movements, I picked up my laptop and looked at what I’d written, but my thoughts leapt and crackled like the flames in the grate and kept circling back to Ollie.
It wasn’t that I’d nurtured any illusions about him falling for me. This wasn’t Maid in Manhattan – I was no J-Lo – but I couldn’t help wondering what it was about Tattie Granger that had captured his heart. Maybe he just wanted what he couldn’t have, now that Tattie had dumped him. I had the feeling that women didn’t finish with Ollie Matheson very often.
A yawn escaped. The heat from the fire was making me drowsy and I couldn’t concentrate on writing.
After checking the fire was safe, I finished my wine, switched off the tree lights, and made my way upstairs, where I paused outside the spare room. Spotting the contents of Ollie’s holdall all over the floor, I tiptoed over to tidy up. There wasn’t much apart from his designer clothes, a few pairs of Snugz, and a monogrammed wash bag of classy grooming products – just a chewing-gum wrapper, and a receipt for a meal for two at Chiltern Firehouse that had cost £296. How much had they eaten?
Hoping Ollie wouldn’t think I’d been snooping, I went to draw the curtains, pausing as a movement next door caught my eye. A woman came into the garden, banging a cat bowl with a fork, presumably to entice Marmite in for his supper. In the pool of light from the open door was the woman I’d seen through Barry’s window, her vivid red hair falling forward and a towelling robe hugging her considerable rump.
How could she be so blasé? Anyone could spot her – if they happened to be having a nosy out of their bedroom window – but maybe that was the idea. Perhaps she was hoping Sheelagh would find out she’d been there, and order Barry to leave, and then she could have him to herself.
As if my thoughts had beamed down to her, she shuffled backwards into the house with her head down – an odd movement, reminiscent of a Japanese geisha.
So, she did care about being spotted.
As the garden was plunged into darkness, I spotted Marmite posed on the fence post, silhouetted by the moon, like a witch’s cat in a storybook. If only he’d bring some good luck, instead of emitting unfriendly vibes whenever he looked my way.
Finally, I got into bed and after fretting for a while about Craig and Ollie, I slipped into a deep sleep and dreamt they were doing the Argentine tango, while Doris pelted them with muffins.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I woke suddenly, another dream fresh in my mind, involving loud voices, a shout, and the sound of a bolt sliding back. It must have been Ollie and Craig coming home, their return filtering into my subconscious.
I felt instantly alert, as though I’d been rebooted overnight, and glanced at my phone.
It was just after eight and the cottage was silent, a faint strip of light visible through a gap in the curtains.
I threw off the duvet and slipped out of bed, pushing my feet into my slippers. The door to the spare room was shut and I tiptoed to the bathroom like a cartoon burglar, even though Ollie seemed capable of sleeping through a police raid.
I decided not to have a shower until everyone was awake and, as I crept downstairs, I told myself I was being considerate of my guests, rather than pandering to Ollie, as Craig would have me believe.
It was dark in the living room, but I could just make out the shape of him on the sofa, one arm flung out, which seemed to be his default sleeping position. Embarrassed to be looking when he was at his most vulnerable, I moved into the kitchen and quietly closed the door. I switched on the kettle, wincing when it started to boil. I hadn’t realised bubbling water could sound so deafening.
After making some tea, I took the plate of leftover sandwiches from the fridge and ate a couple, chewing quickly, in case Ollie came down and caught me.
I shook my head at myself. What did it matter if he caught me eating cheese sandwiches for breakfast, or a mince pie for that matter? It was nearly Christmas, after all. I could always start eating kale in the New Year.
I ate two mince pies, then one of Doris’s Viennese whirls – the lemon curd element was surprisingly successful – and when I’d finished, I opened the back door for some fresh air, and did a few stretches to offset my carbohydrate intake. The air was bracing and the sky still held a trace of night, the moon just visible above the roof next door.
There was the rattling of a door opening and Barry’s voice called, ‘Marmite! Come and get your breakfast, before Mummy comes home.’
Mummy? It wasn’t something I’d have imagined him saying. His voice sounded softer – almost loving. He was obviously feeling affectionate after a night of passion with
his mistress. I felt another surge of pity for Sheelagh.
Unless she knows about it.
Maybe they had an open marriage and she wasn’t visiting her sister at all, but off with her lover, too.
Shivering now, and not keen on Barry catching me in my Dalmatian-patterned pyjamas, I shut the door. As I turned I spotted Craig’s camera and headphones on the worktop. After checking it was silent in the next room, I padded over and lifted the camera like a weight. Craig had been right; it wasn’t heavy, despite its sturdy build and sizeable lens. I raised it to my shoulder, like I’d seen him do, and swung it around, pausing on the fridge
‘So, what do you make of your new contents?’ I asked, in my best newsreader voice.
It didn’t respond.
After checking the buttons on the side, I figured out ‘rewind’ and ‘play’ and decided to check that Craig had deleted the footage of me answering the door half-nude, and of Ollie and me almost-kissing. He might have forgotten. Or decided to leave it in and use it as part of the show. After all, he’d made notes about interviewing the neighbours, which he hadn’t seen fit to share, so who knew what else he was planning?
The camera felt weightier now I’d been wielding it, so I took it across to the table and sat down. After a bit of fiddling the viewfinder sprang to life, images moving at triple speed like a clip from The Benny Hill Show, which my grandfather had loved.
I jabbed some more buttons until the images slowed and I recognised the elderly couple from yesterday, their lips moving soundlessly. Pressing pause, I got up and grabbed Craig’s headphones, jamming them to one ear, while I wound the footage forward.
Doris appeared and I pressed pause, the frame freezing on a close-up of her holding the photo of a golden-haired baby, which I’d glimpsed in her lounge. Craig must have ‘interviewed’ her yesterday, while I’d assumed he was out running.
Heart racing, I pressed play.
‘…my granddaughter, Erica,’ Doris was saying, her chin proudly lifted. ‘I only wish my Roger had been alive to meet her. He’d have loved being a granddad, almost as much as he loved being an officer of the law and looking after his garden, though he was always a bit regimental with the flowers, planting them in straight lines as though they were on parade.’ Her eyes were hazy with memories. ‘I must say, since he’s gone, my borders have had a new lease of life, though that doesn’t mean for one second that I’m glad he’s dead…’ I stopped it, even though I was riveted, and fast-forwarded the footage until Doris was replaced by her neighbour, Jane, her hair a frizzy explosion around a checked scarf.
‘…our marriage was on the rocks until that holiday.’ Her eyes sparkled through her glasses, which slowly slipped to the end of her nose. ‘Now that our boy, Calum, is moving in with his girlfriend, we’re thinking of turning his room into a red room, only I’m not keen on red, so it’ll be pink and we’re not really into pain, so it’ll be more fluffy handcuffs and scarves than riding crops and ropes.’ With horrified fascination, I realised she was referring to Fifty Shades. ‘Dennis said it was like breaking in a horse, rather than pleasing his wife…’ I quickly rewound, marvelling that she could talk so freely about her sex life.
Craig clearly had a way of drawing people out – like the elderly couple the day before – by asking a pointed question then remaining silent while they talked, probably revealing more than they’d intended.
I could see how it would make a compelling TV series, provided the participants didn’t mind their innermost thoughts being laid bare. Ordinary Lives was a better title than Behind Closed Doors and I wondered whether to suggest it.
Glancing up to check Craig hadn’t crept in, I rewound to the beginning of the recording. There were no bare boobs and no Ollie and me in a compromising pose, and even as I puffed out a breath of relief, I realised I’d known deep down that Craig wouldn’t have lied.
I wound through the footage again as something else niggled at me. Ollie wasn’t featured at all. Not in a single frame. Craig hadn’t been joking when he’d said he wasn’t getting anything worth filming. But then, during the rare moments that Ollie behaved naturally, the camera hadn’t been rolling. Like that first morning in my bedroom, Ollie sitting in a chair in the dark, watching a stranger sleep. OK, it wasn’t exactly normal, but his manner and attitude after I’d woken had seemed more real than any of his behaviour since.
Scrolling back, I spotted my own face and pressed pause, freezing the frame mid-word, so my mouth was oddly twisted as if I’d swallowed a wasp.
Cringing, I pressed play. I normally hated the sound of my recorded voice, which was higher and more girly than it was in my head, but for once I sounded like me… but better.
Maybe it was the camera’s superior quality. Or perhaps it was what I was saying.
I even used to play schools at home with my brother, until he got fed up with his little sister bossing him around.
I wasn’t wearing make-up, but my skin looked clear and my shorter, choppier hair framed my face quite nicely. Oh, and my dad was a teacher. That probably had something to do with it.
I was looking straight at the lens, my face so full of emotion suddenly that tears swam to my eyes.
I quickly rewound. A good teacher can make a real difference, Craig was saying, his voice low-pitched and steady. I still remember Mr Bradley, in year seven, telling the class that if we found a career we loved, we’d never work a day in our lives.
The camera was fixed on my face, just as his gaze had been, and my expression gave me a jolt. It was as if he’d delivered a complex riddle and I was about to reveal the answer.
The sound of curtains being pulled back made me twitch with fright.
I turned off the camera and hastily replaced it, stumbling against the counter. My foot had gone numb from sitting on it and I hobbled back to the table and sat down to massage my toes.
Craig came in, rubbing his eyes, his hair standing up at the back.
‘’Morning!’ It came out too loudly and he staggered backwards, bashing his shoulder on the door frame.
‘Lily! Christ!’ He did a double take. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘I thought you’d be asleep.’
‘Why?’
He drew his head back. ‘Er, because it was so quiet?’
‘Oh, right.’ I gave a nervous laugh, guilt coursing through me. What if he’d caught me looking through his film? ‘Would you like some tea?’ I said. ‘I was just about to make some.’
He glanced around, one hand on his hip, the other flattening his hair. He was wearing his running gear again and I wondered whether he slept in it. ‘Looks like you’ve had breakfast already.’
‘Yes, I was… hungry.’ I noticed the trail of crumbs I’d left and the uncovered plate of sandwiches on the table. ‘How was your night out?’
At the same time, he said, ‘Listen, I’m sorry about last night.’
‘What?’
He looked at me, surprisingly clear-eyed. ‘You didn’t hear?’
‘Hear what?’
His teeth grazed the skin beneath his lower lip, and I fleetingly wondered whether his beard felt as soft as it looked. I’d never been keen on beards, but his was close-cut and suited him. ‘Ollie got a bit… boisterous,’ he said, as if wishing he hadn’t mentioned it. ‘The club we found wasn’t really…’ He scrunched up his face. ‘It wasn’t exactly Raffles, if you get my drift.’
I did. Raffles, a private members’ club on London’s King’s Road, had welcomed royalty and rock stars for years. I doubted there was anywhere equivalent in Shipley. ‘Wasn’t that the point?’
Craig crossed the kitchen in bare feet and switched on the kettle. Despite my offer to make tea, I couldn’t seem to move. ‘You might have thought so, from the brief for the show,’ he said, taking two mugs from the cupboard. ‘But, sadly, no.’
‘Ah.’ I drew my feet up and wrapped my arms around my knees. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Too much dr
inking’s what happened,’ said Craig. ‘He decided to take his umbrella in, for a start—’
‘Umbrella?’
‘His statement umbrella.’ He shot me a look. ‘You really haven’t seen the show?’
‘Ollie has a statement umbrella?’ Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. ‘I bet that went down well.’
‘About as well as you’d expect, considering there was a football crowd in.’ I winced. ‘They thought it was quite funny actually, but then a bunch of students came over and one of them puked on his shoe.’
‘Ugh.’
‘The barmaid mopped up the mess and recognised Ollie, and started telling him how he was everything she hated in a bloke.’
‘Oh cripes.’
‘He tried to lighten things up by saying he was a feminist and that set the students off.’ I could imagine the scene. ‘There was a heated debate that ended with one of them taking a swing at Ollie with his satchel.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Ollie opened his umbrella and started wielding it like a shield, or a sword, and the manager came out and threatened to call the police.’
‘Yikes.’
Craig brought over two steaming mugs and sat opposite me. We were silent for a moment while he ate half a sandwich.
‘These are good,’ he said, reaching for the other half.
‘Cheese and pickle.’
He nodded. ‘Can’t beat the simple flavours.’
‘So, what happened next?’
‘We left and found a pub and I let Ollie drink too much—’
‘Let him?’
He shrugged. ‘I normally keep tabs on his drinking, because when he’s had too much he starts re-enacting scenes from his favourite films and things can get a bit messy.’
‘Uh-oh.’ I felt like I was at the cinema myself, watching a film unfolding in my head.
‘His favourite’s Titanic and he tried doing the bit where Jack and Rose are on the bow of the boat and he spreads out Rose’s arms so it looks like she’s flying?’
I nodded, holding my breath.
‘Well, he started manhandling this woman at the bar and she threw her drink over him.’
