I laid the table for lunch in the garden as it was an unexpectedly lovely afternoon and I found one of my grandmother’s embroidered cloths and moved the cutlery and glasses to the shady arbour in the corner. Fee Gillespie couldn’t fail to love it.
I put out a jug of iced lemonade with a beaded cover over the top to protect it from the flies, a basket of my freshly baked bread, a fresh pat of butter in a glass dish, a little terracotta pot of home-made pâté, and a wedge of crumbly cheddar. I draped a linen tea towel over the lot. All I needed was to serve the soup.
I heard the sounds of a car pulling up round the front of the house and the door slamming as someone got out. Someone rang the doorbell.
I flung open the front door with my best welcoming smile on my face.
Cheerful but not completely insane. I’ve actually practised in front of a mirror.
‘Hello! Welcome …’
My voice stuttered and faded. Not what I had expected at all. Not a middle-aged woman with incipient writer’s arse and sensible shoes. Not Fee Gillespie then.
‘Hello,’ Oliver said. ‘What on earth have you been doing? Can I come in?’
‘What do you mean …?’
I looked at the hall mirror and realized I was still puce, my hair was wet and needed brushing, and I had mascara splodged under both eyes. He, of course, was Mr Super Cool, wearing a blue chambray shirt that made his eyes sparkle, and he watched me with a broad grin on his face. He looked great, far less tense than the last time I had seen him at the airport when he could barely speak to anyone. He had lost the sort of grey, clenched look he’d had. Who am I kidding? He looked bloody gorgeous.
I stood, hanging on to the doorframe for a moment, wondering what to do.
‘I was told you were expecting me?’ he said, raising his eyebrows a little.
‘I’m expecting someone called Fee Gillespie … ah.’ Light was dawning.
‘My new PA,’ Oliver said. ‘I got her to make the booking. I thought it might ensure you let me in. Speaking of which, may I come in? You’re very good at keeping me hanging about on doorsteps, I’ve noticed.’
I moved to one side, and watched as he brought his bags into the hallway. My house is quite bijou and compact and the arrival of a man who was quite so tall and broad-shouldered oooh focus, woman, focus made it look even smaller. I swear Oliver might have actually grown a couple of inches too. I felt a bit light-headed for a moment and I don’t think it was anything to do with my attempts at 5k – No Sweat.
I showed him up to his room with the distinct feeling that Oliver really was too big for the stairwell. He seemed to fill the space. What the hell he would think of the bedroom with its pretty details, pale walls, chocolate truffles, and crystal vase of flowers was anyone’s guess. At least he didn’t laugh.
‘I hope you will be comfortable in here,’ I said.
‘This is fine,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘One-thirty. Lunchtime?’
‘Of course. Lunch at one-thirty. No shellfish. I’ve put it out in the garden.’
How could I have missed the clues?
My voice seemed a bit squeaky and I cleared my throat a couple of times and tried to breathe properly.
‘Excellent. Lead the way,’ he said.
He followed me downstairs and out into the garden where I had left the table perfectly set up, looking delightful. Almost like something from an Elle Home Décor magazine photo shoot. He couldn’t fail to be impressed.
The first thing I saw was the tea towel on the grass and the back view of Not My Cat’s furry arse settled over the vintage dinner plate. It had knocked the cutlery off the table and having eaten the butter was now busy champing away at the pâté, eyes closed in ecstasy.
I gave a strangled scream and Not My Cat licked its chops and leapt for the garden wall, knocking the jug of lemonade flying.
‘You little bastard,’ I yelled up at its retreating bum as it disappeared into the foliage of the purple thing, back legs scrabbling. ‘I’m never buying you Kat Treatz again. That’s it!’
Behind me I heard Oliver laughing. I surveyed the damage and started picking up the broken china and shuddered at the needle-shaped fang marks in the surface of the pâté.
‘I still have home-made soup and bread,’ I said, scarlet with embarrassment.
Why today? Why did that flaming moggy choose today of all days to sabotage my attempts at gracious living?
‘I’m so sorry, that blasted animal! I always wanted a cat, do you see, but I never felt sensible enough to have one, so I’ve been borrowing next door’s instead.’
‘Very wise,’ Oliver said, choking back a laugh. ‘Always best to have a practice run first.’
‘Well I won’t bother in future! I’m going to buy a water pistol. Bloody creature. There was brandy in that pâté too. I expect it will throw up on the doorstep this evening!’
Oliver picked up the broken handle of the lemonade jug and its muslin cover, which he looked at rather blankly.
I took it from him. ‘It’s to keep the flies off and cats out,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t work then,’ he said. ‘Look, don’t worry, soup will be fine. Can I help?’
‘Absolutely not. I’ll go and sort everything out. Perhaps you would like coffee while you are waiting? Black? No sugar?’
‘You’ve got a good memory,’ he said.
How could I forget?
I went to make some and returned with a cafetière to find him sitting with his face turned up to the sun, eyes closed.
‘Peaceful,’ he said.
‘That’s the plan anyway,’ I said. ‘By the way I always turn off the Wi-Fi during the day so you don’t have any distraction. And the mobile signal here is pretty rubbish too. It’s part of the charm of the place.’
‘I’ll cope,’ he said with a wry look.
I went back indoors and splashed my red face with cold water and tried to calm down. Oliver Forest was in my garden! When had I last seen him? Weeks ago. Months. Why was he here now? What about Pippa? What had happened to her?
I reheated the soup and took it out to him with some more of my home-made bread. I found him wandering about the garden looking at my pathetic attempts to tie up the trailing thing.
‘Healthy-looking wisteria,’ he said (ah, so that’s what it is).
He sat down at the newly tidied table. I made noises about having an urgent call to take and scurried back into the house so I could clean the tea stains off the sink and surreptitiously watch him through the kitchen window.
There was no doubt about it – he looked frigging sensational. His dark hair was gleaming in the sunlight and he looked lean and muscular and rather hunky and … shut up, woman.
This is the man who practically drove Pippa to a nervous breakdown. Who was impossible to please, who would spend hours arguing about nothing and on top of that I’d once seen him naked.
By mistake obviously but still …
No, no don’t think about that.
No!
Think of something else!
By the time Oliver had finished his lunch my sink was gleaming. So were the taps and the top of the cooker. I was almost tempted to start cleaning the kitchen windows. Especially the outside where there was a snail trail of cat nose prints courtesy of Not My Cat. Suddenly Oliver appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with his dirty dishes on it.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I said hurrying forward to take it from him.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m quite capable of …’
‘I’m not saying you aren’t, it’s just not how I do things,’ I said.
‘Well you’re the boss.’ He jammed his hands in his pockets and turned away from me to look around. ‘This is a lovely place, typically Cotswolds. All this beautiful stone.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I was suddenly flustered. I looked away too. He really did have a fantastic arse.
I picked up my tea towel and patted at the sweat on my top lip.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ I said.
He turned back to look at me.
‘I’d love one, but I have a rule: no wine before seven o’clock, otherwise I’d have to go to bed for an afternoon nap and I don’t think I’m quite old enough for that yet, do you?’
Mmmmm. I don’t know. Oliver Forest in bed for an afternoon nap …
‘Well I won’t keep you,’ I said, my voice rather shrill. I dabbed at the worktops with my cloth, sweeping non-existent crumbs into my hand. ‘Perhaps I could make you some coffee?’
‘That would be great; I’d prefer that to the coffee machine in the writing area if I’m honest. Let’s just leave it for an hour or so. I have to take something down.’
Stop thinking rude thoughts, woman, for the love of God …
‘Well anything you need …’ I said.
I listened to his footsteps going upstairs and felt quite odd and jittery to think that he was under my roof and that he would be sleeping in my spare room. His bed just a wall away from mine.
I busied myself with my ongoing project: tidying out one of the kitchen cupboards, the one that held the dry goods. I found five different sorts of sugar, two of them rock hard and unusable. There were numerous jars of herbs and spices to be sorted, a couple of them best before September 2014. Hmm, who knew cardamom pods could go off?
An hour later to the minute I took up a tray of coffee. I hesitated outside the closed door to the little box room I had converted to the writing area. I waited for a moment but couldn’t hear any noise from inside. I knocked.
‘Yep?’
I went in. Oliver was sitting at the desk, his laptop open in front of him.
‘Thanks,’ he said and carried on typing.
I stood like a spare part wondering whether I should do anything else.
He turned his face towards me, his eyes still on the screen. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I just wondered if you wanted anything else?’
Biscuits? Or fruit? Or perhaps a back rub or a shoulder massage?
‘Hmm? Nothing. Dinner at eight?’
‘Yes fine. Ok, I’ll just …’ I gestured towards the door and went out, closing it behind me.
I went back to my cleaning, finding among other things three jars of Marmite that had their lids welded on. I love Marmite. I’ve always thought there was the potential for industrial adhesive in that stuff. Perhaps one day with a bit of chemical engineering it could be adapted to putting up shelves or mending windscreens? I wonder if Oliver liked Marmite. Not that it’s a deal breaker but it’s good to know.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Of course, the first thing I’d done was text Helena.
‘Oliver Forest has just arrived here. For a weekend writing! Can you believe it? Don’t ring me, he’s upstairs working and I’m scared he might hear me.’
After a few seconds Helena replied.
‘What???? The Oliver Forest? The same one???’
I smothered a laugh. The more I thought about it the more overexcited I became.
‘Yes, that one. I’ll phone you when I get a chance. X’
I tidied away the remains of lunch, made myself a cup of tea, and had a couple of broken Hobnobs. I mean they don’t count do they? All the calories have leaked out.
I heard a noise behind me. I spun round, my mouth still stuffed with biscuit. Oliver was standing there with his laptop under his arm.
‘I think I’d like to work outside in your lovely garden if that’s OK?’
I wiped the crumbs off my chin, choked a little, and chewed frantically. ‘Of course, I mean yes of course it’s fine. Please go on.’
I’m not sure but I think he was trying not to laugh at me. God would I never get it right with him? He must think I’m a right prat. In the last six months I’d managed to keep a belligerent Kitty Ford-Wilson happy; I’d impressed self-obsessed Marnie Miller so much she had tweeted about me; Imelda Collins had sent flowers; even Vanessa-Mary Dell had accepted my friend request on Facebook. Not once had I dropped a plate or a clanger.
Oliver Forest hadn’t been in my house for two hours and I already looked like a nitwit. I needed to sharpen up my act and concentrate. I was not going to do anything stupid or fall over or poke myself in the eye. I was going to be a grown-up. I was not going to snarf up biscuits in future unless I knew exactly where he was.
I went to the window and peered out at him. He was already typing at high speed. It looked as though he was doing it properly too, using all his fingers. I wondered how he was getting on with his latest book. Was Major Harry Field still blasting away with his submachine gun or whatever he used? Was Selina still bursting out of her unsuitable frock or was there a new, sleeker love interest?
I cleaned the taps again and filled the kettle. I assumed he would want more coffee before too long? This was all very well but was I … oh dear, hang on. I’d been quite happy to sit and eat my evening meal with my other guests. Kitty had been as amusing as any television comedian; Marnie Miller had been happy to talk about herself, particularly her upcoming stint on board the Atlantica liner in America. Imelda liked to eat in relative silence thinking about sex. Occasionally she would throw out a random thought like: ‘Do you think spanking is over?’ or ‘Which is worse, sand or pine needles?’ Actually, she seemed to think about sex most of the time – it must have been quite a party in her head. Vanessa-Mary had talked about her ex-husband quite a lot, her tongue dripping with venom that occasionally translated on to her laptop and resulted in a great many exasperated screams and supressed fury.
But what would I do with Oliver? What would I talk to him about? Would he prefer to eat alone? I believed I was slightly more sensible than I’d been in February but let’s be honest I was still noisy.
Perhaps I would lurk upstairs in my bedroom and creep downstairs when I thought the coast was clear? And who would go to bed first? Me or him? And would he leave the bathroom in a fit state or would he leave his bristles all over the sink and toothpaste on the mirror? I think I’d be better off sticking to the downstairs loo. Perhaps I should sleep on the sofa?
Oh FFS, calm down, woman.
Right, do something useful. Make dinner. What was I going to do? I had been planning to make some individual chicken and ham pies, but I wasn’t sure I could eat that in front of him. He’d think I was a pig. He’d give me a look and he’d be thinking no wonder she’s a bit lardy voluptuous. Perhaps I should do a salad and some new potatoes and some cold roast chicken instead. And make sure I kept Not My Cat out of the kitchen.
I started getting things out of the fridge and, after checking that Oliver was still working in the garden with his back to me, ate another biscuit.
My mobile buzzed. It was Helena.
‘How’s it going?’
I replied: ‘He’s in the garden.’
‘Is he as bad as ever?’
I thought about it. Actually no, he didn’t seem as bad as he’d been. In fact, looking at things rationally he’d been perfectly pleasant. He hadn’t been rude or unreasonable. I texted back.
‘He’s OK so far.’
I watched him for a few more minutes. He was leaning back in his chair, looking at the garden wall. Perhaps he was thinking calm, flowery thoughts?
I put on a clean white apron so I looked efficient and professional and got on with preparing the chicken. Then I washed some new potatoes and thought about dodging into the utility room (posh name for a cupboard with a washing machine and ironing board in it) for a small glass of wine. I felt I needed the boost.
I took another glance at Oliver and went to find the red wine. I slugged a bit into a glass and went to pretend I was fiddling with the tumble dryer.
The wine was just what I needed. I stood with my eyes closed feeling the warmth of it working down to my stomach. Ooh that was better. I took another mouthful.
‘Any chance of some more coffee?’ Oliver said behind me.
I spluttered a bit, holding my hand over my mouth to stop myself fro
m spitting at him.
‘Of course!’ I said brightly hiding my wine glass behind the iron; I think I got away with it. ‘I’ll bring it out.’
It was only after I’d taken the fresh cafetière out to the garden that I realized I had a big splodge of wine down the front of my apron. Oh for God’s sake.
*
We ate our evening meal in the garden after a fabulous sunset that streaked the sky with pink and apricot silk. It was beginning to get chilly, but it was his idea after all, and I lit some candles in a couple of storm lanterns I’d found in the junk shop. He ate tidily and without any fuss and expressed genuine pleasure at the crème brûlée I’d made. That always goes down well. Men are supposed to like bread and butter pudding too but just the look of it turns my stomach for some reason. We shared a bottle of wine and eventually we seemed able to talk without any sort of awkwardness.
Mind you he did start with the ghastly question: ‘So tell me about yourself. Have you found exciting things to do? Since we last met?’
It was as though I was seventeen again when an aged great-aunt had asked me what I was going to do when I finished my Matriculation. I think she meant A levels.
I mean I’d had my eyebrows and my top lip waxed (agony), had a couple of manicures, and a proper bra fitting since I last saw him, but I wasn’t going to share any of that with him. Nor was I prepared to discuss how many blouses and skirts I’d given to the local charity shop in the last few weeks because they didn’t fit properly.
‘Well I’m doing this now,’ I said. ‘I’ve realized it was the catering side of things I enjoyed about writing retreats, not the writing bit. So I’ve created a business, and I seem to have found my niche. I enjoy it. And thank you for sending Kitty to me; she was the start of it all. Writers are interesting people and they have some fabulous gossip. I do all my advertising online and it’s so much easier than dealing with a house full of people.’
‘Who might and might not get along with each other?’
‘Exactly. And my clients are generally people who want to be left alone to get on with their work. They don’t need much entertaining; up to now they’ve all been very appreciative.’
A Year of New Adventures Page 23
