Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty

by Alice Ross

  ‘Exactly. Which is why this is not a good time to make any decisions, never mind one so drastic.’

  ‘It’s what I want to do.’

  And so, despite the media furore and industry speculation, Jake organised a management buyout, offloading the business to his employees. He sold his Chelsea apartment and bought a small cottage in Scotland on the banks of Loch Tay - a modest, peaceful house in a secluded spot, nestled amongst the heather. After a few months the invitations to London parties and requests to visit dwindled. Jake had been relieved. London – and his old life - seemed a million miles away, as if it had all belonged to someone else.

  Becoming accustomed to his own company, Jake spent weeks exploring the Scottish countryside, days walking from dawn ‘til dusk. Then, as winter drew nearer and the days grew shorter, he looked for something to occupy his time indoors. He decided to write a book.

  From a germ of an idea, a dark mystery set in Victorian London sprouted. With only a vague idea of the plot, once Jake began to type, the words flowed and flowed - at an astonishing rate. It took only ten weeks for him to complete the book. Ten weeks in which he completely absorbed himself. He didn’t listen to the radio, he didn’t watch TV, he didn’t read a newspaper, he scarcely set foot outside the house. Then he looked at the four hundred pages filled with neatly typed words and wondered what to do with them. In the absence of any better ideas he emailed them to a literary agent in London using the pen name Martin Sinclair. To his amazement, he received a reply eight weeks later, saying they were very interested and would like to meet him.

  It had been strange flying down to London for the meeting. There was a whole world out there he’d completely forgotten about: a bustling, busy world he no longer belonged to. He made his way to the agent’s office in Mayfair where he was introduced to Tanya. He had intended to say little about his past but, to his dismay, Tanya recognised him immediately.

  ‘Oh my god,’ her glossy red lips gasped. ‘This is fantastic. Marketing will have so many angles to go at. Jake O’Donnell – billionaire financial genius – now a successful author.’

  ‘No,’ Jake protested. ‘I want the book published under my pen name.’

  As if addressing someone of below-average intelligence, Tanya’s voice adopted a quelling edge. ‘Now that would be silly. Using your real name we could triple sales, quadruple them even. You could make a fortune – well, another fortune,’ she added, with a knowing titter and a flutter of heavily-mascaraed lashes.

  Nausea engulfed Jake at the mere thought of all the media hype. ‘I don’t care,’ he maintained. ‘Either the book goes out under my pen name, or it doesn’t go out at all.’

  And so, despite Tanya’s pouting and whingeing and unsubtle attempts to use her feminine wiles to persuade him otherwise, Jake won. His first novel had been published under his pen name, as had his subsequent two books. And in each one the author biography merely stated Martin Sinclair lives in rural Scotland. Unlike other authors Martin Sinclair had no website, no blog, and, most significantly of all, no media photograph. The agency remained unimpressed but, with the books contributing significantly to their profit margin, on the whole they kept quiet. It was a situation Jake was more than content with. And now, at Buttersley Manor, he itched to start work on his next offering, to lose himself in a new book. To erect yet another temporary shield to protect himself from his feelings. Feelings he had had never admitted to another living soul.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Mum, can we go to Disneyland for our summer holiday?’

  Icing a cake, with her back to her daughter, Annie’s heart sank. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and closed her eyes for a moment. As much as she loved being a single mother – the privilege of having her daughter all to herself; the luxury of no one interfering with her child-rearing decisions – occasionally it was just, well … hard. Especially at moments like this. She took a deep breath in and plastered a smile on her face before turning around to face the child.

  ‘We can’t go this year, sweetheart. But remember we are saving up to go when you’re a little bit older.’

  Sophie didn’t look up from her colouring-in at the kitchen table. ‘Bethany Stevens is going in the summer holidays.’

  Well, she would be, Annie resisted saying. The Stevens’s hot-tub business was doing so well they were struggling to keep up with demand. ‘We’re going to that lovely little cottage at the seaside like we did last year,’ she said, cramming as much enthusiasm as she could into her voice. ‘Remember the great time we had on the beach every day - looking for crabs, and building sandcastles, and throwing the ball for Pip?’

  Sophie nodded but Annie could see the disappointment written all over her pretty little face. She blinked back tears. Honestly, she could kill Lance at times. If he hadn’t run off to Japan, then, between the two of them, they could have given their daughter everything she wanted. Not that she wanted to spoil the child. Far from it. She did her best to ensure Sophie appreciated the value of money. But, as much as she could merrily strangle Lance with one of his designer ties, it would have been good for Sophie to have her father in her life: a father she saw for more than a few hours a year, and one who contributed more to her upbringing than a monthly cheque. Not that, according to Lance, being a part-time father had been his original intention. Oh no. Much to Annie’s amazement, he appeared overjoyed when she eventually plucked up the courage to tell him she was pregnant. It was, after all, a mistake; a slip up after a boozy night out. It was she who had been most shocked at the discovery. At twenty-nine she hadn’t been ready for babies, she had a successful career as a museum conservator and she loved her job. But having a baby didn’t have to interfere with her career, Lance assured her. Between the two of them they could have it all. And Annie believed him. She sailed through her pregnancy with Lance super-glued to her side. He attended every scan, every hospital appointment, every ante-natal class. And at the birth he held her hand and mopped her brow – just like in the films. He continued in this perfect supportive partner role for eight weeks after the birth. Then, arriving home from work one evening, he made an announcement that turned Annie’s perfect world on its head. He was taking a new job – in Japan. Alone. Naturally he came up with a raft of excuses and reasons – not one of which Annie understood. She had been too dazed to argue with him. Too stunned to plead or question. Motherhood alone was enough of a shock. Combined with the desertion of what she’d thought was her perfect partner, Annie felt as though she had been run over by a tank.

  Weeks later, when she could think more logically, she recalled seeing the advert for Lance’s new job. She’d accidentally knocked his industry magazine off the coffee table on her way out to her six monthly ante-natal check. It fell open at the Vacancies page and the ad had been circled in red. Floating around in a pregnancy-induced bubble of happiness, her baby kicking in her belly, Annie hadn’t given it a second thought. Lance, on the other hand, while acting out the role of The Perfect Father To Be, had seemingly given the matter a great deal of thought; planning and plotting behind her back, attending interviews and negotiating start dates and salary, without allowing her the slightest indication of his intentions. ‘Betrayed’ didn’t come close to how she felt, but that emotion had been overridden by another: foolishness. How could she have been so stupid, so gullible, not to have realised what he was up to? How could she have placed so much trust in one man? Trusted him with both her future and her child’s?

  Had it not been for Portia, Annie had no idea how she would have coped those first dreadful few months. Given that Lance had abandoned his daughter, Annie had no wish to do the same. She couldn’t face the thought of leaving her child with minders every day. Consequently, she shelved all plans to return to work, and somewhere cheaper than London to live became a priority. Portia offered her the little gatehouse to Buttersley Manor – the Pinkington-Smythe’s ancestral family seat.

  ‘But I can’t live there rent-free,’ Annie insisted. ‘I’ll have
to pay something.’

  ‘There’s no way I could even consider taking money from my best friend,’ Portia tutted. ‘How about you keep an eye on the place for us when it’s empty?’

  And so that was the deal. While Buttersley Manor was empty, which was – shamefully – more often than it was occupied, Annie kept an eye on things. When visitors were due, she ensured it was cleaned and aired, the beds were made up, and the fridge and cupboards stocked. It was an arrangement that had worked well for five years. And one Annie was more than happy with. She loved living in the gatehouse. It was only two-bedroomed with a tiny kitchen and living room downstairs, but it was perfect for her and Sophie. They were very happy there – normally – except when questions about trips to Disneyland arose.

  ‘How about some fresh strawberries?’ she beamed, desperate to make amends.

  Sophie’s little mouth stretched into a wide smile. ‘Can we dip them in melted chocolate?’

  Annie rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘I suppose so. But only if you promise not to feed them to Pip. However much he drools.’

  ‘I promise,’ giggled Sophie.

  Jake was exhausted. And hungry. It seemed an age since he’d eaten at the pub. Thank goodness he’d stopped off there before heading over to the manor. If he hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t have bothered with food at all. Inspiration had consumed him the moment he set foot through the door. Subsequently, he’d been writing solidly for the last four hours and now desperately needed some fresh air, a shower, and some sustenance. Leaning over the mahogany desk, he threw open the latticed windows and filled his lungs with the warm evening air. Instantly he felt better. But no less hungry. He really couldn’t be bothered going out again. Besides, the handful of village shops he’d driven past earlier had most likely closed for the day. He would take a quick shower then go and root around in the kitchen. There might be something there he could nibble on.

  While Sophie dipped her strawberries in the bowl of melted chocolate and Pip, their scruffy white Jack Russell, sat at her feet salivating, Annie wandered out to the garden to assess the weed situation. She loved her garden. It was small, but, like the cottage, had everything she needed: a well-kept lawn, a couple of flower beds, and a neat vegetable patch. She took a deep breath in, savouring the warm evening air laced with the scent of honeysuckle. She really was lucky living here and, despite Portia’s cynicism and the lack of funds for Disneyland, really was content with her life. Who could ask for more? She had a wonderful, healthy daughter, a beautiful place to live, great friends and her own business. In spite of her grumbles about Lance, she wouldn’t change a thing.

  She tilted up her head to the clear blue sky and caught sight of a hawk. Her gaze followed the bird as it glided effortlessly through the air towards the manor, suddenly swooping down outside the open windows of the drawing room. Open windows? Ice-cold apprehension skittered through her. She’d been over to the manor that morning to check everything was in order. Aware it verged on the anal, she checked every morning when it was empty. The building was her responsibility, after all, and one she did not take lightly. She harboured a secret dread of going over one morning to discover a burst pipe and hordes of priceless antiques bobbing about in the water. Thankfully there had been no burst pipe that morning. There had been nothing untoward at all. And she’d received no word of impending visitors. Her stomach lurched. What if it were thieves? She wouldn’t be surprised. The place was packed with priceless relics, valuable paintings and exquisite furniture. For her as a conservator, it was both a treat and an honour to be surrounded by such treasures on a daily basis. The P.S.’s though were completely unfazed. Despite much nagging from Annie over the years, they had still not bothered to have an alarm fitted. Well, there was only one thing for it, she determined, taking a deep breath in, she would have to go and investigate.

  ‘I’m just going over to the manor for a few minutes, Sophie,’ she said, popping her head through the open kitchen window and, with a shaking hand, grabbing the key from the sill.

  ‘Okay,’ muttered Sophie, still intent on her colouring-in.

  Annie hesitated for a moment. Should she ask the child to seek help if she wasn’t back in five minutes? No. She didn’t want to alarm her. After all, it was probably nothing. Nothing at all. Still, perhaps she’d better take her mobile, just in case. She snatched that up from the sill, too. Shoving the phone and key into her shorts’ pocket, she sprinted over the lawn which separated the gatehouse from its lofty relative. She headed directly to the open windows of the drawing room. Standing on tip-toes, she peeped inside. To her immense relief there was no sign of any burglars. And it certainly didn’t look like anything had been moved. Pinkington-Smythe family portraits still lined the walls. And the Chinese vase – which was worth more than her annual income – still had pride of place on the mantelpiece. Hmm. Maybe thieves had a system. Maybe they started from the top and worked their way down. Should she go and confront them? Or should she call Sid, the local policeman? Or was she overreacting? Perhaps the windows had blown open with a sudden gust of wind. From inside the house. Okay, so that scenario wasn’t particularly likely, but she didn’t relish the thought of making a fool of herself again in front of Sid. She still hadn’t recovered from the embarrassment of last year’s incident when she’d been convinced there was an intruder. She’d been so scared she’d locked herself in the loo. After a chaotic couple of hours searching, it turned out to be a pigeon. She wouldn’t have blamed Sid if he’d fined her for wasting police time. No, this time she should at least ascertain whether or not someone was inside before summoning the law. She tugged her mobile out of her pocket and scrolled down to the number for the police station. Now, if she did find herself in a compromising position, all she had to do was press the green button and help would arrive in minutes. Relatively assured, she ran round to the front of the manor and up the steps to the front door. She turned the large iron handle. It was locked. Of course it was. If the thieves had a key they wouldn’t have climbed in through the window. Her heart began to race. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She fished the key out of her pocket, unlocked the door and slipped into the stone-flagged entrance hall. Closing the door, she pressed her back against it and listened for a noise – voices, furniture being moved, anything. There was nothing. Right. Well, maybe it was one guy working alone. That was much more manageable. Even so, perhaps it would be sensible to protect herself. Her gaze scanned the hall, landing on a suit of armour. She tiptoed over to it, slipped off the helmet and, with some wiggling, placed it over her own head. Then she moved over to the wall and unhooked a sword and shield. Right. Good. She was fully protected now. So where should she start her search? Upstairs. Yes, that was probably the best place. Summoning every ounce of courage, she placed one foot on the bottom step. And froze. She could hear footsteps. In the corridor to the right. Approaching footsteps. Her blood ran cold, her heart hammered and her legs turned to jelly. Unable to move, she watched in horror as a tall shadowy figure came into view. Oh my God! This was definitely no pigeon. This was a real-life burglar. She should press the green button on her mobile. But that would mean dropping the sword and the shield. Which she might need if he decided to attack her. Well, as she was holding the weapons, she might as well make use of them.

  ‘St-stay right where you are,’ she stammered, turning towards him brandishing the sword and shield. ‘I’m calling the police.’

  ‘I, er, really don’t think there’s any need for that,’ came a deep male voice.

  ‘Oh yes, there is,’ countered Annie, flourishing the sword in what she hoped was a threatening manner. ‘And if you’ve got a gun, put it on the floor and kick it over here.’

  She held her breath as he bent down and kicked something towards her. Ah ha! So he did have a gun. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to relieve him of that. She’d known that watching all those American cop shows would prove useful at some point. Good move, Annie. Very good move. But, to her amazement, it was
n’t a loaded pistol that landed at her feet, but a packet of digestive biscuits. Biscuits? Annie furrowed her brow. Who on earth would break into a manor and steal a packet of biscuits? Was nothing sacred where this criminal was concerned?

  ‘Where’s your weapon?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  Hmm. Annie squinted her eyes against the light. He definitely had something else in his hand. She cleared her throat, ‘Wh-what else are you holding?’

  ‘A carton of blackcurrant juice.’

  Huh. So he considered himself some kind of joker, did he? Well, Annie wasn’t in the mood for jokes. This was no laughing matter.

  ‘Breaking and entering is no laughing matter,’ she huffed.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. But I had a key.’ He stepped forward, into the pool of sunlight streaming in through one of the windows.

  Annie could see him clearly now. And what she saw caused the breath to whoosh from her lungs, the sword and shield to flop to her side, and all her blood to rush to her head. Bathed in the golden sunlight he looked like some kind of Greek god; a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered Adonis in faded blue jeans and a navy V-necked T-shirt. For a few brief seconds she was rendered speechless. And senseless. And a lot of other things ending in –less that she really couldn’t think of at that particular moment. His jet-black hair, with just the hint of a wave, was dripping wet. He was obviously fresh from the shower. An image of him in the shower crashed into her mind, causing her already shaking legs to almost cave beneath her. She made a grab for the bannister in order to steady herself as she attempted to eradicate the image. His actual presence was unsettling enough. To add fantasy to the equation was really not helpful. He did, though, look vaguely familiar. Was this the man who’d asked her for directions earlier? So intent had she been on her running, she’d paid him scant attention. Which now seemed completely ludicrous. She must need her eyes testing. Badly. How else could she not have noticed those sculpted cheekbones, that strong stubble-covered jaw, and those twinkling dark eyes? Oh my God! She was practically salivating. Which was pathetic. And besides, he might have a key but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a burglar.