by Alice Ross
‘There certainly is,’ I agree, keen to get him out of the house. ‘You could go and visit a castle. Or it’s market day in Doddingflower, which is only a short ride on the bus. The stop is at the end of the—’
‘Hmmm.’
For some reason – and I can’t imagine what, given Doddingflower market once won the coveted Best Market in Northumberland award – Dimitri appears lukewarm about my suggestions.
‘I a bit tired after my wet dreams,’ he says. ‘I think I stay in village today.’
‘Oooo, well in that case,’ pipes up my mother, ‘why don’t you take Dimitri to the library with you, Isobel? It would be lovely for him to meet some of the locals.’
Right. Thank you. Great suggestion, Mum. Not! There I am, doing my utmost to keep him out of all our hair for the day, and there she goes, weaving him tightly into mine, with a couple of cans of lacquer for good measure.
‘Excellent idea, Mrs Irveeng,’ says Dimitri. ‘I am wanting to be the improving of my Eenglish while I am here, so this is perfek.’
‘It would definitely be a good learning opportunity for you,’ I say, mustering my most business-like tone. ‘But I’m not sure it would be allowed.’
‘Not allowed?’ gasps my mother. In the same tone she employed at Durham Cathedral, after being informed that she wasn’t allowed to climb the tower because she was wearing high heels. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Health and safety reasons,’ I blurt, which covers just about everything these days.
‘What health and safety reasons?’
‘Well… obviously it’s a library, so there are the, um, books to consider,’ I reply, my brain flailing about for something to add to that opening statement.
All flailing stops, though, at the chime of the doorbell, which sends panic ricocheting through me.
‘That’ll be Tom,’ says my dad, jumping off his chair and loping towards the hall to answer it.
I already know that it will be Tom, hence the reason for my panic.
Tom Anderson and I went to school together until we were thirteen. Not that I’d paid him much attention in those days. He’d been way out of my league in the intelligence stakes. In fact, because he was a maths genius, he’d been way out of everyone’s league. So much so, that he’d been earmarked for brilliant things and had been whisked off to a prestigious school in California that catered for maths geniuses. After that, he’d gone to Harvard. But, for some reason I haven’t yet discovered, he’s now back in Chollingflower working for my dad, who’s a builder.
The day before yesterday, Tom kindly drove me down to London to help me pack up my room there. While in the capital, I’d been hoping to woo back my ex, Giles, but my plans had fallen spectacularly flat and I’d been gutted. Until Tom had cheered me up and made me see that Giles and I had never been suited. And all I can remember doing after that was laughing. Indeed, we’d still been laughing hours later, when we’d pulled onto my parents’ drive. When – I think – we might have been about to kiss.
The moment, though, had been rudely broken by the girlfriend I didn’t know Tom had, sweeping out of the house.
Followed, a second later, by the newly arrived Dimitri.
And now I’m feeling completely crap about everything and don’t have the first clue what to make of any of it, which is why I’ve grabbed the copy of House of Hammers that was lying on the table and am feigning great interest in an article entitled How To Find The Best Screw For Your Needs as Tom strides into the kitchen after my dad.
‘Morning, every… one,’ he says - the pause occurring at the precise moment he spots Dimitri in his orange knickers, sitting – legs akimbo – on a stool at the breakfast bar.
Tom fires me a questioning look which I pretend not to notice, being far too engrossed in finding the right screw for my needs. (In hindsight, I wish I’d flicked the page and read the feature on How To Get The Most From Your Extension instead.)
While feigning interest in screws, and pretending not to notice his questioning look, I’m also totally ignoring how drop-dead gorgeous the man looks in his scruffy grey combats and black T-shirt. And I’m completely oblivious to the way his chestnut curls are glinting in the sun streaming through the window, which doesn’t make me want to run my fingers through them at all. Thank goodness.
Because that’s the other startling thing about Tom Anderson. When I’d last seen him twelve years ago, he’d been the geekiest kid in the school. But, at some point between now and then, he’s blossomed into a very sexy hunk.
Which is just one of the reasons I’d wanted to kiss him yesterday.
But I totally don’t want to kiss him today.
God no. In fact, I can’t think of anything more repuls—
‘Kalimera, Tom,’ chimes Dimitri, spinning around on his stool.
‘Good morning, Dimitri,’ says Tom, who’d briefly met our visitor yesterday. ‘Settling in OK?'
'Yes. Very good. I am having the wet dreams last night.’
‘Er, right,’ mutters Tom.
‘Can I tempt you with a sausage, Tom?’ asks my mother from the hob.
Still gawping at the almost-naked Dimitri, Tom’s mouth flaps open a couple of times, before he replies, ‘Um, no thanks, Mrs Irving.’
Despite feeling extremely self-conscious after our near-kiss, I try not to laugh.
Then I remember how much the two of us had laughed while in London, and all the way back up to Northumberland in the car yesterday, and I want to cry.
Before I do either, my dad asks, ‘Ready to go, Tom?’
Which causes my stomach to drop to the tiled floor. I don’t want him to go. But then again, I can’t cope with him staying either, because that means I really will have to read the article on How To Get The Most From Your Extension.
For whatever reason, Tom seems in a dither too. Out the corner of my eye, I watch him scratching his head as he fires me an imploring look. I pretend not to watch, still apparently absorbed in the properties of twinfast screws – whatever they are.
Then, after muttering a rather flat ‘Bye’ to the room, he shuffles off.
And a tsunami of misery crashes over me.
Chapter Two
After dismissing the idea of citing Dimitri’s tight trousers as the reason he couldn’t possibly spend the day in the library with me, and failing to come up with any other reason, the two of us are now ambling along the streets of Chollingflower towards our destination. Dimitri in the aforementioned trousers, and me in a green floral skirt and white gypsy top, with my long dark hair swept up in a ponytail.
Following our visitor’s earlier wet dream revelation, in which it had apparently rained ‘all the cats and the dogs’, I’m pleased to discover that not only is it a beautiful sunny June day, but that Chollingflower has never looked prettier.
Something Dimitri also notices, as he gushes over the fifteenth-century church, the medieval disused well and the smattering of cute little shops.
‘Take a picture of me here, Izee,’ he instructs, for what feels like the fifty-sixth time in the last ten minutes – this time as we pass a red telephone box.
While he adopts a pose that makes it look like he’s hugging the box (- no mean feat in those trousers), I snap a picture, fire it over to him, and add it to my Instagram account with the hashtags:
#VillageLife #Chollingflower #GreeksAbroad
Due to all this photographic activity, we arrive at the library ten minutes late. Which means that one member of the Arts & Crafts Group is already waiting outside: Mrs Dunlop – proprietor of Chollingflower’s newsagent’s, undisputed queen of village gossip, and perpetual snacker of chocolate.
Upon spotting Dimitri, she almost shoves an entire bag of Revels into her mouth - still in the packet.
‘Morning, Izzy,’ she chirps – to Dimitri’s bottom. ‘And who’s this lovely young man?’
‘I am Dimitri - something-long-and-ending-in - opolous,’ replies Dimitri, extending a hand to her.
‘Oooooo.’ Mrs
Dunlop shakes the hand, before popping two Revels into her mouth and making what I think she might consider a suggestive attempt to roll them around with her tongue.
I look away and fiddle about trying to open the door.
‘I help. I very good at putting the things in the hole, Izee.’ Dimitri joins me at the door and bends down to the lock.
Not wishing to be in such close proximity to him, I stand back, trying not to laugh at the way Mrs Dunlop is ogling his bottom.
‘So, what arty-crafty things are you making today?’ I venture.
My question evidently startling her out of her Greek-bottomed fantasy, she jumps three inches in the air.
‘We’re, er, making plant pots from tuna cans and clothes pegs,’ she says, as the door swings open and Dimitri straightens up.
‘I am very much enjoying the making of the craft things,’ says Dimitri. ‘Can I be doing the joining in?’
‘Ooo, we’d be delighted,’ gushes Mrs Dunlop, passing him the packet of Revels and whipping a tube of Rolos from her bag.
As it’s my first week as library volunteer, I have no idea what the usual attendance is at Chollingflower’s Arts & Crafts Group. I suspect, however, that it is way below today’s, which seems to include every female aged between thirty-six and eighty-seven in the village. I’m not sure if that’s because they’re all desperate to make plant pots out of tuna cans and clothes pegs, or if it’s because they’ve heard about Dimitri, who’s lapping up all the attention like a thirsty dog at a bowl of water.
Whatever the reason, I’m in no mood for all this fawning.
My mind is still far too occupied with Tom.
And yesterday’s discovery that he has a girlfriend.
When there’d been no previous mention of a girlfriend.
Not that he’d been under any obligation to mention her.
I mean, why should he tell me?
I’ve only been reacquainted with him for the couple of days I’ve been back in Chollingflower.
So it’s not like we’ve talked about relationships or anything.
Although, actually, I have. During our overnight trip to London – when I’d been plotting my Getting Back Together With Giles plan - I’d spilled out every last detail of my relationship. Even how I’d imagined me and Giles getting married, moving to the Cotswolds and popping out a couple of kids. I’d even, much to my embarrassment, told him the names I’d chosen for said kids. Which must have made me sound like the world’s biggest saddo.
Maybe I am the world’s biggest saddo, I muse, watching Mrs Dunlop as she hands Dimitri her last Rolo.
After all, nobody’s ever given me their last Rolo.
Or any Rolos at all, come to that.
I’m not sure at what age you are supposed to realise that you are doomed to lead a Rolo-free existence, but right now, it feels like twenty-five is that age.
How can I possibly have reached the age of twenty-five – a whole quarter of a century! – and not had anyone buy me a tube of Rolos?
Then again, how can I possibly have reached the age of twenty-five, have no job, be living with my parents, and be working in Chollingflower library for nothing, surrounded by a gaggle of women who are salivating over a foreigner’s clothes pegs? Put like that, it’s no wonder my mother thinks I’m a complete failure; the black sheep of my high-achieving family. Unfortunately for me, my two older siblings have set the bar high: my brother went to Oxford and is now a surgeon; while my sister studied at Cambridge and is now an actuary. While they’ve sailed through life completely unhindered, I’ve encountered a plethora of swirling currents and crashing tidal waves. And while they’re both earning mega bucks, I have a total of fifty-two pounds and seventy-three pence in my bank account.
The big question, though, is what am I going to do to reverse this downward trend? How do I even begin to set my train wreck of a life back on track? Up until two days ago – when I was planning to be reunited with Giles – I’d intended looking for another job in publishing in London. The prospect of which hadn’t evoked one jot of enthusiasm, given I hated working in publishing and I hated living in London. But at least it had been a prospect. Now that Giles had been struck from my agenda, I’m completely without prospects. All I know is that I can’t live with my parents forever. Nor can I carry on working at the library for nothing. I have to sort myself out and find another job. But where? And what?
At the sound of someone calling, ‘Izee. Please be taking the picture,’ I snap out of my maudlin musings to find Dimitri and Mrs Dunlop each with an arrangement of clothes pegs in their hair.
Doing as instructed, I take the amusing shot and ping it over to his phone. Then, because I know my best friend Gemma is on a boring solicitor training course thing this week, I send it to her to give her a laugh, and automatically add it to my Instagram account with the hashtags:
#VillageLife #101UsesForPegs
I’m in the middle of adding #ItsAllHappeningAtChollinflowerLibrary, when I hear someone asking Dimitri:
‘So, how long are you staying in Chollingflower, you gorgeous boy?’
I close my eyes and cross my fingers, praying I’ll hear something like ‘until tomorrow’ or ‘the day after tomorrow’.
‘As long as this piece of string,’ he announces.
I whip my head around, hoping to find a very short piece of string.
Only to discover that it’s one still attached to the ball.
By the time lunchtime chugs around, and the Arts & Crafts Group – whose session was due to finish two hours ago - is still simpering over Dimitri, I decide that enough is enough and make the executive decision that we are closing for lunch.
‘But the library never closes for lunch,’ protests Mrs Dunlop, waving around a half-eaten Turkish Delight to underline her point.
‘Well, it is today,’ I inform her, ushering the group out and slapping a Back In One Hour post-it on the door.
I steer Dimitri home via an alternative route to the one we took that morning. One that takes us past the swanky new-build property my dad and Tom are currently working on. Not that that’s the reason I take him that way. Not at all. I mean, it’s not like I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of Tom in his sexy grey combats and snug-fitting T-shirt, through which I could make out a rippling six-pack. Because that would be a bit desperate. And even though my life is a total mess at the moment, desperate is one thing I most definitely am n—
‘Izzy!’
At the sound of Tom’s voice, my heart leaps to my throat, and when I spot him striding out of the building carrying several long slats of wood on one of his broad shoulders, my pupils dilate to the size of golf balls.
‘Oh. Hello,’ I say, in my best nonchalant what-a-surprise-to-see-you-here voice.
‘I thought you were working in the library today?’ he says, setting down the wood.
‘We’re having a break for lunch.’ I flap a hand to show that ‘we’ includes Dimitri, who currently has his head in a cement mixer.
‘Oh.’ The smile that had sprung to his face upon seeing me, takes a dip. ‘So… Dimitri’s in the library with you?’
‘Yes. He’s caused quite a stir actually,’ I inform him, now aiming for a breezy tone. ‘He’s been doing things with pegs with the Arts and Crafts Group.’
‘Right.’ He rubs his nose and looks a bit awkward. ‘It’s just that I was… hoping to pop in later.’
Elation sweeps through me and I experience a crashing urge to perform a cartwheel. But as I’d probably break a leg or two in the process – which obviously wouldn’t be very cool - I keep both feet firmly on the ground and my expression neutral. ‘Any particular reason?’ I ask, in a voice that sounds twenty-three octaves higher than my usual one.
He shrugs. ‘Just to… look for a book.’
‘We have lots of them.’ I attempt a jaunty cackle. Which sounds like a pig with catarrh.
‘I thought…’ - two spots of pink appear in his tanned cheeks - ‘that if it was quiet… I might… have
a word.’
‘About anything in particular?’ I ask, feigning innocence as my pulse soars to hereto unexplored heights.
He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I think you can probably guess,’ he says, somewhat sheepishly.
Of course I can guess. He wants to have a word about his girlfriend. The one I didn’t know he had until yesterday.
‘Well…’ I raise a hand to sweep back my fringe in what I hope is a carefree action, completely forgetting that my sunglasses are perched on my head. As they fly off and land on a bag of cement, I bend down to retrieve them.
At exactly the same time as Tom.
Then, in another synchronized move, we both reach for them, and as our hands accidentally brush against each other, something warm and delightful zips down my spine.
‘Izzy,’ he whispers, as our eyes lock.
‘Yes?’ I whisper back, my heart hammering so hard it’s a wonder he can’t hear it.
‘Izee. Quickly. Take the photo for the Instagram.’
Tom and I spring to our feet and whip around to find Dimitri straddling the cement mixer.
‘I don’t even want to think about how he’s managed that in those trousers,’ Tom puffs. ‘He could do himself an injury. Honestly, the lengths people go to for social media.’
‘It’s fun,’ I say, silently cursing Dimitri for interrupting what had seemed like a very special moment. Not that Tom seems remotely bothered. He’s now seamlessly moved on to dissing his least favourite thing in the modern world.
‘What’s fun about almost killing yourself for a photo a few people who you hardly know, if you even know them at all, might like?’
God! I don’t know what’s fun about it. It just…is! ‘Because people like seeing themselves,’ I snap back.
‘If they like seeing themselves, why don’t they just look in the mirror?’
I shove on my sunglasses and roll my eyes behind them, wishing I hadn’t bothered walking past the site. Tom has made it blatantly clear that he thinks social media is a total, narcissistic waste of time, which, personally, I find a bit odd for someone in their twenties. He’s not on Instagram, steers well clear of Facebook and has never tweeted in his entire life. Granted, when he asked me what the point of it all was, I could only reply that it was a great way of snooping on people. Although I’m sure there are a million other different points to it. Like… well, all sorts of useful and productive things. Thinking about it now, though, it occurs to me that social media could well be the reason there is a Greek Adonis straddling a cement mixer in Chollingflower. Because, if Dimitri hadn’t seen all those pictures of himself on my Instagram account, and I hadn’t posted that stupid moussaka picture (which he’d interpreted as me missing all things Greek), then maybe he wouldn’t have felt inclined to visit me. Which could very well mean that Tom is right: there is no point to social media, other than it stirring up a whole load of unnecessary trouble. Not that I intend telling him that.
