by Alice Ross
‘There you go, you two,’ announces Caitlin. ‘You can toast my new career with me.’
Requiring no further encouragement, I swipe up my glass and down the lot in one go. Then I set it down, announce, ‘I’m going to get changed’, and gallop out of the kitchen faster than a Grand National winner.
Alone in my bedroom, I attempt some calming yoga alternate nostril breathing that I once watched on YouTube and thought looked rather cool. But I get into a pickle trying to remember which nostril to breathe out of, and at one point, forget to breathe at all, so I jump in the shower instead, before tugging on a pair of camel cut-off trousers and a white halterneck top. Confident that Caitlin and Tom will have scurried back to their love nest by now, I then wander downstairs in search of food, only to find my parents, Dimitri, Caitlin and Tom in the garden, messing about at the Deluxe Four Burner Gas Barbecue With Adjustable Grills.
‘We’ve decided – hic – to have a – hic – barbecue, Isobel,’ hiccups my mother, slouched on a chair at the patio table and waving her champagne flute around. Her sunglasses are skew-whiff on top of her head and she has a peanut in her cleavage.
‘Why?’ I dare to ask.
‘Because your mum’s too plastered to make dinner. And I’m too knackered to make dinner. And we’re celebrating Caitlin’s career thingy. And we have a load of sausages that need eating,’ replies my dad, jabbing a fork into one of the aforementioned sausages, before dropping it onto one of the adjustable grills. ‘You could knock us up a couple of salads to go with them, if you like.’
I really wouldn’t like. I’ve had more than my fair share of salad-y things at Belinda’s Buns today. However, the one enormous advantage of spending twenty minutes in the kitchen, is that it’ll be twenty minutes away from Caitlin, who is currently cackling away with Dimitri, who, at some point during the proceedings, has whipped off his trousers and is sitting alongside her in his purple pants.
Which reminds me that I still haven’t had a chance to inform him of our not-happening-relationship. And by the way he’s knocking back the booze, I don’t think tonight will be a good time to do it either.
In the kitchen, I don the Union Jack apron and adopt what I consider a professional stance, as I slice a tomato and imagine I’m behind the counter in Belinda’s Buns. Despite all the hilarity when I informed the gathering of my interview earlier, I don’t think working in a sandwich shop is all that funny. Indeed, I think most people would consider it a perfectly respectable career choice. Not that it is a career choice as such. At least, not for me. It would be a stopgap; something to plump up my currently non-existent financial reserves until something more appropriate pops up. Something like… Well, I have no idea, actually. But something will turn up, I’m almost sure. And if it doesn’t, I’ll just have to go back to London and—
‘I thought you might like a top-up.’
I spin around – almost slicing off three fingers in the process – to find Tom behind me. Proffering a glass of champagne. I hadn’t intended drinking much this evening for a couple of very important reasons. First, in case my sozzled mother chokes on a peanut or does something silly with the barbecue’s adjustable grills, and has to go to A&E. And second, in case I end up snogging Dimitri again. Which wouldn’t be a good idea, as I’ve already given the guy more mixed messages than someone speaking coded Japanese.
Now, though, with Tom standing next to me, looking incredibly sexy in a paint-splattered T-shirt that I’m increasingly tempted to slide my hands under, I accept the glass with a fleeting smile and knock back two large slugs.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, turning back to the bench, setting down the glass and resuming my slicing.
Hopefully he’ll go now. Back to Caitlin. His girlfriend. On whom he performs lovely neck rubs. And with whom he has breakfast in bed. All salient points I really must remember when imagining sliding my hands under his T-shirt.
‘Want a hand?’ he asks.
Thankfully not adding ‘Under my T-shirt’.
Eek! What am I supposed to say to that when he’s standing so close I’m breathing in the scent of him? He smells of paint and wood chippings and… him: an incredibly sexy, one-hundred-per-cent male smell that’s making my pulse soar.
‘You can slice the cucumber, if you like,’ I squeak. Then wish I hadn’t squeaked, as Erica Rowland (– she of used-to-present-the-WI-prizes-and-is-now-shagging-my-ex-boyfriend-Giles fame), earned squillions from writing a book called One Hundred And One Ways To Have An Orgasm. And one of the ways apparently involves a medium-sized cucumber.
‘OK,’ says Tom, thankfully unfazed by my suggestion. Which is probably because no vegetables have ever been required to spice up his sex life.
‘Er, so...’ he begins, reaching for a knife and accidentally brushing his bare arm against mine in the process.
Causing heat to flare in my stomach.
‘… you had an interview today?’
‘Yes,’ I yelp, reminding myself that it would be much more sensible to pay attention to my own hands while slicing the tomatoes, rather than watching Tom’s as he attacks the cucumber. The problem with that being that his brown and manly hands are significantly sexier than mine and therefore much more fun to watch.
He clears his throat. ‘So does that mean—?’
‘Tom!’
As Caitlin’s shrill voice clatters through the door, shortly followed by the woman herself, Tom and I drop our knives, whirl around from the bench and stare at her like a couple of rabbits in headlights. Totally ridiculous given all we were doing was slicing vegetables.
‘What are you doing in here?’ she demands of him.
‘Helping, Izzy,’ he croaks, snatching up his knife again to prove his statement.
‘Well, in that case, don’t make a Thai red curry while you’re standing next to her,’ she titters. ‘You wouldn’t believe the mess he made last night, Izzy, when he was cooking my favourite veggie curry for dinner. I’ve no idea how, but most of it ended up all over his shirt. The very nice, very expensive Ralph Lauren shirt I bought him last week. Now come along, Tom. Pru and I need you outside. She wants to show Dimitri how to waltz, so you can partner her while I dance with him.’
By the time I crawl into bed that evening, I have long since concluded that today has been one of the longest of my entire life: the interminable morning stressing about my interview at Belinda’s Buns; followed by this evening’s never-ending barbecue with a tipsy mother, a near-naked Dimitri, a catty Caitlin and a gorgeous Tom.
Not that anyone else appeared to find the evening tedious. Everyone – including my dad, who, at one point, had attempted a cartwheel and landed upside down in the herbaceous border – appeared to enjoy themselves immensely. And even though I’d observed Tom not looking quite as jovial as the rest of the clan (- in fact, he’d looked downright miserable on a couple of occasions), I’m sure it’s nothing another Ralph Lauren shirt won’t put right.
*
Tuesday, for anyone who is not aware, is the day the Nudey Art Group hire the back room at Chollingflower Library. An occasion I doubt I’d have looked forward to, even if someone hadn’t almost died during last week’s session.
Fortunately, thanks to Tom popping up at exactly the right moment and competently carrying out CPR, the old man survived. Yet, for all it’s unlikely I’ll have to call on the emergency services two weeks in a row, I’m still apprehensive about the day ahead.
That said, it does start well, as Dimitri and his pants are still in bed by the time I’m ready to leave. I still haven’t had a chance to recite my ‘You’re a really lovely guy, but…’ speech to him yet. Something I most definitely hadn’t planned on doing yesterday, after all the champagne he’d quaffed at the barbecue. But even if that had been my plan, I couldn’t have carried it out. Because, the minute Tom and Caitlin said their goodbyes – which had felt like ninety-five hours after they’d arrived – Dimitri announced that he’d had such a nice time at the pub with my dad the previous evenin
g, that he was making a return visit. Which was the last I’d seen of him. Thank goodness.
I hadn’t intended drinking much at the barbecue, but because of Caitlin’s overbearing presence, my willpower had lasted all of fifteen minutes. By the time she and Tom had left, I’d been a bit tipsy. A precarious state that could have led to more snogging with our Greek visitor – the last thing I want to do when sober. In fact, having given the whole Dimitri/snogging issue more thought, I’ve concluded that it’s a rebound thing. In Santorini, all snogging had occurred when I’d been rebounding from Giles, who’d dumped me just days before. And even though I’ve been reacquainted with Tom for all of five minutes, and the two of us haven’t so much as held hands, it was my feelings for him that had led to me tumbling into Dimitri’s arms in the moonlit kitchen the other night. Therefore, having spent the entire evening around Tom and Caitlin in their ‘couple’ capacity, all the necessary ingredients were present for me to succumb to the Greek Adonis again last night, had I allowed my steely resolve to crumble. As it turned out, though, my steely resolve had remained completely intact, because Dimitri – by mincing off to the Potted Petunia in his tight trousers – had mercifully removed all temptation.
Having considered myself lucky that Dimitri was equally as absent from the library this morning, I’m surprised when he pops up half an hour after my arrival. Accompanied by a beautiful brunette with enormous green eyes, a pixie cut and a pair of black dungarees.
‘Izee. This is the Jennifer,’ he says.
Jennifer? Who the heck is Jennifer? ‘Hi, Jennifer,’ I say.
‘She new barmaid at pub.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I reply, beaming at her manically, while wondering what the new barmaid from the pub is doing here. With Dimitri. ‘How are you, um, getting on there?’ I ask.
‘Great, thanks,’ she tinkles. ‘I’m working there for the entire summer and hoping to save every penny. I’m heading off on my gap year in September, most of which will be spent in Greece looking after turtles.’ She flashes Dimitri a dazzling smile, which he returns with a mega-watt one of his own.
Erm… Is something going on here?
‘Well, that all sounds very… nice,’ I sputter, still wondering what she’s doing here. With Dimitri. Waffling on about turtles and swapping smiles.
‘As well as doing my bit for the environment, I think it’s going to be great fun,’ she giggles, flicking a coy look at our visitor.
Oh. My. God! Something is definitely going on. Which is fabulous news all round. If Dimitri is now snogging Jennifer, it means I’m off the hook and won’t have to bother reciting my ‘You’re a lovely guy but…’ speech.
‘Blimey, listen to me waffling on about turtles, when you’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ mind-reader Jennifer goes on. ‘Mrs Downey, the pub landlady, has sent me. As you know, she usually models for the art group, in fact, I think she was Marilyn Monroe last week…’
‘Boadicea, actually,’ I chip in, an image of Mrs Downey in green wellies, a Roman helmet and absolutely nothing else, skittering across my mind.
‘Whatever,’ continues Jennifer. ‘Anyway, she’s laden with cold, so won’t be able to come. But because she didn’t want to let the group down, she asked if I could think of anyone to take her place. And the first person to enter my head was…’ She flings an arm in the direction of Dimitri. ‘I didn’t have his number, so I ran round to your house to ask if he’d be interested.’
‘I very interested, Izee,’ says the foreigner. ‘I am going to be Ambrosia, the Greek god of the food. Look!’
He plunges a hand into the carrier bag he’s holding and pulls out a fig leaf and a tomato.
‘See, Izee. I am bringing all the plops with me.’
I have no idea what Dimitri does with his plops as he poses for the ‘artists’ that morning. And that’s the way I’d prefer to keep it. Whatever it is, it has the group - which has miraculously blossomed to four times the size of last week’s (gaining a disproportionate number of female members along the way), in hysterics for a full three hours. After which, I lob the lot of them out of the door, stick up another ‘Back In One Hour’ sign, and retire to the staff room for a lie-down.
Arriving home later that afternoon, I’m not at all surprised to learn that Dimitri is back at the pub.
‘So good of him to offer to help out when Mrs Downey’s ill,’ gushes my mother, doing something with a pan and a handful of spaghetti. ‘It’s marvellous that he’s fitted in so easily. Bodes very well for the future, Isobel, when… you know… he might be spending lots more time here.’
She gives one of her knowing little smiles.
Which I steadfastly ignore.
‘How are the plans for Saturday’s garden party coming along?’ I ask, making a not-so-subtle stab at changing the subject.
One that evokes such an almighty sigh from her, that the indoor herb garden on the windowsill almost takes flight. ‘Thanks to Dimitri’s help this morning, the strawberries and cream cart is coming along beautifully. Which is more than can be said for the raffle prizes. I mean, it’s very kind of Mr and Mrs Dunlop in the newsagent’s to donate a free Mars Bar every week for a year, but it’s not particularly exciting, is it?’
‘I’ve got something you can have,’ I say. ‘Two tickets to Bavagotti’s concert in London in July.’
‘Bavagotti?’ Her eyes grow wide. ‘The world-famous opera singer? But they must have cost a fortune.’
‘They did. Along with more hours of my life than I care to recall, standing in the freezing cold to buy them. They were a present for Giles’s birthday. But as we’re no longer together and I don’t know anyone else who likes opera, they might as well go to a good cause.’
‘Well, I must say, that is extremely generous of you, darling. And I must confess, a couple of weeks ago, I would have been very upset about you and Giles splitting up. But now that Dimitri is here… well… things are a little different, aren’t they?’
‘They absolutely are,’ I agree, but for quite different reasons.
Chapter Eight
Despite my donation of two extremely expensive Bavagotti tickets to Chollingflower’s Annual WI Garden Party raffle, my mother continues to teeter on the brink of a nervy breaker during the preparations for Saturday’s event. Which is why I deem it best not to shatter her dreams of me marrying Dimitri and becoming part of an Onassis-like hotel dynasty. Nor do I share the information with her that Dimitri’s family own only one hotel. Which, were it subjected to an inspection from the British Health & Safety Executive, would be condemned within three seconds.
I also have absolutely no intention of informing her that I can’t even think about becoming involved with Dimitri when I’m in love with another man.
And I am in love with another man, I conclude, as I lie under my duvet watching a spider spin a web in the corner of my bedroom.
I am head over heels in love with Tom Anderson.
Who is probably, at this moment, having breakfast in bed with the girl who whacked me over the head with a plastic spade on our first day at nursery.
The mere thought of them having breakfast in bed together makes me feel like I’ve been hit with a spade all over again.
Lugging my bones along to the library later, I am beyond miserable. I haven’t seen Tom since the barbecue evening and I’m grateful he didn’t pop up at the house this morning. Because, now I’ve realised I’m in love with him, the last thing I want is to make polite conversation about the weather whilst munching my muesli. Not that I did munch any muesli this morning. Nor, indeed, anything else. With my stomach in one big complicated knot, I couldn’t face more than a couple of sips of coffee. Something that mercifully went unnoticed due to my mother wandering around muttering something to herself about strawberries, and Dimitri still being in bed after another late night at the pub.
The fact that Chollingflower’s Juggling Club is meeting in the library today is unfortunate. For both me and them, given my stonking mood. The th
ird time a ball lands on my head, I voice my opinion vociferously and banish them all to the back room.
I’ve just sat back down at the desk after the aforementioned banishing, when Tom wanders in.
A sight so unexpected and so lovely that my stomach immediately unknots itself and begins performing a series of Olympic-like somersaults.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘H-hello,’ I stammer.
‘I was just passing and thought I’d, um…’
‘Right.’ Oh God! Why did he have to think whatever it is he thought while passing? And why is he passing when he’s supposed to be at work?
‘I’m supposed to be at work, but I told your dad I needed to pop out for something.’
‘Oh,’ I say, nodding madly – which seemed like a good idea when I started nodding, but which now feels a bit over the top.
‘Actually, Izzy, I wanted to—’
My mobile – which is on Vibrate mode – begins breakdancing across the desk.
With Belinda’s Buns flashing brightly on the screen.
My already racing heart picks up pace. This must be Belinda calling with the outcome of my interview.
‘I’m really sorry but I have to take this,’ I apologise, before snatching up the phone and squawking yet another nervous ‘Hello’.
Less than one minute later, after a smattering of ‘Oh’s’, ‘I see’s’ and ‘I understand’s’, I say ‘Goodbye’ and put down the phone.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Tom, as I stare at him blankly.
‘No,’ I reply.
Before bursting into tears.
‘I know it was only a job in a sandwich shop and not the chief executive of Amazon,’ I wail ten minutes later, after my howling has sent all the customers scuttling off and Tom - who has brought me a glass of water, a custard cream and a loo roll - is sitting on the chair next to me. ‘But it was a job. One that pays money.’ I scrub a couple of tears from my cheeks and take a bite of my biscuit.
