Читать книгу A Year of New Adventures - Maddie Please - Страница 9

I spent the afternoon chopping yet more vegetables ready for the beef in red wine casserole we were going to have that evening. I made sure I did all I could to keep the noise to a minimum and didn’t slam a single cupboard door. I even turned the radio off; usually I sing along. I have an unusual voice. Matt once described me as singing in a bunch of keys. I think he was trying to be funny?

Why did I put up with him for so long? I have no idea. He wasn’t funny at all I eventually realized, just rather spiteful. You know the sort. One of those men who make themselves feel better by making you feel worse. And, of course, I’d been pathetically grateful just to have a boyfriend so I was one half of BillieandMatt instead of being a spare part that people were always trying to find dates for.

Helena went upstairs to get a coat ready for her walk into the village. She came down with fresh lipstick and her red hair tousled artfully into a messy chignon, two things I’m sure weren’t necessary just to go and get milk and low-fat spread.

Helena then remembered she had forgotten the coat so, giggling, had to go back upstairs again to fetch it.

The two of them shuffled off into the village like the Start-Rite kids, not holding hands exactly but definitely connecting. Well lucky Helena, I thought. I could see he was certainly rather cute. And Helena – like me – had been going through what I think is referred to as a ‘dry spell’ over the last few months. Heaven knows why Helena should be unattached. She’s really attractive. Trouble is she’s never really realized that and she spends most of her time in libraries surrounded by elderly newspaper readers, young mothers, or school-age children.

And me? I’m lying fallow, like a field that’s recently had all its vigour drained out of it through over-cropping, courtesy of my last significant other. Matt was really gorgeous-looking, a skilled carpenter and furniture restorer who was more than happy to spend a week buffing a table but didn’t bother to spend more than five minutes polishing me.

My mother said he was a Neanderthal and I would be better off buying furniture from IKEA rather than expecting him to do anything for me. He also chiselled away at my self-confidence with horrible precision, alienated most of my friends, and laughed at my feeble attempts to diet, manage my hair, and find a serious job.

I can see all of that now, but at the time of course I just put up with it. The trouble is I have the memory of an elephant and I never forget any slight no matter how small. (I think I might be developing the figure of an elephant but that’s another story.)

Anyway, I did learn something; when we split up I realized how much easier life could be. I could do what I liked when I liked, and no one said should you be eating that? I didn’t have to do his laundry, and my hoover no longer clogged up with the wood dust that fell out of his clothing. I decided having a serious boyfriend was far too difficult and time-consuming. Not to mention expensive. I wasn’t bothered about being alone. Well not much.

I now qualified as what the government describes as ‘just managing’. Good job I could type and was a whiz at conjuring up incredible meals out of very little. I really should find a proper job though. A route through to the future and my perilous old age. It was a topic that, often in the stilly watches of the night, bothered me a great deal.

I finished assembling the beef casserole – with button mushrooms, baby onions, bay leaves, and a bouquet garni – and sacrificed a whole bottle of red wine in the process. Well, minus a tiny bit.

I’d brought the apple pie with me so all I had to do was knock up some duchesse potatoes, prep some green beans, and I was done. I began clearing down and arranging cutlery in the formal dining room.

It was a glorious setting too, with twelve chairs and a highly polished table; it would have had Matt dribbling with pleasure.

If the cheating bastard had been here to see it.

And if he’d had the brain to actually write a book in the first place.

And needed to go on a writing retreat, which obviously he didn’t – having the brain the size of a peanut and the attention span of a woodlouse.

#Arse.

The two alcoves either side of the fireplace were filled with shelves and a wide selection of books. It was a room just made for huge family lunches and a coterie of rosy-cheeked little girls in sparkly Monsoon party dresses.

Helena and Nick didn’t return until an hour and a half later. Considering the local shops were five minutes’ walk away, I guessed they had been wandering about aimlessly, casting shy glances at each other. It seemed highly unlikely they had got lost unless they had both developed the most diabolical sense of direction.

Nick went off upstairs to unpack and do some writing in his room and Helena mooned around, fiddling with her hair and going over every detail of their unremarkable and entirely predictable conversation. It seemed to consist of tedious teenage topics.

Favourite colour, best subject at school, ideal holiday?

I fully expected them to progress over the course of the week to deeper interests: preferred biscuit for dunking, favourite film, and best chocolate bar.

I left Helena tidying up, collecting coffee mugs, and putting out slices of the fruitcake I had made the previous day. I went to get changed out of my food-splattered jumper and pull on a new shirt, dithering about how many buttons to undo. I eventually did most of them up as I thought it was a bit early to be showing off my rather generous cleavage on purpose. It makes a surprise appearance fairly often; perhaps I should go for a proper bra fitting one of these days? My mother was always trying to get me to do that. I shuddered at the thought.

I spent ten minutes applying a fresh layer of eye shadow – blended in for that smoky-eyed look that obviously is important when you’re about to make tea for seven people and open up a packet of chocolate digestives. Then I messed about for a further five minutes with lipstick. I eventually wiped most of it off and went down into the kitchen and slunk into the pantry to have a sneaky glass of red wine before anyone caught me.

I grabbed my laptop and returned to the corner of the kitchen I had earmarked as mine. It had a comfortable chair and it wasn’t overlooked, which meant in an instant I could swap from writing my deathless prose to checking Facebook undetected.

It also had a nice view of the garden. It was probably filled with colour in the summer but now at the tail end of February it was dull and rather ugly with the straggling stems of last year’s plants drooping over the borders. As the last of the frail light of the afternoon faded, a thin fog began to form over the lawn, hovering and curling like smoke.

I shivered although the room was warm and glanced over towards Oliver’s room. I wondered what he was doing in there and why he was so irritable all the time.

Helena went to look at the guidebook on top of the sideboard, left by the homeowner, and flicked through a few pages, humming tunelessly.

I looked up. ‘Go on then,’ I said.

‘Go on then what?’

‘Tell me some more about Nick.’

‘Oh …’ she waved a careless hand ‘… he seems lovely. Nothing more to say really. He lives quite near my mother.’

She put the guidebook down and went to look at one of the dull watercolours on the wall next to the telephone.

‘And? You like him don’t you?’ I said.

Helena shrugged, feigning disinterest very badly.

‘Oh he’s easy to talk to. You know.’

‘He likes you,’ I said. ‘Pity we’ve just missed Valentine’s Day.’

Her face brightened. ‘Do you think he likes me? Really?’ Finally the floodgates were unleashed. ‘He’s so funny too. Do you know we both went to the Slimbridge Wildfowl place a couple of years ago at Easter? He was taking his nieces and I went with my mother. Just think, we could have met then, or passed each other on the way to the bird hides.’

‘Just think!’ I said.

Helena stuck her tongue out at me and went to fill the kettle.

*

The writers left their lairs and returned to the kitchen promptly at four-thirty for fruitcake, biscuits, and tea.

Everyone was happy with the house and how comfortable it was. Nancy had been reading through her book, trying to sort the muddles out and attempting to plot it properly. Vivienne had read the house guidebook and discovered the tale of a shocking relationship between a gentleman who lived there in the nineteenth century and his ward, a girl more than half his age. They seemed to have produced three children who were passed off as foundlings and when the girl had threatened to confess the truth to the local rector, her guardian had strangled her – a crime for which he was hanged. Vivienne was thrilled and determined to transpose the tale into the twenty-first century, adding more scandalous detail and possibly some bondage.

There was no sign of Oliver for which I was grateful and eventually people went off to their preferred chairs to continue writing. I was washing up and about to wrap the remnants of the cake in foil when Oliver’s door opened.

‘Oh! Have I missed tea?’ he said looking around rather bleary-eyed.

I swear to God he’d been sleeping again.

‘No problem, I’ll make some more if you want it,’ I said. He was doing this on purpose. Just to be bloody difficult. ‘It won’t take a moment.’

‘Go on then,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

I flicked on the kettle and made more tea, rinsing out the pot and dropping in fresh tea bags. No sooner had I dowsed them in boiling water than he said, ‘I don’t want tea. I’ll have coffee.’

I gritted my teeth, chucked the tea away, and made coffee instead.

Back at the table he was looking into space. I put the cafetière down in front of him and offered him one of the giant mugs.

He looked at it for a moment and then pushed it back across the table to me. ‘I don’t know why you always give me those. I’d really prefer an ordinary one.’

‘But Pippa …’ I bit back the protest and went to find him another mug, which I placed in front of him. ‘Sorry.’

He didn’t answer but poured himself some coffee and took a slice of cake.

‘What have you been doing?’ he said.

‘Cooking, clearing up, washing up,’ I said cheerfully as I put some dirty mugs into the dishwasher.

‘Nothing exciting then?’

I swear he was laughing at me and I felt my hackles rising in annoyance.

No, I would be calm and not lose my rag. I would take a deep cleansing breath and think nice thoughts. I would not knock the milk jug over accidentally on purpose so it soaked his legs.

‘I like doing it. I like looking after people. And I might get some writing done later, after I’ve abseiled off the roof,’ I added under my breath. ‘And you? What are you writing about?’

Oliver topped up his coffee.

‘Sandstorms. War. Nothing to appeal to you. I mean there are no cupcakes or shoes. So you really enjoy doing this?’

I bit back my annoyance at such a patronizing attitude.

‘Do I like running retreats? Yes I do.’ Otherwise I wouldn’t do them. ‘Are you enjoying being here?’

He shrugged and took another bite of cake.

‘I mean are you sufficiently relaxed to write? No plot holes or – you know – writer’s block to worry about?’

‘What?’ he looked up rather sharply.

‘I said plot holes and writer’s block. You don’t suffer from those then? Oh no that’s just lack of discipline or something isn’t it?’

He stood up, favouring me with a hard look, and without a word stomped back into his room, taking his coffee with him.

Well someone was grumpy. I mean grumpier than usual. It must have been the Stilton.