Читать книгу The Mini-Break - Maddie Please - Страница 11

I got my wish.

No not that wish, the other wish.

I drove back to Barracane House, made some hot chocolate and went upstairs. It was only nine thirty. At home I’d be thinking of going out. I had this ridiculous feeling that Joe might suddenly arrive at the house with explanations and apologies and I didn’t want that.

So I closed the bedroom curtains and put all the lights out and got into bed. I settled down with my laptop and was astonished to see that for once I had some Wi-Fi.

Several emails arrived, most of them junk of course but two were from Sally, my agent, who was politely but firmly enquiring how I was getting on with my rewriting. There was one from Jassy reinforcing my need to return to London as we had been invited to a private viewing at the National Portrait Gallery at the end of the month. Ralphie had man-flu, Benedict was being a complete pain and she was sick of fielding his questions about where I was and why I was being like this.

Then there was a long email from Benedict himself, saying how unfair I was being and how it wasn’t his fault. I’d misunderstood the situation apparently. I wouldn’t have thought there was much to misunderstand. Still if I was honest I did feel rather miserable about it too. I sent him a short email saying I would be back at the weekend and then I closed my laptop.

The room was warm and comfortable and pretty too in shades of grey and dusky pink. Sally certainly had good taste when it came to interior décor. Either that or she had a friend who did. The curtains at the little windows were thick and cosy, the quilt on the bed was handmade and just the right side of charming without slipping over the edge into fussy.

Soon I was going to pack up all my stuff and leave. I would spend the rest of my time here writing and being impressively productive. Sally would be thrilled and forgive all the weeks I had spent messing about and not getting anything done.

I fell asleep just after midnight and woke with a start at eight o’clock. I was still in the same position I’d been in when I fell asleep. Why couldn’t I sleep like this at home? In London I had black-out curtains and triple glazing so not a sound from the street below ever disturbed me. My bed was large and warm and orthopaedic as Benedict had occasional back trouble and yet there I woke up every couple of hours, restless and uncomfortable. Of course it hadn’t helped that for all his healthy lifestyle, dairy-free diet and adhesive nasal strips Benedict sometimes snored loud enough to rattle the windows.

*

I did my best for the rest of the week, trying to wrestle with my feelings about Benedict and the future and at the same time not think about Joe. But I had a job to do. I was a writer who took the job seriously. Sally was waiting for me to deliver this book. I had stacks of food in the house; I didn’t need to go out. The weather was gradually getting colder by the day – even though at this time of year it should have been getting warmer – so I didn’t really want to.

That morning I woke just after seven o’clock and went downstairs looking for tea. Something had changed. It was still quite dark outside but the light was different. For a few minutes I couldn’t work out what it was. Then I pulled open the kitchen blind.

In the night it had snowed. It had snowed a lot and it was still snowing. Should it snow like this in March? Outside in the drive my car was little more than a series of mounds and bumps covered over with a thick white blanket. Childishly excited, I ran to the sitting room and pulled back the curtains. There was a fabulous panoramic view down the valley that was now blurred by the snow falling.

I couldn’t see any hedges or roads and the air had a strange yellowish tinge that suggested the storm was not over. I opened the front door, pulling my dressing gown around me, and shivered. Not so much from the cold as the excitement. I hadn’t seen any decent snow for years and I couldn’t remember a snowfall like this one. The air was very still with only the tiny sound of snowflakes rustling onto the ground. There were no birds, no animal tracks, no distant sound of dogs barking; nothing disturbed the silent morning.

I went back inside and had some breakfast. This sort of weather called for hearty stews and home-made bread. I didn’t have the wherewithal for either so instead I had a sachet of instant porridge.

I was supposed to be going home soon; back to London and parties and private viewings and real life. If this snow carried on there was no chance that would happen and suddenly I grinned. I wanted to go back to London, didn’t I? I needed to go back. People were expecting me. Benedict wanted me back. We had things to talk about. But some demon inside me whispered you can’t – you might be stuck here for a bit longer. The prospect didn’t seem to bother me at all.

I cleared up and surveyed the contents of the fridge. There was some long-life milk in the cupboard, plenty of tinned food stores and some bread in the freezer. I’d have to restock when I got the chance. It was going to be another adventure. A sort of strange childish escapade that involved being marooned for an indefinite time.

I prodded the dying embers of the fire and stirred it into life with some kindling. There weren’t many logs left. I’d have to go out at some point to fetch more wood from the shed. Sod it – I wasn’t looking forward to that.

I meant to settle down and get a good morning’s work in but instead I kept looking out of the window, hoping it was still snowing. I wondered what would happen to Joe’s sheep. I remembered him talking about Jim and Ken sorting them out. That would be a relief. Even with a tractor it wouldn’t be much fun traipsing over all these fields. And the poor sheep too. Didn’t their feet get really cold?

I went to make more coffee and rummaged in the back of the store cupboard until I found some biscuits. I went back to my place by the fire, opened a packet of chocolate digestives and ate one. Then I had another two. I never ate biscuits at home. What was I doing? I’d be the size of a house at this rate.

Oh well.

I did a bit more editing and found another place where the plot went up the creek. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. There was no way my heroine would take three days to drive from Oxford to Kendal unless she had a disastrous sense of direction or was going in a pony and trap. I’d have to dispense with the overnight stop in Chesterfield where the hero came to her hotel room and took her to paradise and back. Which was a shame as I’d rather liked the sex scenes I’d written. Then I looked at a book of maps and realised if she was stopping in Chesterfield she probably did have a terrible sense of direction.

I gave a sigh and redirected her to Knutsford. The climactic (in every sense of the word) meeting with the hero would have to wait until she got to Kendal. I didn’t want her to spend a night of bliss in a motel on the side of the motorway. And that meant I would have to reschedule the showdown with her ghastly mother.

There was a sharp rap on the window and I nearly fell off the sofa with the shock. I got up and went to see who it was. It was Joe. He was back!

He stood on the doorstep muffled up in a thick tweedy coat and a woollen beanie hat.

‘You okay?’ he said, excited and smiling broadly.

His face was red with the cold and he stood stamping the snow off his boots for several seconds, resisting my invitations to come into the house.

‘Just called in to see you were all right. I knew we were forecast some bad weather but I don’t think anyone expected this.’

‘I’m supposed to be going back to London tomorrow,’ I said.

I persuaded him to come into the hall where he stood dripping melted snow onto the flagstones. He pulled off his beanie hat and patted down his hair where it had ruffled into unruly curls.

‘You won’t be going anywhere tomorrow if it stays like this,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The roads are difficult between here and Exeter. Little car like yours, well you’d never get through.’

‘No I suppose not.’

We both took a moment to think about this.

‘I was worried that you might not have much stuff here: wood and milk, that sort of thing. Ivy wondered if you’d like to come over for dinner tonight?’

Ah, Ivy must be his wife. So had she known I’d met up with him last night? Perhaps she did. Perhaps they had an open relationship where she occasionally went off with sheep shearers and he chatted up stray women? No don’t be ridiculous.

‘That’s very kind of her, but how—’

‘Well it’s midday; I could come and get you later on. This snow isn’t going to last long. I’ve got the sheep to see to and a few things to sort out, but I could fetch you in the Land Rover. About seven. Okay?’

He began pulling his hat and gloves on again, ready to leave. It was a fait accompli.

‘I don’t know—’ I said.

‘Go on, it’ll be fun.’

He gave me a slightly crooked smile that made me feel a bit funny inside. I wanted to object; to tell him I had a significant other. I wasn’t the sort of girl who liked being told what to do. And I certainly didn’t like being pushed into a speedy decision. He needed to know that.

Instead I smiled. ‘I’ll see you at seven o’clock then.’

‘Great, see you later.’

Well that told him.

I watched him tramp off down the lane, his boots crunching into the snow. I would see him again later and the thought suddenly made me feel rather giddy. For heaven’s sake I wasn’t a teenager. Perhaps my blood sugar was low?

I ate another two chocolate digestives just in case.

I supposed Ivy was the brisk, no-nonsense blonde pocket Venus I had imagined. I expected she would produce a hearty stew made from their own lambs and their own vegetables and probably an apple pie made from their own apples. There might even be hand-thrown plates, hand-blown glasses and hand-made cutlery. There would be a table hewn from a local tree and a cloth woven from their own wool.

Right, I was getting a bit hysterical and silly here.

But I was certainly curious.

*

Just before seven o’clock I pulled on every warm garment I possessed and my cute, embroidered gloves that were fashion items with as much warmth in them as a tea towel. I didn’t have any warm headgear, so I borrowed a maroon bobble hat from the cupboard under the stairs that proclaimed me a supporter of the Washington Redskins, whoever they were.

I heard the distant rumble of a heavy vehicle coming up the lane. During the afternoon the snow had stopped and the lowering clouds had disappeared over the moor leaving a clear and cold sky. It was nearly dark and Joe’s headlights pierced the gloom in a very reassuring way as he pulled up next to the house.

He leaned across to open the door of the four by four for me and I clambered up beside him. It was surprisingly warm in there. Heat was blasting out onto my feet and after a few minutes I pulled off the woolly hat and the useless gloves and tucked them in my pocket.

A short while later he slowed down and took a sharp turning to the left. We drove carefully up a single-track lane. It was incredibly dark and I could see random snowflakes blowing against the windscreen. We stopped by a farmhouse, which was big and built from dark stone. There was a light on over the front door and as I got out of the car I heard the sound of dogs woofing behind it. The barking increased in volume to a furious level and then a high, female voice called for them to stop being silly. Who was that then? Ivy?

‘Don’t mind the dogs. I’ll put them out in the kitchen. Come on, let’s get inside.’

I followed him into a hallway that had the sort of old flagstones that would have cost a small fortune in any reclamation yard in London. From there we went into a sitting room bright with an open fire in a massive inglenook fireplace. There were tapestry sofas and thick curtains closed against the darkness. It looked absolutely perfect. Every piece of furniture was dark wood and held the patina of old age and generations of polishing.

‘Not a very nice night,’ he said.

‘No.’ I was suddenly shy in a way that I hadn’t been since I was seven.

‘Can I take your coat?’ he said. ‘Ivy will be down in a minute. She’s gone up to have a bath. She’s a bit under the weather.’

Who the hell is Ivy? Why didn’t I have the nerve to ask?

‘Oh wow you should have said something; I wouldn’t have come at all if I’d known. She doesn’t want to be catering for guests if she’s unwell.’

Joe shook his head. ‘She’s fine with it. I told you it was her idea.’

I felt awful. I imagined the pocket Venus lying mournfully in her bath, one hand over her eyes. Would she have Jo Malone bath oil? Or would she make do with something less fancy? Sheep dip or something?

Joe returned with two glasses of red wine – not three – and handed one to me. Perhaps Ivy was off wine? Or perhaps she was a recovering alcoholic? The sort who would say things like ‘No, none for me thanks. It’s been three years and two months and four days since I touched a drop. I feel so empowered these days. Alcohol is a poison you know, and so many empty calories too. I’ll just have a glass of Appletiser.’ And then she would watch with hungry eyes as we swigged back our glasses of toxins.

‘Something smells wonderful,’ I said. It did too.

‘Beef stew. After all, I know you’re not a vegetarian.’

‘No I’m a carnivore through and through,’ I said, toasting the prospect with my wine. I could almost imagine the shudder Benedict would have given if he’d heard me. It was eighteen months since I’d had a bacon sandwich, thanks to him.

‘Excellent. Come and relax.’

The minutes ticked past and we talked about the snow and he told me about the worst winters he had known.

Had Ivy drowned or gone to bed?

I wondered if he got lonely or if Ivy ever wanted to seek out the bright lights, but I didn’t ask. Out in the hallway a clock chimed the hour.

‘Is Ivy all right?’ I said at last.

‘She’ll be down in a minute.’ Overhead the floorboards creaked. ‘There you are, she’s coming down now. I expect she’s in her best pyjamas in your honour.’

What? What? Had I walked unknowingly into something weird?

A few seconds later the door opened and a little girl came in.

‘Come and say hello,’ Joe said holding out an arm to her. ‘This is my daughter Ivy.’