Читать книгу The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy - Maddie Please - Страница 9

My brief foray into Bramford St Michael’s village shop that afternoon had sadly not uncovered a little known haven of locally produced delights, but a dingy place with half empty shelves and a freezer that needed defrosting. I liberated three packets of savoury curried rice, a sliced loaf reduced to 25p, some cheese slices, long-life milk, and an exhausted-looking Cornish pasty. Presiding over it all was an elderly woman with wild, white hair who watched me warily as though I was going to pull out a shotgun. She counted out my change with slow fingers and grave suspicion in her face.

‘I’m so pleased you’re still open,’ I said rather gushingly, wondering if I could loosen her up a bit with my devastating charm, ‘isn’t this a lovely village. So pretty.’

‘…and one makes five and five is ten,’ she said, not to be swayed from her task.

‘Well, I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure,’ I said with another bright smile.

‘Yes, mebbe we will,’ she said in a tone that suggested she’d heard that before.

The village straggled along the river valley, beginning with some modern-looking houses where a few children were leaping about on a trampoline in the garden, and then some older cob cottages, their thatch green with moss. There was a pub, The Agricultural Arms, still with a string of fairy lights outside, left over from Christmas. Beyond that was the church; everything but the tower hidden behind some dense rhododendron bushes.

I drove back up the hill to Holly Cottage feeling even more isolated. Below me the streetlights in the village began to come on and I sat in the car for a few minutes and watched lights appearing in the cottages below me. I went indoors, shivering a bit with the cold and the unfamiliar solitude.

I suddenly remembered that awful night. Ian nursing a large whiskey under the pool of light cast by the standard lamp in our sitting room. He had looked up at me with mournful eyes.

‘What?’

Oh God. That was the moment. If only he had said something else.

If he had apologised or cried or begged me to forgive him, things might have been different. If he had come up with some pathetic excuse, told me he had been a fool. If he had taken me in his arms and told me that he loved me. That he would never again hurt me.

I had waited for a moment, willing him to say something else, something kind. The seconds ticked past and he didn’t say anything. The little instant was gone. My temper flared again.

‘What. Is that all you can say? What?’

‘Well what am I supposed to say? With everyone looking at me as though…as though…’

‘As though you’re a lying, deceitful bastard? Well should that be a surprise to you? Perhaps it’s because you are a lying deceitful bastard!’

‘Oh don’t start, Lottie,’ he’d said wearily. ‘I’m not in the mood just at the moment.’

‘Well nor am I, funnily enough!’

‘Look, we’re not even married, are we? I asked you to marry me years ago and you didn’t want to.’

‘And you knew perfectly well why that was! And what the hell has that got to do with it? Just because we’re not married? What about our commitment to each other? What about bloody fucking common decency?’

I went into the dingy little kitchen of Holly Cottage and flicked on the kettle. There was no point going over it again and again. It wouldn’t change things. I had to move on now, look to the future, do the job Jess had given me; repay her friendship in the best way I could.

I hoovered up the pasty straight from the wrapper, reasoning it would decrease the washing up and also the possibility of contamination in the mould- and grime-ridden kitchen. Wandering around, licking the slick of grease from my teeth, I investigated the cupboards, relieved to see that although they were dirty they were good quality and could soon be revived by some attention from me and a soapy cloth.

In the cupboard under the stairs I found a vacuum cleaner, its collection bag strained to bursting point. There was also a fairly comprehensive collection of cleaning materials, something that the previous tenants had not thought worth taking. Or using, let’s be frank. I pulled out several bottles of cleaning spray, some crisp dusters and cloths, and a new mop and bucket and felt a rather peculiar thrill of excitement. Perhaps I was losing the plot. I arranged these treasures on the kitchen table (blue Formica, in a retro, cute way, not a this-table-is-really-old way). Tomorrow I would stop being so negative. I would get a good night’s sleep and make a start on revamping Holly Cottage.

That first night I sat in front of the fire in my warmest coat, gloves and Ugg boots, watching the flames lick around the logs. There was no TV and mine hadn’t arrived yet, but that wasn’t much of a loss as far as I was concerned. Ian had indulged in the most expensive satellite-viewing package and for years nearly ninety pounds had gone out of our account every month and still most nights his parrot-cry had been ‘there’s nothing on worth watching!’ This was a statement with which I couldn’t argue.

There was only so much sport, Top Gear and Man v Food I could bear to watch. When Ian discovered re-runs of The Professionals, I abandoned hope and went back to my fledgling writing career. My concentration span didn’t seem up to a full-length novel any more so I’d turned to writing short stories. I’d been reasonably successful too, won a couple of competitions, and although my total earnings were barely into three figures, it was something I enjoyed.

We had also spent hundreds of pounds every month on the gym I occasionally used although I was more likely to be found in the bistro with a white wine spritzer than on the treadmill with a bottle of water. Then there was Ian’s membership of the Golf and Country Club where he had a pewter tankard behind the bar and the steward would greet him with, ‘Usual, is it, Mr Lovell?’ every time we went there. Ian loved that.

It had been a mild winter so far but after a few hours with all the windows open the house was freezing, hence the coat and gloves. The room still held its faintly fishy smell courtesy of Mr Webster’s leaving present, but at least with the fire going it was bearable. I sighed, and then, rather approving of the sound, sighed a few more times.

I suppose I might have stayed there all evening sighing and feeling sorry for myself except I was still hungry. I got up and shuffled to the kitchen, my Ugg boots finding the going decidedly sticky underfoot.

I heated up some soup and ate a packet of crisps (leek and potato and cheese and onion respectively, so three of my five a day) and then I went upstairs, fumbling with the light switches, trying to work out which one worked which bulb, wishing I had thought earlier to make up the bed. There were two bedrooms, one with a big window at the front and the other with windows at the front and back of the house. I chose the bigger bedroom for no other reason than I preferred the wallpaper. It was pale blue and cream, tiny flowers with flecks of gold at the centre. I had brought some sheets and a duvet with me. Some of my possessions were stashed in my car, the rest were going to arrive when Greg had a spare hour to drive them over in his van. I hadn’t really wanted to bring too much of my stuff into the house until I had cleaned it. That had been one of my better decisions.

I made up the bed, stripped off my clothes and got in. It was freezing. Where were my pyjamas? In the boot of the car? Oh no, I remembered they were in the roof box. That was one of my bad decisions. I got back out, put my socks, knickers and a T-shirt on and tried to think about being warm.

I suddenly remembered with pinpoint clarity lying on a beach in Greece three summers ago, my hot skin almost at one with the hot sand under my towel. We had decided on a last-minute week away. Ian had been sitting in the shade at a table under a vine-laden pergola. Tapping furiously at his laptop, muttering about work and cursing the economy. Perhaps he had been doing it even then, feeding our money into the ether in a never-ending stream.

I opened my eyes and the memory faded. I was just aware how absolute the silence was; how dense the darkness. Ian would have hated it.

‘Can you see me?’ I shouted up into the dark ceiling. ‘You wouldn’t have liked this, would you? The dark and the cold and the bloody quiet, what do you think, Ian? Is it funny? Does this serve me right for refusing four times to marry you? Would it have made any difference if I’d said yes, Ian? Well I suppose I wouldn’t be homeless, would I? By the way, your poor mother is devastated. Didn’t think about her either, did you?’

The irony of my situation took a few seconds to sink into my tired brain.

‘You stupid bloody bastard.’

I wasn’t sure if I meant Ian or myself.

The following morning, contrary to the popular saying, things didn’t look better they just looked grimier. The winter sun shone feebly through the filthy windows, highlighting the dirt. I constructed a hideous sandwich with some of the 25p loaf and the cheese slices and made a mug of tea. I opened the kitchen door and peered outside, hoping my new neighbour was not around to torment me. There was no sign of him.

Outside, the day was brightening up. A bright sapphire sky over a soft folding landscape of hills and hedges. The only sounds were birdsong and the breeze rattling through the bare branches of a silver birch tree at the end of the garden. I stood in the doorway and sipped my tea wondering why Ian and I had never thought to move to the countryside. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. But then Ian had been determinedly town bred and I was a sheep, following him and his plans without thought.

I ate my sandwich, marvelling for a moment at its complete lack of flavour or texture. It was quite a relief to finish it, but I treated it much as an astronaut might approach a freeze-dried meal, as a way of consuming calories to sustain me through the morning. And then I went down the garden and had a cigarette, wondering whether I should give them up now that I needed to be a lot more careful with money.

I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed the scum off the draining board and ran a sinkful of hot water laced with a generous slosh of disinfectant. I then spent an industrious hour emptying and washing the kitchen cupboards before organising my equipment and crockery into them. There didn’t seem to be much room. The trouble was I was used to a vast space in which to cook, with a six-burner stove, a double oven and a large American fridge-freezer. Here there was a fairly straightforward collection of units and appliances around a small table and four chairs. This would also serve as my dining room. I was going to be seriously short of space and there was still Greg’s van full of my other stuff to fit in at some point.

I thought back with tears prickling my eyes to the huge extending oak table and ten leather chairs that had filled the dining room at home and then reminded myself that wasn’t my home any longer and it never had been. I had given the table to the women’s refuge; they needed it and I certainly didn’t. I was being pretty pathetic. This would do just as well if it were clean. I carried on scrubbing. To my surprise I discovered it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you are concentrating on unidentifiable grime. There was a strange pleasure to be had from finding what colour the worktops really were.

After a while the kitchen began to look a great deal better and I rewarded myself with a cup of instant coffee.

I had scrubbed the four kitchen chairs and put them outside the back door to dry so I took my coffee upstairs while I had a good look around. Jess had said it needed cleaning and it certainly did, but it needed more than that. It needed some TLC. And also, courtesy of someone’s careless cigarette habit and chewing gum disposal, new carpets. The bedroom I regarded as mine for the time being was potentially lovely with a whitewashed ceiling, old roof beams diving down into the floor in a way that suggested the cottage was far older than I had originally thought. There were painted built-in cupboards and two leaded windows that framed a fabulous view down the valley. I opened the window, making several woodlice homeless in the process. In the distance I could see the river sparkling in the sunshine, and the wind was cold but somehow exciting, as though it was bringing me a fresh start and new energy. Under the trees snowdrops were beginning their optimistic journey, bringing hope for the spring and the first potential of another new year.

Completely unexpectedly I began to cry. Why was I here? Why had Ian rushed off that night? I was frightened without him, that was the truth. I was used to him being there, used to his energy, his drive, the sheer noise of him. His crazy enthusiasm, his irritated muttering about customers as he worked his way through his correspondence.

When he was at home he usually had some paperwork to check or emails to read at his end of the kitchen table. Sometimes he would read me snippets from women who couldn’t decide what they wanted.

Should I have worktops made of black granite or white Corian? Shaker-style doors or high gloss? Cream or Faded Cashmere?

Tell me what you think, Mr Lovell? Which do you think would suit me best?

‘It’s your money,’ he would shout at the screen, exasperated, ‘it’s your fucking kitchen, it’s not that difficult, just make your bloody mind up!’

And then he would look up and catch my eye and grin.

I wiped away my tears and sipped my coffee. The other bedroom was wallpapered in a leafy William Morris print and looked out over the lane. The vandalised wardrobe was probably Victorian mahogany and too large for the room, but, inside, it was fitted out with named compartments, each with a little engraved brass plate. Gloves, socks, ties, collars, braces. Just gorgeous. The wood was glossy and patinated with age. Why would someone stick pictures all over it with lumps of Blu-Tack? Who knew.

In the bathroom I had cleared away the worst of the debris, sprayed limescale cleaner over the scummy shower screen and the toilet and left it to work. The floor was dirty and covered in dried mud but the little leaded window opened onto the garden and there was the promise of a rose that had climbed around it, ready to blossom later in the year.

I went back down the claustrophobic stairwell, my feet careful on the narrow treads. Ian would have hated this more than anything. He couldn’t bear enclosed spaces, low ceilings, dark rooms.

I wondered if I had the energy to finish emptying my car. I was hungry again and I knew there was a box of food in there somewhere, it was just a pity I hadn’t thought to put it somewhere accessible.

Sod it! I suddenly remembered a box of fish fingers going in, which would undoubtedly have defrosted by now. I pulled off my rubber gloves and found the car keys.

Outside it was warmer than it had been for days. The sun was brilliant, the sky cloudless. Of course that meant that the inside of the car was getting warm too. I pulled a couple of bags and boxes out from the back seat of the car and dumped them on the drive, hoping to find the box of provisions. I didn’t realise until that moment how disorganised I could be. It also struck me for the first time that a box of spoiled food was a complete waste of money.

‘Need a hand?’ said a familiar voice.

I turned to see Bryn, standing in his front garden. I think he might have been weeding. Possibly he was planting something or he could have been putting down rat poison. I think he was wearing a pair of ripped and filthy jeans but I know for a fact he didn’t have a shirt on. And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I stood open mouthed for several seconds, a slow blush developing. I could feel it spreading from the backs of my knees right to the top of my head it was that bad. I must have been puce. It was quite possible that my hair was blushing too.

I babbled something unintelligible and Bryn walked towards me, stepping carefully over his newly planted borders. I’d heard about six-packs but I’d never been that close to one in my life. He pulled on a black T-shirt that he had draped over the front gate. I felt a pang of disappointment but realised it was probably just as well. He was wearing serious-looking CAT boots, something I have always had a weakness for, so that didn’t help. They were quite large too, which made me think of various rather rude comments.

‘I said, do you need a hand?’ he said.

‘Um,’ I turned away and looked in the car, ‘yes please, if you don’t mind. There’s a lot of heavy stuff here.’

I grabbed the first thing I saw; a small overnight bag that a six-year-old child could have safely wheeled to the door and he took it and stood waiting for me to find him something else.

I kept my gaze steadfastly fixed in the boot. Don’t look at him. Keep calm. Don’t look at him.

I spotted the cardboard box that I had filled with food from the freezer and then forgotten about.

‘I could take that in, if you like?’ Bryn said, his voice unnervingly close behind me.

The embarrassment of having to admit my ineptitude was too much.

‘No, no, that’s OK. I’ll manage,’ I said, wishing he would go away.

I tugged at a few over-stuffed black bin liners and managed to spill a pair of my (joke Christmas present from Karen) days-of-the-week knickers onto the driveway. The pair with Magic Monday stared up at us. And of course it was actually Monday.

‘I hope you haven’t got Thursday on,’ Bryn said, straight-faced, ‘that would never do.’

I gave a weak laugh and stuffed them into my pocket, then reapplied myself to the cardboard box of frozen food. As I dragged it from the car the bottom, soggy with thawed ice, dropped out and my stash of fish fingers and potato waffles (secret vice for when Ian was away) scattered all over the ground.

‘Mmm, delicious,’ he said.

‘Oh God,’ I groaned.

To his credit Bryn didn’t laugh, he reached across and lifted out a plastic crate of tinned food instead and took that into the house. I followed with some carrier bags filled with my last crop of vegetables from my garden.

‘Wow, it looks incredible in here,’ Bryn said as he put the crate down on the table. ‘You’ve done a great job. You’ll have the place ship-shape in no time. Very nice.’

‘Gorgeous,’ I said, looking at the muscles in his arms. ‘I mean, this cottage could be gorgeous. Actually it’s been rather enjoyable. Cleaning the kitchen. I didn’t think I’d ever say that but – well, I’m rather pleased with it so far.’

‘You’re working wonders,’ he said and I felt a disproportionate sense of pride. I had worked wonders, and I’d done it on my own too, at no cost.

I felt a bit silly and fluttery and quite lightheaded, but that might have been because I hadn’t really eaten anything since the grim breakfast sandwich.

He turned round and I quickly began to put things away.

‘Thanks,’ I said, lining up the tins of tomatoes with some precision so I didn’t just stand and gawp at him.

‘Any time.’

‘I would offer you a cold beer or something but…’

‘But you don’t want to? It’s fine,’ he grinned.

‘No, it’s not that at all, I haven’t got any,’ I said, flustered.

‘I have, if you fancy a quick one?’ he said.

I could almost hear the brain cells responsible for double entendres jiggling about like a crèche of unruly toddlers.

‘I’ve got an awful lot to do,’ I said.

‘Maybe later?’

I began to line up herbs and spice jars and made a lot of umm noises. Then I unpacked various different sorts of oils. Olive, vegetable, sesame, walnut…there were quite a few. Plus five different types of vinegar. What did I need that lot for? Did I think I was going to be on Masterchef?

‘Keen cook, are you?’ Bryn said, picking up the champagne vinegar and reading the label.

I took it from him and put it into the cupboard. ‘Oh, you know…’

‘You could have me for dinner one day.’

The brain cell toddlers jostled about a bit more.

‘I mean, you could invite me over.’

Ah. ‘Perhaps when I’m settled.’

‘I love fish fingers,’ he said. He had a wicked grin and very white teeth against his tan.

I opened the fridge door and put a few things inside. The freezer was empty apart from some novelty ice cubes. I hesitated, my head on one side trying to make out exactly what they were. When I realised they were ice boobs I shut the freezer door very quickly, I didn’t want him to see them and think they were anything to do with me.

Quick think of something else. Something dull.

Mobile phone contracts. Changing electricity suppliers. Mulching.

‘You can’t refreeze fish fingers,’ Bryn said, ‘you’ll be ill.’

I turned round. ‘I wasn’t going to.’ My tone was that of a stroppy fifteen year old.

Bryn went out and brought in a couple more boxes that he dumped under the table. From memory they were filled with casserole dishes and some Waterford crystal wine glasses. From the tinkling sound as Bryn put the box down there was now one fewer.

‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ he said, ‘sorry about that.’

He opened the top of the box and delved about for a second. Suddenly he snatched his hand out with a gasp and stood hanging on to his arm as blood seeped out between his fingers.

‘Sod it, that was a bit of a mistake,’ he yelped.

He sat down rather heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and closed his eyes. I watched fascinated as the colour drained from his face.

‘Not very good with blood,’ he said after a moment, ‘especially my own.’

I galloped up the stairs to find the first aid kit that I had, mercifully, unpacked earlier in the day and put into the bathroom cabinet.

When I got back he was bent over, head almost touching his knees, still clutching his arm and obviously feeling a bit wobbly.

‘So stupid,’ he said, ‘sorry.’

I hesitated for a moment, looking at the curls that nestled into the nape of his neck and fighting the overwhelming impulse to wind them around my fingers. To cover up my hesitation I went into brisk and efficient mode and dabbed at him with wet kitchen roll and antiseptic wipes. Once I got rid of the gore we both realised it was just a long scratch from a piece of broken glass, easily solved with a large plaster. Gradually the colour returned to his face and he gave an embarrassed grin.

‘Sorry about that. You must think I’m a right idiot.’

‘No, not at all, I’m sorry you hurt yourself. It was my fault, not packing things properly.’

He pressed the plaster down hard onto his arm and looked up at me.

‘Like I said, I’ve got some beer in the fridge next door and some cold roast beef. Do you fancy a roll?’ he said.

Why did everything seem to be laced with innuendo this morning? It was like living in a Carry On film.

‘No, thank you. Now if you are feeling better I must get on,’ I said, trying to sound brisk and busy. I found the cloth and re-wiped the draining board. Then, as he was still looking at the contents of my cupboards, I began polishing the kettle. Something I am not known for.

He must have realised that I wanted him to go.

‘Well if you change your mind, you know where I am. I’ll go this way, if that’s OK?’

Bryn went out of the kitchen door and loped across the garden in his CAT boots. I ran the cold tap and splashed some water on my face. What the hell was the matter with me? I had no business feeling like this. I was behaving like a silly teenager. Just because a man was good-looking and had muscles and an amazing smile and lived next door. Of course it meant nothing. Well it should.