Читать книгу A Year of New Adventures: The hilarious romantic comedy that is perfect for the summer holidays - Maddie Please - Страница 11

We sat in silence for a few seconds and looked at him. In a moment he had changed from being just a disagreeable guest with a leg in a boot to one of the country’s most successful writers of thrillers.

Oliver Forest was Ross Black. This man in his perfectly ordinary-looking dark-blue sweater and jeans was Ross Black. Seven years ago he’d been teaching maths in an oversubscribed comprehensive, writing a book in the school car park during his lunch hours. It was snapped up by the agent of the day who organized a bidding war and he’d become a literary sensation in the space of a year.

A Hollywood film of his first book, The Dirty Road, had been made, with Channing Tatum in the lead role, and there was another one planned for the sequel: The Fool in Charge. I had even been to see it. I couldn’t remember too much but without a doubt there had been sandstorms, a brilliant car chase, heroism against all the odds, and men with scarves wrapped round their faces. I think there had been a woman with a twisted ankle too come to think of it. I’d been too busy watching the hero’s muscles rippling to remember much about her. Except her clothes kept falling off.

His books had topped the bestseller lists; he had been nominated for several prizes and awards. He was a success. His next two books had been bestsellers too. The fourth one, Death in Damascus, was due out sometime this year; Uncle Peter had an order in for it.

Oliver Forest would have been all over the celebrity pages if he hadn’t been so reclusive. What the hell was he doing with us in the middle of nowhere, eating our food and wandering about with no clothes on?

For a moment it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. And everyone just sat and gawped at him for a few minutes, waiting for him to do something unexpected and unusual. As though he was a juggling dog.

He didn’t really do anything; he just took a bit more ice cream. At last he looked across at us.

‘It’s no big deal, you know,’ he said at last.

‘The Dirty Road is one of my favourite books,’ Nick said at last, hero worship glowing all over his face.

‘I bet there are at least four people in this room who haven’t read it,’ Oliver said.

Elaine fidgeted a little. ‘Well I’ve heard of you obviously, but I’ve never read any of your books.’

‘Me neither,’ Nancy admitted. ‘Not really my thing.’

‘Nor me,’ Vivienne said. ‘I did try one once … but …’ She tailed off in embarrassment as she realized what she was about to say.

‘There you are, told you. Helena? What about you?’ Oliver said.

Helena blushed and shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘And you, Billie?’ He looked at me, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

I would have given a lot to have a heated debate with him about the merits of his books.

I imagined myself musing how the plot had been a bit patchy in places, whether or not a macho, dirty vest-wearing, gun-toting hero was politically acceptable these days despite my secret crush on Bruce Willis and my addiction to the Bourne Trilogy. And was the use of explosives and destruction to solve a political crisis really OK in the twenty-first century? Unfortunately I didn’t have the knowledge or the nerve.

‘Well, yes … no. I mean I’ve always m-meant to read them and I think … I mean I’m sure I would enjoy them. I think … I did see the film, well I saw a bit of it once. I went with Matt. My b-boyfriend.’

I have/had a boyfriend. See, I’m not completely pathetic.

I’d been in a crabby mood through most of that film actually. Matt and I had been heading downstream towards the end of our two years together and we both knew it. We’d gone to the cinema because we didn’t feel like having sex and it was easier than talking to each other.

I would have preferred to see the latest chick flick playing in Screen 1. All my friends had enjoyed it and my mother described it as nauseating garbage to set the feminist movement back fifty years. So I know I would have enjoyed it. Still, Channing Tatum’s rippling muscles were quite enjoyable too.

Now I was a gibbering wreck. It was all I could do to stop staring at Oliver in the first place; now it was going to be hard not to ask for his autograph at some point. I glanced away from him and looked at the bookcases. And yes, there were his books. Three fat hardbacks, immediately recognizable, lined up on the middle shelf. Books the owner of the house obviously liked and had left for guests to read. They were all well thumbed, the dustcovers cracked and discoloured, the gilt of the title letters was tarnished. The Dirty Road, The Fool in Charge, Glory 17.

Bloody hell. There we had all been, chattering on about writing and plot holes and word count and our piddling little WIPs. Droning on about how hard it was to get an agent, writer’s block, and how was it that pathetically ordinary novels became bestsellers, and in our midst was one of the most successful authors of the last few years. It was one of those cringing moments when you just want to hide behind the sofa. Except there wasn’t a sofa to hide behind.

‘Well you’ve just proved my point haven’t you?’ he said.

‘You should have put some cupcakes in or had a fete and then we would have found it more appealing,’ I said before I could stop myself.

He bit his lip. ‘You could be right,’ he said.

Horrified at myself, I stood up and put the lid back on the ice cream so I could put it back in the freezer. We were all crippled with unusual politeness for a while. We chatted quietly about non-contentious issues: what holidays we had planned, how Elaine’s recent house move had gone, whether or not Nancy’s three sons would ever get around to producing grandchildren. Oliver sat at his end of the table, eyes down, and finished his dessert.

At last he looked up at us. You could tell from his expression he was expecting something. I couldn’t imagine what.

Nick was the first to speak to him. ‘Um, Oliver, sorry but would you …’

Oliver put his spoon down with a clatter and gave a humourless laugh.

‘Here we go. Now it begins. I knew it wouldn’t take you long. There’s always something. Would I what? Put in a good word with my publisher? Take a look at your manuscript? Talk about how to get an agent to your writing group? Chat to your book club? Give you a signed hardback to auction for your school? Open your village fete? Speak up to stop your library being closed?’

Nick fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘No, I just wondered … would you pass the red wine, please?’

I stood up and began collecting the dirty pudding bowls together. ‘Coffee, everyone? There’s more wine here if anyone wants it?’ I said, my voice shaking with laughter.

This suggestion met with tremendous approval and everyone started talking at once very loudly. I went out into the kitchen and began making coffee and putting cutlery into the dishwasher. Helena wasn’t far behind me.

‘Well what do you think? How amazing! Ross Black here! Ross Black!’

‘Well yes but you’ve never read one of his books have you?’

‘No, but I know a famous author when I meet one. Even if he is a—’ Helena struggled to find the right word.

‘Rude, self-satisfied twat?’ I whispered.

She nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose rude, self-satisfied twat would cover it. And we have to put up with it all week. We’ve always wanted to get a really famous author too. What a pity we got him.’

She finished loading the dishwasher and shut the door. She turned to me, her face thoughtful.

‘It’s a bit of an opportunity though isn’t it? I don’t suppose he would do a workshop, do you?’

‘What on? Being obnoxious?’ I said. ‘You must be joking – you heard him just now. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. He’d only say no and do the sneery thing he does.’

‘I haven’t seen a sneery thing,’ Helena said, puzzled.

‘It’s just me then. Come on, let’s get this coffee into the dining room although, let’s be honest, he’s had enough caffeine today to run the Grand National.’

I took the tray back into the dining room and found Oliver Forest, or Ross Black, or whatever he wanted to be called, had gone.

‘He’s in his room,’ Nancy said. ‘He said he wants his coffee in there.’

‘Oh does he? Right then.’

I went stamping back into the kitchen and set out a tray for him with a second cafetière I had found and a second unattractive mug.

‘Here,’ I said to Helena, ‘can you take this to his majesty? I’ll start on the saucepans.’

Scrubbing saucepans was the job both of us detested and we went to considerable lengths to avoid doing them, so my offer was unusual in the extreme.

‘Bloody hell, are you OK?’ Helena said.

‘Perfectly,’ I said, rolling my sleeves up and getting stuck in. ‘I’ll get rid of some of my irritation this way. God I wish we could go to the pub!’

Going to the pub was out of the question, of course. We had to be on hand in case there was a food crisis or wine bottle needing to be opened. It would have been very bad form to leave our guests, and anyway it was usually fun to get to know new people and enjoy hearing their writing stories. Adding Oliver Forest into the mix seemed to have affected everything somehow. No it hadn’t; it had ruined it. Helena and I were going to have to work hard to get everyone relaxed and cheerful again.

*

We ploughed on, and gradually everyone began to enjoy themselves. This might have had something to do with the unexpected bonus of Oliver taking his coffee and staying in his room for the rest of the evening. Occasionally I went into the kitchen to fetch something or stack a few more dirty dishes on the worktop. Once I heard him shouting into his phone but on the other occasions it was eerily silent.

I tiptoed around as though there was a sleeping tiger behind the door and put the crockery down with exaggerated care. I dropped a teaspoon and waited with bated breath in case he came out roaring, but nothing happened and I slunk back into the sitting room.

‘No sign of our celebrity?’ Nancy said in a stage whisper.

I shook my head. ‘Perhaps he’s writing.’

‘Or maybe he’s gone to bed.’ Helena said.

I fought back the mental image of Oliver Forest in bed and asked Nick how his novel was progressing.

We all chatted happily enough until after ten-thirty, which was plenty late enough for me, and then Helena and I set the breakfast table in stressed silence in case we disturbed him. Shortly afterwards I went upstairs. I was quite exhausted. And this was just the beginning.

Helena came up a few minutes later and rummaged around in her suitcase for her pyjamas and her sponge bag. We were sharing a bathroom with Elaine, so we did a bit of polite dodging backwards and forwards until we were sure she had finished her nightly rituals and was safely tucked up in her bed.

I wanted to talk to Helena but as usual she was snoring gently in minutes, the product of an untroubled mind, whereas I lay in bed, unable to sleep at all.

I tried to put Oliver Forest out of my thoughts, but instead I remembered what we’d talked about at lunchtime. I knew everyone was right. My life did need an adrenaline shot. What could I do to make my life more exciting?

I needed a list.

I know, a ten-point plan!

I sat up and reached for my notebook and the pen that lights up in the dark that Helena had given me for my last birthday. What would someone put on an ‘adventure list’? Climb mountains? Hmm I’m not really great with heights. Explore foreign lands? That takes money. Learn how to do something dangerous … Did adventurous have to mean dangerous? I’d prefer it not to. Not only was my budget limited, if I was honest, what I really needed was to take a few more adventurous leaps in my own life. Maybe if I kept to things that were easy to achieve I might actually do it … because there was no way I was going cliff jumping! Right then …

 1) Go on an expensive unexpectedly cheap holiday. Somewhere I’ve never been. Take masses of brilliant photos that are not obscured by other people’s heads, own finger, or phone case. Win photographic competition.

 2) Lose a stone before 1) happens by starting a new clean-eating regime. Raw vegetables instead of chocolate. Fruit instead of ice cream.

 3) Declutter wardrobe in manner of impossibly stylish woman. Put all remaining clothes into order using limited colour palette so I don’t look as though I’ve dressed in the dark. Become known as elegant, sophisticated person whose clothes fit. Get measured for bra.

 4) Declutter kitchen cupboards. Check use-by dates on all items and discard where appropriate. Do not replace on the off chance I will be using a lot of ground nutmeg any time soon.

I paused to think and chewed the end of my pen.

 5) Get second bedroom cleared of all junk. Ditto garden shed. Do not scream and hop about; woodlice are harmless. Find out what purple flower thing in garden is.

 6) Find a proper job that pays proper money, has a pension scheme, and paid holidays.

 7) Do 6) first. Before all the other things.

 8) Get a tattoo. A really small one I can hide.

 9) Consider eyebrow waxing.

 10) Rethink shoes. Ugg boots – while comfortable and cute – are only suitable for children and people who go to the supermarket in pj’s. Wear heels more often so am forced to be elegant and stand up straight and not scuttle around like a beetle on speed.

I read back through the list. It sounded manageable, but also a bit outside my comfort zone – when was the last time I had allowed myself to imagine I could ever be stylish? I’d never been stylish. But wasn’t that the point? And a tattoo? I wasn’t even sure I approved of them.

And could I start a new career? Even just thinking it made me shiver with anticipation.

Maybe it would be possible. But doing what? For the moment I needed to concentrate on tomorrow. I was going to make a Victoria sponge and a chicken carbonara sauce. And two quiches for lunch.

Would Oliver approve of that?

Real men don’t eat quiche.

Matt said that the first and only time I made it for him. I should have known then it was never going to work out between us. He didn’t like salad either and only tolerated fruit as a decoration.

Did Oliver eat fruit? And salad? Would he like the cake I was going to make?

I clicked off my pen and lay down again, impatient with myself. I’d just written a list of all my big adventurous plans and I couldn’t stop thinking about a man! And an annoying man at that. Anyone would think he was the only guest here; the others were equally as important. Just because he was famous didn’t mean I should fixate on his needs.

His needs.

Did Oliver Forest have needs?

What sort of needs?

Was Pippa his girlfriend? Was she in love with him? All the evidence pointed to no.

But maybe she was and that was why she was prepared to tolerate his moods?

Not a chance in hell. Surely not, considering the way he spoke to her! Even I wouldn’t stand someone treating me like that and my self-esteem had been flattened over the years.

Did he have a softer side when they were alone together? Was he sweet to her when no one else was looking?

Perhaps he was bad tempered because he was missing her?

Perhaps he was sex-starved.

Was he good in bed?

FFS! Shut up, woman!

I thumped my pillow and tried to think about something else.

It struck me that: 11) Finish the book and get it published hadn’t figured in my thinking at all. That was a bit of a surprise wasn’t it?

There was no denying it: my work of so-called light-hearted Tudor romance had solidified into a turgid disaster over the last six months. I think it’s very hard to write about love when you’re not in love yourself. Perhaps I should shift to writing about revenge killings?

There was a soft glow from the street light outside the house but at midnight it went out and the room was intensely dark. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I looked through the open curtain next to my bed and saw a clear, dark sky studded with stars.

I tried the usual methods of getting myself to sleep. What would I do if I won the lottery? One million? Ten million?

Nope, nothing worked.

Perhaps I should try and read one of Oliver’s books?

My eyes snapped open.

Now that was a thought! I wondered if there were any rude bits? You know, sex scenes?

For God’s sake, how childish was I?

I could certainly remember some erotic scenes in the film; the sight of Channing Tatum with his shirt off was the only thing that made the film worth seeing in my opinion. Had Oliver written them, or had they been put in by Hollywood? I couldn’t wait to find out. I lay wide-eyed in the gloom and considered the possibilities.

I’d not read many sex scenes by male authors. It wasn’t as though I went looking for them, but I was intrigued. Would Oliver’s style be realistic? Would his hero dump his submachine gun behind the bedroom door and do erotically slow and explicit things to some silky-skinned beauty who had been panting for him since their first meeting?

Or maybe his sand-encrusted hero would be forceful and determined, sweeping women away on a tide of lust and pheromones? I could almost imagine him, pulling his scarf off his face with a devilish laugh and ripping her flimsy garments with his strong white teeth? Coo er, actually that sounded rather good to me.

Or possibly he would close the bedroom door behind him in a flurry of asterisks.

Perhaps by the end of the week he would be swapping tips with Vivienne about alternative names for body parts? Maybe I could sneak downstairs without disturbing anyone and get one of his books off the bookcase and find out? It suddenly seemed a really exciting prospect. And then I fell asleep.