Читать книгу A Year of New Adventures: The hilarious romantic comedy that is perfect for the summer holidays - Maddie Please - Страница 13

We didn’t see Oliver at all for the rest of the day. The others were quite happy writing and occasionally chatting. Most of the time all we could hear from the three in the dining room was the tiny machine-gun rattle of laptops. Elaine was writing in a notebook with a propelling pencil and sighing.

There were occasional book-related groans of ‘I’ll never get this damn book finished’ or ‘Why did I set this book in the nineteenth century?’ but that’s another great thing about writers en masse: they love to make a helpful suggestion or take ten minutes out from their own problems to offer suggestions about someone’s synopsis, plot holes, or character names. In fact, they love it because it means they can procrastinate, which is the other thing writers love doing.

I made a successful replacement cake and a cottage pie for tomorrow’s dinner, then I went upstairs for half an hour with The Dirty Road. I have to say it really was very good: one of those books that grabs you by the lapels and drags you off on a roller coaster ride of unexpected phone calls and safe deposit boxes and strangers in dark rooms. I flicked through to find a rude bit and enjoyed reading about the hero doing some imaginative things with his love interest (the flexible Selina) on a couchette whilst the Orient Express thundered suggestively through some tunnels.

Lunch came and went and I made a tray of food for Oliver and left it outside his room on a small table I had found in the hall. He’d taken it and two coffee offerings without so much as a comment. It was like having a permanently hungry poltergeist in the house. Or like The Man in the Iron Mask when the jailers leave food for the prisoner and take the empty tray away later without actually ever seeing anyone. Weird.

The three ladies returned to the front room to write and Nick and Helena left at two o’clock as the tower was due to open at two-thirty; excitement was reaching fever pitch. I don’t know what they were expecting to see from up there: a lofty view over the Serengeti plains perhaps, or herds of elk migrating across the tundra? I settled down to a quiet afternoon at the kitchen table with my laptop and was just getting into things when Oliver’s door opened.

He stood and looked around as though he was only half awake. His eyes were sort of distant and unfocused. Perhaps he was deep in his work and not really with it?

‘Can I get you anything, Mr Forest? More coffee?’

Blimey, surely not?

‘Can you come in here a minute?’ he said and he flapped his hands in a ‘come here’ sort of gesture. I stood up and went towards him.

‘Now turn round,’ he said.

I did so, mystified and looking around for a suitable weapon in case he was going to have a funny turn. There was an umbrella in the stand by the door and the usual fixture outside his room – an empty cafetière. I could fetch him a nasty whack with either if the need arose.

He stood behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.

‘Good heavens, you’re very short. How tall are you?’ he said.

‘Five foot three,’ I said, standing up as straight as I could.

‘Really?’ He laughed.

Why do people always find that funny? I wouldn’t laugh at him for being – what – six foot two?

He positioned one forearm in front of my shoulders. All the time he was hmm-hmming and making notes in a little notebook. Then he put a forearm around my neck. Nothing uncomfortable but he was obviously trying something out for size.

He smelled delicious. I hadn’t anticipated that. A sort of man/warm skin/slightly spicy aftershave sort of smell. It made me feel a bit weak at the knees to be honest and I had to make myself think about something else so I didn’t blush.

Tax returns, grouting, Brussels sprouts.

Oliver was pushing me gently to one side by this point. ‘What do you weigh?’ he said.

‘I’m not telling you!’

What sort of question was that to ask?

He tutted a bit.

‘Ballpark?’

‘I’m not as big as a ballpark! Oh I see what you mean. About nine and a half stone,’ I lied.

‘Hmm.’

He came round to stand in front of me and put his hands under my elbows. He lifted me off the ground very slightly. It was very unnerving.

‘I’d say nearer ten and a half,’ he said.

‘Bloody cheek! I’ll have you know—’

‘Shush. If someone did this what would you do?’

He put his hands very gently on my throat, his thumbs in the classic strangling position.

I pushed him off. ‘Do you mind? You’re freaking me out here! What the hell are you doing anyway?’

‘Look I’m just having a bit of a problem. I need to know what an average woman would do.’

‘Speaking as a far from average woman, I’d say she would knee him in the nether regions. And scream.’

‘Hmm. And if she was shorter than you?’

‘You’d have to ask a shorter woman,’ I said acidly, ‘if you can find one.’

He put his hands back near my throat and hmm-hmmed a bit more.

‘Look, what exactly are you doing?’ I said.

‘I’m trying to work out what would happen if a sensible woman of average height and weight was put in this position. She’s in a ruined house in Istanbul, in the dark with a man who has been following her on and off for about five chapters.’

‘Your basic premise has significant flaws. No sensible woman would put herself in a ruined house in the dark. We’re not stupid you know.’

‘I didn’t say she was stupid—’

‘But she would be exceptionally stupid if she allowed a man to follow her for five chapters, presumably intimidate her, and then chase her into a ruined house in the dark. It’s like every version of Dracula