Читать книгу A Year of New Adventures: The hilarious romantic comedy that is perfect for the summer holidays - Maddie Please - Страница 8

At one o’clock on the dot everyone appeared in the kitchen. Well everyone except Oliver Forest of course, whose bedroom door remained closed. I swear I could sense the chill of his disapproval seeping underneath it.

Nancy and Vivienne fussed for a few minutes about where to sit while Helena went to fetch a glass jug of iced water and a pile of paper napkins. Nick Fitzgerald came downstairs and sat at a non-contentious place halfway along the table, trying to watch Helena without appearing too obvious.

He half stood up as she came across the room towards him, his long legs still under the table so he was trapped in an odd crouch.

‘Can I help?’

‘No not at all, we’re all under control here,’ Helena said with a bright laugh. I swear if she’d had a spare hand she would have twirled her auburn hair.

‘I’d better go and check on Elaine. She’s not very good with stairs,’ I added a shade louder.

As I reached the hallway I saw Elaine was well on her way down.

‘Lovely house,’ she said. ‘Very inspiring. I’d like to work in the little space under the staircase. But only if no one else wants it? Comfy-looking chair, very pretty lamp.’

‘Consider it yours,’ I said. ‘Now come and have some lunch and meet the others.’

‘Even Mr Forest?’ she said with a wicked twinkle.

‘Well who knows,’ I said.

Elaine went to sit next to Nick, who gallantly stood to pull her chair out for her.

‘Perhaps we could start by introducing ourselves?’ I said. ‘Just to fill in the gaps? I’m Billie Summers. I love to cook and I work part time in my Uncle Peter’s bookshop. I’ve been trying to write a book for most of my adult life. This could be the week when I suddenly gain the necessary inspiration! Helena?’

Helena coloured prettily and sat up a bit straighter in her chair.

‘Helena Fairchild. I write children’s and YA. I’m a librarian. I sold a short story once, about a million years ago. It was about Bonfire Night. I’m not exactly setting the literary world alight just yet but I’m going to keep on trying. Nancy?’

Nancy was cutting a slice of cheddar and she paused, her knife halfway through the block.

‘Nancy Gregory, retired RE teacher. I write murder mysteries. The latest one has taken three years and I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing with it. I get so muddled I am quite capable of making the detective in charge of the case commit the murder.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad idea!’

Vivienne sniffed; her aquiline nose a beak of disapproval.

‘I’m Vivienne Noble. I’m a retired chemistry teacher. I’ve self-published a couple of novels on Amazon to mixed reviews. I write contemporary erotica. Nothing too outré, just a bit of S&M, some bondage, and some role-play.’

‘Really?’ Nick said.

Vivienne loved it when this sort of surprise was voiced and was inclined to play up to the audience and show off.

‘Well I may not have been married but it doesn’t mean I haven’t lived. And I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what does and doesn’t work.’

The table fell silent at this point until Helena cleared her throat and we all jumped.

‘Nick?’ she said. ‘Your turn I think?’

I kicked Helena under the table. She sent me a cross-eyed look in return.

Nick fidgeted a little and pulled his chunk of bread in half.

‘Blimey, I don’t quite know how to follow that. OK, I’m Nick Fitzgerald. I’m a contractor specializing in IT. I’m trying to write thrillers with a sort of international edge. Dan Brown, Ross Black, John Grisham – that sort of thing. I’ve had some technical papers published on subjects too dreary to go into, but as yet I don’t have an agent or any sign of one.’

He seemed to run out of steam at this point and he looked down and started buttering his bread.

We all turned to Elaine.

‘I’m Elaine Weston. I’m a partly retired doctor and I write paranormal romance. Not very successfully I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be the market for it these days. Unless there is, and I just don’t write it very well. I had an agent but unfortunately she retired. I’d love another one, but well, we’ll see.’ She hunched her shoulders and gave a little excited smile. ‘I can’t wait to get going! Lovely soup by the way. What’s happened to Mr Forest? Isn’t he joining us?’

Oh God, I’d almost forgotten about him. Should I make up a tray of stuff for his lunch?

‘He always eats at one-thirty apparently,’ I said.

‘Well he’d better hurry up or we’ll have eaten everything,’ Nancy said tartly, taking another piece of bread. ‘That’ll teach him.’

I looked wildly around gauging how much food was left and what I would do if he came out to find nothing left but a few crumbs and some Stilton.

We all looked towards the closed bedroom door and waited for a second in case Oliver was about to come crashing out, snarling and looking for food. Nothing happened so we all took some more cheese and grapes and carried on chatting.

‘Well have a good look around the house. There’s an interesting book about its history on the desk in the hall. Find yourselves a nice spot to settle down and write this afternoon,’ I said. ‘There are plenty of armchairs in the sitting room, and a dining room if anyone prefers a table. I’ll be making cake for tea and sorting out this evening’s meal if anyone needs anything.’

‘And I’ll be going out to the local shop later if there’s anything you need picking up,’ Helena said. ‘There’s a newsagent, a grocer, and a couple of other gift shop sort of places. The church is fourteenth century with a fifteenth-century rood screen if that type of thing interests you. The tower is open on Wednesdays. I checked.’

I took a sneaky look at my watch; it was one-twenty-eight. Was Oliver going to be so precise? If so, he was verging on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum in my opinion.

His bedroom door opened and Oliver stood there, still looking rather rumpled, almost as though he’d been sleeping. Surely not?

‘Ah, this must be Mr Forest,’ Nancy said. ‘Pleasure to meet you. Do join us.’

Oliver favoured the group with a bad-tempered stare and it was obvious he hadn’t had any intention of sitting down, but then Nick stood up and pulled out a chair for him, shaking his hand and introducing himself. Oliver was rather blindsided into it.

‘I was just going to have something in my room,’ he said.

‘Oh that would be a pity,’ Vivienne said, patting the chair next to her. ‘We’re all writers. We spend more than enough time on our own. Come and sit down. Tell us all about yourself.’

Oliver darted a rather accusing look at me; like it was my fault he had no social graces. I don’t think so.

‘Well if I’m not interrupting anything …’ He came and sat down, handing his stick rather arrogantly to Nick who hung it up on the back of the kitchen door.

‘How did you hurt your leg?’ Nancy asked.

‘Bike accident,’ Oliver replied tersely. ‘There’s supposed to be soup? I presume all the crashing about and door slamming resulted in something?’

‘Oooh yes, sorry.’

I darted off to the stove where, thank heavens, the remains of the vegetable soup were still steaming. The others, still not properly aware of his prickly nature, were polite and engaging – asking him how far he had come to get here, was it his first time with us, what sort of thing was he trying to write?

Oliver replied with resolutely monosyllabic answers until I brought him back a bowlful of soup and some more hunks of French bread.

‘You didn’t go to school in Godalming did you?’ Nancy asked. ‘Your name is familiar. Vivienne and I were teachers there.’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t go to Oxford?’

‘Born in America, educated in Scotland.’

‘I was going to New York just before Christmas,’ I said. ‘Tickets bought and everything. I even had an ESTA and then … well I didn’t.’

I tailed off into stuttering silence. I hadn’t gone to New York because of course Matt had dumped me and taken someone else – but that might be a share too far.

Oliver shot me another look and this one was far from friendly although what I had done to annoy him this time I wasn’t sure.

‘Anyway, Oliver, tell us what you write,’ Vivienne said.

Oliver didn’t look at her, but concentrated on his soup. ‘Thrillers.’

Nancy didn’t think much of this answer. ‘And?’

‘Political, and sometimes aspects of espionage.’

‘Sounds good,’ Nick said. ‘Are you published?’

‘I have a paperback out fairly soon.’

Everyone sat up a bit straighter, me included. Of course! Pippa had mentioned a launch. A book launch! This was exciting stuff; it was what we all aimed for.

‘And what are you doing at the moment? I mean why are you here?’ Nancy said. She was persistent – you had to say that for her.

‘Working on the next one.’

‘And how’s it going?’

‘OK.’

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment while we all thought what to say next.

‘None of the demon writer’s block then?’ Elaine said. ‘You don’t find yourself sitting there not knowing what on earth to write?’

‘No,’ he said with a little snort of laughter as though the very idea was too ridiculous.

‘Oh I do. It’s awful when you sit there in front of a blank screen and your mind is equally empty isn’t it?’

The others made general noises of agreement and sympathy.

Helena took up the thread. It was a useful topic of conversation to get things moving. ‘I mean it happens, doesn’t it? I wonder how we all cope with it?’ she said.

We looked around the table for suggestions and unexpectedly, Oliver got in first. ‘There’s no such thing as writer’s block.’

‘Really, do you think so?’ Elaine said.

‘Have you ever heard a girl in a supermarket complaining she had checkout block? I used to be a teacher and we all know what a thankless job that can be but ever heard of a teacher with teacher’s block? Basically, it’s a fancy name for laziness and lack of discipline. People moaning about their pathetic word count when they’ve spent most of the morning on social media looking at pictures of kittens or playing games.’

Well that told us. I mean I’ve looked at pictures of kittens – of course I have. And everyone likes Candy Crush don’t they?

Oliver finished his soup, the spoon scraping on the bottom of the bowl. He looked up at the unexpected silence. ‘I seem to have spoiled your flow,’ he said.

I felt it was up to me to get things going again. ‘OK, what does everyone do if you find your story has stalled into a soggy mess in the middle?’

Nancy chipped in. ‘My book is such a muddle and I know it’s because I work in fits and starts. I might leave it for a couple of weeks because I’m doing some tutoring or I’m on holiday. Then I can hardly remember who is the main character, let alone who are the suspects or who actually did it.’

Oliver looked at his watch, a chunky, expensive-looking thing on his tanned wrist. I think he was keen to get away. ‘You’ve solved your own problem. Write every day and plot properly. It sounds as though you haven’t plotted your book at all, so it’s not surprising if you get in a muddle, is it?’

‘Do you write every day?’ Nick asked, squaring his shoulders as though going into battle.

‘Yes,’ Oliver said, pushing his chair back, ready to get up.

‘And where do you get your ideas?’ Nick said.

Oliver suddenly realized he was the centre of attention and everyone had stopped eating to listen to him. He looked very uncomfortable. ‘Well where do you get your ideas?’ he fired back.

Oliver for some reason then had second thoughts about leaving, pulled his chair back to the table and unfortunately began to focus on the cheese in front of him. ‘Nice Stilton,’ he said. ‘Well aired.’

I hoped he wasn’t going to eat too much of it if it made him grouchy and sleepy as Pippa had suggested. He was bad enough already.

We all started talking at once to cover the difficult pause in the conversation. Elaine and Nancy liked to scour local papers for ideas. Vivienne liked daytime TV shows where unappealing people aired their dirty laundry to whoops and cheers from the audience.

Nick liked the broadsheets. Helena listened to the children who came into the after-school reading club she had started at her library.

‘And what do you like to do?’ Oliver said, turning his laser gaze in my direction.

My mouth went dry. I took a sip of water. ‘I don’t know. Go for walks. Visit old houses,’ I said at last, sounding rather dull even to myself.

‘Go for walks,’ Oliver said thoughtfully. ‘Visit old houses. Hmm, wouldn’t you like to do something more exciting?’

He looked at me again and I swear I could sense him reading my thoughts or certainly seeing through my noisy bravado to the insecure specimen underneath. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

‘Or maybe do something more daring?’ he added.

I could feel a blush starting, so I began to gather the dirty plates together to cover my confusion.

‘Don’t you ever do anything thrilling? Don’t you have crazy moments?’ Oliver continued, waggling jazz hands.

I thought about it.

The craziest thing I had done recently was having XX Hot Sauce at Nando’s for a dare instead of my usual choice of Mango and Lime. And I won’t be doing that again in a hurry, I can tell you.

Exciting moments? Exciting moments?

I tried to think of an exciting moment I was prepared to share with the group. One not involving last summer’s final reductions at L. K. Bennett.

‘I don’t think I do,’ I said at last.

Elaine gasped. ‘What, never?’

Vivienne sighed. ‘That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. How old are you, Billie? Thirty-four, thirty-five?’

‘Twenty-nine,’ I muttered standing up a bit straighter and trying to look younger.

‘Well you should be doing exciting things on a regular basis. Daily or hourly if at all possible,’ Vivienne said with a knowing look.

Nancy chimed in. ‘Let’s think of something exciting for Billie to do.’

This was terrible. Everyone was looking at me. I suddenly felt like the most pathetic, most boring person in the universe. My hands weren’t working properly and I dropped a couple of spoons onto the floor. Bending to pick them up I was sure my arse must have looked the size of Pluto.

When I stood up I saw the smallest of smiles flickering across Oliver’s face. I realized he had done what he wanted: changed the focus of the conversation from himself to me. He hadn’t finished yet either.

‘So you don’t ever do anything crazy or exciting? I wonder why not. Perhaps you should? Take some chances. Have some adventures. Do something wild and irresponsible before you’re thirty.’ Oliver gave a broad white smile, changing his face from brooding Mr Rochester into something rather glorious. ‘I mean, have you travelled much?’

I began to stammer a bit, a childhood habit I thought I’d grown out of.

‘I’ve been here and there, you know G-Greece. And- and- and the Isle of Wight. I can’t afford to go too far.’

‘You could have come to India with me. I did ask you to, several times,’ Helena muttered. ‘It was really cheap.’

‘Could we talk about something else?’ I said rather heatedly. I began collecting more plates and bowls, making a lot of noise and clatter in the process.

I went over to the sink, still blushing furiously, and ran some hot water over the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

Helena followed me. ‘OK?’

‘Fine.’

Oliver stood up, collected his stick, and made his way back to his room. ‘Right then I’d better get on with some work. That’s why we’re here after all isn’t it?’

The others watched in silence until he had gone into his room and closed the door, then an excited whispering began between Elaine, Nancy, and Vivienne while Nick sat looking thoughtful, gnawing at his thumbnail.

‘I must have met him somewhere because his face is so familiar. But I can’t have gone to school with him because I’ve never been to Scotland,’ Nick said at last.

He stood up and started collecting the water glasses until Helena came across with a tray and stopped him.

‘There will be cake and tea at four-thirty,’ I said. ‘You’re all free to do what you like. Do some writing or editing or plotting or just have a sleep.’

‘Well if you’re sure?’ Nick said. ‘Although I like the idea of a quick walk into the village later if you don’t mind company, Helena?’

Helena fidgeted a bit and the glasses on her tray rattled. ‘No, super! I mean it would be nice. In about an hour?’

‘Perfect.’

Nick darted off upstairs and we encouraged the others towards the sitting room where the wood burner was throwing out an immense amount of heat. I would have opened a couple of windows, but they seemed quite contented. Elaine went to her nook under the stairs and was soon tapping away on her laptop while Nancy and Vivienne picked their places on the sofas and settled down to spend the rest of the afternoon dozing and chatting, hopefully with a bit of writing thrown in at some point.

I finished the coffee preparations and made Helena take the next eight-cup cafetière in to Oliver. She reported back that he was standing looking out of his window into the garden and didn’t say much except a vague thank you.

I can only assume he suffered from raging insomnia with so much caffeine inside him on a daily basis. Still, in the immortal words of my long-gone boyfriend, writing was after all only making stuff up and drinking coffee. Oliver must be writing a lot – that’s all I can say.