The Mini-Break Page 3

  ‘I told him you were still in Devon but I don’t think he believed me. Anyway—’ she waved a hand ‘—first I want Keira to tell you about Mark and Buzz. You will not believe what you are about to hear.’

  Keira, a friend for several years, was engaged to Fergus, a computer nerd who whilst monosyllabic and mildly weird probably had more money than the lot of us put together. I was going to be one of her bridesmaids and the wedding was much on her mind these days.

  I sat letting the noise wash over me while she recounted a tale of road rage and forged parking permits that had resulted in several arrests and a cracked windscreen. At the same time I tried to decipher a menu that promised various selections of tiny dishes but didn’t seem to have got the pricing right. I mean four dishes for twenty-five quid or five for twenty quid. How does that work then?

  As the evening wore on I began to feel strangely out of it. I watched Jassy across the table, laughing and happy. She seemed to have forgotten her aches and pains. Perhaps it was the alcohol?

  I nudged my neighbour Tanny, an ex-flatmate and friend since school days in Gloucestershire who now organised extravagant parties for American companies.

  ‘Have you seen Benedict at all?’

  ‘Well I haven’t for a few days, but the last time I saw him he was complaining about his workload for the tax evaders in Dubai or something.’ Tanny’s face screwed up into disapproval. ‘I think you are being an absolute saint, putting up with that.’

  ‘Putting up with what?’

  ‘Putting up with him moaning all the time. I thought you said you were fed up with him?’

  ‘Oh I didn’t mean that. I was just cross and tired. Has anyone else mentioned seeing him?’

  ‘Ask Toby – he lives in your building. Toby, have you seen Benedict recently?’ Tanny yelled across the table to where Toby Sedgemoor, a limp-looking but very successful financial whizz was draped across his latest girlfriend.

  ‘Benedict? Toby? Where is he?’

  Toby blinked a bit. ‘Well his bike was chained up on the landing last night. I’ve told him he’s not supposed to leave it there and he says he’s going to sort it but he never does.’

  ‘But have you seen him?’ I said.

  Toby’s eyes slid away from mine. ‘Isn’t he here? Oh I don’t know. You know. I mean – oh bugger, look anyone want another drink?’

  I bit my lip and took a deep breath. Toby might be a bright spark when it came to financial matters and fund management – he wasn’t called Sedge the Hedge for nothing – but he was notoriously unreliable when it came to everyday life. Eventually, several bowls of tapas later and topped up with the best part of a carafe of red wine, I got a taxi back to my flat.

  *

  I felt quite excited as I got home. I was genuinely looking forward to seeing Benedict again. Maybe being away from each other had done the trick and it would help rekindle the spark we seemed to have lost. But the very first thing I noticed when I reached my door was Benedict’s blasted bike chained to a radiator. Yes I do understand it is far too valuable to be left outside overnight, though why he had to spend seven grand on a bike just to pedal less than two miles I’ll never know. It shouldn’t have been there at all. It should have been in the basement garage in the bike rack. The sight of it and its stupid anorexic tyres immediately ruined my good mood. I could so clearly visualise him in his equally irritating bike helmet and his monumentally unattractive bike gear as he steamed through Hyde Park, roundly cursing every pedestrian who got in his way.

  With new and uncharacteristic reserve, I closed the front door quietly behind me and went to put my keys in the brass bowl, only to find it wasn’t there and a particularly vile ceramic dish had replaced it.

  I went through into the kitchen and found Benedict sitting on one of my new Calligaris gas-lift bar stools watching a blonde chopping onions. She was wearing my Statue of Liberty apron over a dress that was falling off her shoulders at the top end and hardly covered her assets at the other.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ I said, in a voice that had somehow raised itself by several octaves.

  Benedict looked startled. ‘Oh hi, Lu, this is Tess. I’m not sure if you’ve met?’

  The blonde waved at me with my eight-inch chef’s knife and carried on chopping.

  ‘I said what are you doing? Who is she?’

  Benedict looked a bit wild-eyed. ‘You’re supposed to be in Devon. I didn’t expect you back for a few days. Tess offered to show me how to make French onion soup.’

  ‘I bet she did,’ I muttered.

  ‘She’s just a friend, Lulu,’ Benedict said patiently, getting the situation under control as though I was in the slow learners group. ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.’

  ‘Because I’m home now,’ I said. I was starting to feel a bit foolish, wondering whether I really had over-reacted. Benedict has that effect on me.

  ‘And it’s simply wonderful to see you, petal,’ he said, coming over to kiss me. ‘Have you had a lovely time?’

  This is my flat, I wanted to shout. After all, Benedict had never paid a penny towards the mortgage. We’d had discussions about that before now and he had recently taken over paying the electricity bill. Why that should make a difference, I don’t know.

  ‘Percy was going to come round later for a quick drink,’ Benedict added, ‘to celebrate the Winston versus Hardman win.’

  Percy was a particularly odious friend of his who seemed to do nothing but oil his way around the chambers of the Old Bailey pretending to be more important than he was.

  ‘To be honest I’m tired. I’d rather he didn’t.’

  Benedict opened his mouth to argue and then, seeing my expression, did a bit of back-pedalling. ‘Okay. I’ll text him. Look, don’t be sulky, sweetie. I’ve missed you; I just didn’t know you’d be back today.’

  ‘Didn’t you notice my bags in the bedroom?’

  Benedict looked vague. ‘No.’

  The blonde pouted and looked at Benedict. ‘Perhaps I’d better go?’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said, pulling my coat off, ‘Tess.’

  Benedict sighed. ‘Better find your things, sweetie, thanks anyway.’

  She flounced off into the hallway, her pert bottom wiggling, and Benedict had the nerve to watch it go for a few seconds before I cleared my throat rather loudly and brought his attention back to me.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ I hissed.

  ‘God, nothing is going on. Look, Lu, you’ve got to stop being so neurotic.’

  ‘I’m not neurotic,’ I said.

  ‘You came back before I expected you.’

  ‘So this is my fault?’

  ‘No – well, partly—’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry—’

  As the words left my mouth I was furious with the way I was backing down yet again. I should stand my ground and sling him and the bottom wiggler out into the street.

  At that moment the blonde returned looking petulant.

  ‘I’ve called an Uber; have you got some cash, Benny?’

  Benedict gave her a fifty-pound note and they exchanged three, slow air kisses in a rather infuriating fashion. Then she gave me a little wave and a white, gleaming smile.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said.

  ‘So?’ I said as the front door closed behind her.

  ‘So?’ Benedict repeated, stabbing at his phone.

  ‘So what was she doing here? Why was she in my flat, in my kitchen?’

  ‘What on earth is the matter? Look, I’ve put Percy off – now come here, you’re getting hysterical,’ he said, holding out his arms and looking at me with the expression I know he thought was sexy and irresistible. I took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m entitled to be annoyed when I come home unexpectedly and find you entertaining another woman. How would you feel if you came back and found me with another bloke here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a jot, sweetie. I wasn’t entertaining as you put it. Aren’t we above
all that sort of silly insecurity?’

  ‘Well I’m not,’ I said angrily, ‘and if you’re so keen to see Percy all the time why don’t you go and live with him?’

  Benedict looked a bit panicky for a moment. ‘What are you saying, darling? You don’t mean that. I don’t want to go and live with Percy. I love you, I like living here. With you. Come on, I’ve said I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.’

  ‘Yes, you were.’

  ‘Well let’s forget all about it. I promise I’ll be good.’

  He looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes and a little pout and despite myself I laughed.

  ‘Oh stop it, you fool.’

  ‘Right, well let me pour you a glass of wine but first of all, come here and give me a kiss. You’re looking superb. The country air must suit you. Fancy a fuck?’

  *

  I woke up the following morning after a restless night avoiding Benedict’s hands. I had a shower and then, wrapped in a towel, sat on the side of the bath to consider my options. I’d definitely let Benedict off far too easily. Anyone else would have had a hissy fit and slung him out on his ear. Why hadn’t I? Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. I knew he needed to think about what he’d done. And show a lot more consideration on a regular basis. I needed more time away from him before doing anything rash. I would focus on my work and when it was finished I would decide what to do next.

  I know I’m my own worst enemy and I should have brought some of my muscular, attractive men friends round to make Benedict sit up and rethink his attitude. It crossed my mind that Joe Field would have made short shrift of Benedict and his over-groomed, metropolitan body. He would have swept him, his hair products, anti-allergy nose drops and Xbox out in record time, but of course Joe Field was several hours away and I didn’t know anyone else like him.

  My parents were somewhere in America touring around the national parks in a Winnebago large enough for a scout troop. I suppose I could have gone to stay in their house, but they live near Inverness and they have a lot of rules about smoking and wine consumption and knowing my luck the fridge would be empty and the freezer full of vegan, gluten-free, preservative-free meals. At my age I need all the preservatives I can get.

  I mentally ran through my address book and couldn’t think of anyone who would have me in their house for an indeterminate time while I got some much-needed distance from Benedict or with whom I could bear to share a bathroom.

  Property prices being what they were in London, hardly anyone I knew could afford to buy a two-bedroom flat and most of the people I socialised with these days were child-free like me and didn’t need to consider a flatmate, so that automatically meant a sofa bed. Perhaps I was getting soft in my old age? Or perhaps I was just too fussy. I suppose the same constraints applied to Benedict. And let’s be honest he’d have to be desperate to move in with Percy. I couldn’t do that to him no matter how cross I felt.

  I could have gone to stay with Jassy but the following day Ralphie came back from Antigua.

  I mean I quite like Ralphie; he’s handsome in a floppy, public schoolboy, blond Hugh Grant sort of way. He’s reasonably tidy and clean and well behaved – well he has to be after all the bad behaviour on cricket tours of years past, otherwise he’d lose his job. But for all that he has to be one of the most boring people on the planet, unless you happen to like cricket of course. There can’t be many people who can hold forth on the Bodyline tour of 1932 with knowledge and enthusiasm for as long as Ralphie can. If there are I hope I’m never in the same room as them.

  Added to this I once slept on their sofa bed and discovered that he and my sister are very enthusiastic in the bedroom and incredibly noisy. Lying awake at half past three in the morning listening to them giggling and whooping I thought about complaining or getting some ear plugs and then I realised I should be a bit more considerate. After all in her position I’d have been the same. I don’t mean with Ralphie of course but you know what I mean. And perhaps I should have said in her situation, not position.

  *

  How had it come to this? I mean I don’t seem to get it right when it comes to men and personally I think I have something to offer. I’m well educated thanks to nine years spent at vast expense in Cheltenham and three years at Oxford. I’d had two years of visits to the orthodontist and I have my own flat and a comfortable bank balance following years of hard work churning out book after book for my devoted readers. I’d once had high expectations for my relationship with Benedict, but two years on, deep down I knew I wasn’t happy with the way things were going. I had hoped we could work through our differences like grown-ups and commit properly. Perhaps even buy a place together. But at that point I wasn’t sure.

  I never seemed to meet a decent man. What do I mean by decent? A man like the heroes of my books, I suppose. A man who doesn’t gawp at other women when he’s out with me, tidies up after himself, doesn’t eat with his mouth open, and while we are what Benedict playfully describes as ‘an item’, only has carnal knowledge of me and no one else. Is that too much to ask? When things go pear-shaped, as they inevitably do, I’m always useless at getting rid of them.

  Why, when I can control every tiny aspect of my fictional characters’ lives was I unable to sort out my own?

  I needed to think fast. At the back of my mind an idea was doing some shrieking of its own and it began to look more and more appealing as the minutes passed. I dressed quickly and found my mobile. I couldn’t explain why but something was drawing me back to Devon.

  ‘Sally? I need to ask a favour.’

  Chapter Four

  A few days later I packed a bag and went via Waitrose and stocked up on all the essential things I might need: gin, Fevertree tonic, chocolate biscuits, that sort of thing. And I left a short, pithy note for Benedict to think about. As I drove past his chambers I was tempted to open the car window and shout a few farewell reminders, but then I saw a PCSO and thought better of it. Five and a half hours later I was back in Devon walking through the front door of Barracane House.

  Funnily enough, this time it seemed okay. Well, more than okay. Everything that had been depressing and muddy and dull on my previous visit with Jassy was now fresh and clean. The air as I got out of the car was as cold and clear as crystal, bringing with it the promise of spring. The wind that last time had swept down the chimney with howling rage was now helpfully blowing the clouds away to the distant coastline, leaving behind a blue, washed sky. I felt as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I felt an unexpected little leap of optimism.

  I unloaded my bags, looked at the gin and then put the kettle on. It was going to be different this time. I didn’t have to worry about Jassy; I would focus on myself and Choose Yes and get hours of productive and satisfactory rewriting done. I’d get back into the plotting groove too, a place I hadn’t actually been for several months. I have no idea why – there always seemed to be something more attention-grabbing to distract me from a morning at the laptop, banging out words. Sometimes I even did the ironing and that’s not a thing I do out of choice.

  I’d have the damned book ready in no time, and meanwhile I would forget about Benedict and London. I would be rejuvenated and invigorated. I might even start to plot my next book. I’d been thinking about it for ages. I just needed to put stuff down. I’d found a fab notebook in Paperchase and that’s always a good start.

  *

  That night I slept better than I had for months, if not years. The bed was warm and soft and snuggly. I certainly didn’t remember that from my last visit. It had just seemed unfamiliar and irritating. Perhaps I was tired from the drive and the stress of Benedict and my own lack of focus? But I’d rather enjoyed driving away from everything I was familiar with. It felt exciting and daring. As though I was having a mini-break. Actually, thinking about it, it seemed like an adventure. I’d been on long stretches of motorway where there wasn’t any lighting at all. And once I had left the M5 near Tiverton and got off the dual carriageway there were even
roads where I hardly saw any other traffic. Once, I had to pull into a gateway and let a tractor pass and instead of feeling exasperated, I gave the driver a carefree toot on my horn and received a cheerful wave in return. This was the life.

  I showered and dressed and went downstairs to have breakfast. Barracane House was Sally’s investment and occasionally a holiday destination for her family and friends, so it was well equipped and beautifully furnished and decorated. Not like some rental properties I’ve been in which are full of cast-offs and none of the china matches.

  I sat and ate my breakfast croissants and apricot jam, looking out of the kitchen window and admiring the sweeping view down the valley and feeling quite affectionate about the place. I even had a little wander around the utility room, reminding myself how to use the washing machine and tumble dryer.

  And then, unable to stop myself, I thought about Joe Field.

  Not with the aim of establishing any sort of romantic thingy. I mean, I was still in a relationship with Benedict. Just because we were having a bit of a wobble, it didn’t mean I’d looking for something or someone else. Obviously I wasn’t looking for … Well, I mean Joe was very attractive and I’ve always had a thing about broad shoulders … and there is something about a man who is both strong and competent, isn’t there? And he really had got us out of a hole when he sorted out that flat tyre, so it would only be neighbourly to make an effort to thank him properly, wouldn’t it?

  Hmmm. But he was probably married. Men who are that age and look like that always are. Probably to someone who looked like whatshername on Countryfile. You know the one I mean. Smiley and outdoorsy with a figure that looked good in jeans and Barbour jackets and fleece hats and clear, glowing skin from all the fresh air and clean living. A woman who says she loves animals and doesn’t just mean kittens. The sort of woman who could bake bread and drive a Land Rover through a stream and gut a fish without screaming. Not like me, who couldn’t do any of those things.