The Mini-Break Read online

  I was overthinking this situation. Joe might live with a disreputable family in a massive old farmhouse like you see on episodes of Miss Marple, where there is a mad aunt weeding the borders in a floppy sunhat and a grandfather who looks like Ranulph Fiennes but without the frostbitten fingers.

  I saw an article about him in The Times the other day; he’s very rugged.

  I decided to put on my new, white, oversized cashmere sweater so I was warm and comfortable and also so I looked chic in case Joe Field should come calling and then I settled down to work on Choose Yes.

  The morning really did fly past and I got some good words down for the first time in ages. After a bit I rewarded myself with some coffee and opened the packet of Wagon Wheels I’d chucked into my trolley. I don’t know why because I’d never had a particular liking for them. But then I started looking out of the window again and thinking about Joe Field some more. I mean, what a waste of time. I was guessing he was about my age and how often do you find a decent man without attachments?

  He might be engaged or of course he could be gay.

  I’ve actually been ‘in a relationship’ with men who were both those things. For example I met Charlie at some awards thing. I was getting an engraved silver salver for book sales and he came over to my table with a couple of pissed friends to ask me to sign a book. How dumb was I? Did I really believe ‘little Anjelika’ was his much younger sister? We went out for months, with me never questioning why he hardly ever came over at weekends, why he wasn’t around at Christmas and why he had three phones but I only had the number of one of them.

  I eventually met ‘little Anjelika’ when she saw us having dinner in the German Gymnasium to celebrate our six-month anniversary. She came over, all spiky legs and gnashing teeth to tip his langoustines into his lap and chuck his engagement ring into my salad. They of course had then gone off to have a first-class row, leaving me to pay the bloody bill. When we heard her shrieking what she intended to do to his nether regions once she got her hands on some house bricks, every eye in the place turned enquiringly to look at me and see how I was taking it. I crept away wishing I could pull my coat over my head.

  And then there was Luke who was a fitness fanatic, built like a bookcase and strangely hands-off. Eventually when we got to date number twelve and he still hadn’t made a move on my virtue, such as it was, he admitted he was only dating me to keep his ailing grandfather happy. Shortly afterwards the old chap died, the will was read, I was unceremoniously dumped and Luke went off to Peru with Piers. To be honest I had wondered why Piers was always hanging around, and why he and Luke seemed to share a wardrobe. I don’t think my gaydar is particularly good.

  Perhaps Joe Field was off women because his wife went off with the … who would it be? Who would call at these farms with any regularity? A seed merchant? No he did sheep, didn’t he? A man selling bales of hay then? Or sheep food? Or a sheep shearer. A shearer called Alan!

  Of course. It was almost like a ready-made plot! An Australian sheep shearer who looked like Hugh Jackman. Perhaps Joe’s wife had been left on her own once too often while Joe went out across the moor on his tractor doing farmerly things. I wasn’t actually sure what. Perhaps he would have a couple of faithful sheepdogs with him who would look at him with actual dogged devotion and sit under the table with their paws on his feet when he had his meals.

  I wasn’t convinced that was right actually. Didn’t farm dogs live outside in all weathers in kennels? They were working animals after all, not pets.

  I came to and realised I had wasted half an hour staring out of the window and thinking about what Joe Field did.

  So, back to work.

  It was already getting a bit dusky outside as the clouds rolled in across the valley and it was only early afternoon. In London it never gets really dark. There are streetlights and shops and cars. Still, I didn’t want to be wandering around the house in the gloom, did I? So I put on some of the upstairs lights. And then I stood looking out of the bedroom window, watching a big bird wheeling about over the darkening moor. I wished I had some binoculars.

  I didn’t actually know where Joe lived but he had mentioned seeing my house lights last time so this was as good a way as any of attracting his attention. And if he could see this house maybe I could see his? I started rummaging in my make-up bag for a lipstick and then stopped.

  Pathetic. What the hell was I thinking?

  I turned all the lights off again and went downstairs, stamping on each step, annoyed with myself. I was here to work, not think about some unsuspecting farmer I didn’t know.

  *

  To be fair once I got into some sort of routine I began to enjoy myself. It was a curious liberation not having decent Wi-Fi or much mobile signal. I didn’t have to reply to emails; I didn’t spend time online looking at handbags or clips of raccoons. I adore raccoons. It was only then that I realised how much time I wasted on social media pretending I was doing research. Back in London I would have been googling pictures of Hugh Jackman by now.

  After a couple of days I actually did need to go out to get milk so I made my way to the nearest sizeable town. First of all I spent an hour in a café with free, reasonable Wi-Fi to check on my emails. But there wasn’t anything much of interest apart from three emails from Benedict asking why I had gone off in a strop for no good reason, when was I coming back and where was the toothpaste?

  I sent a brief reply saying I was working, I wasn’t sure when I would be back and the toothpaste was in my bathroom cabinet where it always was. Then, feeling a bit guilty I sent a second, slightly kinder email saying I was okay, we could have a proper chat to iron things out when I got back and I hoped the latest case was going well.

  A couple of miles down the road I found a Superfine Supermarket and stocked up on a few basic provisions.

  Then I carried on shopping and found some stuff I didn’t need, like cake, more Wagon Wheels (I seemed to have developed a taste for them) and – as a gesture to my emotional turmoil – some cigarettes.

  I hadn’t smoked for a while because of course Benedict didn’t approve. He was always banging on about clean eating and exercise and used to make swamp-like smoothies for breakfast, leaving me to clean the stringy bits out of the blender. He had tried to persuade me to buy a bike too, presumably so we could both look like complete prats as we scythed our way through Notting Hill on our way to the organic, wholefood, vegan market he liked. Actually, I think the only reason he wanted me to get a bike was so I could take pictures of him on my head-cam and then he could post them on Twitter and admire himself. The distance between us seemed to sharpen up my focus. He really could be Smug on a Bike.

  I drove home liking the way the weak, winter light scattered across the dark moorland spread out around me. The road was almost straight, like something the Romans would have built, and it was deserted and pitted with the sort of frost damage that would have attracted TV camera crews in London and outrage about what the GLC was spending our council tax on.

  I was in a mood. I wanted a man who wore tweed, waxed jackets and chunky sweaters and could do useful things like clear gutters and put the recycling out without doing rock, paper scissors first. A man who liked fried bread and double cream and beer. Preferably at the same meal. A man who used fewer products on his skin than I did. A man who didn’t believe every health scare he read. A man who nicked himself shaving and didn’t make a three-act drama about it, not a metrosexual twat with sensitive skin.

  I was being irritable and disloyal. Benedict loved me; he’d said so. And he’d ended his message with a sad face emoji and a GIF of two kittens hugging.

  We’d been together for two years. We had shared Christmas and holidays and thrown each other surprise birthday parties. We had fun. He could be kind and unexpectedly generous. Why wasn’t it enough? Why was I feeling like this?

  *

  When I got back to Barracane House I put the shopping away and, feeling quite daring, took a cup of tea and a cigarette
outside.

  It wasn’t quite as marvellous as I remembered, and I did quite a bit of coughing and inhaled a bit of tea, which caused me to start spluttering and choking, and just as I made the most unattractive hawking noise and spat my tea out, someone came round the side of the house and started laughing.

  ‘Are you quite all right?’

  I looked round, my eyes streaming with the effort to stop, and of course it was Joe Field standing watching me, and close on his heels were two black and white sheepdogs.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I croaked, fishing in my pocket for a tissue. ‘Just having a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ he said with a grin.

  One of the sheepdogs stepped forward on hesitant paws and then stopped at a brisk hand signal from Joe.

  I got myself under control and tried to look vaguely sane.

  ‘Can I help? Were you just passing?’

  ‘I saw there were lights on again. I just thought I’d come over and see if it was you.’

  He’d remembered me? How marvellous.

  ‘Yes I left my sister in London. Her husband is back from the West Indies and then – well, for various reasons I came back. I have a book to finish after all.’

  ‘Keen reader are you?’ he said. ‘The woman who bought this place is something to do with books.’

  ‘She’s my literary agent,’ I said.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, you told me. Well as long as you’re getting on okay,’ he said. ‘I like to keep an eye on things. Not that there’s much crime around here but you never know.’

  ‘No I suppose you don’t.’

  We stood silently for a moment while the two dogs sat at his feet, watching him and trembling slightly.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said at last.

  He was on the point of going and I felt the need to say something.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for sorting out my puncture,’ I said.

  ‘You did thank me.’ He tightened the blue woollen scarf at his neck. It looked hand-knitted and I hoped it was one his aged aunt had made for him, not his adoring wife. He was bareheaded, and the breeze ruffled his dark curls. He didn’t seem to notice. If Benedict had been here he would undoubtedly have been wearing some foolish tweed cap in a pointless nod to rural life.

  ‘Well I wanted to thank you properly,’ I said.

  God I’m such an idiot; that sounded as though I wanted to have sex with him or something. I could feel myself blushing and puffed at my cigarette again, not noticing that it now had an inch of ash on the end, which fell onto my boobs and lay for a moment like a tiny slug before I brushed it off.

  ‘Really there’s no need,’ he said, ‘but what did you have in mind?’

  I think he was laughing at me again and I nearly lost my nerve. For a second I couldn’t even look at him. But if it was okay for Benedict to spend time with friends of the opposite sex then it was okay for me. He’d said so.

  ‘A drink?’ I said, my voice squeaking with tension.

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes that sounds like a nice idea. Thank you.’

  ‘When would be good for you?’ I said, taking another puff and hoping I looked sophisticated. I had the awful feeling I looked like a complete idiot. Probably with mascara running down my face from my coughing fit to add to the glamour.

  ‘I’ll pop back,’ he said, ‘meanwhile, I must get on.’

  He clicked his fingers at his dogs and they followed him, their synchronised noses close on his heels.

  Like an idiot I let him go and watched as he disappeared up the hill, around the bend in the lane and presumably into the fields where his sheep were.

  It was only later that the nebulous nature of the phrase ‘pop back’ dawned on me. Buggeration. What did that mean this time? Tomorrow? Next week?

  *

  I went back in and carried on writing and then I decided to make some soup to sustain me through the evening. That was a rural, rustic thing to do, wasn’t it? That morning I’d loaded up my supermarket trolley with loads of vegetables. None of them were organic so Benedict wouldn’t have touched them but they were an absolute bargain. A bag of carrots from an actual farm for less than a pound! A massive bag of potatoes from the same farm for two quid! It must be an enormous farm because they sold onions, leeks, swedes and pineapples too. And kiwi fruit and bananas. I had vast quantities of stuff for under a tenner. Considering Benedict had once bought six muddy purple carrots for nine quid I could hardly believe my eyes. There was no doubt about it, living in the country was much cheaper than in town.

  I started peeling vegetables and in no time I had a vat of soup bubbling away like something out of Harry Potter. It didn’t taste of much so I slung in some curry powder and some other stuff I found in a drawer. I felt quite Nigella-ish too; perhaps I should have tried cooking before?

  When I got back to London perhaps I would have the kitchen remodelled? I could have a KitchenAid, a really cool retro one in shiny chrome. And one of those racks that hang over the cooker to keep all my tools handy. Perhaps I would diversify into writing cookery books? Recipes for Hungry Writers? Or Say Goodbye to that Writer’s Arse? Brilliant idea!

  I left the vat simmering on the Aga and went back to my writing with a glass of wine and another Wagon Wheel. Well it was nearly five o’clock and everyone knows red wine is full of something or other, almost a health food. I worked on for a while, rather enjoying my new role as a countrywoman who made her own meals. I would spend the evening sitting by the fire with some fortifying soup, more red wine and one of the books I’d been sent on my Kindle and not got round to reading. I would not spend the evening watching rubbish on TV and picking the last of my nail varnish off.

  *

  I turned the TV on at six o’clock and listened to the latest ghastly headlines before turning over to a quiz programme and shouting the answers at the screen when I knew them. After a while I was aware of an unusual smell. Hmm, perhaps there was something on the last piece of wood I had jammed in the wood burner? Moss or something?

  I topped up my wine glass and flicked through a few channels. There were only a few, no cable or satellite TV here. Well everyone knows there is nothing worth watching half the time unless there’s a David Attenborough on or Strictly. I got mildly absorbed in a programme about a couple buying a house in Orlando. Jolly cheap there too. So if you moved to Florida and made your own soup …

  I shot out to the kitchen where the air was starting to thicken with fumes from my soup cauldron. Miraculously I caught it just in time before it actually burned, although the bottom of the pan was thick and claggy.

  I added a load of cold water and put some of it into the blender rather carelessly.

  Big mistake.

  The lid of the blender shot off and in seconds the front of my gorgeous new white cashmere sweater was splattered with vegetable gloop.

  I stood rooted to the spot with shock for a moment and then let out a despairing wail. Bloody hell! This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Of course at that precise second someone rang the doorbell.

  And yes, it was Joe, popping back with a bottle of wine in his hand.

  He bit his lower lip and looked at me for a moment.

  ‘I can see this isn’t a good time, sorry.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ I said, wiping a glob of soup off my forehead.

  ‘It’s just I never quite know when I’m going to get an hour to myself.’

  ‘I absolutely understand,’ I said calmly, dabbing at my sleeve with the tea towel. ‘I need to just y’know? Go and—’

  I was going to say have a shower, but I was suddenly reluctant to share that sort of imagery with him.

  ‘—tidy up.’

  ‘Of course. Can I help?’

  He was wearing an Aran sort of sweater under his waxed jacket. That would look nice with some of my pond-slime soup all over it.

  ‘Absolut
ely not. I have it under control here.’

  ‘Perhaps another time?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What exactly are you doing?’ he said at last.

  ‘Me? Making soup,’ I said and closed the door.

  I could hear him laughing as he walked away. Bloody hell.

  I spent the next couple of hours cleaning up the mess. I don’t know what power that blender had but it had splattered soup all over the ceiling, worktops, cabinets and floor. And I seemed to have developed a new sort of industrial-strength adhesive in the process. Left to its own devices, the soup began to solidify into immovable blobs. I could have wept.

  Fortified by a couple more glasses of wine I flopped into bed exhausted and then realised I still had soup in my hair. So I dragged myself out again and went and had a shower. Picking up a towel from the floor I managed to whack my cheek on the sink. Stunned and rather wobbly I then dropped my hair dryer and fused it.

  This was not good news on any level; if I went to bed with damp hair I would look like I’d stuck my finger in the light socket by the morning. And I was going to accessorise that with the beginnings of a black eye.

  It hadn’t been a great day after all. In fact it had been an Olympic-standard bastard of a day with knobs on. What was I doing here again?

  Chapter Five

  I camouflaged my developing black eye with several layers of Touche Éclat and went out again the following day as I had decided I was low on something. It might have been loo cleaner or olives. I can’t remember and really I was just looking for an excuse to get out and about. To see people and talk to them. Which was odd because in London no one talks to anyone unless they absolutely have to and it never bothers me. And if you do they look at you as though you’re some sort of maniac rather than just someone who is asking about delays on the tube.

  In Superfine Supermarkets I was unreasonably thrilled to see my latest paperback was on the shelves at number four. I looked around furtively and then moved my book to take over the top space, which should have been filled with Dan Brown’s new one but it had sold out. Yes, I know it was very childish but I was sufficiently pleased with myself to take a shelfie, which I then posted onto Twitter with ‘Oooh look, I’m doing well in Devon!’