A Year of New Adventures Page 5

  ‘Are you all right?’ Vivienne said reaching out a kind hand. ‘You’re soaking wet. What on earth have you been doing?’

  I babbled for a second and then thrust the empty water jug towards her before sprinting upstairs.

  I stripped off my clothes, trying hard not to wail too loudly. After all, when you have a house full of guests it’s not the done thing. I found a towel and some dry clothes by which time Helena was rattling on the door trying to come in.

  ‘What the hell have you been doing?’ she called through the door. ‘Are you hurt? Are you OK? Let me in!’

  I struggled into a clean top and some jeans that I preferred not to wear as they were a tad tight, and unlocked the door.

  ‘Just don’t ask,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older and I’ve stopped cringing.’

  ‘Well obviously you’re not going to get away with that. Have you had a shower?’

  I rubbed at my wet hair with a towel and glanced in the mirror. I had mascara running down my cheeks. My hair looked as though I’d stuck my finger in a light socket.

  ‘No, I haven’t had a shower. Look can you just go back downstairs and keep them all happy for a few minutes? I’ll explain later!’

  ‘Well come on and stop messing about,’ Helena said chucking me a comb. ‘Oliver’s just turned up and he wants his dinner.’

  *

  Oliver didn’t even look at me, not so much as a sly glance, a cocked eyebrow, or a supressed snigger to imply he was at all bothered by the last half-hour. I on the other hand was puce with embarrassment. I went to fetch a clean plate for him and placed it on the table before scurrying off, pretending I was checking something in the kitchen. I went back into the pantry and had another sneaky glass of wine to bolster me up.

  The apple pie was on the worktop looking glamorous and golden, its sugary top glistening in the kitchen spotlights. There was crème anglaise and vanilla ice cream to go with it, so I pretended to mess around with jugs and saucepans to give myself time to calm down. I was feeling quite hot and bothered and quickly realized my long-sleeved sweatshirt had been a bad choice. I should have gone for a cotton shirt. Or a T-shirt. Or just stayed in my room with a paper bag over my head.

  I tried thinking about something else – the plot of my novel. I was writing a scene where the hero meets the feisty young heroine and rescues her from a flash flood. Or should it be from a dangerous dog? Or a dastardly villain with evil intent?

  One thing I would not do was allow my hero to continue morphing slowly but steadily into Oliver Forest. With dark hair curling onto his neck and eyes the colour of a summer night sky. White, even teeth. Skin tanned and taut over just the right amount of muscles. Tall, broad shoulders, long legs, narrow hips.

  And no clothes.

  Blast.

  Shut up.

  *

  I couldn’t hide in the pantry forever, obviously. And to try and do so would be really immature and pathetic. I put the pie on a tray and decanted the crème anglaise into a pretty blue and white jug. Then I took the plastic box of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer and carried the lot into the dining room as Helena carried the dirty plates away. Oliver had just finished his casserole and the discussion around the table had moved on to one of our favourite topics: the difficulty of finding an agent.

  Elaine was talking.

  ‘I used to have an agent, back in the day, but then I lost her and no one else wanted to take me on. So I was cast out into the literary wilderness. Since then I haven’t had much luck finding a replacement – and getting a book published without one is impossible these days. I did wonder about self-publishing and then I didn’t have the nerve.’

  Nancy nodded vigorously, her grey curls bobbing. ‘And the utter shame of a load of one-star Amazon reviews. People can say the nastiest things. And sometimes it’s for ludicrous reasons. I read one once where the person had given one star simply because the book had arrived late. And someone else gave five stars because they liked the cover. Nothing to do with the standard of the writing.’

  Nick was looking very thoughtful. He threw Oliver a curious glance. ‘So what do you think, Oliver?’

  Oliver made some sort of non-committal noise and took a sip of red wine.

  It was Helena’s turn to look pensive. ‘Hang on; Pippa said your launch had been delayed because of your accident?’

  ‘What did you do?’ Vivienne asked. ‘We never did find out.’

  ‘I told you, a spill off my motorbike,’ Oliver said.

  For some reason I’d assumed he had fallen off a bicycle. There’s nothing I find remotely appealing about neon Lycra, padded gel saddles, or aerodynamically designed bike helmets. But motorbike leathers? Big biker boots?

  Yummy scrummy! Now you’re talking!

  I nearly had to grab hold of the back of a chair to steady myself. For heaven’s sake what was the matter with me?

  Helena wasn’t going to be distracted. ‘So, this launch. Have you written other books? Or is this your first?’

  ‘I’d love a slice of pie,’ Oliver said, ignoring the question.

  Helena cut him a piece and slid it onto a plate. She pushed the jug of crème anglaise across the table and I handed over the tub of ice cream. ‘Anyone else?’

  She was busy for a few minutes sorting out the dessert and it wasn’t until she was sitting down with a small serving of her own that Helena returned to her question.

  ‘So, Oliver? About this book and the launch? How incredibly exciting. I mean we would give a lot to be having a book launch – small, medium, or otherwise wouldn’t we?’

  We all nodded in agreement.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Where is it? Can we come?’ Nancy said boldly.

  ‘Ludlow. I’m not organizing it,’ Oliver said. He jabbed at his dish with his spoon. ‘This is delicious by the way. Excellent pastry.’

  I don’t know if anyone else noticed but I certainly saw what was going on. Oliver was very keen not to talk about himself. He was in a room full of writers and they are some of the nosiest people on the planet, so he was on a hiding to nothing.

  ‘Ludlow is a lovely little town,’ Vivienne said. ‘I remember going there with the WI years ago. Lots about Catherine of Aragon and Prince Arthur I think.’

  I ambled around the table, heading back towards the kitchen, and was almost knocked over by Nick who had darted out of his seat leaving his dessert half eaten. He skidded out into the hallway and I heard him running upstairs to his bedroom two at a time and slamming his bedroom door.

  Flipping heck, I hope it wasn’t anything to do with our cooking? I mean we had both done a load of online training and certificates about hygiene, food preparation, and handling, but there’s always the fear of someone coming down with salmonella or botulism or something isn’t there?

  I stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for sounds of retching and heaving but couldn’t hear anything, so perhaps he was all right after all. I carried on into the kitchen to start loading the dishwasher with the dinner plates.

  By the time I returned to the dining room Nick was back in his place, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked a bit pinched and pale around the mouth.

  ‘Are you OK, Nick?’ I asked.

  He nodded and didn’t speak. He was looking at Oliver with a strange expression.

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  He shook his head. Not a sudden attack of typhoid then.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Nick blurted out.

  We all looked at him, a bit startled.

  He was still staring at Oliver.

  ‘I knew your name was familiar. I knew I’d heard of you,’ Nick said.

  Nancy and Vivienne looked up from their dessert, their synchronized noses scenting some unexpected excitement.

  Oliver didn’t say anything. He just looked a bit irritated. No it wasn’t that – he looked resigned if anything.

  Nick went on, his face still pale and determined. ‘I ju
st went upstairs to google you. And I can’t think why it took me so long. You’re one of my favourite writers. I’ve got your books. I’ve seen your photo on the dust jackets. You’re Ross Black aren’t you?’

  There was a split second of silence and then an audible intake of breath from the others. Everyone turned as one to look at Oliver, waiting for his reaction. He finished his mouthful of pie and put his spoon down.

  He gave a crooked grimace. It was almost a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Ha!’ he said.

  Chapter Six

  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.