A Year of New Adventures Page 7

  ‘Lunch is at one o’clock,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘One moment,’ he said.

  I stood with the basket held out in front of me like a begging bowl as he typed on, his fingers rattling the keys at great speed. What was he going to say? Was he going to make an effort to be polite?

  Maybe he would say something to make up for his rudeness.

  Sorry if I sounded a bit brusque back then. I’m on a tight schedule. My editor wants this by yesterday.

  I looked around the room as I waited, hoping for some clues into his character. Maybe a photograph, or some personal items. Everything was still extraordinarily tidy. It didn’t look as though anyone had slept in the bed. Perhaps he hadn’t; maybe he slept bolt upright in the wardrobe with his sweater hooked over a hanger? The waste paper basket was filled with tightly screwed-up bits of paper and on top of the chest of drawers there was a mobile phone on charge.

  ‘I can come back later if you prefer,’ I said.

  He held up an index finger and then carried on typing. He was evidently on a roll and the words were flowing.

  At last he stopped, poured some coffee out into his mug, and drank some while he scrolled back to check something. He made a sort of harrumph, annoyed noise on a couple of occasions and sipped his coffee. I stood there like a spare part fidgeting from one foot to the other. I cleared my throat to remind him I was still there, and he looked up at me.

  ‘I’ve told you, I eat at one-thirty,’ he replied at last.

  I took a deep breath, ready to give him the benefit of my opinion, and then bit back my rising temper. He was the paying guest after all. He was perfectly entitled to his preferences. I shouldn’t be so dogmatic.

  ‘I’ll bring something in for you then,’ I said and left him to it.

  I think I saw the sudden movement of his head as he looked up, but I didn’t wait to hear what he was going to say and I had the feeling I was being rude and unprofessional. I like looking after people; I like it when they are happy. Nothing seemed to be working with Oliver Forest.

  I closed his door with care despite longing to slam it off its hinges and was about to tell Helena exactly what I thought of him, but she wasn’t in the kitchen. The timer was making apologetic bleeping noises, and something was burning.

  My beautiful cake was ruined thanks to Oliver bloody Forest. I grabbed a tea towel, yanked the cake tins out of the oven and chucked them in the sink. It was half past ten now, time to think about elevenses for the others.

  Helena came into the kitchen frowning, her hair still damp from the shower.

  ‘I can smell burning,’ she said.

  ‘Yes I know, it’s my cake. It was going to be lovely too,’ I said mournfully. ‘Flaming Oliver bloody Forest – he kept me in his room for so long it burned.’

  Helena giggled. ‘My word, what were you doing?’

  ‘Nothing like that I can assure you! He was writing and kept me hanging on while he rattled out another scene of death and destruction and bombs and feeble-minded women.’

  I gave a growl of fury.

  ‘I suppose the others are panting for their coffee? I’ll stick the kettle on,’ I said.

  Chapter Eight

  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 screa
m.’

  ‘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 ever made. They set off for Dracula’s castle just as it’s getting dark. Why don’t they go after breakfast on a sunny day? All they would need to do is find Dracula asleep in his coffin, open the curtains, and Bob’s your uncle.’

  Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘But there would be no story would there?’

  I raised an index finger, unexpectedly confident. ‘Exactly, so in fact Mary Shelley had a plot hole of mammoth proportions didn’t she? The whole thing relies on the people being irresponsible and heading off in the dark. Just like your heroine. Why doesn’t she phone the police?’

  ‘Actually, it was Bram Stoker. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein. My heroine has lost her mobile and the local police are corrupt – she knows she can’t rely on them.’

  ‘Then get on a plane and go home,’ I said.

  ‘She’s lost her passport.’

  ‘Explain to the airport staff; buy a new ticket out.’

  ‘She doesn’t have any money.’

  I rolled my eyes at him. ‘She’s stranded in Istanbul, with a man following her for five chapters into a ruined house in the dark and she’s managed to lose her phone, her passport, and her bankcards. She’s a bit bloody useless isn’t she?’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘And you’re just worried about whether she could fight off a man in a dark house and whether it would make any difference if she was nine or ten stones? She’s got pathetic loser written all over her. I’m guessing her only hope is the sandblasted hero with his Shaman over his face—’

  ‘Shemagh.’

  ‘Yes whatever.’ I was off on one now. Brain engaged. Mouth in gear. ‘Women these days are pretty aware of their surroundings you know, and taking personal responsibility for their own safety. I’ve already clocked an umbrella in the stand over there and an empty cafetière in case I needed a weapon.’

  ‘Why the hell would you need a weapon?’ he said, his brow creased with confusion.

  ‘Well you might be a complete nutcase who has fits of irrational anger, or a closet drug addict who’s just had a sniff of something.’

  ‘I’m neither of those things!’

  ‘Well you’re not going to admit it, are you? I bet you any money your heroine has gone in the dark to a ruined house in a cocktail dress and stilettos, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Although if she had they would be a pretty good weapon. Whack him with a stiletto in the eye and it would make him think a bit.’

  Oliver sighed. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked. Look, this is supposed to be a thriller. The woman is in danger. He has to save her.’

  ‘Oh well, I’m sure he will. I expect she’ll turn out to be another of your drippy women who are little more than a walking pair of tits—’

  ‘Walking pair of tits!’

  ‘Now if he went to the ruined house with a submachine gun and some hand grenades and she had already planted a few land mines and then swept up in an armoured car with a bottle of Bollinger so they could escape to the airport where she had a private jet waiting, it would all be tickety-boo wouldn’t it? Now, did you want anything else?’

  ‘You did mention coffee,’ he said faintly.

  ‘You drink far too much coffee,’ I said. ‘It can’t be good for you. Did you eat your lunch?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said looking vaguely around for the tray.

  ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea and a piece of cake. Yes, I know you don’t want cake but it’s a jolly good one – better than the one you made me burn – and it would do you a lot more good than shedloads of caffeine. OK?’

  Oliver rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. ‘God Almighty. Fine if it will stop you talking.’

  I smiled. I felt a little shiver of triumph. ‘Oh not many things do that I’m afraid.’

  Chapter Nine

  Oliver went back into his room with his cake and tea and I heard no more from him. I’d read some more of The Dirty Road and, as yet, hadn’t found any more rude bits – not even by the tried and tested method of letting the book fall open at the most viewed page. That only resulted in an exciting section where the hero (Major Harry Field) took out a nest of snarling insurgents single-handed. Probably with only a catapult and a bucket of water to defend himself.

  He then laughed ‘like a devil contemplating sin’, lit a cigarette in a leisurely fashion, and disappeared into the night. Presumably to go home, find his romantic interest (the generously endowed Selina), and roger her senseless although this time there were no sexual calisthenics in confined spaces.

  In fact, there was no mention of what they got up to other than ‘he took one look at her and knew what she wanted.’

  Well now that made me snort with laughter.

  We all know in real life no man can take one look at a woman and know what she wants so I thought this was very unlikely. After all, Selina might have wanted Major Field to take the bins out or move his car so she could go to Pilates. Hmm.

  I skipped a few pages and found another scene of a romantic nature when Major Field was taking Selina out to dinner and he was admiring her choice of outfit: a red satin cocktail dress ‘tight in every place’. Every place? Really?

  This would suggest to me:

  1) Selina had body dysmorphia;

  2) She hadn’t really thought her outfit through regarding space for her impending meal; or

  3) She’d been tucking into a few too many pies during the Major’s absence. If Harry Field was anything like Matt I could just imagine him slapping her on the arse and suggesting she get a bigger frock.

  Anyway, who was I to judge? Oliver was the one with the books on people’s shelves and presumably a lot of fans and oodles of money in a Swiss bank account. I was the one who needed to go downstairs and set the table.

  When Nick and Helena came back from their trip up the church tower they were both a bit giggly. I tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t seem to notice – she was too busy fidgeting about and flicking her hair. Nick went to help her in the kitchen and you could tell there was something going on. I mean a grown woman doesn’t usually need a man to ‘help her grate cheese’ does she?

  ‘Now what have you and Mr Tweedy been up to?’ I said later. ‘I can tell you’ve been doing something.’

  Helena grinned. ‘We went up the tower.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And he kissed me. Just my cheek.’

  I gasped. This was definitely un-Helena-like behaviour. She’d always been a slow starter and since Ghastly Greg had broken her heart last year, she’d been in a sort of self-imposed purdah. Even when the engineer who came to service the photocopiers in the library had asked her out, she’d said no. And he had been buttering her up with company pens and notebooks for weeks. Like those bowerbirds who like to fill their nests with trinkets to encourage the lady bowerbirds in. This sort of gauche enticement cut no ice with Helena.

  ‘And? And?’ I said, eager for more details.

  ‘And he asked me out. He’s going to take me out for a meal when we get home, and there’s a car museum near where he lives. He sa
ys it’s really good for a visit. Apparently they have a really rare Bugatti—’

  I put a hand to my heart. ‘Stop it you’re killing me!’

  ‘—and one of the Queen’s Rolls-Royces.’

  OK, just because I wouldn’t have thought this was an interesting date, didn’t mean Helena didn’t.

  ‘Do you fancy him then?’

  Helena blushed. ‘Of course! Wouldn’t anyone? He’s so incredibly handsome’ –

  Well he was reasonably nice-looking. Beauty in the eye of the beholder I suppose.

  – ‘and we talked for ages about everything. He really makes me laugh.’

  ‘Then that’s great news. I couldn’t be more pleased.’

  She looked a bit dreamy. ‘And he did such a brilliant job grating the cheese.’

  *

  Oliver came to join us for the evening meal – late of course, stomping out of his room and sitting at the end of the table. He didn’t talk much, just shovelled in his pasta and a couple of glasses of red wine, then declined dessert – with more than a hint of sarcasm – on the grounds he had eaten cake earlier and didn’t want Type 2 diabetes.

  He even mentioned the obesity crisis in Great Britain and I shuffled sideways a bit to hide my arse behind the sideboard. Talk about sucking the joy out of an evening. I was looking forward to some of that dessert too; it was crème brûlée with fresh mango coulis. Instead I sat on my hands watching the others eat it, murder in my heart.

  Nick, still slightly star-struck, badgered him to know how his work was going and Oliver muttered something about rewriting. He then refilled his wine glass and went back to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  ‘He’s not what you might call user-friendly is he?’ Vivienne mused, her chin in her hand. ‘He must be a barrel of laughs to work for.’

  Helena huffed. ‘You didn’t see his secretary when she dropped him off. She was a wreck. She couldn’t leave fast enough.’

  ‘But maybe he gets fed up with people pestering him,’ Nick said. ‘It can’t be easy being so famous.’

  ‘Well he walked in here and we didn’t immediately climb all over him,’ I said, ‘and you’re a fan of his. He must be quite disappointed we aren’t paying him more attention.’