I lie back down and focus on breathing in and out, desperately trying to evoke a sense of calm. Basil moves up the bed and snuggles his chin onto my shoulder as if willing me to relax too, but it’s no use. I fidget and plump the pillow over and over, dramatically, like they always do in the films, and resign myself to yet another restless night.
*
Satisfied that I won’t scare the other guests with my appearance – I’ve managed to tease my curls into some kind of normal-ish state, which given that I had to use the flimsy little plastic comb from the complimentary vanity pouch in the bathroom, was never going to be easy – I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab the Tindledale Herald (I must have gathered the newspaper someone had left in the carriage in amongst my stuff when I got off the train last night), pull the bedroom door closed behind me, and head off in search of breakfast. I’ve decided to keep the bathrobe on after flicking through the B&B’s brochure (at about four o’clock this morning when I gave up on trying to actually sleep) and saw a picture of a couple wearing theirs in what appeared to be the dining room. Let’s hope it’s OK, otherwise I’m going to look like a right fool, yet again. An image of me in the Princess Leia dress and buns flashes into my head like a still from a Hammer horror film. I shudder and instantly shove the sorry sight away. Years ago, Cher told me that she read in one of those psychology magazines that a Buddhist monk said it can take a whole year to get over a break-up. Hmm. So by that reckoning I have another five months of these dark thoughts. Oh joy.
‘Welcome to Tindledale.’ A very tall, fifty-something, debonair man with a shaved head, clad in a gorgeous soft grey cashmere cardigan (handknitted) over a checked shirt and chinos, walks over to where I’m standing by the breakfast cereal table. Underneath his stylish black-framed retro glasses, he’s wearing diamanté-tipped lash extensions. ‘I’m Lawrence Rosenberg,’ he says, sounding very polite and stately in an old school gentlemanly way, with the faintest hint of an American accent. He holds out his hand, the nails of which are painted a glorious pearly plum colour.
‘Oh, um, hi, I’m Sybil,’ I say, trying not to stare. It’s not every day you meet a man wearing lashes and nail polish, and it’s certainly not something I expected to find in this sleepy little village from a bygone era. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘Do excuse the …’ He circles an index finger around his face. ‘I’m an actor. I run the Tindledale Players.’ I must look bemused as he quickly adds, ‘Amateur dramatics, musical theatre, that kind of thing. It’s my passion, and we had a dress rehearsal last night for the Tindledale Christmas pantomime – I’m the fairy godmother. In addition to being the scriptwriter and chief gofer.’ He smiles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
‘Well, I think you look fabulous,’ I say, instantly warming to him. He smells of toasted almonds mingled with cigar smoke, and has sparkly blue eyes. ‘How did the rehearsal go?’
‘Thank you.’ He does a gentlemanly bow. ‘Very well, considering we had no electricity in the village hall, so it was very much “he’s behind you” and “oh no he isn’t!” and all the other pantomime catchphrases that we love, albeit by candlelight.’
‘Sounds fun,’ I say, remembering the Brownie pantomimes – Cher and I had loads of laughs one Christmas playing Happy (me) and Dopey (Cher) in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
‘It is. You should come to a show, it’s Puss in Boots and His Merry Band of Santa’s Elves this year and I wrote it myself. Tickets include a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine. First proper performance is a week before Christmas Eve, so not long to go, but we have another dress rehearsal tonight so you’re more than welcome to pop along,’ he says brightly.
‘Oh, I might just do that. If I can bring Basil too,’ I venture, wondering if the same dogs-allowed-in-the-village-pub rule applies to the village hall as well.
‘Sure you can.’ Excellent. ‘And what’s your name, little one?’ Lawrence strokes Basil under the chin.
‘Meet Basil, and thanks for letting him stay too,’ I say.
‘It’s our pleasure to look after you both.’ Ah, how nice.
‘Thank you. And it is OK to wear …?’ I lift the collar of the robe.
‘Of course, anything goes round here, hadn’t you noticed?’ Lawrence says, raising one eyebrow, which makes me smile.
‘And I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I might take him to …’
‘Follow me.’ Lawrence leads the way to a utility room by the back door. ‘You can just pop in here and let him out here whenever he needs to go. Did you bring his food?’
‘Yes!’ At least I remembered Basil’s pouches. I pull one from the pocket of my robe and waggle it in the air as proof.
‘Well done. You’d be surprised at the number of our guests who forget. That’s why I keep an emergency supply in the cupboard; I can’t see the dogs going hungry.’ Lawrence shakes his head and selects two dog bowls from a shelf next to the sink. He fills one with water and places it on the floor before taking the pouch from me and squeezing it into the other. ‘I’ll meet you back in the breakfast room.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I call after him, thinking how nice he is – nothing is too much trouble, it seems.
After Basil has finished eating and had a dash around the garden, we head back to where Lawrence is waiting.
‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down by the window and I’ll fetch you a nice cooked breakfast,’ he says kindly. ‘All the trimmings?’ I nod and grin before making my way over to the oval-shaped two-person table he’s gesturing towards. It has an exquisite festive orange-and-clove pomander arrangement set in a crystal glass bowl, and underneath the table is a faux suede bed for Basil to lie on. Wow, this place is just like a dog hotel.
Fluffing a crisp white napkin over my knees, I gaze out through the big bay window to watch the snow. It’s just started falling again, a light sprinkling like icing sugar, swirling all around as if somebody has just shaken a giant snow globe. I feel a swell of excitement, a magical fairy-tale feeling that only a pristine duvet of crisp, clean, white snow invokes. Untouched, it stretches out before me like a virginal safety blanket across a rolling field and up to an interesting-looking building with a huge circular chimney that has smoke spiralling from it up into the white sky, like candy floss in a breeze. And there’s what looks like an adjoining double-fronted shop. It’s really cute with a little white picket fence around the garden although it seems odd to have a shop in the middle of a field. I can’t imagine they get much business being so far away from the centre of the village.
‘Marvellous view, isn’t it?’ Lawrence is standing next to me, gripping the edge of an enormous dinner plate with a blue-and-white striped tea towel. ‘That’s Hettie’s place you can see. The Honey family have been in Tindledale for centuries and her father used to own the hop farm before he passed away. It was sold on, but Hettie kept the oast and all the land around it. And her House of Haberdashery shop next door, of course.’
‘Oh, it sounds fascinating! I love knitting and needlecraft,’ I say, a surge of excitement rising within me.
‘Then you should call in, I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I don’t think she gets many visitors – which reminds me, I must pop over and see if she needs any groceries. She does a weekly trip on the bus up to the village store, but it’s not quite the same as having Ocado deliver,’ he laughs. ‘Plus, I’ve
