‘You ought to ask Oliver Forest if you want to learn about sandstorms,’ I said acidly. ‘He’s writing about them too. Well he said he was – he might have been winding me up. He thinks all women ever read about is cupcakes and knitting—’
‘I love cupcakes,’ Helena said, ‘although I’m not so hot on the knitting.’
‘And running teashops. I bet if I asked what he was writing about it would just be bombs and submachine guns.’
Nick stopped and looked thoughtfully at me for a moment and then shook his head and carried on eating.
‘So how about you, Elaine? How is your work progressing?’ I asked.
Elaine was staring into space and jumped as she realized I was talking to her.
‘Well this house has given me a marvellous idea for a plot twist. Do you think it would work if my doctor – who’s just married the vicar’s daughter, remember – was the one to poison the squire because he found out the squire was actually her father … and after the wedding … no, of course the squire was in India for twenty years so perhaps not. Although he could have just stolen the child couldn’t he? Or found her at the end of the garden? I wanted to use a bit of folklore about the fairies and how awful they are. Always stealing babies apparently. Oh dear, if I imply he found her I’d have to re-work the whole of the first part yet again. I need to think it through properly. I’m beginning to wonder if Mr Forest isn’t right and I should plot the whole thing out properly. It goes against the grain though.’
‘I saw someone do a plot sheet once. It looked very complicated,’ Nancy said. ‘There was something to do with Post-it Notes and different-coloured pens. I don’t know what all that was about.’
I passed round the wine again and went to get some more water. In the kitchen I glanced at Oliver’s door. It was still closed. I filled the jug and found some ice. I began to worry. What if he was unwell or – encumbered by his plastic boot – had fallen over?
I imagined him prone on the bathroom floor, his head banged up against the radiator, lying in a pool of gore. I’d have to phone an ambulance and there wasn’t any phone signal. I could almost see myself running down the road waving my mobile above my head like an Olympic torch …
I’d better check.
I edged over towards his room on tiptoe and stood listening. Nothing.
I stepped closer, cleared my throat and made sort of ‘goodness me I wonder where Oliver is’ noises. Nothing.
I knocked and received no reply, so I knocked harder.
After a moment’s hesitation I opened the door and looked round. No sign of him anywhere. The room was immaculately tidy, the curtains closed, the bed tightly made, and no sign of Oliver or any of his possessions. I relaxed a bit; perhaps he had left? No, his suitcase was still tucked in next to the wardrobe.
He must have gone out. But how? And why? After insisting he couldn’t manage the stairs, would he just go off for a walk? Bloody cheek of the man! I had a good mind to get all his gear together and just move him into another room upstairs and put Elaine into the room she had booked months ago. I’d have to change the bedding though. I mean, I wouldn’t want to sleep on someone else’s sheets. Even if he wore pyjamas.
I bet he didn’t.
I bet he slept with nothing on.
Shut up! Shut up! Stop thinking such ridiculous thoughts! He’d probably kept his clothes on during his nap. Hadn’t he? I would.
I didn’t think I could bring myself to do it. There would be all sorts of man stuff. I remembered only too clearly what it was like when I went on holiday to Cornwall with Matt. Clothes and shaving kit and personal things with plugs and chargers. I couldn’t just, you know, rummage around in his drawers. I snorted with laughter despite myself.
There was a sudden movement just out of my eye line.
I turned.
There in the shadowy corner was a naked, one-legged man.
I screamed and instinctively clutched the water jug to my chest. In the same second that the iced water splattered all over me and a couple of ice cubes sneaked down my top into my bra, I realized it was Oliver with his injured leg in a black bin liner. He’d been having a shower. The only correct part of my assumption was he was naked.
Don’t look! Don’t bloody look for God’s sake.
Too late!
Jeeezus!
I shut my eyes as tight as I could and took a step back and of course fell over something. And tipped the rest of the water over myself.
I heard myself yelping like a trampled puppy and someone roaring with laughter and then I fled out of the room. Nancy and Vivienne, alerted by the noise, had come out of the dining room and were standing there. Nancy was still chewing.
‘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 suppressed 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
