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 just 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.
