It was the third writers’ retreat Helena and I had run and the previous two had gone like clockwork. There was no reason why this one shouldn’t have been just the same.
And then Oliver Forest turned up.
It was a dark, wet day in February and, believe me, his mood made it seem even bleaker.
*
It didn’t take long for things to go wrong.
It was ten-fifteen and people had been asked to turn up after eleven, so Helena and I were sitting with our feet up in the gorgeous kitchen of our rental house eating cookies out of the first batch I’d made; some of them had broken when I’d burned myself and dropped the baking tray.
Although she is my best friend, Helena is nothing like me. For example, she believes any meal taking longer than seven minutes in a nine-hundred-watt microwave is a waste of time. I love cooking and have been known to sleepwalk into the kitchen to make an omelette.
She has an immaculate and much-loved pale-blue Morris Minor called William, whereas I have a beaten-up old Land Rover, which isn’t called anything except rude names when it refuses to start. Actually, I’m petrified it needs a new cam belt, something that was mentioned in hushed tones last September when it had an MOT. I hope it wasn’t listening. I didn’t dare ask what a cam belt was, but it sounds expensive doesn’t it?
Even though it might be on its last legs, my car had more space than hers for all our provisions. I had removed the Tesco bag full of muddy shoes, a box of books to take to the local telephone kiosk library, and the cracked first-aid kit that now contained only a triangular bandage and a box of corn plasters. Still, if we’d met anyone with a broken arm and bunions on our drive down to the lovely house we’d rented for the retreat, we’d have been ready.
‘So I hope you’re going to tell me you’ve got your money back from Matt?’ Helena asked with an innocent air as I reached for another cookie.
‘Well no, but he promised he would sort it out,’ I said.
This was an ongoing conversation that had started before Christmas when Matt – my now very ex-boyfriend – had gone on our romantic holiday without me.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Billie!’ Helena said. ‘When are you going to toughen up with him? He owes you money! He nicked your towels! Why are you letting him get away with it?’
God knows.
But then why did I let him move into my cottage on the understanding he would replace the skirting boards in the kitchen when he obviously had no intention of doing so?
Why after two years did I keep hoping he might stop being so inconsiderate in bed – not to mention untidy, lazy, and thoughtless?
Why had I allowed myself to believe that a crap boyfriend was better than no boyfriend?
‘I’m going to go and see him when I get home, I really am,’ I said, trying to sound resolute.
Helena huffed a little. ‘You won’t because you know he’ll just get round you again. He never was good enough for you. I did tell you …’
Suddenly there was a mighty banging on the front door, followed by some irritated bell pushing. Helena inhaled a chocolate chip and began coughing and spluttering, tears streaming down her face. I thumped her on the back and went to fetch her a glass of water. Meanwhile, the racket at the front door continued.
I decided to give the bell pusher a piece of my mind. We had made it quite clear that door wasn’t used because it opened directly onto the street. It was locked, the key was hidden somewhere, and it was secured with four pretty sturdy bolts. We were in the middle of a gentle little village in Herefordshire and I don’t think it was a hot spot for crime so all this security was perhaps a bit excessive.
‘For God’s sake! I’m trying! Stop pushing the frigging bell!’ I shouted as I located the key on top of the doorframe and wrestled with the bolts. After a few minutes – hot, sweating, and red-faced – I managed to open the door.
‘What?’ I shouted.
Outside was a dark-haired man standing propped against the wall. He had one leg in a big plastic surgical boot and behind him an exceptionally glamorous blonde was wheeling his suitcase towards me. She was making heavy weather of it too given the unequal struggle with her stilettos and the cobbled street.
‘It’s raining. I want to come in,’ he said. ‘Is that too much to ask?’
He limped past me, and stood watching as the blonde lugged his case over the doorstep. What a gent, I thought as I went to help her.
‘Who are you anyway?’ I said as we hefted the bag inside and closed the door.
The blonde gasped, horrified. ‘But this is Mr Forest.’
The man himself ignored me and began giving rapid-fire instructions to the poor woman.
‘So, make those calls, do as I asked with Gideon, tell him I’m not prepared to talk to Patterson and he’d better sort
