he hardly ever came over at weekends, why he wasn’t around at Christmas and why he had three phones but I only had the number of one of them.
I eventually met ‘little Anjelika’ when she saw us having dinner in the German Gymnasium to celebrate our six-month anniversary. She came over, all spiky legs and gnashing teeth to tip his langoustines into his lap and chuck his engagement ring into my salad. They of course had then gone off to have a first-class row, leaving me to pay the bloody bill. When we heard her shrieking what she intended to do to his nether regions once she got her hands on some house bricks, every eye in the place turned enquiringly to look at me and see how I was taking it. I crept away wishing I could pull my coat over my head.
And then there was Luke who was a fitness fanatic, built like a bookcase and strangely hands-off. Eventually when we got to date number twelve and he still hadn’t made a move on my virtue, such as it was, he admitted he was only dating me to keep his ailing grandfather happy. Shortly afterwards the old chap died, the will was read, I was unceremoniously dumped and Luke went off to Peru with Piers. To be honest I had wondered why Piers was always hanging around, and why he and Luke seemed to share a wardrobe. I don’t think my gaydar is particularly good.
Perhaps Joe Field was off women because his wife went off with the … who would it be? Who would call at these farms with any regularity? A seed merchant? No he did sheep, didn’t he? A man selling bales of hay then? Or sheep food? Or a sheep shearer. A shearer called Alan!
Of course. It was almost like a ready-made plot! An Australian sheep shearer who looked like Hugh Jackman. Perhaps Joe’s wife had been left on her own once too often while Joe went out across the moor on his tractor doing farmerly things. I wasn’t actually sure what. Perhaps he would have a couple of faithful sheepdogs with him who would look at him with actual dogged devotion and sit under the table with their paws on his feet when he had his meals.
I wasn’t convinced that was right actually. Didn’t farm dogs live outside in all weathers in kennels? They were working animals after all, not pets.
I came to and realised I had wasted half an hour staring out of the window and thinking about what Joe Field did.
So, back to work.
It was already getting a bit dusky outside as the clouds rolled in across the valley and it was only early afternoon. In London it never gets really dark. There are streetlights and shops and cars. Still, I didn’t want to be wandering around the house in the gloom, did I? So I put on some of the upstairs lights. And then I stood looking out of the bedroom window, watching a big bird wheeling about over the darkening moor. I wished I had some binoculars.
I didn’t actually know where Joe lived but he had mentioned seeing my house lights last time so this was as good a way as any of attracting his attention. And if he could see this house maybe I could see his? I started rummaging in my make-up bag for a lipstick and then stopped.
Pathetic. What the hell was I thinking?
I turned all the lights off again and went downstairs, stamping on each step, annoyed with myself. I was here to work, not think about some unsuspecting farmer I didn’t know.
*
To be fair once I got into some sort of routine I began to enjoy myself. It was a curious liberation not having decent Wi-Fi or much mobile signal. I didn’t have to reply to emails; I didn’t spend time online looking at handbags or clips of raccoons. I adore raccoons. It was only then that I realised how much time I wasted on social media pretending I was doing research. Back in London I would have been googling pictures of Hugh Jackman by now.
After a couple of days I actually did need to go out to get milk so I made my way to the nearest sizeable town. First of all I spent an hour in a café with free, reasonable Wi-Fi to check on my emails. But there wasn’t anything much of interest apart from three emails from Benedict asking why I had gone off in a strop for no good reason, when was I coming back and where was the toothpaste?
I sent a brief reply saying I was working, I wasn’t sure when I would be back and the toothpaste was in my bathroom cabinet where it always was. Then, feeling a bit guilty I sent a second, slightly kinder email saying I was okay, we could have a proper chat to iron things out when I got back and I hoped the latest case was going well.
A couple of miles down the road I found a Superfine Supermarket and stocked up on a few basic provisions.
Then I carried on shopping and found some stuff I didn’t need, like cake, more Wagon Wheels (I seemed to have developed a taste for them) and – as a gesture to my emotional turmoil – some cigarettes.
I hadn’t smoked for a while because of course Benedict didn’t approve. He was always banging on about clean eating and exercise and used to make swamp-like smoothies for breakfast, leaving me to clean the stringy bits out of the blender. He had tried to persuade me to buy a bike too, presumably so we could both look like complete prats as we scythed our way through Notting Hill on our way to the organic, wholefood, vegan market he liked. Actually, I think the only reason he wanted me to get a bike was so I could take pictures of him on my head-cam and then he could post them on Twitter and admire himself. The distance between us seemed to sharpen up my focus. He really could be Smug on a Bike.
I drove home liking the way the weak, winter light scattered across the dark moorland spread out around me. The road was almost straight, like something the Romans would have built, and it was deserted and pitted with the sort of frost damage that would have attracted TV camera crews in London and outrage about what the GLC was spending our council tax on.
I was in a mood. I wanted a man who wore tweed, waxed jackets and chunky sweaters and could do useful things like clear gutters and put the recycling out without doing rock, paper scissors first. A man who liked fried bread and double cream and beer. Preferably at the same meal. A man who used fewer products on his skin than I did. A man who didn’t believe every health scare he read. A man who nicked himself shaving and didn’t make a three-act drama about it, not a metrosexual twat with sensitive skin.
I was being irritable and disloyal. Benedict loved me; he’d said so. And he’d ended his message with a sad face emoji and a GIF of two kittens hugging.
We’d been together for two years. We had shared Christmas and holidays and thrown each other surprise birthday parties. We had fun. He could be kind and unexpectedly generous. Why wasn’t it enough? Why was I feeling like this?
*
When I got back to Barracane House I put the shopping away and, feeling quite daring, took a cup of tea and a cigarette outside.
It wasn’t quite as marvellous as I remembered, and I did quite a bit of coughing and inhaled a bit of tea, which caused me to start spluttering and choking, and just as I made the most unattractive hawking noise and spat my tea out, someone came round the side of the house and started laughing.
‘Are you quite all right?’
I looked round, my eyes streaming with the effort to stop, and of course it was Joe Field standing watching me, and close on his heels were two black and white sheepdogs.
‘I’m fine,’ I croaked, fishing in my pocket for a tissue. ‘Just having a breath of fresh air.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ he said with a grin.
One of the sheepdogs stepped forward on hesitant paws and then stopped at a brisk hand signal from Joe.
I got myself under control and tried
