Sharon Griffiths
The Lost Guide to Life and Love

With love to the Amos men—

Mike, Owen and Adam—who

filled my life with football.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Tilly’s Recipes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Suddenly, the photographers stopped slouching and snapped to attention. They threw their cigarettes into the gutter and hoisted cameras into position, jostling for space and a good angle as the limo glided right up to the red-carpeted steps.

Dazzling flashes of light filled the autumn air alongside shouts of ‘Over here, Clayton!’ ‘Give us a smile, Tanya!’ ‘This way, darling!’

Before the limo pulled away, two taxis arrived. More shouts, more flashing lights. A glimpse of the top of a blonde head, a sparkle of jewellery, a protective male arm. Then a glimpse of expensively cut jackets and a fluid athletic movement as more men sprang from the taxi almost before it had stopped.

Our queue pushed forward, straining to see. ‘Who is it?’ I asked Jake, as I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to jump up and look. My view was blocked by the huge presence of the security man, whose massive head seemed to grow straight out of his shoulders, his broad chest straining the seams of his jacket.

‘Clayton Silver and some other footballers, I think,’ said Jake, over his shoulder, ‘and a couple of those girls off Hollyoaks or EastEnders.’

‘Oh, I hope we get in!’

The footballers and their glittering girls went in through the canopied entrance, shielded from view by a phalanx of security men and the tubs of trees on each step. The taxis sped off, the cameras stopped flashing, the photographers went back to slouching and the queue pushed forward, impatient to be in. A beautiful young man in an impossibly tight shirt was checking names off on a clipboard. Ahead of us a group of girls—all long legs, long hair, huge eyes and glossy, scarlet lips—were pleading with him, but it was no good. He shook his head. The security men motioned them away out into the dark. The rest of us watched, fearful that we too would be rejected. It’s probably easier to get into heaven than Club Balaika.

When Jake had said he knew someone who knew someone who could maybe get us in, I was first of all stunned that he’d suggested it. Not normally his sort of thing at all. But things hadn’t been too good between us. We had hardly been out together for ages, so I guessed this was his way of making up for being so offhand lately. I’d agonised over what to wear—my bed had vanished under discarded outfits—and had finally settled on a chain-store knock-off dress, but adding a bit of class with my funky rainbow earrings that had cost me a week’s wages on a working trip to Paris. I’d treated myself to a whole load of new smudgy eye makeup too, not that anyone would really see it in there…

Now at the Balaika, the people before us were allowed in. Did that mean that we were more or less likely to be? We were at the head of the queue now. I tried to look cool, above it all, as if I wasn’t bothered whether we got in or not. I fixed the beautiful young man with what I hoped was an ironically amused glance as Jake gave him our names. He checked us on his clipboard list, looked me up and down in a totally uninterested way, then gave a brief nod and we were in. I tried not to yelp in glee.

The club was hot, dark and crowded, a lot smaller than I’d imagined and way smaller than our usual haunts but it certainly smelled more expensive, swirling with perfumes and colognes that were tantalisingly subtle. And the people, oh they were definitely more expensive. No chain-store knock-offs here. Every inch of flesh on display—and there was a lot—was honed and toned, polished and glossed. Every strand of hair gleamed. Every smile dazzled. There wasn’t an ugly girl there. Each one looked as though she had spent the whole day, her whole life, getting ready to come out. Bet they hadn’t had to rush home from work, dive into the shower and dash to get ready. These girls had all the time in the world. Time to acquire expensive tans, perfect hairstyles and stunning bodies, and, above all, a careless confidence, almost boredom. The men with them had all the assurance that money brings and something else—reflected pride? Ownership?

Jake and I made our way in to the bar, trying to look as though we belonged, Jake’s journalist eyes flitting here and there, noticing everything, his eyes blinking as though he were taking rapid instant-camera shots. I was busy looking down—so many wonderful, wonderful shoes. Just slips of leather in jewelled colours, leopardskin, gold and silver—sometimes even all together—narrow straps, towering heels, exquisite decoration. All miniature works of art and engineering that these girls wore so casually on their elegant, narrow, bony feet. You just knew that they had at least twenty more pairs at home.

There was nowhere to sit down. Well, there were plenty of tables in alcoves where laughing groups sat round ice buckets full of champagne and bowls of strange-looking drinks. But to get a seat you had to reserve a table and you could only reserve a table if you were going to spend serious amounts of money. Not hard, as Jake muttered, going pale as our two drinks took a huge chunk from his credit card. We were definitely out of our league. But we could pretend for a night.

As my eyes got used to the dim but changing light—an icy blue made everyone look like ghosts, almost green, like aliens from a cheap science-fiction film. I thought I could recognise some of the people—someone from a boy band perhaps, or the guy who played Hugh Grant’s little brother in something. But maybe it was just a look. All the guys looked like Hugh Grant’s little brother. Handsome is as handsome does, as my mother used to say, quoting her fearsome Granny Allen; but handsome is still very nice to look at. Everyone seemed to know each other—lots of shrieks and greetings and extravagant air kisses. I couldn’t see the footballers but there was no VIP area—the whole place was a VIP area—just a series of booths leading off the main room, and I guessed they were in one of those. Then I stopped looking, made the most of the music and leaned into Jake for a dance, surrounded by all the beautiful people.

This was all for work, of course. For Jake, everything revolves around work. Clubbing isn’t his first choice for a night out. And such a club…I spotted Kit Kenzo, who does that late-night music programme, all over the girl who does the football reports. Then that earl who’s a model, and I couldn’t help gazing at him over Jake’s shoulder. This was beginning to be fun. Then a tall elegant girl with the most perfect shoulders gazed with interest and a hint of envy at my earrings. Good.

As the night wore on, the music grew louder (great DJ), the atmosphere looser. Even the beautiful people looked not quite as beautiful now and not quite so bored. I wanted to keep dancing, but Jake was standing by the bar, watching people over the top of his bottle of Asaki.

‘Come on, Jake, let’s dance,’ I said, putting my glass back on the bar and taking his hand, trying to encourage him onto the dance floor. I wanted to make the most of this.

‘Yeah, OK, Tilly,’ he said, kissing the top of my head, a rare show of affection these days. I glanced up happily to meet the warmth of his gaze, but instead I could see he was watching someone on the other side of the room. I turned to see a couple of middle-aged men in expensive suits coming in and going round to one of the booths. I recognised one of them—Simeon Maynard, a billionaire businessman who had come from nowhere to buy Shadwell, the premiership football club that Clayton Silver played for. Presumably that’s who he was drinking with. A few minutes later a waitress went over with ice buckets of champagne.

Of course this was why we were here. For weeks Jake had been researching some big story. Not quite sure what it was about—he didn’t talk about work so much to me these days and we were increasingly like ships that passed in the night—but it was hard not to notice all the newspaper cuttings about Maynard piling up in the flat.

I danced close to Jake, my arms round his neck, but he didn’t bend into me, the way he usually did. Somehow it felt as though he wasn’t there with me at all. Or didn’t want to be. After a while I gave up, stood back from him, let my arms drop to my side. At the same time, the two actresses who’d been drinking with the footballers and Maynard were coming out of one of the private booths and heading rather unsteadily across the floor.

Now Jake took my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Try and listen in to their conversation. See if they say anything interesting.’

Excuse me? He was definitely beginning to lose it. I looked at him and shook my head, and then followed the actresses downstairs to the Ladies. At least I’d get a sit-down. My strippy-strappy shoes were beginning to give me strippy-strappy blisters; there’s a limit to what party feet gel insoles can achieve.

In the Ladies, there was a whole different party going on. Small groups of girls giggled round the washbasins. I didn’t look too closely at what they were doing, but I don’t think they were sharing their holiday snaps. A girl with a face straight from a Pre-Raphaelite painting lay slumped across an armchair, her eyes shut, her minuscule handbag dropped on the floor. She groaned slightly. I must have looked alarmed because a blonde with the sort of tan you only get from sunbathing on the deck of mega-yachts said dismissively, ‘Leave her. She’s always the same after too much of the house hooch…’ she paused…‘on top of everything else.’

Other girls in their tiny dresses, as leggy as storks, leant forward into the mirrors, pouting provocatively at their own reflections as they brushed back manes of expertly highlighted hair.

The actresses I had followed had already emerged from the cubicles, swaying, laughing loudly. They joined the girls at the mirror.

‘Not sure about this lip gloss. Too red, I think. What do you think?’ said the dark one, peering at her image.

The fair one looked at her through the mirror and concentrated hard. ‘No, you’re probably more of a reddish pink. Me, I always prefer a pink. My colour consultant told me it brings out the warmth of my skin tones.’

‘Yeah. I can see that.’

Riveting stuff. They snapped their handbags shut and tottered off. This was what I was supposed to be listening to? What had got into Jake? What had it to do with any story he was working on? Of course, if he talked to me more about what he was doing, then I might have more of an idea.

Suddenly the room emptied, instantly, magically. ‘The princes?’ one girl breathily asked another. ‘Both of them? Oh, yes please. Such good fun. And I just so adore the bodyguards.’

Out they all swarmed, a mass attack that would strike terror into even a prince. All except the girl slumped in the armchair, who was now at least sitting up and looking less green.

I was about to follow them. A chance to dance with a prince—well, within a few yards of one, at least—was too good to miss. I was just drying my hands on one of the neatly rolled little towels when the door suddenly burst open.

The girl who charged in wore a short sparkly dress that was definitely not a chain-store knock-off, but she could have worn a bin liner and looked stunning. Six feet tall with red hair piled on top of her head, she had the sort of cheekbones that make the rest of us just want to give up hope. She glanced quickly around the cloakroom, gave me the briefest of nods and raised her eyes to examine the high windows. Then, while I watched with my jaw dropping, she took off her shoes, stepped up onto the marble surround of the washbasins, reached up to push open the narrow window, then pulled herself up, wriggled through it and dropped out into the night.

I pulled a chair over and jumped up, twisting my head to peer down through the window. The girl was loping easily down the back street, past a surprised security guard, towards a taxi rank. Her hair had come loose and my lasting image was of her in the light of the streetlamps, her copper-coloured hair streaming out behind her, shining, dazzling.

Chapter Two

‘So, Tilly, did you get to dance with a prince?’ asked Bill, my godfather, the next day when I called in to his bistro. He and his kitchen staff were prepping up for lunch and I stood by the door of the kitchen, out of their way. While Bill talked to me, he was still keeping an eye on the chopping, slicing, searing, stirring going on all around him. I always loved watching him, cooking with him, tasting, experimenting. His restaurant kitchens had been a second home to me, and it was all down to him, really, that I was working for The Foodie magazine.

‘A prince? Sadly, no,’ I laughed, helping myself to a deliciously sweet cherry tomato. ‘It was impossible to get near them—and seriously uncool to try. So I don’t think I’ll be the next princess.’

‘Shame,’ said Bill, kissing the top of my head as he came past me with a tray of prawns. ‘You’d be a perfect princess. And it would be good for business too. The princess’s godfather! Everyone would want to come and eat here.’ He grinned at me. ‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Actually, I’ve come to ask a favour.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Jake and I are going up north for a sort of holiday.’

‘Sort of holiday?’

‘Well, yes, he’s got some project he’s working on. And I thought I could do some stories up there too, so we’re renting a cottage for a couple of weeks. I’ve got the names of some really interesting food producers—cheese-makers, chocolatiers, and a monk who makes cider from the monastery apples, but if you know of any more, it would be really good. And as long as I keep sending them plenty of articles, the magazine’s OK about me being away.’

‘Sure,’ said Bill, ‘I can give you some contacts. If you’re staying for lunch, we can sort it out then.’

‘Sorry. Can’t. I’m lunching with Mum.’

‘Ah,’ said Bill with a sigh, ‘your mother. How is she?’

‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you seen her recently?’

‘No. She has, she says, been far too busy. Too busy for anyone as frivolous as me.’

Bill looked sad for a moment and I felt sad for him. He’d loved my mother for years. Hopelessly and helplessly. There was a small silence. I helped myself to another tomato.

‘These are really very good,’ I said as the juice spurted sweetly in my mouth. ‘They taste of sunshine.’

Bill’s face brightened. ‘Yes, they do, don’t they? They’re from a new supplier. Tell you what…’ He picked up a generous handful of the tomatoes and popped them into a paper bag. ‘Give these to your mother, with my love. And I’ll email you some suggestions for those foodie pieces.’

‘Right. I’ll give them to her and I hope they bring you luck.’

I gave him a hug and a kiss and set off with the usual mixed emotions to meet my mother, Frankie Flint…

Yes, that Frankie Flint, Fairtrade Frankie, the one who set up the chain of coffee bars. You’ll probably have heard of her. She’s always in the papers. There’s even talk of making a film about her.

About how Frankie Flint and her husband Theo started a tiny little restaurant making delicious food so even though the chairs creaked and the tables wobbled it was quickly a huge success. Critics enthused about it, famous people ‘discovered’ it. Their friend Bill came in as a partner to help them. The day they had their first rave reviews in the colour supplements they held an impromptu party at Theo and Frankie’s house. In the middle of the afternoon, Theo popped back to the restaurant to get some more food and wine. He took Josh, their two-year-old son, with him.

And in the middle of a sunny Sunday, on an almost deserted road, a drunk driver, just nineteen years old, jumped the lights and rammed straight into their car. If Theo himself had not had a couple of glasses of wine, he might have seen it coming and avoided it. Maybe. Maybe not. But he didn’t. Theo and the other driver died instantly. Baby Josh lingered on before he, too, died three weeks later. I think my mother would have liked to have died, too. But she had her daughter, me, aged five, to look after.

Years later, probably when I was about ten, I came across a photo tucked into a book at home. It was a typical holiday snap of a family sitting around a café table in the sunshine. Father with a baby boy perched on his shoulders, a small chubby girl in big sunglasses reaching up to drink from a straw in a perilously tilted glass, and a young woman with long flowing hair laughing at the camera, eyes slightly screwed up in the sunlight, nothing more to worry about than the chance of some spilled orange juice.

‘Who are they?’ I asked my mother, who had gone pale at the sight of the picture.

‘That’s you,’ she said, pointing to the chubby toddler. ‘And your dad, and Josh, the year we went to France.’

‘But who’s that?’ I asked, pointing at the laughing woman.

‘That’s me,’ said my mother. ‘You won’t recognise me because I wore my hair long then.’

But that wasn’t why I didn’t recognise my mother laughing in the sunshine. It was because in the five years since the accident, I had never once seen my mother laugh.

After my father and brother died, I think my mother must have had some sort of breakdown. Understandable really. But somehow she emerged and set up a new business. Energised and determined, she wanted to give people an alternative to pubs and bars, so she set up Frankie’s Coffee Shops.

Long before Starbucks, Mum took the 1950s coffee bar and reinvented it. At a time when Britain was desperate for decent coffee, she provided it, and a great place to drink it too. Her cafés had armchairs and newspapers. Bigger branches had rooms with TV screens and table football and a jukebox and opened until late at night. They served soup, snacks, sandwiches and cakes but never, ever, alcohol. Still don’t. But, despite that, Frankie’s coffee shops are cool. She found the knack of appealing to all ages and all types. In the daytime it was the sort of place you could meet your granny, while at night you didn’t have to apologise for suggesting a Frankie’s Coffee Shop on the way home from a movie.

What started as a little, hippyish establishment soon grew. She set up franchises—very strictly controlled—until there were Frankie’s Coffee Shops in most big towns. My mother had always been the business brain when she and Theo and Bill had their restaurant, and now she went into overdrive. She often said, ‘Work is the best medicine, as Granny Allen used to say.’

Don’t get me wrong. Frankie wasn’t a bad mother. Not at all. It was almost as though she was trying so hard not to smother me that she left me almost too much alone. She didn’t want to get too close to anyone any more, not even me. And certainly not Bill.

In any case, her business took huge amounts of time and energy. And because it was such a novelty—ahead of its time, fairly traded and organic—she was always in the newspapers, on radio and television, commentating on this, that and the other. She was the absolute model of the perfect business, the perfect employer, the perfect ethical entrepreneur. What’s more, she talked well and passionately, looked stunning and stylish and even made a profit—most of which, needless to say, was ploughed back into good causes. She was a one-woman retail phenomenon.

But all that didn’t always make her easy to live with. Hard-working, high-minded, high-achieving, successful mothers with high moral standards and an insatiable work ethic aren’t always the best flatmates for day-dreaming, chaotic teenage girls with a serious shoe habit and a pathological desire to sleep till lunchtime.

Frankie’s New Road branch is aimed at ladies who lunch. It has huge squashy sofas, piles of glossy magazines and walls decorated with fashion ads. It is light and stylish and welcoming. And, as always, very busy. The place buzzes with chatter and is a glow of colours and good smells.

There, tucked in the corner in her trademark black, is my mother. She has a phone to her ear and a pile of papers in front of her. She likes to take her work round to the various coffee shops and work in the middle of it all, so she can see what’s going on and her staff and customers can talk to her. It’s another reason the media love her.

I bend over to give her a quick hug and kiss. As always, she makes me feel large and awkward. My mother apparently takes after her father’s family and is small-boned and neat. She says I have inherited characteristics from her mother’s family and that’s why I’m so tall with enormous feet. Still on the phone, she gives me a quick acknowledgment as I sit down and order a smoothie—apple, pear, ginger and beetroot. Beetroot? I have to try it. When it comes, I sip it tentatively, then with more enthusiasm. Mmm, yes, it works. As I lean back, untangling the different flavours on my tongue, I watch my mother as she discusses a problem at one of the branches. The lines round her eyes I am used to. They’ve been there from the time my father and brother died. Maybe it’s the light, but today they seem deeper. The black, stylish as it is, does little to flatter. Sorrow had aged my mother when she was young, but now she’s fifty and age is beginning to do its bit as well. She is as smart as ever but there is, I realise sadly, a hardness about her.

She finishes her call. ‘Sorry about that, darling, but you know what it’s like.’ And I do, I do. ‘Do you mind eating here? They have some wonderful fish soup today. And the new bread is delicious.’

So we sit there and have the fish soup, thick and creamy with lots of mussels. I dig each one out with the shell of another and lick the creamy, lemony sauce from my fingers. It’s all very good. But my mother’s eyes are constantly darting hither and yon, watching the staff, watching the customers, thinking, considering.

‘Oh I forgot,’ I say suddenly, producing the little bag of tomatoes, ‘Bill sent you these.’

She looks into the bag and closes it up again without taking any of the tomatoes. ‘And how is Bill?’ she asks politely.

‘Pining for you,’ I say. ‘I gather you haven’t seen him for some time.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ she says. ‘But I hear the bistro’s going well. It’s madness him having to start all over again. Why he sold his last restaurant before he went travelling, I’ve no idea, especially as he only stayed away for a few months. So much for his midlife gap year. I told him it was a daft idea.’

‘You know he hoped you’d go with him,’ I say, picking up a crumb of bread on my fingertip. Waste not, want not—another Granny Allen saying. When Bill went on his travels, I knew he had texted or emailed or sent silly postcards from every stop, hoping to tempt her out to join him. He only came home again because she wouldn’t.

My mother snorts. ‘He might have time to abandon everything and jaunt round the world like an overgrown adolescent, but the rest of us have work to do, businesses to run.’

‘Bill would maintain,’ I say, ‘that you have lives to live too.’

She gives me a withering look. And I see Bill still doesn’t stand a chance.

The waiter brings our coffees and my mother turns the tables on me.

‘So, how’s your love life? Everything OK with Jake?’

‘Mmmm.’ My mother and I don’t really do girlie chats, but I need to talk to someone. ‘I think so. But, to be honest, he’s been a bit odd lately.’

‘In what way?’ She looks at me sharply. ‘Is he working?’

‘Oh yes, doing something on the new breed of football managers. He seems quite involved in it. Thinks it could really make his name.’

My mother looks approving. ‘Sounds interesting,’ she says. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Oh, probably nothing,’ I say. ‘Anyway,’ I continue, trying to be more positive in the light of my mother’s sharp gaze. ‘We’re off up north for a week or two. He wants to do something about the millionaires buying up grouse moors and turning themselves into English gentlemen.’

‘You mean like, what’s the name, Simeon Maynard? Slimy Simeon?’

‘The very one.’

‘Now I’d really like to know where his money came from. Nowhere respectable, I’ll bet. If Jake can get to the bottom of that, I think it would be a real can of worms,’ says my mother. ‘Anyway, where are you going?’

‘Somewhere in the back of beyond called High Hartstone Edge,’ I say. ‘It’s literally in the middle of nowhere, it’s—’

‘I know exactly where it is,’ says my mother, surprised and almost smiling. ‘It’s where Granny Allen came from.’

‘Really? The Granny Allen?’ We had this picture of Granny Allen at home, a faded photo of an oldish woman with thick hair tied back and a determined expression, sitting bolt upright outside her cottage, gripping her Bible firmly. She might have been dead for well over a hundred years or more, but her influence still lingered on. If I tried to throw anything away—from an old dress to a chicken carcass—then Mum always said Granny Allen would come and haunt me. She’d been told that by her mum, who’d been told it by hers, and so on and so on, right back to Granny Allen, who ruled the family back in the nineteenth century. You told the truth, kept your word, helped people when you could and, above all, you worked hard and stood on your own two feet. Lounging round, doing nothing, was condemned as a very un-Granny-Allen-like activity. Anyway, she was always there in the photograph, with her Bible and that stern expression, watching my every move.

And as for drink…Well, you could see Mum was just programmed to set up Frankie’s Coffee Shops really. Apparently, Granny Allen had brought up her younger brothers and sisters, then her own family, and then her grandchildren too, all from a tiny farm high up on some bleak northern fellside. She must have been very tough, very determined, but not, I guess, a barrel of laughs.

‘She was actually your great-grandmother, or even great-great, I’m not sure,’ Mum was saying. ‘I went to Hartstone Edge with my mother when I was very small. We went somewhere by train, which seemed to take forever, and then it was a very long drive after that, up high and winding roads. My great-aunt lived there then. To be honest, I can’t remember much about it, I was very young. Lots of hills and sky, I remember. And sheep. And a stream with a ford and a little packhorse bridge. I remember playing on it with some cousins. It’s probably all changed now, of course. It was always a hard place to make a living.’

For a moment she looks miles away. ‘I’ve always meant to go back there. But the time was never right. But now you can go instead and tell me what it’s like. Anyway, it will be good for you to have a little break, even if it’s a working holiday. How long are you away for?’

‘We’ve booked the cottage for two weeks, but we can probably extend it if we want to.’

‘Take plenty of warm clothes. You’ll need an extra layer up there, especially at this time of year. High Hartstone Edge! What a coincidence.’ We look at each other and this time my mother really does smile as we say in unison, ‘What would Granny Allen say?’

Chapter Three

It had rained all the way up the A1. Grey roads, grey traffic, the constant spray from lorries. The further north we headed, the worse it seemed to get. I had long since lapsed into silence. Jake was concentrating hard on the road ahead as he peered past the windscreen wipers into the gloom ahead.

‘Shall I drive for a while?’ I offered.

‘Might be an idea,’ he said, ‘I could do with a break. Look, there’re some services soon. We’ll stop and get a coffee. Give the rain a chance to stop.’

The service station didn’t look promising. The only free space was at the far end of the car park and we had to run through the rain, dodging the puddles and then into a world of flashing video games and the smell of chips. We bought some papers and some coffees and sat down at the only table that wasn’t piled high with heaps of dirty, greasy plates.

The coffee was only just drinkable, but at least it was good to be away from the constant whoosh of the windscreen wipers. I leant back, stretched my legs and flipped vaguely though the heap of papers. Suddenly, I sat bolt upright.

‘That’s her!’ I said. ‘The girl from the club!’

‘What girl?’ asked Jake, puzzled, as I twisted the paper round to show him.

‘ “Supermodel sensation, Foxy, has hunted herself down a very tasty new contract”,’ Jake read. ‘“The stunning redhead, who has taken the fashion world by storm since her first appearance on the catwalks at London Fashion Week two years ago, has signed up to be the new face of Virgo cosmetics in one of the company’s biggest ever deals. No chicken feed for fabulous Foxy!” Was she at the club? I don’t remember seeing here. And’—he looked back at the page—‘I’m sure I would have…’

‘No. She left in rather a hurry,’ I said. And told him the story of how she had jumped out of the window and down into the street.

I expected Jake to laugh. Instead he was furious. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ he asked so fiercely that the family at the next table paused in the middle of chomping through giant burgers, nudged each other and stared at us.

‘Because the princes arrived, and everyone was buzzing round them,’ I said, astonished at his reaction. ‘It just put it out of my mind. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d be so interested.’

‘Of course I’m interested.’ He looked at me as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘A top model jumps from a toilet window in a club full of Premiership footballers and royal princes. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit interesting?’

‘Well, yes, of course it is. But so was everything else that was going on. I just didn’t think…I mean, I just don’t understand why you care so much. What are you doing? It’s not the sort of story you normally do. I thought you were writing about dodgy millionaires. Or are you selling celebrity stories now? What’s happened to your famous principles?’

That was, I know, a bitchy thing to say. And I regretted it immediately. But too late.

Jake stood up. Very quietly, deliberately, he gathered all the papers, left his half-drunk coffee and walked out. I picked up my bag and ran after him. ‘Shall I drive now?’ I asked when we got to the car. But he just glared at me and got in the driving seat. We drove on in the rain and silence.

He was frowning, but I don’t know whether that was because of the weather or because of me. I never seemed to measure up to Jake’s standards. Even back at journalism college, where he was the star of the course. I always thought he would team up with one of the very bright, scary girls, like the Staveley twins, Felicity and Arabella, who were heading straight into television or national newspapers. But they all went their own ways and somehow it was just Jake and me and it seemed fine, even if I went into food writing, which for Jake didn’t count as proper journalism.

Jake practically lives at my place, but he still keeps his old bedsit, a few miles away, where the cupboards are full of his neatly labelled files and a few basic clothes hang on a hook at the back of the door.

As we headed north, I could feel the silence between us, and wondered why he was suddenly so concerned about models and footballers. But somehow I didn’t think he was going to tell me. He didn’t tell me much any more.

We left the motorway and turned onto a road that led through small towns, then large villages, then small villages, then just about nothing at all. The rain had finally stopped, which was just as well, as we seemed to be climbing higher and the road was little more than a single lane as we kept tucking into hedges to let cars and tractors pass. Soon there weren’t even hedges, or many trees, just a few scrubby bushes, bent from the wind, and dry-stone walls. And no more villages, just occasional houses spread out over a vast, empty moorland, dotted with sheep.

‘Where now?’ asked Jake. It was the first thing he’d said for an hour.

I scrabbled in my bag for directions. ‘We come to a place called Hartstone and, just past the pub—that’s good, it’s got a pub—and the old chapel, there’s a track marked “High Hartstone only”. We turn up there and in about a mile there’s a farmhouse and that’s where we go to collect the key.’

The narrow road suddenly rose so steeply that it was almost perpendicular. Then, as Jake steered carefully past a large jutting boulder and rounded another bend, I gasped. ‘We’re on top of the world!’

After all that climbing, we were now on a plateau. To left and right the moors stretched out for miles. Ahead was a small group of buildings and beyond that the road tumbled down and we could see another valley, a stony blur of blues and greens and greys stretching out into a hazy purple distance.

Never before had I had such a feeling of space and distance. I don’t think I’d ever been in such an empty space. Bit of a shock for a city girl. Even Jake in his foul mood looked momentarily impressed, and slowed the car to take in the vastness of the view. Then we drove past the pub, grey and solid and hunched against the weather, saw the old chapel, which now seemed to be an outdoor pursuits centre. Or had been. It was boarded up and looked sad. Apart from that there was only a handful of houses. Where were the people who came to the pub? Where were the people who had come to the chapel? Were there even any people up here?

I spotted the ‘High Hartstone only’ sign and we turned and bumped off up the track, which twisted across the vast open space of the moor. It seemed a long mile.

Suddenly we could see a small collection of buildings, dropped down at the base of another high hill that seemed to soar right up to the sky. The road led straight into a farmyard and stopped. That was the end of it. Literally the end of the road.

‘Is this it?’ asked Jake.

‘I suppose so,’ I said, having no idea. With that a woman emerged from one of the barns across the yard. She was tall, striking, with a heavy plait of greying auburn hair and, although dressed in jeans, wellies and an ancient battered waterproof, moved with a casual sort of elegance. I’d never seen anyone quite like her before.

Jake sat in the car, arms folded and a deliberately blank expression on his face as if to say that this was nothing to do with him. So I got out of the car, stiff from the journey, and walked towards her. She would have been intimidating, if she hadn’t been smiling in welcome. ‘Mrs Alderson?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Hello there!’ she said cheerfully. ‘You must be Miss Flint and’ she glanced towards the car, ‘Mr Shaw?’

‘That’s us,’ I said, relieved, thinking how nice it was to hear a friendly voice after the hours of silence in the car. She had deep dark blue eyes and the most amazing skin, and her wrinkles were definitely laughter lines. Tucked into the neck of her jumper was a vivid jade scarf that lit up her face and contrasted sharply with the dingy mud of her jacket.

‘Good journey? Found us all right?’

‘Yes, fine, thank you. Excellent directions,’ I said, extra brightly to make up for Jake’s silence. She gave us both a quick look and I swear she knew that we’d had a row en route. But she just smiled again. ‘That’s the cottage up there,’ she said, pointing up the hillside behind the farm.

In the middle of its vast steep expanse of fellside, I could see a solitary grey stone house built into a hollow. It must have been half a mile from the farm and the only building for miles, apart from a few tumbledown cottages and some abandoned stone barns, with high, dark doorways. It was a weird, empty landscape. What’s more, there seemed to be no road up to it. I began to wonder just what I’d booked.

‘You’ll have to back out of the yard and follow the track through the stream. Don’t try and get over the bridge. It’s built for horses and pedestrians, not cars. The key’s in the door. I’ve put the heating on and I think everything’s self-explanatory. But if not, just pop down and we’ll put you right. Anything you need, just ask. If I’m not here, I’m not far.’

I thanked her and we got back into the car and Jake manoeuvred it out and along the track.

‘A bloody ford!’ he muttered. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t rain much more or we’ll be washed away. You couldn’t have chosen anything further away if you’d tried.’

‘But Simeon Maynard’s grouse moor is just over there,’ I waved vaguely, ‘That’s why I chose it. Only a mile or so as the crow flies.’

‘I am not a bloody crow,’ said Jake through gritted teeth as we splashed and bumped through the ford, past the narrow packhorse bridge.

The stream…the ford…the packhorse bridge…

My mother’s voice echoed in my ears. This must have been where she came with her mother, my grandmother. This must be where part of her family—my family—had come from. So I wasn’t coming somewhere new and strange. I was coming home. What a thought. My ancestors had lived and worked in this strange, empty landscape. I tried to get my head round it and felt quite ridiculously excited.

Unlike Jake. ‘This track is going to do nothing for the suspension of the car. We’ll be lucky if the exhaust doesn’t drop off before the end of the week,’ he grumbled as he pulled up alongside the cottage.

We sat in the car and stared at it. It wasn’t a pretty house. No roses round the door. No cottage garden. Grey and solid, it was a no-nonsense, take-me-as-you-find-me sort of house, looking down the hill and across the moors. The road was so steep I felt I could drop a stone down the chimney of the farmhouse far below us. We got out of the car into a gust of wind so sudden and strong I thought it would blow us away as we ran indoors, heads down and jackets flapping. I wondered where on earth we’d come to.

But inside the cottage was warm and welcoming. As well as the central heating, there was a wood-burning stove in the small living room, which was cheerful with brightly coloured curtains and rugs and a big squashy sofa. The kitchen was modern farmhouse, lots of terracotta and pine and a stunning view from the window above the sink. On the table was a tray with mugs, a teapot, a fruit cake and a wedge of cheese and a note saying there was milk and a bottle of wine in the fridge.

Relieved that there were at least some elements of civilisation in this wild and windblown place, I dumped my bag on the floor, switched on the kettle and looked at the huge folder of information.

Jake, meanwhile, was stamping round, clutching his mobile and muttering angrily.

‘No signal! No bloody signal!’

‘Try outside,’ I said, calmly, ‘it might work better there.’

But two minutes later he was back. ‘Not even one rotten bar. Absolutely nothing.’

I’d made some tea and was looking through the notes Mrs Alderson had left. ‘It says here that there’s Internet access from the pub.’

Jake looked horrified. ‘From the pub! The pub all that way across the moors? You mean we haven’t got it here?’

‘Nope,’ I said, still reading. ‘Problem with phone lines, or lack of them. Too isolated apparently.’

And that’s when Jake lost it. ‘You mean I’ve got to drive down the track and through that bloody stream to the pub every time I want to check my emails?’ he shouted. ‘That you’ve brought us to a place in the back of bloody beyond, that has no mobile phone signal, no phone and no Internet access and is halfway up a mountain in the middle of a bloody moor in the middle of nowhere? Tilly, I’m meant to be working here. This isn’t a bloody holiday! How can I work without the tools of my trade?’

‘Well, it’s not far to the pub,’ I said soothingly. ‘You can get a mobile signal there too, it says here. Come on,’ I continued, trying to coax him into a better mood. I seemed to have been doing a lot of that lately. ‘Have a cup of tea and some of this fruit cake. It’s really good.’

‘Don’t you understand?’ he yelled in a fury, ‘I can not work here. It is utterly impractical. Out of the question. We can’t stay here. End of. Put your bag back in the car. We’ll have to find somewhere else. Maybe the pub for tonight until we find something else. Come on.’ And he walked out of the warm, welcoming kitchen and back to the car.

I started to follow him and stopped. As he stood by the car waiting for me, his jacket billowing out in the wind, I thought about how tricky things had been with Jake. I thought how he seemed to have changed lately. I thought about how I seemed to spend so much of my time trying to please him, keep him happy—and failing. I thought about how we hardly spoke about his work and never ever spoke about mine. I thought about the way we just didn’t seem to fit together any more. I thought about the long silence all the way up the Great North Road. And I wondered if what we had was really worth another row, another few days of tiptoeing round him trying to keep him happy. I thought about that stream and the ford and the packhorse bridge. And without really meaning to, I made a decision.

‘I’m not coming with you,’ I said, my voice shaking only a bit.

Jake looked at me as if I were mad.

‘Come on, Tilly, don’t be stupid. It’s no time to play games. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. We need to find somewhere else to stay.’

‘I’ve got somewhere. I’m staying here,’ I said, very calmly, though I knew as I said it that it was about much more than where we stayed tonight. Or where we stayed for the next two weeks. I knew that—as far as Jake and I were concerned—after two years together, this was a point of no return.

Jake was quieter now, but impatient, exasperated. ‘Look, be realistic. I can’t stay here with no phone reception and no Internet. And you can’t stay here by yourself.’ He looked at me as though I were terminally stupid. Come to think of it, he often did that. And suddenly I’d had enough.

‘Why not?’ I thought of the little packhorse bridge and the stream. My family had lived here. It might be strange, but I had roots here. Already I could almost feel them tugging at me. I wasn’t going to turn round and go before I’d had even a day to explore.

‘Because you’d be on your own and—’

‘Maybe I want to be on my own.’

My words hung in silence. Jake stood and looked at me for a few, long seconds. I stared back. Coolly. Calmly. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart thudding.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ve got no time to play games with you. If that’s the way you want it, suit yourself.’ And he got into the car, slammed the door and drove angrily down the track.

I watched him go, watched the car twist down the hill, sploosh through the ford, past the farmhouse and the bridge, and then disappear, like a little Dinky Toy along the winding track over the moor, getting ever smaller until he was out of sight, and I was alone. In a little house on the top of a moor, miles from anywhere.

For a moment I wanted to run down the hillside after Jake, saying sorry, sorry, all a mistake. For another moment, I felt desperately sad and abandoned—even though I was the one who had done the abandoning. For yet another moment I was panicking, terrified of being alone miles from anywhere.

But then, while all that was going on, I felt the small stirrings of a strange new feeling. I was so surprised that it took me a moment to work out what it was. Then I realised. It was relief—relief at not having to put up with Jake’s increasingly sour moods, of always having to do things his way, of living with the feeling that I didn’t quite measure up somehow. And there was something else too—a sort of excitement at a sudden sense of freedom.

This was my decision. My choice. I’d taken control. That’s it. Deep breath. I had taken charge of my life. So now what do I do? There was only me to ask, only me to answer and only me to worry about. This took some getting used to. Wonderful but frightening. I tried to think, be practical.

It was late afternoon and already getting dark. I quickly explored the rest of the house. Up a steep narrow staircase was a double bedroom where you could lie in bed and look straight out at the miles of hills. There was a smaller bedroom and a tiny bathroom that looked reassuringly new. I unpacked my bags, which didn’t take long. My few things looked a bit lonely all by themselves in the wardrobe. I drew the bedroom curtains and put all the lights on.

Then I went downstairs, sat on the sofa and wondered what to do next. I looked at the stove. The house was warm enough, but a stove would be cheery, wouldn’t it? A house like this needed a real fire. It should be fairly easy to light. There were even instructions. I’d never been a girl guide, but I reckoned I could light a fire. Of course I could. Buoyed up by new optimism, I had no doubts. Well, not many. I knelt down in front of the stove as if I were praying to it, found matches and a couple of firelighters, handily left on a shelf, followed the instructions carefully. Ow! The first time I let the match burn down and scorched my fingers. But at the second go it was suddenly blazing, flames licking round the sticks. Result! I left the doors open and sat back in the glow to feel the heat. Lighting a fire was very satisfying in a deeply primitive sort of way. I felt quite proud. Already in my new independent life I had achieved something I had never done before.

For the first time I noticed the samplers hanging on the wall above the stove. Framed pieces of needlework, probably done by a child and, by the look of it, many years ago. Age had faded the bright colours of the embroidery, but the tiny, careful stitches were as sharp as ever, the message clear.

‘Tell the truth and shame the Devil,’ it said, firmly. Right. No messing there.

The other sampler was more difficult to read, the reflection of the glass blanking out the message. I looked at it from different angles until in the end I stood with my nose almost on the edge of the frame and suddenly the letters snapped into focus.

‘Carpe diem,’ it said. ‘Seize the day.’

Well, that’s what I’d done, hadn’t I? I had seized the day, well, the moment anyway. To be honest, I wasn’t usually very good at spur-of-the-moment. I always wanted to know whether the day was going to be worth seizing first. And by the time I’d done that, it was often too late. Letting Jake drive off without me was the boldest thing I’d done.

Had I been right to let Jake go? My new-found confidence after the fire-lighting success was beginning to ebb away. Never mind just now, this evening, tonight—what about next week, next month? What was going to happen?

As I drew the sitting-room curtains I could see that outside everywhere was grey and misty. Seriously creepy. My heart thudded in panic. Where were the lights? There were no lights! All my life I have lived with streetlights, advertising lights, car lights, lights from shop windows, petrol stations, tube stations. I don’t do darkness. Don’t think I’ve ever really seen it. There was a glow of murky yellow light from the farmhouse below and, apart from that, nothing. Just a thick, misty, grey silence, smothering the house and miles of moors in all directions, swallowing everything up. Despite the heating and the fire, I shivered. What was I doing?

There was a sudden noise outside. I leapt back from the window, my heart racing. Then laughed at myself, a little shakily. A sheep. Of course it was a sheep—there were hundreds of them outside. I listened carefully and I could hear the sound they made as they tugged the grass up with their teeth and chomped away. Amazing what you can hear in the country. I closed the curtains again carefully, shutting out the mist and the moors, pretending they weren’t even there.

On the deep stone windowsill was a curious collection of objects. A clay pipe, some small ridged blue bottles, a larger green one, two doughnut-shaped circles made of clay, I think, with holes in the middle, a brooch with no pin, a bone comb with no teeth, a Victorian penny…

They were, I supposed, all things that had been found round and about. Small objects lost or thrown away hundreds, maybe even a thousand or more years ago, by people who had lived here. I thought of that huge grey misty emptiness. Hard to imagine that anyone had ever lived here, so remote from anywhere.

Gently picking up the brooch, I wondered who’d worn it and when, who’d bought it for her and why? Who had used the comb or the liquids from the little bottles? They’d lived here, probably surrounded by mist and sheep too. And they’d been my ancestors. Down the years, I felt a small connection with them, whoever they had been. This had been their home. For now, at least, it was mine.

My tummy rumbled. And I remembered that the little box of emergency supplies I’d packed for our supper—cold chicken, cheese, bread, butter, a bottle of wine, was still in the boot of Jake’s car. This definitely wasn’t the place where you could dial up a pizza. Even if the phone worked. I wondered idly where the nearest takeaway was and I remembered something from Mrs Alderson’s notes.

‘Ready meals in freezer. Price list on lid. Settle up at end of stay. Emergency cupboard in back porch. Anything used from this MUST be replaced as soon as possible. Very important. Thank you!’

I looked in the freezer at a neat stack of obviously homemade dishes. Lamb casserole. Lamb stew. Lamb and capers. Lamb curry. I thought of the sheep whose bleat had made me jump. ‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘I know where you’ll end up.’

There were also some pork, beef and chicken meals too. It seemed rude to eat lamb while the creatures were roaming round outside. So I opted for a chicken and herb casserole and bunged it in the microwave. While I was waiting for it to ping, I went to look at the Emergency cupboard in the back porch. Candles, Primus stove and gas cylinders, torches, a couple of lanterns, a tin marked ‘matches’, tins of beans, sardines, corned beef, tuna, soup, a selection of vacuum-packed ready meals, two pairs of wellies, a spade and a snow shovel. Thank goodness it was still only October.

I found the wine in the fridge—thank you, Mrs Alderson—and what with that and the casserole—very good, proper chicken, with parsley and lemon and a touch of thyme, followed by some of the light, crumbly Wensleydale cheese—I had a very nice supper in front of the fire. Being independent, I found, makes you quite hungry. Yes, of course, I still felt a bit nervous, but I was warm and cosy and had already got used to the sound of the sheep.

I thought about Jake. Had I been a bit too hasty? It would be much nicer if he were here with me, beside me on the squashy sofa, watching the flames in the fire…Except we probably wouldn’t be, would we? He’d be working or watching what he wanted on television. I cradled the phone in my hand and looked at Jake’s picture on the screen. Did I really love him? Did I miss him? Had I ever loved him?

The last few weeks had been tricky. Jake had been moody, distracted. When I was talking to him he had hardly been listening to me. His mind was elsewhere. I wondered if he’d found someone else. He had plenty of opportunity with his work.

Maybe he was just fed up with me. I sometimes wondered if we’d only got together because we were the two left behind when everyone else had paired off. Yes it was good, but…We still had separate lives. Or rather he still had a separate life. I gazed into the flames and tried to find answers. There weren’t any there. Not tonight at least. I was suddenly very tired.

After locking the doors and windows—and going round them all again to make sure I had—I went up the stairs, singing loudly as I went. I needed a noise. I didn’t like the silence. I wasn’t used to it. Another thing I’d never known. At home there was always a buzz from the street and from the other flats. You’d hear people going up and down the stairs, the distant murmurings from a television, music or bathroom. I regularly went to sleep with the noise of the drunks rolling home and woke to the sound of traffic. But here there was nothing. Apart from the sheep, all I could hear was my own heartbeat, pounding away more loudly than usual.

I sang louder, wondering what people would think if they saw me. The double bed seemed very big and cold without Jake alongside me. I shivered slightly. ‘Good night’, I said to his photo on the phone, preparing myself for a night of worrying, as outside the mist swirled, the sheep bleated. I was miles from anywhere, with no man, no car, no phone signal, no Internet. Utterly alone.

Chapter Four

I slept like a log. It was gone eight o’clock when I opened the bedroom curtains and peeped out on a sunny autumn morning. I could see for miles to some distant smoky blue hills. In the farmyard below me the day had clearly begun hours before. Cows were wandering back to a field, followed by a young lad with a big stick, a couple of dogs were barking and someone was loading bales of hay onto the back of a quad bike.

I showered quickly, made some coffee and wondered what to do that day. I had only myself to think about. Odd. And only I could decide what to do. Odder still. There was no one else to dictate to me or to discuss it with. I had work to do but not for a few days. I was completely free. Which was wonderful but unnerving too. I tried to think, to make a mental list.

If I was going to stay here on my own then I needed to get in touch with the outside world. I needed to be able to use my phone and the Internet. I needed to do some shopping, buy some food. Where were the nearest shops? And how would I get there? Admiring the view was all very well, but I needed to be out and about. Above all, I desperately needed a car. I was well and truly stuck. I had already arranged a couple of Foodie interviews for the week and how was I to get there? Totally impractical. What an idiot I was to think I could. Jake was right, after all. But I didn’t want him to be. Maybe, after all, I should get in touch with him…

I thought about all this while I drank the coffee and then made some more, lingering at the window to drink in the view. But I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit here all day.

I had just decided that I would walk down to the farm and consult Mrs Alderson, maybe ask if I could use her phone—quite simple really—when I heard a car struggling up the hill and then pull up outside the house. Jake! I unlocked the door and stood there, suddenly somehow shy, wondering what was going to happen.

Had last night just been a tiff—the latest of many that could just be forgotten, smoothed over? I’d proved my point, stayed the night by myself. Maybe we could just get back to where we were. But was that what I really wanted?

Jake smiled at me, a polite smile, not unfriendly, but he didn’t rush and kiss me. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ I said. I didn’t rush and kiss him either. Part of me was relieved to see him. But another part wasn’t quite so sure. It looked as though I could get things back to normal, but already I was wondering if I wanted to. Coffee?’ I offered, at ease in my new home.

‘No thanks. Just had some.’

I looked, questioningly.

‘Found a bed and breakfast, back down the dale. Bit old fashioned but pretty decent. Internet access and a reasonable mobile phone signal. Enormous breakfast. It’s a double room. I said you might be joining me. I thought…’

It would have been so easy. I could have just packed my little bag, given the key back to Mrs Alderson, and gone to the B & B with Jake. No problem. If he’d come back the night before, when those sheep had started bleating and made me jump, I probably would have done. But as it was, I had done a night on my own, surrounded by mist and sheep. I had not only coped, I had also envisaged a future without Jake.

‘I don’t think so. But thank you,’ I said.

He looked aghast. ‘You’re not staying here? You can’t!’

‘I can,’ I said, feeling more determined.

‘But you can’t use your phone! And there’s no Internet.’

‘There is at the pub.’ I was surprised at how calm I was. How easy everything suddenly seemed. ‘What I need is a car.’

‘Take mine,’ said Jake instantly. He was, after all, a decent bloke. ‘And I’ll hire one. We probably need two anyway, if we’re both working. We should have thought of that. Come on.’ He reached out and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘This is silly, Tilly. You don’t really want to be here by yourself, do you?’

It was good to feel his arm around me. But I also knew it wasn’t right. Not any more. And I was also suddenly irritated by the way he called me Silly Tilly. People always thought that was so original…I hadn’t minded so much before, but lately he’d been doing it more often and suddenly I’d had enough. I thought of the samplers on the sitting-room wall. ‘Carpe diem’. ‘Tell the truth and shame the Devil.’ So I took a deep breath and I did.

‘I don’t think there’s much point in being with you, Jake,’ I said, carefully. ‘I don’t think things are the same any more. Something’s changed. These days you don’t seem to be with me really.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But I’m working on this project…’

‘…about football club owners.Yes, I know.’

‘Well, not entirely. There’s more to it than that and the more I looked into it, the more I found. There’s a lot of very dodgy stuff going on.’

‘What sort of dodgy?’ Despite myself, my curiosity was sparked.

‘There are some very unpleasant characters involved, not least Simeon Maynard. Everyone knows there’s something going on, but nobody’s talking and it’s impossible to prove. I’ve been trying for weeks.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me? You’re working on this really big story and yet you say hardly a word about it to me. Doesn’t say much about sharing, does it?’

‘No, well, sorry, but I have talked it over with Flick.’

‘Flick?’

‘You know, Felicity Staveley, from college. Well, she’s now working on that investigative programme on Channel Nine, and she said—’

Flick. Felicity Staveley with her perfect hair and gallons of confidence. She was meant to be a lowly TV researcher, but had already appeared on screen looking stunning and knowledgeable.

‘So are you and…Felicity, well, are you…?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Jake quickly. Too quickly. ‘It’s just that she has lots of contacts and we’re old friends and it seems logical.’

‘Of course,’ I said coldly. ‘Absolutely logical.’

Only Jake could fancy another woman for her contacts book. But Felicity’s ambition was a match for his and I knew then that I had well and truly lost Jake. And I didn’t even mind. Well, not much. I felt oddly distant from him. This was all so unreal anyway—this place was another world. ‘Look, if you don’t want to be without the phone and the Internet, keep in touch with…Felicity, why don’t you stay at your bed and breakfast? But I want to stay here.’

‘You can’t stay on your own.’

‘Jake, will you please stop telling me what I can or cannot do. Of course I can!’ And hey, I so enjoyed saying that—especially when I saw the stunned expression on Jake’s face. ‘But I need a car.’ I flipped through Mrs Alderson’s folder. There was a leaflet about taxi and car hire from a garage about ten miles away. ‘If you take me to the garage so I can hire a car, that would be helpful. Thank you.’ My tone was brisk and businesslike.

‘But…’ Jake looked as if he wanted to carry on arguing, persuading, talking. But he also looked baffled. He wasn’t used to my taking decisions so calmly. He suddenly shrugged. ‘OK, Tilly,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’

Maybe it was my imagination. But I thought he looked relieved.

When the man at the Dales Garage had heard where I was staying, he’d led me smartly away from the neat little rows of shiny Ford Focuses and instead taken me round the back and shown me a rusty Escort van. ‘Engine’s fine and there’s nowt left on bodywork to hurt much more,’ he said. I wasn’t that sure, it looked a heap of trouble for me, but as he was asking just a tiddly sum for it, the deal was done. Jake tried to intervene, but I waved him away. A rusty Escort van was suddenly my vehicle of choice.

‘Anyway, I like the registration number, PIP,’ I said to Jake, who looked at me oddly.

‘I think the northern air has done something to your brain,’ he muttered. ‘Ring me if you want anything,’ he said. ‘And here’s the address of the B & B.’ He gave me a card. Our hands touched for a moment. ‘There’s always half a double bed there for you.’

‘I don’t think so. But thank you.’

He gave me a hug, suddenly awkward. I gave him the briefest of kisses and then climbed into PIP and drove off with barely a backward glance. I’d checked my phone—I discovered this morning that you could get a signal just at the top of the track from the farm to the main road by the old chapel. But now I needed to check my email.

I bounced along in my little rusting van, crunching the gears every now and then as I got used to it on the steep narrow roads. The previous owner must have weighed about twenty stone because the driver’s seat was in a state of collapse. The carpet was full of holes and there were odd gaps in the dashboard. But there was a radio. I pushed a button and Madonna came belting out and I sang out loud along with her at full volume. I was on my own in a strange place, in a strange van and suddenly it wasn’t scary, it was exciting, exhilarating. ‘Who’s That Girl?’ Me!

The Miners’ Arms, like the farm and the cottage, was grey stone and solid at the top of the moor. Just three or four houses and the old chapel were its only neighbours. As I pulled up in the car park, my new-found confidence faltered a little. Walking into strange pubs and bars alone could always be a bit dodgy. But the sign was newly painted and the windows sparkled. I could do this. Of course I could. I carefully locked PIP—though I didn’t believe that anyone could possibly want to steal it—and walked into the pub.

Inside there were rough stone walls and flagged floors and it smelt warmly of wood smoke and polish and further in of tantalising food smells—proper food. My stomach rumbled. Two fires burnt brightly in huge fireplaces at either end of the bar. At a table near one of the fires, two middle-aged couples in walking gear were enjoying coffee and cake. Near the other fire sat an old man reading The Northern Echo, a pint in front of him. Another couple of men were tucking into pies, steam escaping from the golden pastry and the meat tumbling out in a thick, rich gravy.

The walls were covered with old photographs. And more of those samplers. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again‘, said one, around a picture of a very fierce-looking spider, while the other said it was ‘Never too late to make amends‘. Very virtuous.

A young girl with gleaming blonde hair was sitting knitting behind the bar. As soon as she saw me, she put down her knitting and smiled. ‘What would you like?’ she asked.

‘I’ve really come in to use the Internet,’ I said, ‘but I’ve just realised I haven’t had any breakfast.’

She laughed. ‘Coffee? Orange juice? Bacon and mushroom muffin? Scr—’

‘Stop there,’ I said. ‘Coffee, juice and bacon muffin, please.’

‘The computers are round the side there, I’ll bring the coffee over for you.’

I smiled happily and followed her directions. This must have been the best Internet café ever.

In a tiny little snug alongside the bar were two computers, a printer and a huge old farmhouse settle, covered in rugs and cushions. There were shelves full of books and leaflets on local history and on another table was a pile of today’s newspapers and a selection of magazines, everything from Farmers’ Weekly to Celebrity Gossip. Bliss. The girl brought my coffee, which was good too—strong and rich, without a hint of bitterness. I checked my email—in twenty-four hours my inbox was already overflowing with rubbish—and confirmed my interview with a cheese-maker the next day. And then, quickly, I emailed Jake. Just to say that the little van was fine. I knew it was over between us, even without Felicity—sorry, I just couldn’t bring myself to call her Flick—but it was somehow important to keep on good terms. I was just emailing my friends Polly and Susannah and wondering what to tell them about Jake—they’d never really liked him, not really—when a tall man with wild, curly hair and a scruffy sweater sat down next to me at the other computer. ‘Morning,’ he nodded. ‘Your muffin’s ready. It’s on the table near the fire.’

I signed off the email and sent it quickly to Polly and returned to the cosy bar. As I ate the muffin—brilliant bacon—I looked at the photographs on the wall. They were a mixture of old and new. And it took a while for it to dawn on me that they were of the same places taken years apart, or rather, more like a century apart.

In front of a low archway that seemed to lead directly into the side of a hill, workmen in waistcoats and stout trousers, caps and long moustaches carried hammers and picks and gazed solemnly at the camera. Next to it was the modern scene—the same archway, but this time surrounded by walkers in brightly coloured cagoules, peering and pointing. A picture of the chapel dated 1900 had a hundred or more serious-faced worshippers in their Sunday best—very uncomfortable those clothes looked—lined up on the steps. The modern version showed half a dozen lads in jeans and T-shirts laughing as they unloaded canoes off the roof of a minibus.

A long view across the moors was full of industrial buildings, tall chimneys, a huge water wheel and clusters of activity. The modern version was bleak, empty, just a few ruins and a lot of sheep. The photograph was stunning. The photographer had caught the shadow of a cloud scudding across the hill. Very atmospheric.

Who were all those old people? What had happened to them? How had a place so busy become so empty?

‘Lead mining,’ said the blonde girl behind the bar as she followed my gaze. ‘A century ago and more, there used to be hundreds of men working up here. They used to be packed into lodging houses during the week and then walk back to their families at the weekend. They say the lead for the roof of the Houses of Parliament came from up here. It must have been like the Klondike. Hard to believe now, when it’s just sheep.’

‘I’m amazed the pub survived.’

‘It didn’t. It was closed for fifty years and was just a house. Dexter—’ she nodded her head in the direction of the Internet snug, so I assumed she meant the guy with the wild hair and scruffy sweater—‘inherited it last year and decided to reopen as a pub this summer.’

‘Brave move.’

‘S’pose so. But it’s going OK. Really well in fact. He does some of the cooking too. He’s not a bad cook either. For a photographer. He took all the pictures—well, not the old ones obviously, but the others.’

‘These are really good. Does he work for anyone in particular?’

‘No, just for himself. He does a lot of books and colour supplement stuff. He hasn’t done much lately though because he’s been working all hours getting the pub right. But he’s hired a chef now, so I expect he’ll get back into it.’

Some more customers came in and she put her knitting down again to serve them. She seemed to be knitting a lacy sort of scarf.

I remembered that I hadn’t looked up the directions to the cheese-maker. I looked across. Dexter had finished on the computer. Presumably he was in the kitchen preparing food for the people who’d just come in, but some walkers were busy online now. Never mind. I was very comfortable in this cosy bar. I thought about a glass of wine but, being my mother’s daughter, and having the van outside, I opted for another coffee and flipped through one of the papers. That model was all over it again. ’Foxy’s gone to ground!’ said the headlines. After signing her huge contract, the model had gone missing. Probably drugged up somewhere, I thought. No, not drugged. When she leapt up and through that window she hadn’t seemed a bit like a hunted animal. She seemed the one in charge, well ahead of the pack, as if she were playing a game. I wondered, idly, what had become of her, where she was.

By the time the walkers had finished on the computers and I’d gone online and found the directions I needed, the bar was empty. I was just picking up my coat ready to leave when Dexter came through to the bar, looking serious and carrying two plates of sausages. ‘Right, Becca,’ he said to the barmaid, ‘earn your keep and tell me which of these you prefer. You too,’ he said to me, offering me a plate. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry…’ His sudden smile completely transformed his face. He was, I realised, quite good looking and probably not as old as I thought, maybe just ten years older than me. And I decided I wasn’t in a hurry at all as he went on, ‘I try and use everything as local as possible, but it’s got to be good, so all opinions welcome.’

I sat myself back at the bar and tried two bits of sausage. ‘Definitely the second one,’ I said.

‘Why?’ asked Dexter.

‘The first one was good, but highly spiced, so all you could really taste was the chilli. Good, but overwhelming. The second one was quite simple, but proper meat, proper flavour. Didn’t need the spices to tart it up.’

Dexter nodded approvingly and I felt as though I’d won a prize. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he said. ‘That’s the one we’ll go for. Have another bite to be sure.’

So there I was, perched at the bar of a stone-flagged, wood-smoky pub on top of a moor in the middle of nowhere, eating sausages, with grease on my chin, when we heard outside the sort of roar made only by a very expensive, show-off car. It stopped right outside. A moment later the pub door opened and in strode two men. Young, fit and extremely good-looking men, radiating testosterone and confidence and that sort of glow that belongs to the very rich and very successful.

Becca gave a small, breathless yelp. I gawped. It was the last thing I’d expected in the middle of nowhere. I blinked and stared to make sure. There was no mistake. Footballers. Clayton Silver and one of his team-mates, the young Italian Alessandro Santini.

The last time I’d seen Clayton Silver was in Club Balaika back in London. What on earth was he doing here?

Suddenly the bar, which had seemed so warm and cosy earlier, now looked faded and dusty, dimmed by the dazzle of these celebrities. I’d felt so comfortable perched at the bar, and now that cosiness was spoilt. Only Dexter remained completely unfazed.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And what can I get you?’

‘A decent sat-nav would be a start,’ said Clayton Silver, removing his dark glasses. (Dark glasses. In England. In October. What a poser.) ‘The money I paid for that motor and it dumped us in the middle of a stream. A fucking stream, man! Don’t you have roads up here?’

‘Depends where you’re trying to get to,’ replied Dexter.

‘Some big house, Sim Maynard’s place.’

‘Ravensike Lodge. Well, you’re very close,’ said Dexter, ‘but there hasn’t been a road across there for fifty years or more. It’s just a track now. You’ll have to go back down the dale for about ten miles and then turn off and come back up the other side of the moor. Shouldn’t take you long in that car. Just watch out for sheep.’

‘Sheep! All we’ve seen is sheep!’ said Silver. ‘There’s sheep all over the roads. Why don’t they stay on the grass? Why do they want to eat roads? Why did we decide to drive? We should’ve flown up. We’d be there now. Relaxing, not getting stuck in streams on mountains. God, I need a drink.’

‘Stuck in streams?’ asked Dexter, clearly trying not to smile.

‘Yeah. The road just stopped. Bang. Middle of nowhere. In a farmyard or somewhere. There was a bridge, but that didn’t go anywhere. Just the stream. The sat-nav lady kept telling us to go straight on, but there was no straight on to go to. Nothing. It’s the end of the world up here.’

He looked baffled and angry. But suddenly, instantly, his mood changed and he smiled—a beautiful wide, handsome smile, as if he realised it was all a bit silly really. He shook his head, ‘All that money on that car, and we were just sitting in a stream. Could have opened the window and done some fishing.’ He laughed. ‘It took us ages to get out of there. Thought we’d have to get out and push. I think we need a drink before I trust that thing again.’

Alessandro ordered a Peroni but Clayton Silver was looking at the wine selection chalked on the board above the bar. He smiled and picked out the most expensive one there. ‘Let’s try some of that.’

Dexter opened the bottle. ‘It’s a shame it won’t have time to breathe.’

In one smooth, silky movement, Silver sat on one of the bar stools, waved his hand—beautiful long fingers, immaculate nails—to dismiss such quibbles. Then he looked at Becca and me. He smiled that amazing 100-megawatt smile straight at us. ‘You ladies care to join me?’ he asked.

I wanted to say no, if only because I didn’t like the way he just assumed I would say yes. He was clearly used to women swooning at his feet. Not me. I began to slither off the high stool, ready to make my escape.

On the other hand…Maybe in my world of new-found freedom, I should just go with the flow. Carpe diem, the sampler had said. Seize the day. Why not?

Becca had no doubts at all and gathered her wits before I did. ‘Thank you,’ she said with great aplomb, putting down her knitting. ‘That would be very nice.’

‘OK, thank you,’ I said, trying to find a balance between being polite and unimpressed, and slithering, not very elegantly, back onto the stool.

And that was how I got to know Clayton Silver…

Chapter Five

I couldn’t deny it. Clayton Silver had the most gorgeous eyes that lit up when he smiled. The trouble was that he knew it all too well. I remembered him arriving at Club Balaika, with the cameras flashing and the security men clearing the way for him. Well, there were no VIP booths in The Miners’ Arms. We were all equals here. He passed me the glass with the wine glowing in the bottom, reflecting the firelight.

‘Breathe it in first,’ he said, ‘the smell’s almost enough to get drunk on by itself. ‘As his eyes looked into mine, I looked away quickly and breathed in the rich smell of the wine. ‘Now take a small sip.’ I looked over the glass at him. I wanted to say, ‘Look, sunshine, I’ve drunk plenty of decent wine before you walked in here. My godfather’s restaurant has one of the best cellars in the country and I’m a respected food writer.’ But I dutifully sipped.

The wine slid down, soft and velvety. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the flavour. It was delicious. ‘Oh wow!’ said Becca. ‘That really is good.’

‘Glad you like it,’ said Clayton, still gazing at me. His hair was cropped close, revealing the shape of his skull. His skin was the colour of pale coffee. He had a Jamaican grandfather, I remembered I’d read somewhere.

But I refused to be impressed by his glamour and confidence. Just because he was good at football, and got paid ridiculous amounts of money for it, didn’t make him a god, I thought crossly.

‘Not bad,’ I said about the wine. ‘Though I’ve had better.’

He looked at me and smiled again, as though he knew exactly why I’d said what I had. ‘Lucky girl. But this is still pretty good to find in a pub surrounded by grass and sheep.’

Condescending or what? I’d only just discovered this was my ancestral homeland, but I was already indignant on its behalf. ‘Just because people live in the back of beyond doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate good wine,’ I said, while Becca blinked at me, surprised.

Then Clayton spotted the plate. ‘Sausages!’ he said and helped himself.

Then suddenly he was laughing again about the stream and the sat-nav. ‘That car’s a city car. It needs streets and signposts and lots of nice tall buildings to make it feel safe. That sat-nav lady ain’t a country girl at all.’ And Dexter drew him a little map showing how to get to the shooting lodge and asked him if he was going to be doing any shooting. Clayton grinned and said yes, he knew a bit about shooting, but not those sort of guns, and we smiled because we knew Clayton Silver had grown up on the sort of estate where guns were commonplace.

Just then the door opened again and a tall figure in working clothes—boots, jeans, shabby waterproof and a woolly hat—came in and went up to the side of the bar. Dexter’s eyes seemed to light up for a moment. ‘You’re back!’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘I’d heard.’ But the other person muttered something, looked in our direction and walked out again. Dexter’s expression was weird. He looked pleased and almost disappointed at the same time and watched as the figure walked back to the car park and jumped into an old four-by-four. Then he smiled to himself and went back to drawing his map. Funny. I didn’t have him down as gay.

But his face had definitely lit up.

Becca suddenly remembered the knitting she’d just put down on the bar and carefully picked it up and put it away in a big hessian bag.

Alessandro, who’d only been in this country since the start of the season, watched her and then smiled shyly and said that his mother and his sisters liked to knit, to make things. So Becca reached into her bag again and unwrapped some tissue paper to show him a finished scarf. The scarf was brilliant—the lacy knitting interspersed with big appliquéd flowers in bright sunshiney colours of yellow and orange—and looked wonderful.

‘Is beautiful,’ said Alessandro. He placed it gently round Becca’s neck. ‘Is more beautiful on you.’ He grinned while Becca blushed. The charmer.

I was still holding my coat, ready to go, but Clayton asked me if I was local and I said no, just staying up here writing for a food magazine, but I knew the stream where he’d got stuck. Despite myself I was soon chatting to him like an old friend—about London and restaurants, about roads and sheep. Apparently the footballers were only up here for two days because they had to get back to training, and suddenly the wine bottle was empty and they were leaving. Clayton picked up his car keys and walked out, just assuming Alessandro would follow him, which he did. Alessandro blew Becca a kiss while Clayton said, ‘Goodbye, Miss Tilly,’ very formally but grinning as he did so. Then they were gone to the sound of the expensive car roaring off back down the dale.

‘Well!’ said Becca, giggling. ‘That certainly brightened up the afternoon.’

‘Bit full of himself though, isn’t he, that Clayton Silver?’ I said, cross with myself for getting drawn in by his easy charm and trying not to recall his smiling eyes, his tight black T-shirt, his broad shoulders and his grin. I remembered the actresses who’d arrived at Club Balaika with him. Well, they were welcome to him. How upset the new celebrity-conscious Jake would be to have missed them.

With that, a group of spindly, mud-covered cyclists, clad in very unflattering bright yellow Lycra, parked their bikes outside and came in demanding soup and sandwiches. The magic had definitely gone. Becca sighed and went to serve them. I quickly sent a text to Susannah, saying, ‘Country life MUCH more interesting than I thought,’ and tucked my phone in my bag. Then I got it out again and sent a text to Jake, telling him who’d been in the pub. Seemed only fair. Then I went off to the loo.

There was a sampler in the passage, the twin of the one in the bar. ’Wine is a mocker‘, it said in neat, tiny stitches. ‘Strong drink is raging.’ Which was a bit daft to have in a pub. No wonder Dexter had hidden it away out of sight.

But then in the Ladies there was yet another of the things on the wall next to the Tampax machine. ‘Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.’ I could see it reflected in the mirror when I was brushing my hair. Probably Dexter’s idea of a joke. I thought of some small girl having to spend hours stitching it. It seemed a very stern lesson to learn so young.

‘Probably see you tomorrow,’ I said to Becca back in the bar.

‘You never know, we might have some more interesting customers,’ she grinned as I went out to find PIP in the car park.

Chapter Six

I took a deep breath. I’d only had two small glasses of wine. I was driving just over a mile. I’d be all right. I got into the little van and off I went up the high moor road.

In the farmyard I could see Mrs Alderson doing something with a hose. Torrents of water were pouring over the yard as she waded along in wellies. She waved and I turned in. I’d better explain to her about Jake, I suppose. I stopped the engine and stepped out onto the damp concrete and was hit with a very agricultural smell. Cows, I guessed, wrinkling my nose and looking down at the small rivulets washing against my shoes.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Mrs Alderson, surprised, and directing the jet of water into the furthest corner away from me. ‘I thought it was Reuben Stephen. This is his van.’

‘Not any more,’ I said, and explained as she laughed. ‘I hope old Wes isn’t charging you full rent for this heap!’

‘No, just a token gesture.’

‘Good. Well, this car knows its way round these tracks, so you’ll be all right. And Wes will always come out and rescue you if it breaks down. Are you sure you’re OK up there on your own? I noticed your young man…’ She stopped, tactfully. ‘I mean, it’s perfectly safe, but if you’re not used to it, it can be a bit spooky.’

‘It was fine, thank you,’ I said firmly. ‘I lit the fire and had one of your ready meals for supper. It was great, thanks.’

We both looked up the fellside to the cottage. Above it I could see a quad bike parked and a tall figure striding over the moor with a bale of hay. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked very like the person who’d opened the door of the pub and left so quickly.

‘Matt, my eldest,’ said Mrs Alderson quickly. ‘Home for a while and helping out. If there’s anything you want, just ask.’

I thanked her and wanted to ask about the house and the stream, tell her about my mother, but with that I was suddenly deafened by a vastly magnified telephone bell echoing round the yard. ‘Sorry. Telephone. Waiting for a call. Got to go,’ said Mrs Alderson, throwing the hose down, lunging for the tap and striding into the house.

I backed out of the yard and through the stream. I thought of Clayton Silver and his glamorous car. I laughed, and for a split second, I felt the car slip as the water seemed to want to take it downstream over the slimy stones. My insides lurched. Concentrate, girl! I got control again, revved the little van and roared up the track, my heart thumping a little. I hadn’t liked the way the van had almost gone. Could have been nasty. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. Could one handsome footballer so easily make me forget a lifetime of indoctrination?

Strong drink is a mocker. I should have paid more attention to that sampler. I got out of the van and shook my head clear in the sharp clean air.

As I did so, I spotted the track—well, a path really, certainly not wide enough for a car—that wound enticingly round the back of the house. A walk would do me good. I set off up the path, which went on a steep slant up to the top of the moor. A solid path, bumpy but clear enough, flattened grass scattered with cobbles and stones that were shiny from being trodden on by countless feet. I could feel the muscles pulling at the backs of my legs and was glad the stunning views gave me the excuse to stop and get my breath. Although it was late afternoon, it was a much clearer day than yesterday.

After the muggy crowdedness of London streets, there was something unnerving about these moors. So much space; so much emptiness. How did you know where you were or find your way? Or even who you were?

But the fresh air was just what I needed after the encounter with Clayton Silver.

He clearly thought he was so important just because he could kick a ball around a bit. Expecting everyone to be so impressed. Just because he had a nice smile and knew his way round a wine list. But, I had to admit, there was something about him. He was just so…alive. Even when he was just sitting on a bar stool with a glass of wine in his hand, you could feel the energy in the man. ‘Quicksilver,’ they always called him in the headlines. The trouble was that he made headlines not only on the sports pages but elsewhere in the newspapers and celebrity magazines—when he wasn’t scoring goals, Clayton Silver liked to party, usually accompanied by the latest in a long line of gorgeous-looking women. Typical footballer. Overpaid and full of himself. Odd that I should have been in his company twice in the space of a few days—and in such different places—but Clayton Silver was not part of my world and never would be. I put him firmly out of my head.

By now I was nearly at the top of the path. Down below me I could see Matt Alderson buzzing along on the quad bike. Suddenly, I was on the ridge and could see down into the next valley. I recognised it. The derelict buildings, abandoned cottages, that great sweep of landscape—it was a scene from one of Dexter’s photos. An abandoned industrial scene. At first glance you’d think no one had ever lived up here, ever, but what had Becca said? Like the Klondike. I wanted to go down and explore it, but it would soon be dark. In any case, I didn’t want to roam too far. I was scared of getting lost. I turned back, over the ridge, and slithered back down to the cottage.

Going down such a steep slope was just as much effort as going up. I stopped for a moment, fearing I would go headfirst if I wasn’t careful. My foot had caught in something. I bent down and picked up a small piece of leather with a buckle attached. I turned it over in my hand, wondering what it could be. Too big to be off a shoe or jacket. Maybe it was part of a bag, or maybe even a harness for a horse or pony. I thought of a pony picking its way down this steep and narrow path, a packhorse, maybe, that had come over the bridge. Caught in the buckle was a knot of some material. As I tried to see what it was, it came unfolded and proved to be a short length of cherry-red velvet ribbon. Goodness knows how long it had been scrunched up with the leather. Yet, as it unrolled, it was still cheerily bright and as luxuriously soft as it must have been when it first got caught on the buckle, however many years ago. Odd. I stroked it as I made my way back to the cottage.

Even close up, under the lights, I could tell no more about the bit of leather, the buckle and the ribbon. It was a worthless bit of stuff, I imagined, but I couldn’t throw it away. Instead, I put it carefully on the windowsill with the other finds, my contribution to the house and its history.

I lit the fire again—easy-peasy now I knew what I was doing—but as I curled up on the sofa and gazed into the flames, all I could see was a laughing footballer with a gorgeous grin. I got up and switched on the television. How dare he invade my head?

The photographer carefully placed the last box of photographic plates into the corner of the cart, sandwiched it in with his battered carpetbag and deftly tied down the tarpaulin that covered it all. Once again he checked the buckles and straps on the harness of the sturdy little pony and climbed into the narrow seat.

He longed to be away from the town with its dark narrow streets and the people who plagued him. He yearned for fresh air, open spaces, and subjects for his camera more interesting than the parade of the town’s traders, their fat wives and their spoilt children. Every day the families would come in, sit in the chair, just so, standing behind the pile of books, or the globe or the potted plant or the painted rustic scene which he supplied to furnish the photograph. He should be grateful to them that they enabled him to live well enough to buy the latest new equipment, which fascinated him. But he wanted to use his camera for more interesting things to record for posterity.

He picked up the reins. ‘Walk on, girl, walk on. We’re off adventuring again.’

Chapter Seven

The cheese-maker took some finding. There was no sat-nav in the van, of course, so I was following the map. Trouble was that some of the roads were so small that either they weren’t on the map or they just didn’t look like roads. And they don’t do an A-Z of bits of moors and hills. Finally I crawled up a steep and narrow road with a dry-stone wall on one side and a high hedge on the other. I just prayed I didn’t meet anyone coming towards me because I wasn’t sure if I could back up to one of the passing places.

But it was worth it: the lady was terrific. She and her husband had inherited an old family recipe—the last in existence—for High Dales cheese and had started off making it in a bucket in the kitchen of their city-centre semi. They finally got it right, moved to a farm, made tons of cheese, won awards and made it famous. It was a great story, perfect for The Foodie. Even worth putting on the white overall, hat and hairnet I needed to go into the dairy with its rows of cheeses stacked on the shelves. Back in their office, they put a generous plateful of samples of their cheeses out for me to try. I asked questions and scribbled the answers while nibbling at a chunk of light, salty, crumbly cheese. Wonderful. They gave me some samples to take home with me too. Cheese on toast for supper.

When I told the cheese-maker where I was staying and that I had to call in to The Miners’ Arms to use the Internet, she promptly went back into the dairy and brought me out a huge chunk of cheese, which she wrapped in tinfoil and stuck in the bag with the others she’d given me.

‘Dexter Metcalfe is a good customer of ours and that’s a new cheese we’ve been trying—made with nettles. Give this to him and tell him to let me know what he thinks. He knows his food, does Dexter.’

‘They’re shooting today,’ said Becca as soon as I walked in. She was pulling pints for a group of walkers. ‘Dennis the gamekeeper went past in his smart shooting suit and Len went past with the beaters in the game cart. Do you think they’ll call in afterwards?’

‘Who? The beaters?’ I asked, baffled, not even totally sure what beaters did.

‘No, silly, Clayton and Alessandro.’ I loved the way their names slipped so casually off her tongue, as if she’d known them for ever.

‘Shouldn’t think so. They’ve probably got food and drink enough where they are,’ I replied, cross that she assumed I was just as interested in the two footballers as she was. As if I’d even thought of them at all.

‘Mmmm…It would be good, though, wouldn’t it?’ Becca was going dreamy over the pumps.

‘Becca, they’re only footballers,’ I said. ‘They’re good at running round in shorts kicking a ball. Like small boys, only paid more. They’re not finding a cure for cancer.’

Yikes! I sounded just like my mother. Now that was a scary thought.

While I waited to use the computer, I sat with a coffee—definitely a coffee this time—and flicked through the papers. Despite what I’d been saying to Becca, for the first time in my life, I started with the sports pages. But there were no pictures of Clayton Silver, nor Alessandro. It was full of pictures of other footballers from other teams who had been playing the night before. I turned back quickly to the main pages, as if I hadn’t actually meant to look at the sports pages, skipped over the serious stuff and studied the gossip columns. But there were more pictures of the girl from the nightclub.

‘That Foxy model seems to have well and truly vanished,’ I said vaguely to Becca as I turned the pages.

‘Don’t worry, she’ll turn up,’ said Dexter, grinning as he came up from the cellar with a box of mixers. ‘Just gone to ground temporarily, no doubt. Give the pack a bit of fun.’ He was laughing, as if it were some huge joke. Then he stopped, as though he’d just remembered something. ‘How did you get on with the cheese-maker?’

‘Excellent. Really good. I’ve got something for you. Some High Dales nettle cheese for you to try.’ I took the carefully wrapped package from the bag. Dexter brought some savoury biscuits and a knife from the kitchen and we sat either side of the bar eating slivers of the cheese, which, we decided, was excellent. I felt as if we were already old friends. I watched him as he ate the cheese. He was about ten years older than me, I guessed. Despite his easy smile, his face was lined and lived-in. His jumper might be shapeless but it had once been good, like the shirt he wore underneath it. At one time he’d clearly had an eye for good clothes. It was a big leap to go from being a successful photographer to a publican in the middle of nowhere. I wondered what had brought him back.

I asked him about his photographs, especially the one of the valley I’d seen the evening before.

‘I sometimes feel as if the place is full of ghosts,’ he said. ‘As if all the people who’ve ever lived up here are still here; as if they’ve never left the dale. I waited hours for the light to be right for that picture and when I printed it up I almost expected to see ghosts in the pictures—the old lead miners, farmers, the Vikings. Even the Romans. As if they couldn’t get away. Like me,’ he laughed.

‘Did you not get away?’

‘Oh, yes. Not much choice really. After college, I went to Leeds to work for an agency, then I had a few years in London, doing more and more work for myself, my own projects. Then I got married and moved up to Manchester…’

Married? Oh, maybe he wasn’t gay after all then.

‘…but then my marriage fell apart.’ Oh. Maybe he was…

‘…and then my dad died and I inherited this place. It had been let out for years. I didn’t really know what to do with it. But my wife—ex-wife—wanted her share of the Manchester house—like, immediately. She is one scary woman. So we sold that. And I was just wondering what to do, where to go, and then the tenants moved out of here so I thought I could spend the money doing this up. Have a sabbatical. Otherwise known as coming back to lick my wounds. Finding yourself orphaned and divorced in a matter of months concentrates the mind a bit. I needed time to think. And this seemed the best place to do it.’

He looked suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d said too much. I tried to think of something cheerful and positive to say.

‘You seem to have made a good job of it. The pub, that is.’

‘You think so? Thanks. I’m really pleased with the way it’s going. It’s just…well, it’s hard to get out taking pictures when you’re supervising builders, and talking to brewers and sourcing food and hiring staff. I want to make a go of this, but I want to get back to the day job too.’

‘But you’ve only been going a few months. In a few months more, you’ll really be established, then you can take up the day job again as well.’

‘Yeah, well, I hope so. Still, this always used to be a pub. Had a terrible reputation years ago, but then it closed and there’re no pubs in this end of the dale. One or two café, but not much for tourists and visitors. We want to bring money into the dale and this seemed one way to do it. Of course, it’s cost a lot more money, time and effort than I ever thought possible. But yes, I’m back.’

‘For ever?’

‘Who knows? For now at least.’

‘Back where you started.’

‘No, not really. Not even that.’ He looked sad for a moment. ‘Because while I’ve been messing up my life, other people have been moving on with theirs. Out of reach. And now it’s too late.’

‘It’s never too late,’ I said encouragingly, if rather fatuously, nodding at the sampler on the wall.

‘Sometimes it might be,’ he said, and shrugged and went into the back, returning with an armful of logs.

Oh dear. There was obviously a lost love in his past, but I didn’t know him well enough to enquire further. Sitting there at the bar, trying bits of food, just as I had yesterday, I noticed that Becca looked up hopefully every time the door opened, but it was just the usual groups of walkers, cyclists and people out for afternoon drives. I sent some texts, checked my emails, treated myself to a bowl of soup and a baguette. It was comfortable and cosy in the pub, but I had to go. I had the cheese-maker interview to write up. And it was getting dark.

‘If you get lonely up there, you can always come down in the evening, for a bit of company,’ said Dexter as he threw another log on the fire. The wood crackled and the sparks shot up. ‘Not so many visitors in the evening. More locals.’

‘Nice thought, but I’ve got work to do. Anyway, I’m not sure I would like to go through the ford or up that track in the dark.’

‘There’s always someone who’d give you a lift back up—if you don’t mind the back of a pick-up or a quad bike.’ He cleared my plates away and, with a wave to Becca, I went out into the gloom.

This time, drunk on neither wine nor exotic footballers, I managed the ford without any problem and PIP roared up the track. Already the house felt like home. I switched on all the lights, made myself a strong coffee and settled down to work. First of all I looked through my notes, marking good quotes, underlining parts, linking passages. Usually I worked in the office or at home with Jake to distract me. It’s amazing how much more work you can get done when there are no distractions.

Soon I opened up my laptop and started writing. The words flowed and the piece almost wrote itself. I finished the rough draft. That would do for tonight. I’d read it again and polish it in the morning. Like soup, a piece was always better when you’d left it to cook for a bit. I switched off the laptop, yawned and stretched. It was ten o’clock and I was suddenly hit with a wave of loneliness as well as fatigue.

If I’d been at home now, working at the table by the window in my little sitting room, Jake would probably have been there, working on his own laptop or sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the news or sports channels. He’d have brought me a glass of wine, maybe a little plate of cheese and biscuits or some hot buttered toast. And when I’d finished working, I would have cuddled up against him on the sofa.

I missed him. But was that because he was Jake, or just because he was someone, anyone, to be there? I was beginning to see that we’d just drifted into our relationship. Bits of it had been good. And I realised—almost for the first time, that yes, he brought me toast and cheese and things—but only when he fancied them for himself. And while I worked, Jake would lie there with the TV blaring, constantly flicking between channels. But if he was working and I wanted to watch something, he’d get cross, because how could he concentrate with all that noise? So I would read a book or listen to my iPod so he could work in peace. I’d been pretty dumb, hadn’t I? Not quite a doormat, but heading that way. Silly Tilly indeed.

I thought about it as I flexed my stiff shoulders, made my way upstairs and ran a hot, deep bath. And as I lay there, listening to the sheep—not scared at all now—I realised that yes, I was a little bit miffed that he could talk to Felicity, work with her and not me. So maybe my pride was a little bit dented. But my heart? I probed the idea and my heart like worrying a bad tooth. A twinge, maybe. But agony? No. I didn’t think so. I twiddled the tap with my toes and added a great gush of hot water and settled back comfortably. I could live without Jake.

The track was steep, the rain like icicles. The photographer dismounted and walked alongside the pony as they plodded up the bleak fellside and thought about the photographs he had taken that morning, an old man and a boy cutting peat. He thought he’d possibly caught an expression. He hoped so. He longed to get back to his studio, the darkroom, to find out. It was a lucky chance to find someone like that. The overseer at the small mine there hadn’t been too sure about photographs, nothing that would stop the men working. He would call back. But first he had to get into the next dale, get pictures of mines, machinery and the men who worked them.

The path was slippery now, partly from the driving rain and partly from the mud that flowed down from a ramshackle row of cottages that seemed to have grown up from the fellside and seemed ready to collapse back into it. One or two showed signs that the inhabitants had made an effort, with makeshift curtains made from sacking, but most were indistinguishable from the midden heaps behind them. Above him he could see another house. Even through the driving rain he could see it was in a better state than the others, with clean windows, a proper path and a tidy wall providing some slight shelter for a sparse vegetable plot. A bedraggled hen squawked as a tall woman emerged from the house carrying a bucket, which she filled from the water butt with one hand, the other holding a shawl over her head. She must have sensed the photographer looking at her, for she stopped and turned.

For a moment, despite the rain, she stood perfectly still, gazing down at him. She was straight-backed and strong-jawed, unflustered and unbothered. Her long skirt and shawl were the colours of the fellside behind her. She seemed made of the very soil and rock.

‘Good afternoon!’ said the photographer cheerily through the rain, touching his hand to his dripping hat.

‘Never so good for taking pictures,’ said the woman.

‘Ah, you already know my business in the dale.’

‘Word travels.’

She would, he knew, make an admirable subject for his camera. Just so, with the steep and narrow track beside her and the towering expanse of hill behind. He touched his hat again. ‘Would you be interested in a photographic portrait?’ he asked.

She looked down at him and for a brief second seemed almost amused at the thought. Then her mouth hardened again. ’ “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” says the preacher,’ she said. ‘But you are in need of shelter. If you wish, you can rest out of the rain a while.’

‘Gladly. Thank you.’

He tied the pony to the gate, checked that the tarpaulin was keeping his precious camera dry, and then followed the woman into the house.

Chapter Eight

The next morning was wonderful, one of those autumn days that are almost still summer. Even up there, at the top of the world, I could feel the warmth through the window. It was only my third morning here but already it felt right. I felt at home. I burbled happily to myself as I sat at the kitchen table, with my laptop and a mug of coffee, and kept glancing out at the glorious views while I tidied up my piece on the cheese-maker. Finally, satisfied with what I’d done, I saved it on to a memory stick, ready to go down to the pub and send it off. But I didn’t have to go yet, did I? The sun was shining. That track at the back of the house was too enticing. Work done, I had no one to answer to but myself. Not even Granny Allen could argue with that.

I tugged on my walking boots, bought last year for a holiday in Wales with Jake. The fleece too. At least I looked the part.

It didn’t take me too long to get up to the ridge again. Pausing at the top to get my breath, I looked down the dale. I thought about what Dexter had said. It was like looking at ghosts—those abandoned buildings, the ruined houses. A whole industry had thrived here and then vanished. The path plunged down past abandoned heaps of stones that must once have been buildings for the mines. Tall chimneys towered over empty spaces where hundreds of men once worked but now were left to sheep, which sheltered among the soaring pillars and cropped the grass, as if nothing had ever disturbed the peace.

I felt a little uneasy, like an intruder. Was it sensible to be up here on my own? Jake had thought it wasn’t sensible for me to stay the night in the cottage on my own, but I’d done that, hadn’t I?

Some new railings and a warning sign surrounded an arched entrance opening straight into the hillside. ‘Danger. Old mine workings. Keep out,’ it said. I peered into the entrance, could see the skilfully arranged pattern of bricks in its ceiling, still supporting the moor above it. At my feet were rusty railway lines. Even though they were much grown over with grass and turf, I could follow them into another vast arched building, open now to the elements, with birds fluttering among the high bricks. I sneezed and the sound echoed and bounced round the huge empty and deserted space. It was an eerie place. What must it have been like here, I wondered, with all those men and machinery, the noise, the activity? The buildings could have been inhabited by a race of giants. Now they had all gone. Now it was just me, the sheep and the birds and silence. Weird. Seriously weird.

Walking alone in this strange landscape felt like the start of an adventure but just a little creepy. It was reassuring to see a Public Footpath sign. Very twenty-first century. It was a good firm track, too, easy walking on the springy turf. I had no map, no idea of where I was or where I was heading, but I couldn’t get lost. I would just walk on for another twenty minutes or so, then turn round and come back. The track curved round a low hill. I would just see what was on the other side…

I strode out briskly. The air smelt clean and fresh and was nicely cold on my face. It really woke me up. Bouncing along a turf path is a lot more fun than pounding away on a treadmill in the gym, and certainly better without the posers and preeners and designer Lycra. Above me I could hear the cries of birds. Didn’t know what they were. Maybe I’d get a bird book and find out, I thought. This country air was definitely getting to me.

I suddenly realised that nobody knew I was here. No one. I was completely free. I didn’t have to get back at a particular time or for a particular person. Or fit in with anyone else’s plans. My heart thudded a little at the thought. It was frightening, but it was also wonderful and exciting. Total freedom, to please myself. I did a little skip to celebrate and then strode out along the path.

I could hear another noise now, a strange sound that I sort of recognised but couldn’t quite place. Some farm machinery, I supposed, though I didn’t think there was much actual farming going on up here, not the sort that used combine harvesters or things like that. Apart from hearing The Archers, when Mum was listening to it, I was a bit hazy on all things agricultural. But I was pretty sure that this wasn’t the sort of land where you grew things, apart from grass and sheep. Whatever was making the noise, though, it had to be big. I’d soon find out, as I rounded the bend at the foot of the hill. And then I saw it.

A helicopter. Right in front of me. So close it seemed enormous. Like a huge buzzing dragonfly perched on a flat, white-painted piece of moorland. I could feel the force from the blades, and see it sending ripples across the grass. What a strange place to find a helipad. But then I looked further and understood. Just a few hundred yards away was a vast house, all Victorian turrets and chimneys, surrounded by a high stone wall and large gates. ‘Ravensike Lodge’, said a sign. ‘Private’.

Of course. Ravensike was originally a Victorian shooting lodge, that’s why it was plonked down in the middle of nowhere surrounded by moors and grouse and partridges and all those things that people liked to shoot at. And now it was owned by a billionaire who owned a glitzy football club and a helipad. I wondered what the grouse made of that. Don’t suppose it made much difference to them who took a pot shot at them.

Intrigued, despite the noise and the blast from the blades, I walked slowly towards it. A man was sprinting down the drive. Presumably he was the passenger the pilot was waiting for. He ran effortlessly, fluidly. He was clearly pretty fit. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved. He had a beautifully shaped head.

Oh my God, it was Clayton Silver. Was there no getting away from the man?

I wanted to turn and run back to the cottage, but instead I just stood there staring at him; he must have felt my look because he stopped on the edge of the helipad and glanced over in my direction. He looked away and then back again.

‘Miss Tilly!’ he shouted above the roar. ‘Is that you?’ He ducked under the rotor blades of the helicopter and then strolled towards me.

‘You skipping work?’ he shouted, the draught from the helicopter blades whipping his words away. ‘Shouldn’t you be writing about sausages?’

‘Cheese-makers!’ I yelled. ‘And I’ve done it. I’m just getting some fresh air before I go back and do some more. I didn’t know where this path led. I’m just—’

‘Come for lunch.’

‘Sorry?’ I couldn’t have heard properly.

‘I said come for lunch. I’ve got to see someone in Newcastle. Come along.’

‘But I can’t. I mean…’ Did I even want to go to lunch with him? Why did this man keep popping up in my life? First the club, then the pub and now, just when I thought I’d found one of the most isolated parts of England, he turns up there too. I shrugged my arms to show I was in jeans and a fleece and boots and, in any case, wasn’t too impressed by celebrity footballers.

‘That don’t matter.’ He laughed. ‘The pilot’s getting a bit antsy. You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind, Miss Tilly. Lunch or no lunch. Deal or no deal. Ten…nine…eight…’ He was grinning as he turned to go back to the helicopter.

The nerve of the guy! He was so in love with himself that he expected everyone else to be as well. Just turning away like that, as if I would meekly follow him. Who did he think he was?

‘…four…three…two…’ He turned back, grinning and stretching out his hand towards me.

Despite myself, I was smiling now too. Why not? What was the point of this sudden feeling of freedom if I didn’t do things I’d never done before?

I’d done most of my work for the day. A helicopter ride was always going to be fun, whoever it was with. My mum always told me never to get into strange cars. She never said anything about strange helicopters. Seize the day…I grinned.

Clayton grabbed my hand and we ran under the blades and jumped up into the helicopter. As we soared upwards, the ground dropped away, glorious views stretched out for miles. Clayton was still holding my hand. I eased out of his grip and, rather primly, sat on my hands as I looked out of the windows.

Inside the helicopter it was still noisy, not ideal for intimate conversation, even if I’d had a clue what to say, so I contented myself with working out where we were. We flew over miles of moorland then above the motorway. ‘Durham Cathedral!’ I said, pointing into the distance. Then, a few minutes later a huge metal giant loomed up on a small hill at the side of a motorway, families looking like dolls playing at its feet. ‘It’s the Angel of the North!’ I exclaimed and then, ‘All those bridges! It must be Newcastle.’

We followed the Tyne for a while—I hadn’t realised it was a country river too—until we hovered over a golf course and then landed gently in the grounds of a huge country house hotel, where the helipad sat in the middle of perfectly tended lawns. Clayton helped me out of the helicopter and then yelled to the pilot, ‘I’ll give you a call, mate.’ As if it was just a normal minicab. We walked across a path and into the hotel. It was one of those seriously stylish places, where they were so cool they didn’t bat an eyelid at my walking boots. I wanted to giggle. This was turning into a ridiculous adventure.

‘Good morning, Mr Silver,’ said the receptionist. ‘Your guests are waiting for you in the Brown Room. Would you like coffee or drinks brought through?’

‘No thanks. But I’d like a table for lunch, in about half an hour. For two.’

‘Certainly.’

‘This won’t take long, Tilly,’ said Clayton. ‘Get yourself a drink or whatever you want and I’ll be back soon.’ And he vanished, leaving me in my jeans, boots and fleece in one of England’s poshest hotels. I had no bag, no money, not even a lippy or a hairbrush. The receptionist was hovering.

‘Can I get you anything, madam?’ he asked.

‘Some coffee, please,’ I said. ‘And I don’t suppose you could conjure up a hairbrush? A comb? Anything?’

‘Of course, madam,’ he replied, as if it was the most normal request in the world.

He rematerialised about two minutes later, with a dinky little bag containing brush, comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, face cloth, and razor. How many guests must arrive here as ill prepared as I was? I dashed to the Ladies, cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair, helped myself to some of their richly scented hand creams and cologne and felt a little better. Back in the reception area, the coffee was waiting for me. I sat back in the leather armchair thinking that I might as well enjoy all of this.

Then Clayton was standing in front of me, smiling down. ‘Time to eat,’ he said, ‘and to drink something a bit more interesting than that.’

‘What about the people you were meeting?’

‘Gone,’ he said dismissively. I didn’t ask more. But I wondered who they were, why he would be meeting them all the way up here. I wondered if it was the sort of thing that Jake would want to know about.

We sat in the big bay window of the dining room, with a view across lawns down to the river. The menu was full of delicious things. I dithered over Thai-scented salmon salad with lemon potatoes, or maybe quails’ eggs and capers, pigeon and celeriac, pumpkin gnocchi or sea trout…I would have liked to ask for a copy to show to Bill. Clayton hardly seemed interested. ‘Just bring me some grilled chicken with lots of vegetables,’ he said to the waiter, but then spent ages poring over the wine list.

‘I know, Miss Foodie, who cares about every mouthful,’ he said in a laughing, mocking tone, ‘but food is just fuel to me. Yeah, I can see what the club dietician means about not too many pies and pizzas and all that, but food is just there to keep you going. But wine…well, wine is something else. Do you know,’ he asked as he finally made his choice, ‘I was seventeen before I first tasted wine? I thought it was for poofs and posers. Then Denny Sharpe, the manager at my first club—he was a bit of a wine buff—he gave me a glass of Château Laf ite. “Just shut up and drink that slowly,” he said, and I was like, wow, why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this before?! I was hooked. It is just so-o good.’

‘Clever Denny.’

‘Yeah, he was. Not just about the wine. I was a bit of a smart-arse street kid, I guess, thought I knew it all. I knew nothing. Absolutely rock-all. But Denny was good. He was good with all us young lads. Tried to keep us in order—I say tried, because we were a wild bunch all right. He and his missus took us out to places like this, proper places, you know what I mean, taught us our table manners and stuff. He even had us doing exams.’

I looked at him, enquiringly.

‘Bunked off school too much to do exams, didn’t I? Too busy playing football. Reckoned I didn’t need exams. But the club—well, Denny really—said there was an awful lot of life once our football days were over, so they got this tutor guy in. And me and a couple of others got some exams. I’ve got English, maths, PE and geography,’ he said proudly. ‘I’d have done some more but then I moved into the Premiership and it was all different then. And I was nineteen by then, so they reckoned I was all grown up, couldn’t tell me what to do.’

‘Must have been hard studying after you left school.’

‘No, it was all right really. Sort of interesting. There was just four or five of us and the teacher was pretty good. Didn’t treat us like kids. Couldn’t really. Even then we were earning shed-loads more than he was. But it was pretty cool. Never done anything like that before. My mum didn’t do books. Too busy trying to survive. She was only a kid herself when she had me.’

I was trying to remember what I knew about Clayton Silver. A tough childhood, on a council estate where gangs and guns were commonplace. He was always being held up as an example of how sport could make a difference, provide a way out for a lad with talent and determination.

‘No dad?’

‘He skipped off when I was still in nappies. Turned up again when I signed for the Premiership and said he wanted to make up for lost time. Yeah, right. Just wanted a slice of my money, more like. Told him where to go.’

For a moment his lively face looked bleak, far away. So I told him about my father and the drunk driver.

‘So we’re both half-orphans then,’ he said. ‘Not easy, eh? But I had lots of dads. Different one every few months. Mum would get lonely. Not surprising, she was only young. Then some bloke would move in, start throwing his weight around and then there’d be a row and in the morning he’d be gone too. There was a lot like that. Losers, most of them, absolute losers. Except for Travis. Travis was all right.’

‘What made Travis special?’

‘Well, for a start he stuck around longer than most. He could cope with my mum’s moods and tempers—which took some coping with, trust me. She had a mean temper on her. And he used to take me to the park, so we could both get out of her way. He’d kick a ball about with me. He was sound. It was Travis who took me to the Lions Boys’ club. Knew the guy who ran it. Told him I had talent. That was my big break, all thanks to Travis. He used to come and watch me, cheer for me. I told everyone he was my dad. Wished he was.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, in the end even he had enough of my mum. I looked for him, you know, when I signed for my first club. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to be proud of me. But I couldn’t find him. Then a few years later I heard he’d died, been killed, knifed. Got into an argument with the wrong guy. ‘

He took a fierce forkful of the vegetables piled high on his plate.

‘What’s your mum doing now?’

‘Selling overpriced clothes in a little shop in Spain. She went out there a few years ago with some guy she met on holiday. Actually, he seems all right. Don’t see much of him. But he makes Mum happy. Him and the sun. She’s really nice when she’s happy, you know? If it had worked out with my dad, she might have been happy all the time and been a different person. Who knows? Anyway, I bought her this shop and a villa, so if it all goes pear-shaped—which it usually does with my mum—then she’s got somewhere to live and a job to keep her occupied. But this guy seems to have lasted longer than most. He’s a lot older than her but they do a lot of travelling together and a lot of partying. She’s having fun and deserves that. Like I say, she was only a kid herself when she was left with me. Can’t have been easy.

‘Was it the same for your mum?’ he asked. ‘Was there always a new dad in the morning?’

I shook my head. ‘The complete opposite. She didn’t want anyone else. All she cared about was me and work. Too much so, sometimes. I wished she had let another man into her life. It might have taken the pressure off…’ I went back to my meal—wonderful juicy scallops with lemon and ginger and the finest angel-hair spaghetti I’d ever tasted. My childhood hadn’t always been easy, but hearing about Clayton’s I had no right to complain.

‘Which just goes to show,’ Clayton went on, ‘that in the end you’re on your own and you’ve just got to look out for number one, because no one else is going to do it for you.’

There was a moment’s silence as we both backed off from the conversation that had quickly got so heavy.

But soon Clayton was relaxed again. He leant back in his seat, took a sip of wine and grinned at me over the glass.

‘You look nice, Miss Freshface,’ he said, ‘All clean and outdoorsy.’

‘Well, I feel a mess,’ I said, and told him about the goodie-bag of brush and comb, which made him laugh.

‘I guess they’re well used to providing such things for unexpected female visitors,’ he said.

There was a sudden frisson in the air, a little ripple of something that suddenly made me feel not so safe. What had I got myself into—getting into a helicopter with a complete stranger, about whom I knew so little? If I had to make a run for it, I was done for. No money. No credit cards. I’d have to hitch back to High Hartstone Edge. It would take me some time. Especially as I wasn’t even sure exactly where I was. As I began to panic, some spaghetti unrolled from my fork and fell messily onto my chin. Clayton leant over and gently wiped it away with his napkin. He held the napkin close to my face for a little while longer than necessary. ‘What big eyes you’ve got,’ he said, gazing into them. ‘Beautiful big eyes,’ he said slowly, dreamily, seductively…

Then he suddenly crowed with delight.

‘And you blush! Oh Miss Freshface, you blushed.’ This had him chuckling to himself. ‘You know, I spend a lot of time with a lot of lovely ladies. Seriously hot ladies. They have all the clothes, the hair, the look, you know. But not once have I seen one of them blush. But you, girl, are the brightest, prettiest pink. I can’t really believe you’re a city girl. Really, you’re a little country miss at heart, like that girl in the book, Tess, that’s it—Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’

Oh God, why did I blush so easily? Now he probably had me down as a little girlie completely overcome by the big famous footballer. As if.

So to change the subject, I told him about my great-great-grandmother and how my family was from round here. He looked almost wistful for a moment and said it must be nice to have roots somewhere, to belong.

‘Oh, I’m as much a stranger as you are, but it’s interesting seeing where some of the family comes from, tracing any connections. And yes, I think it already feels special somehow.’

The waiter cleared our plates away and offered desserts. Clayton shook his head but said, ‘The lady will have one.’

‘No, it’s all right. I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Have a pudding. I bet you’d like to really.’

‘Well, yes,’ I grinned. He’d clearly read my mind. ‘Go with the flow,’ I’d said, hadn’t I? ‘I suppose I would.’ So I ordered the lemon tart, so deliciously sharp and lemony that it almost made my eyes water. Clayton watched me eat it, rather as though he were an indulgent uncle. As I took the final forkful, he smiled, ‘It’s good to see a lady enjoying her food.’

Which, of course, immediately made me feel huge and greedy. I bet the women he normally took out for lunch did nothing more than nibble a lettuce leaf with no dressing. Maybe an olive if they were going really mad. I went pinker.

‘Aren’t you shooting today?’ I asked hurriedly before he could comment on it again. ‘I thought that was the point of coming up here.’

‘Nah, it’s pretty boring really. You stand where you’re told, wait for some guys to shoo all the birds in front of you and you go bang! bang! and that’s it. And it’s all rules and etiquette and, “If you don’t mind, sir,” and a gamekeeper with a seriously bad attitude. I wanted to go off and shoot in another direction. I could see plenty of birds there, but he just says, “I’m sorry, sir, we’re not shooting those drives today.” Well why not, eh? And you should see the clothes. He was wearing a suit right out of a picture book, like that boy in the film about the trains, you know, the one with wotsername in.’

‘Jenny Agutter? The Railway Children?’

‘Yeah that’s the one. All tweedy with trousers to the knee and bright red socks. What a prat.’

By now Clayton was well into his stride. I could just imagine how he stood out on an expensive shoot, even amongst new-money millionaire businessmen and a bunch of footballers.

‘I asked him how many birds we’d shot and he said, “About thirty brace, sir.” Thirty brace? What’s that mean? It means sixty, yeah. So why couldn’t he just say sixty?’

As I laughed he glanced at his very expensive watch and sighed. ‘Well, Miss Tilly, we’d better go. I have to be there when they come back and then we’re back in training tomorrow.’

I sipped my last drop of wine as he paid the bill. For a nanosecond, the waiter’s eyes lit up as he checked the amount and his impassive mask almost slipped, so I reckoned Clayton must have left a generous tip. Show-off. He made a couple of calls and when we went out, the helicopter was waiting for us. And we were heading home.

As the helicopter came down by Ravensike Lodge, I looked out anxiously for the shooting parties, but they were out of sight, thank goodness. I didn’t think that the gamekeeper would take too kindly to a helicopter buzzing through his carefully driven birds. We got out, the rotor blades slowed down gradually to silence. The pilot walked off with a wave and Clayton and I were still standing there, with only the sound of the sheep.

‘Thank you for lunch,’ I said. ‘And the helicopter ride.’

‘It was a pleasure,’ replied Clayton. ‘Are you OK to get home from here? If not, I can get someone to drive you.’ He nodded his head towards the house.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s been good.’ And it had. I was surprised at how much I’d enjoyed myself. When he wasn’t showing off, Clayton Silver could be OK, really. I supposed.

‘Hey, I guess I’d better have your number, yeah?’

‘Well, yes. If you think…I mean…Well, why not?’

He took out his desperately stylish phone, keyed something in and then handed it to me.

I saw that he’d typed ‘Miss Tilly’. I tapped in my number and I resisted the urge to scroll down through his other numbers. I didn’t want to seem too keen, so I just smiled and handed it back to him, as if it were neither here nor there.

He put his phone in his pocket, then put his arms round me and kissed me, first on the cheek and then on the mouth, just lightly but very nicely indeed. I didn’t want to enjoy it. But I did. Quite a lot. I tried to look indignant but I failed.

‘I’m glad you could join me,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed the conversation and I just loved making you go pink!’ And, of course, I immediately went bright pink again. I was cross with myself. Cross with him. He laughed and added insult to injury by kissing my cheek once more before turning and loping back up the drive and in through the gates of Ravensike Lodge, which opened magically as he approached. I expect famous footballers get used to that sort of fairy-tale thing.

The house was sparse, but clean. It had a flagged floor scattered with pegged rugs and a fire burned cheerfully in the range. As the photographer’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed with surprise a small selection of books on a shelf by the window, and, in a chair by the fire, a boy of about eight or nine, his leg wrapped in makeshift bandages round a wooden splint, resting on a stool. The boy seemed to be knitting. He turned to look at the stranger.

‘My youngest,’ said the woman. ‘He hurt his leg in a fall and cannot yet get back to work.’ She dipped her head and shrugged off her shawl. He almost gasped at the sight of her hair—a rich red auburn. As she shook her shawl, one thick lock of her hair came loose and fell gently down around her throat. Impatiently, she pinned it back and he marvelled at the elegance of her movement. He could, he thought, have been looking at one of the society women who came to his studio to be photographed, not someone scraping a living in this wild dale. She nodded in the direction of the boy. ‘Until he’s back at work he can knit and make himself useful that way.’

She went to the fire, stirred something in the pot, tasted it and looked at the boy. ‘You can have your broth now.’ The boy’s face lit up.

The woman looked at the photographer. ‘You’re welcome to a drop.’

‘That would be very kind.’ He was cold and wet and some broth would indeed be wonderful, but he knew there wasn’t much food to spare in this household. ‘But only a drop, please, Mrs…’

‘Allen. Matilda Allen.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.