THE MINI-BREAK
MADDIE PLEASE

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Maddie Please 2019

Cover design © Becky Glibbery 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock

Maddie Please asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2019; ISBN: 9780008305222

Version: 2019-02-19

For Brian.

Unfailingly supportive and encouraging.

Thank you.

LYL

M xx

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Five years ago, my sister and I were skiing together (Val d’Isère, a chalet full of our friends and a case of Grey Goose vodka to get the party going) and Jassy took a tumble and dislocated her knee. Apart from the pain – which must have been awful – she was furious. She’d made us get new salopettes for the holiday too, really attractive, and matching fur-bobble hats. There were paparazzi all over the place photographing some Swedish princess and her family, but instead we attracted all the publicity, the sort Jassy wasn’t used to.

After several weeks of medical attention and physio we thought her knee was healed, but then in January she was on the ice rink at Somerset House, fell over and as a result needed an operation. Leg in plaster, the works.

The trouble was, with Jassy’s knee and with me going through a bad patch with Benedict after a rather disappointing Valentine’s Day, both of us had lost focus. We needed a break. Jassy came up with a plan and as usual she was very persuasive; she had a first draft of her latest book to finish while her husband was away in the West Indies, commentating on some mind-numbing cricket matches, and from all the media evidence, enjoying himself a bit too much out of the commentary box.

I had some structural edits to do on Choose Yes (okay, more of a rewrite if I’m honest) and a partner who was starting to get on my nerves. I know Benedict was stressed at work and I did sympathise, but all he ever seemed to do was complain loudly and at length about colleagues who were being more annoying and incompetent than usual. I really needed some peace and quiet, no arguments about whose turn it is to put the recycling out or when the water filter was last changed. Benedict is very particular about the water filter, you’d think what came out of the tap was poisonous.

And so, there were lots of reasons why we had borrowed our literary agent’s holiday house near Dartmoor. Jassy thought it was a good idea and it sounded fun. We would take some time out to get our writing wagons into a circle, do some proper work and recover after the alcohol-fuelled madness that had been our Christmas and New Year.

Sally had described in mouth-watering detail the glorious view across pretty fields and opening the diamond-paned windows to breathe in great lungfuls of clean air. Which is a joke as she smokes like a chimney.

We pictured ourselves sitting in comfortable armchairs next to a gorgeous fire. Jassy would be wrapped up in her pink cashmere robe, with her laptop open on her good knee. I’d be flicking through my proofs, ticking things off with the silver propelling pencil Jassy gave me for Christmas. Occasionally we would look up and grin at each other, pleased with the way things had worked out.

Peace, quiet, rest, lovely meals, large glasses of Merlot glowing like rubies in the firelight. I imagined a bird feeder in the window with all sorts of little birds fluttering around it.

Well it wasn’t a bit like that.

*

For a start the weather was rubbish. But then it was February in Devon. I suppose we should have expected horizontal rain and red mud everywhere.

One week in and I wanted to go back to London with just about every atom in my body. Back then my idea of a breath-taking view was the glass canyons of Knightsbridge. I’d been invited to a really brilliant birthday party at the V&A and turned it down to come here. What was I doing there with only sheep and my sister for company?

You might well ask.

I write romances – the sort where ditzy girls take over cafés or inherit cottages from their godmothers and find a wonderful and passionate love with the local surfer dude. I’ve written a whole series of medical romances too where the handsome surgeon falls in love with the feisty little nurse. Don’t sneer, you’ve read them, you’ve heard of me: Lulu Darling. I’ve sold millions of books; I know what I’m doing.

I look like one of my sweet-faced heroines too. Blonde and cute, and almost tiny enough to tuck in your pocket.

Just try it, Buster – all those years of writing about something that didn’t exist had knocked my corners off a bit. And the last few years had reinforced my rather jaundiced view of men, relationships, love and all that sort of thing.

My sister is pretty. She looks clever too, in a dark-haired, high-cheekboned sort of way that makes people assume she’s pondering deep thoughts when in fact she’s probably wondering if it’s possible to drown someone in a kitchen sink or poison a husband with household products without leaving evidence. That’s the sort of book Jassy writes you see, and she’s very successful too. But by the end of last year she was seriously behind with her latest book and her publisher was starting to nag. In a polite way, of course, because Jassy sells almost as many books as I do.

We were the Darling sisters after all: a brand, a sparkling little oasis of success in the middle of the dark scramble for sales. We were photographed at glossy events. We went to glamorous parties. Designers lent us stuff.

Jassy was asked to go into the last Big Brother House. Of course she refused; we do have some standards. I’ve been on Have I Got News For You because apparently my ample chest made them think I’d be an easy target for mild sexist banter. They were so wrong. They won’t try that again.

*

Very quickly I realised coming to Devon had been a mistake and while she didn’t say much I could tell Jassy thought the same. I think she felt more responsible because she had talked me into it. Not that she would ever admit it.

The house was lovely though. Sally had spent a fair bit of money doing it up – you know the sort of thing, Crucial Trading floor tiles, a pink Aga in the huge kitchen, and in the beamed sitting room, velvet sofas that were really comfortable. But it felt literally bloody miles from anywhere.

I wasn’t used to that; I was used to corner shops that were open all hours of the day and night, takeaway cafés and patisseries, wine merchants who deliver, Ubers at the touch of a phone. Barracane House was stuck on a sloping field in the middle of nowhere. As for the magnificent views, we couldn’t see them through the rain and the low cloud. The road to the house was an unmetalled track that had turned into a mudslide and the wind (which never seemed to slacken) howled up the hill straight towards the front door. Benedict would have been horrified.

We didn’t sit and work next to a glorious log fire because the wind kept blowing down the chimney the wrong way, puffing smoke into the room. There was intermittent mobile phone signal, pathetic or no broadband, and Jassy had forgotten her laptop cable so it ran out of charge after three days.

As far as the delicious meals went, we’d forgotten that we would have to prepare them and neither of us knew 1) how to cook the sort of meals we had imagined or 2) use an Aga. So the whole experience had been an unqualified disaster.

On top of that it was getting colder by the day.

And then I got a puncture.

*

I’d been looking out of the window, sick to death with my latest work in progress, not even able to email Benedict because of the rubbish Wi-Fi, wondering if I knew enough about vicars to work one into the story, when I noticed my car was on a slant. I tried to persuade myself I had parked on an uneven bit of ground, but closer inspection showed a flat rear tyre.

‘Phone the AA,’ Jassy said, looking panic-stricken.

By this point she was certainly not lying on the sofa being creative and taking inspiration from the glorious countryside outside our windows. And she had been forcibly reminded that while I am a fun companion and have a certain amount of superficial medical knowledge gleaned from my foray into hospital romances, I’m a rubbish nurse. The idea that we might go home was beginning to appeal to both of us.

I pulled out my mobile and waved it at her.

‘The house phone doesn’t work and there’s no phone signal, remember?’ I said.

Jassy whimpered under her blanket. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. I even went to the top of the mountain yesterday to check, not even one bar of reception at the moment.’

Thinking more clearly, it wasn’t a mountain, more of a hill. But you see I wasn’t used to that either. Where I lived was all lifts, escalators and flat pavements.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘I could go for help?’ I said doubtfully.

I looked out of the window at the dark afternoon and the rain lashing against the windows. There was a sudden ghostly howling noise in the hallway and Jassy hid her face in her hands.

‘What the hell was that?’ she whimpered at last. ‘Go and look. Quick!’

Great. So now not only was I driver, cook, nurse and bottle washer but also Security apparently. I didn’t want to go out onto the cold, flagstoned hall any more than Jassy did, but as I hesitated she rubbed her injured knee and gave me a pitiful look.

I wrapped my throw more tightly around my shoulders, picked up the nearest solid object for protection and peered out into the hallway.

‘I’ve got a gun,’ I shouted bravely and waved my weapon above my head. I swiftly realised the wind must have changed direction and it was now wailing through the letterbox. Which was just as well because I wouldn’t do much damage to an intruder with a Limoges ceramic banana.

After Jassy stopped howling with laughter we had a quick discussion about what would be the best thing to do and I stuffed the letterbox with a tea towel. It wasn’t as though we were going to be receiving any post, was it?

‘While you’re out there, can you bring another bottle of wine?’ Jassy shouted from her cosy nest on the sofa. Somehow she managed to sound imperious and feeble at the same time.

*

Two days later I was progressing quite well with my latest novel, but Jassy was moaning that working with a pen and paper was akin to medieval torture and we were down to our last six bottles of wine. Okay, we still had some gin and some weird green liqueur. We’d bought it in France years ago because it had a rather suggestive-shaped bottle, but we’d never opened it. At this rate we would have to. I bet it was horrible too; one of those really sweet, yucky drinks that needs to be camouflaged with five other ingredients to make a cocktail with a stupid name that is embarrassing to order. Like Big Dick or A Bonk Please.

I was looking out of the window at the rain, wondering if my latest heroine would be better off a tragic widow rather than a dumped bride. I kept changing my mind. I wondered what Benedict was doing and how he was coping without me. I bet he hadn’t remembered to put the recycling out.

It was so incredibly quiet that I think we could have heard our hair growing if Jassy had turned the radio off.

I heard his tractor coming up the lane a long time before I saw him. I sat up in my chair, like a dog hearing the rattle of a biscuit tin and, realising what it was, I made a dash for the door.

I stood in the middle of the lane, waving my arms above my head, almost weeping with relief at the thought of speaking to someone other than Jassy.

He slowed to a muddy halt, opened the tractor door and shouted down from the height of his seat.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, yes, no actually,’ I gabbled. It was still raining and in seconds my newly washed hair was plastered to my head, not an attractive look and he – the tractor person – was rather eye-catching.

‘Do you need help?’ he said, and he climbed down from his cab. My first close-up view was of his Hunter wellington boots, which were reassuringly large.

Did I need help? Well yes I did. He looked a capable sort too, and very tall, at least six feet four I would guess, and wrapped up in a big waxed jacket. He was rather broad, with bright blue eyes in a tanned face, actually quite yummy under different circumstances.

‘Yes,’ I shouted, ‘yes I do!’ By now I was so excited I was hopping from foot to foot.

‘Well?’ He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to go on.

‘Have you got a charging cable for a MacBook Air?’

He looked puzzled.

‘A what?’

‘It’s my sister. Jassy. Her laptop has run out of charge and she’s forgotten …’

My voice tailed off as I realised the idiocy of my question. Of course he didn’t have a bloody charging cable for my sister’s laptop. I’d be surprised if he’d ever heard of a MacBook Air or broadband or electricity for that matter.

He grinned at me, a big sort of Olympic-standard grin that would have been lovely if it hadn’t been directed towards my daftness.

‘Have you tried putting a new elastic band in it?’ he said.

I stopped to process this idea with my mouth open and then realised he was almost laughing at me.

‘No, but thank you for the suggestion,’ I said with more than a touch of acidity, wiping the rain out of my eyes. This was perhaps a mistake as I had been messing about with flicky eyeliner that morning; anything to postpone the evil hour when I would have to get on with some writing.

‘Well, have you considered putting some shoes on?’ he said.

We both looked down at my feet, which were encased in blue cashmere socks and mud. I’d been so keen to dash out and stop him I’d forgotten about putting on wellingtons.

‘I came over because my mother said she saw lights on the other day. Wanted to make sure there weren’t squatters or burglars. You’re not from round here are you?’ he said, and now he really was laughing.

‘No, I’m not,’ I said, almost tearful. ‘I’m from a place with proper roads and shops and phone reception. I need to somehow get in touch with a garage or the AA so they can fix my flat tyre and my sister and I can get back home!’

‘Got a puncture, have you?’ he said.

No, I just let the air out of my tyre for the fun of it.

I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I have.’

It’s the only thing keeping me here in this bloody place.

‘Well, perhaps I could help?’ he said.

‘What? What? Really?’ I spluttered, my heart lifting.

‘Have you got a spare tyre?’

I had no idea. How should I know?

Surely they had to give you a spare tyre when you bought a car? Wasn’t it the law? But if he wanted to know where it was I was scuppered. I’d only had the car for three months. I didn’t actually know how to open the bonnet either.

‘Of course,’ I said at last, in a confident voice.

The rain was now lashing down and my feet were frozen. It was getting dark too, which made the whole thing even more depressing.

‘I’ll pop back then,’ he said and he climbed back into his tractor.

He started up the engine with a throaty roar, turned round in a nearby gateway and drove back the way he had come, leaving me sopping wet and muddy.

‘When?’ I yelled after him as he passed me. ‘When will you pop back?’ but all I got was a jaunty wave.

I went back into the house and stood peeling off my muddy socks.

‘God, shut the bloody door!’ Jassy shouted.

I did so with feeling and went to get a towel to dry my hair.

‘Who was that?’ she said. ‘And why are you so wet? You’ve got black splodges all over your face.’

‘I don’t know and because it’s pissing down,’ I replied, glancing in a mirror and realising I looked like a sad clown. I scrubbed at the black streaks with a tissue. ‘He was passing because someone had noticed there were lights on and he was checking we weren’t squatters.’

‘Who in their right mind would squat here?’ Jassy grumbled.

‘He’s offered to do the spare tyre.’

Jassy brightened up. ‘Oh my godfathers! When?’

‘Don’t know, he says he’s going to pop back.’

‘Pop? Pop back? Oh FFS! It took ages for him to notice we were here in the first place so I won’t hold my breath!’ Jassy said. ‘Why didn’t you grab him, Lulu? Make him do it now?’

‘Because it’s getting dark and it’s bloody raining!’ I said, furious with myself for not doing exactly that.

‘Jeez,’ Jassy said, sending me a dirty look, ‘we could have been out of here in the morning. We could have made it to Kirsten’s book launch. Now I expect we’ll be stuck here for another fortnight. We’re going to die here, starve to death. Sally will eventually realise I still haven’t delivered Evil Has a Price and then she’ll come looking for me with a bread knife. By then it will be too late and all because you didn’t ask some filthy old farmer to change a tyre.’

‘Actually he wasn’t filthy or old. He was rather attractive,’ I said, but Jassy wasn’t listening, she was too busy refilling her wine glass.

Chapter Two

We waited with scarcely concealed impatience for another two days. Okay, the first day we concealed our impatience; the second day we weren’t concealing it at all. Jassy and I were at each other’s throats; snapping and snarling like a couple of barely house-trained puppies.

‘I mean what did he mean by pop back?’ Jassy moaned for the billionth time.

‘I have no idea, Jassy. Stop asking me. I would mean I’d be back in five minutes but this is the country, isn’t it? He might mean next week or next year – who knows?’ I said unhelpfully. ‘He might never come back.’

Jassy threw back her blanket and stomped unevenly to the window to look out at the rain. It was still raining.

‘Come back, you sod,’ she shouted and then turned back to me. ‘Are you sure you don’t know how to change a tyre?’

‘No, I don’t know how to change a tyre,’ I snapped back. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

Jassy slumped back down onto the sofa, her mouth drooping with misery. ‘Nor would I. Surely there’s an instruction book? We’re never going to see London again. We’re going to die in this bloody place, just die.’

She sounded so mournful I went to give her a hug.

‘No we’re not,’ I said. ‘Don’t be silly. People don’t die just because it’s raining and they have a puncture. There’s plenty of food in the freezer and we have four bottles of wine left. And the green stuff if we get desperate.’

She shrugged me off.

‘Stop being so bloody cheerful,’ Jassy said, huddling down into the cushions.

‘Well you’re being miserable enough for both of us.’

‘Oh, just shut up!’

‘You shut up, Jassy! We could have gone to Vanessa’s flat-warming party. This was your idea remember – your big drama about Ralphie and that woman, the draft that needed finishing. I could have done my editing anywhere—’

‘Don’t give me that! You wanted some time away from Benedict in the hope that he would stop taking you for granted!’

‘—I was expecting to have a lovely time with roaring fires and a restful few days before we went back to London.’

‘Well so was I! You agreed! I didn’t force you to drive here!’ Jassy shouted.

I could feel my temperature rising.

‘Yes, but I didn’t expect to be still stuck here, listening to you moaning twenty-four seven!’ I yelled back.

‘I’m an invalid!’

‘You’re not a bloody invalid.’

‘I am!’

‘You’ve got a bandage on one knee. This apparently means you can’t cook a meal, wash up, tidy your stuff away, or do anything except sit on the sofa drinking wine and complaining.’

‘You’d be the same in my place. And the one time we have a chance of someone getting us out of this place, you let him run off with the vague promise he might “pop back”. Why didn’t you offer to pay him? He’d have popped back a damn sight quicker if you’d waved a tenner at him.’

This thought had crossed my mind on several occasions but I didn’t need my sister reminding me.

I made a mature and considered response.

‘Oh shut up!’

‘You shut up!’

Jassy gave a furious scream and bit the edge of her blanket.

‘Hello? Anyone at home?’

Jassy yelped and we swung round to see the dark silhouette of a man standing in the doorway leading out to the hall.

‘Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but you didn’t seem to hear me when I knocked.’

It was him.

The man with the bright blue eyes and the tractor.

There is a God after all. I was beginning to wonder.

‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ I said, trying to sound calm and measured and not as though I had been in the middle of a heated screaming match with my sister.

He pulled off gloves, which looked as though they had been constructed from old wet suits and held out a hand towards me. I shook it. His fingers were cold but his palm was warm and I felt an odd shiver of something. He reached over to say hello to Jassy who was busy being tiny and fragile and thoroughly irritating under her blanket.

‘Joe Field. I’m guessing you haven’t managed to fix the puncture?’ he said.

Trust me, if I had I wouldn’t be here talking to you, I thought, but that would have been rude and Joe Field might have been offended and left us to it. I wasn’t going to risk losing him again. I moved round a bit so I actually blocked his exit route.

‘I’m Louisa Darling, and this is my sister Jassy Sutton.’

I waited a beat to see if he realised who we were. He didn’t so much as flicker. Oh well. Perhaps he didn’t look at the gossip columns or read much chick lit or psychological drama?

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid we haven’t managed to fix it. Jassy has a very fragile knee and of course I have to look after her full time.’

I made it sound as though she couldn’t be left for even a second, which was far from the case. In fact I’d gone to bed leaving her asleep on the sofa twice and yesterday I’d refused to bring her lunch on a tray and made her come to the table. I don’t think Jassy had been out of her pyjamas for three days and she was beginning to fall into the helpless, dependent patient state of mind.

‘I see,’ he said, rubbing the warmth back into his fingers.

‘So can you fix it?’ Jassy said.

‘I expect so, if you have a spare tyre. Or some tyre sealant.’

Tyre sealant? What the hell was that? Something like massive Sellotape?

‘I’m sure we do,’ I said. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘That would be lovely,’ he said. ‘Just give me the car keys and I’ll go and have a look and see what I can find. I’ve brought my compressor in case you don’t have one.’

What’s a compressor?

We watched him go outside. I had a sudden leap of optimism.

‘You don’t think he’s going to steal your car do you?’ Jassy said.

For a moment I gnawed at a thumbnail and thought about the possibility and then gave an exasperated sigh.

‘It’s got a flat tyre, Jassy, remember? This isn’t London.’

‘Well watch him – that’s all I’m saying.’

I went out into the kitchen and switched the coffee machine on and got some mugs out of the dishwasher. Then I tweaked the kitchen curtains back a bit more and watched him. He was rather watchable too, if I was honest.

He was very tall and broad in a muscly way and he had an ideal profile of strong straight nose, lovely cheekbones and a full lower lip that is supposed to mean a passionate nature. Well, it does in my books anyway.

The rain had stopped at last and the morning was the best since we had arrived. There was a bright blue sky and even some sunshine, which was burning off the early morning mist that had been hovering over the river down in the valley.

It was cold though, and a brisk wind was ruffling his dark hair. He made me think of Cormack McDonald, hero of my third book The Life I Always Wanted. Tall and big and rather – oh, for heaven’s sake.

Joe opened the boot and rummaged around for something and then pulled out a weedy-looking tyre like a toy with a red middle. He looked up, saw me watching him and gave a big grin and a thumbs-up. I shrank back and began making coffee.

‘Can I have some?’ Jassy yelled from the next room. ‘And I think there are some KitKats in the cupboard over the sink. If they aren’t there they’ll be in the stone jar in the larder.’

‘How do you know? I thought you couldn’t move off the sofa?’ I yelled back.

Bloody hell.

Meanwhile Joe was messing about with the flat tyre and constructing something that looked like a giant tin opener whilst jacking the car up off the ground. In a matter of minutes he had replaced the real tyre with the toy one and put the damaged one in the boot. Then he attached some engine sort of thing and pumped the spare tyre up a bit. It was very impressive.

He came back in the back door, bringing a cold swirl of air with him and the faint scent of wood smoke.

‘Okay, should be fine,’ he said, ‘but get a proper one fitted as soon as possible and don’t go over thirty miles an hour until you do. Could I just—’

He went over to the sink to wash his hands and I waited with the kitchen towel like some sort of theatre nurse by his side.

‘Thanks,’ he said, drying his hands.

The kitchen towel had little embroidered vegetables along one edge and he had hands like shovels so the two weren’t exactly compatible. It looked like he was using a handkerchief.

‘So, I can drive? I mean I do understand I need to get a new tyre. Where can I get one from?’

‘Depends where you’re heading,’ Joe said, handing me the towel.

I gave him a mug of coffee.

‘London!’ Jassy shouted from the other room.

Joe went into the sitting room where she was still bundled up on the sofa in her nest of blankets and cushions.

‘Then your best bet is Okehampton,’ he said. ‘You know how to get there?’

‘We’ll find it!’ Jassy said with feeling. ‘We’ve been in this ghastly place for long enough. We’ll find it!’

It struck me that this desperate haste to leave could be seen as rather insulting.

‘I mean we’ve had a lovely break,’ I said, ‘but we have appointments in London we really should keep. So thank you so much.’

‘Lovely break? Are you insane?’ Jassy grumbled. ‘It’s been the longest ten days of my life.’

Joe sipped his coffee and looked thoughtful. ‘Well, you haven’t exactly had good weather, I’ll give you that. I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to get out and about either?’

‘We were supposed to be working,’ Jassy said, calming down a little. ‘We’re both writers. We have deadlines to keep, with our publishers. We wanted to recover after Christmas and get back in the groove. But it didn’t quite work out like that. Technology failure I’m afraid, amongst other things.’

‘Ah, the MacBook Air cable. I see the relevance now.’

Jassy smiled up at him through her lashes. I could see a familiar pattern here. Now the car was mended and our escape route was established, Jassy could relax and stop being a stroppy cow and start flirting.

Jassy flirts with everyone; it’s what she does and being married doesn’t stop her. She’s been known to flirt with policemen, car park attendants and even our accountant. Trust me, our accountant is not the sort of man anyone flirts with – he might have the financial skills of a sorcerer on speed, but he also has halitosis, dandruff and a comb-over. She would find a man as good-looking as Joe Field irresistible.

Suddenly I didn’t want my sister to flirt with Joe Field. I stepped briskly between them and gave him a warm smile of my own.

‘We’re very grateful, Mr Field.’ I looked at my watch; it was half past ten. If we set off soon we could get a new tyre, be back in Notting Hill by early evening and even have time for a comfort stop somewhere too.

‘Right then, here are the keys. I’ve put everything back as best I can,’ Joe said.

He dropped my car keys into my palm; they were still warm from his hand and it was rather thrilling. My fingers curled round them.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. And thanks for the coffee.’

He tipped his head back to finish his drink and Jassy watched him with narrowed and speculative eyes.

‘Would you like a KitKat?’ she said.

‘Um, no thanks, I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Tunnock’s Tea Cake? Orange Club? I think we’ve eaten all the mint ones.’

‘Jassy!’ I muttered.

Joe pulled on his gloves and gave a grin.

‘I’m fine thanks. I’ll be off and let you get all packed up and back to the bright lights.’

I followed him to the front door. I felt a bit reluctant to let him go. I mean we’re all liberated, independent women aren’t we, but it doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate it when a handsome man wanders through our lives.

‘Thanks again, Joe,’ I said.

He turned in the doorway and shrugged his shoulders under his big, waxed coat.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘I’m always willing to help a damsel in distress.’

‘What do you do?’ I said. ‘I’m guessing you’re a farmer.’

‘Right first go. I’d better go and get on with it. My farm manager is away for a couple of days. I have sheep up on the moor.’

‘Gosh, sheep!’ I said as though it was something really unusual, although I knew from occasionally watching Countryfile that sheep were about the only thing that suited this part of Devon.

‘Anyway, I must get on. Don’t forget about that tyre,’ he said.

‘I won’t, absolutely not!’

I watched him walk back down the track to where he had left his mud-splattered Land Rover and then I went back into the house.

Jassy was already upstairs in her bedroom, gathering together all the discarded clothes and carnage that routinely surrounds her.

‘He was rather nice,’ I said.

Jassy wasn’t listening. ‘We’re off!’ she carolled happily as I stood watching her. She stuffed a handful of scarves into her case. ‘We’ll be back in London tonight. Proper central heating and takeaways and Wi-Fi and actual phone signal.’

‘You’ve perked up then,’ I said.

‘I have. Haven’t you? And let’s make a sacred pact never to come back here. Ever.’

I looked out of the window, watching as the sun rose over the valley. It was a beautiful day, and something inside me appreciated for the first time how lovely it could be.

‘I think it might be okay if the weather was halfway decent.’

‘You have to be bloody joking!’ Jassy said, widening her eyes at me. ‘I’m never going to set foot out of the Greater London area again unless there’s a frigging good reason and a five-star spa at the end of the journey.’

From being unable to walk further than from her bed to the sofa, Jassy now seemed to have miraculously recovered her mobility and was packed and fidgeting by the front door in no time.

‘Hurry up!’ she said. ‘Otherwise it’s going to rain, or there will be a landslip, or some criminals will escape from the prison or something.’

‘All right, calm down!’

We bundled everything into the back seat and boot of the car, left the front door key under the upturned bucket by the kitchen door where we had found it and were off down the road at a jaunty thirty miles an hour heading for a new tyre in the metropolis of delight that was Okehampton.

Chapter Three

Equipped with a splendid new tyre and filled with joie de vivre, we were back in London in time to dump our bags (no sign of Benedict at mine) and meet up with the usual suspects for an early supper. After a few shrieking and excitable phone calls Jassy decided we would try the new tapas bar that had opened in our absence. It’s like that where we live: someone opens a great new fusion restaurant in a fanfare of publicity and fire-eaters on the pavement and five minutes later it closes and reopens as a French patisserie.

The Gang were all there and they welcomed us back as though we had been off finding the source of the Nile. I scanned the room but Benedict didn’t seem to be around which was disappointing.

‘Darlings, so pleased to have you safely home where you belong!’

It was Jassy’s sister-in-law Maudie who had done something strange to her hair so that the roots were still dark brown, but the ends were now frazzled pink.

‘Maudie!’

Jassy embraced her and we all sat down with the others with a great deal of fuss and noise while a waiter hovered in the background with menus liberally sprinkled with pictures of bulls and matadors. I wasn’t actually sure I approved of that if I’m honest. I mean bull fighting is so horrible.

‘Ralphie was on the phone last night, complaining about the heat in Antigua. I said don’t give me that, you bastard; try London in the pissing rain. He’s missing you and can’t understand why he hasn’t been able to get through when he’s called,’ Maudie said. At this point she spotted a latecomer and waved a languid hand. ‘Keira, come and sit here! I want to know how the wedding plans are going.’

‘I haven’t decided if I’m going to forgive him yet,’ Jassy said, pouting. ‘Those pictures of him in that nightclub were pretty annoying. And he’d better not give me all that “what goes on tour stays on tour” rubbish.’

‘I told him you were still in Devon but I don’t think he believed me. Anyway—’ she waved a hand ‘—first I want Keira to tell you about Mark and Buzz. You will not believe what you are about to hear.’

Keira, a friend for several years, was engaged to Fergus, a computer nerd who whilst monosyllabic and mildly weird probably had more money than the lot of us put together. I was going to be one of her bridesmaids and the wedding was much on her mind these days.

I sat letting the noise wash over me while she recounted a tale of road rage and forged parking permits that had resulted in several arrests and a cracked windscreen. At the same time I tried to decipher a menu that promised various selections of tiny dishes but didn’t seem to have got the pricing right. I mean four dishes for twenty-five quid or five for twenty quid. How does that work then?

As the evening wore on I began to feel strangely out of it. I watched Jassy across the table, laughing and happy. She seemed to have forgotten her aches and pains. Perhaps it was the alcohol?

I nudged my neighbour Tanny, an ex-flatmate and friend since school days in Gloucestershire who now organised extravagant parties for American companies.

‘Have you seen Benedict at all?’

‘Well I haven’t for a few days, but the last time I saw him he was complaining about his workload for the tax evaders in Dubai or something.’ Tanny’s face screwed up into disapproval. ‘I think you are being an absolute saint, putting up with that.’

‘Putting up with what?’

‘Putting up with him moaning all the time. I thought you said you were fed up with him?’

‘Oh I didn’t mean that. I was just cross and tired. Has anyone else mentioned seeing him?’

‘Ask Toby – he lives in your building. Toby, have you seen Benedict recently?’ Tanny yelled across the table to where Toby Sedgemoor, a limp-looking but very successful financial whizz was draped across his latest girlfriend.

‘Benedict? Toby? Where is he?’

Toby blinked a bit. ‘Well his bike was chained up on the landing last night. I’ve told him he’s not supposed to leave it there and he says he’s going to sort it but he never does.’

‘But have you seen him?’ I said.

Toby’s eyes slid away from mine. ‘Isn’t he here? Oh I don’t know. You know. I mean – oh bugger, look anyone want another drink?’

I bit my lip and took a deep breath. Toby might be a bright spark when it came to financial matters and fund management – he wasn’t called Sedge the Hedge for nothing – but he was notoriously unreliable when it came to everyday life. Eventually, several bowls of tapas later and topped up with the best part of a carafe of red wine, I got a taxi back to my flat.

*

I felt quite excited as I got home. I was genuinely looking forward to seeing Benedict again. Maybe being away from each other had done the trick and it would help rekindle the spark we seemed to have lost. But the very first thing I noticed when I reached my door was Benedict’s blasted bike chained to a radiator. Yes I do understand it is far too valuable to be left outside overnight, though why he had to spend seven grand on a bike just to pedal less than two miles I’ll never know. It shouldn’t have been there at all. It should have been in the basement garage in the bike rack. The sight of it and its stupid anorexic tyres immediately ruined my good mood. I could so clearly visualise him in his equally irritating bike helmet and his monumentally unattractive bike gear as he steamed through Hyde Park, roundly cursing every pedestrian who got in his way.

With new and uncharacteristic reserve, I closed the front door quietly behind me and went to put my keys in the brass bowl, only to find it wasn’t there and a particularly vile ceramic dish had replaced it.

I went through into the kitchen and found Benedict sitting on one of my new Calligaris gas-lift bar stools watching a blonde chopping onions. She was wearing my Statue of Liberty apron over a dress that was falling off her shoulders at the top end and hardly covered her assets at the other.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ I said, in a voice that had somehow raised itself by several octaves.

Benedict looked startled. ‘Oh hi, Lu, this is Tess. I’m not sure if you’ve met?’

The blonde waved at me with my eight-inch chef’s knife and carried on chopping.

‘I said what are you doing? Who is she?’

Benedict looked a bit wild-eyed. ‘You’re supposed to be in Devon. I didn’t expect you back for a few days. Tess offered to show me how to make French onion soup.’

‘I bet she did,’ I muttered.

‘She’s just a friend, Lulu,’ Benedict said patiently, getting the situation under control as though I was in the slow learners group. ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.’

‘Because I’m home now,’ I said. I was starting to feel a bit foolish, wondering whether I really had over-reacted. Benedict has that effect on me.

‘And it’s simply wonderful to see you, petal,’ he said, coming over to kiss me. ‘Have you had a lovely time?’

This is my flat, I wanted to shout. After all, Benedict had never paid a penny towards the mortgage. We’d had discussions about that before now and he had recently taken over paying the electricity bill. Why that should make a difference, I don’t know.

‘Percy was going to come round later for a quick drink,’ Benedict added, ‘to celebrate the Winston versus Hardman win.’

Percy was a particularly odious friend of his who seemed to do nothing but oil his way around the chambers of the Old Bailey pretending to be more important than he was.

‘To be honest I’m tired. I’d rather he didn’t.’

Benedict opened his mouth to argue and then, seeing my expression, did a bit of back-pedalling. ‘Okay. I’ll text him. Look, don’t be sulky, sweetie. I’ve missed you; I just didn’t know you’d be back today.’

‘Didn’t you notice my bags in the bedroom?’

Benedict looked vague. ‘No.’

The blonde pouted and looked at Benedict. ‘Perhaps I’d better go?’

‘Good idea,’ I said, pulling my coat off, ‘Tess.’

Benedict sighed. ‘Better find your things, sweetie, thanks anyway.’

She flounced off into the hallway, her pert bottom wiggling, and Benedict had the nerve to watch it go for a few seconds before I cleared my throat rather loudly and brought his attention back to me.

‘So what’s going on?’ I hissed.

‘God, nothing is going on. Look, Lu, you’ve got to stop being so neurotic.’

‘I’m not neurotic,’ I said.

‘You came back before I expected you.’

‘So this is my fault?’

‘No – well, partly—’

‘Okay, I’m sorry—’

As the words left my mouth I was furious with the way I was backing down yet again. I should stand my ground and sling him and the bottom wiggler out into the street.

At that moment the blonde returned looking petulant.

‘I’ve called an Uber; have you got some cash, Benny?’

Benedict gave her a fifty-pound note and they exchanged three, slow air kisses in a rather infuriating fashion. Then she gave me a little wave and a white, gleaming smile.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said.

‘So?’ I said as the front door closed behind her.

‘So?’ Benedict repeated, stabbing at his phone.

‘So what was she doing here? Why was she in my flat, in my kitchen?’

‘What on earth is the matter? Look, I’ve put Percy off – now come here, you’re getting hysterical,’ he said, holding out his arms and looking at me with the expression I know he thought was sexy and irresistible. I took a deep breath.

‘I’m entitled to be annoyed when I come home unexpectedly and find you entertaining another woman. How would you feel if you came back and found me with another bloke here?’

‘I wouldn’t mind a jot, sweetie. I wasn’t entertaining as you put it. Aren’t we above all that sort of silly insecurity?’

‘Well I’m not,’ I said angrily, ‘and if you’re so keen to see Percy all the time why don’t you go and live with him?’

Benedict looked a bit panicky for a moment. ‘What are you saying, darling? You don’t mean that. I don’t want to go and live with Percy. I love you, I like living here. With you. Come on, I’ve said I’m sorry. I was thoughtless.’

‘Yes, you were.’

‘Well let’s forget all about it. I promise I’ll be good.’

He looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes and a little pout and despite myself I laughed.

‘Oh stop it, you fool.’

‘Right, well let me pour you a glass of wine but first of all, come here and give me a kiss. You’re looking superb. The country air must suit you. Fancy a fuck?’

*

I woke up the following morning after a restless night avoiding Benedict’s hands. I had a shower and then, wrapped in a towel, sat on the side of the bath to consider my options. I’d definitely let Benedict off far too easily. Anyone else would have had a hissy fit and slung him out on his ear. Why hadn’t I? Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. I knew he needed to think about what he’d done. And show a lot more consideration on a regular basis. I needed more time away from him before doing anything rash. I would focus on my work and when it was finished I would decide what to do next.

I know I’m my own worst enemy and I should have brought some of my muscular, attractive men friends round to make Benedict sit up and rethink his attitude. It crossed my mind that Joe Field would have made short shrift of Benedict and his over-groomed, metropolitan body. He would have swept him, his hair products, anti-allergy nose drops and Xbox out in record time, but of course Joe Field was several hours away and I didn’t know anyone else like him.

My parents were somewhere in America touring around the national parks in a Winnebago large enough for a scout troop. I suppose I could have gone to stay in their house, but they live near Inverness and they have a lot of rules about smoking and wine consumption and knowing my luck the fridge would be empty and the freezer full of vegan, gluten-free, preservative-free meals. At my age I need all the preservatives I can get.

I mentally ran through my address book and couldn’t think of anyone who would have me in their house for an indeterminate time while I got some much-needed distance from Benedict or with whom I could bear to share a bathroom.

Property prices being what they were in London, hardly anyone I knew could afford to buy a two-bedroom flat and most of the people I socialised with these days were child-free like me and didn’t need to consider a flatmate, so that automatically meant a sofa bed. Perhaps I was getting soft in my old age? Or perhaps I was just too fussy. I suppose the same constraints applied to Benedict. And let’s be honest he’d have to be desperate to move in with Percy. I couldn’t do that to him no matter how cross I felt.

I could have gone to stay with Jassy but the following day Ralphie came back from Antigua.

I mean I quite like Ralphie; he’s handsome in a floppy, public schoolboy, blond Hugh Grant sort of way. He’s reasonably tidy and clean and well behaved – well he has to be after all the bad behaviour on cricket tours of years past, otherwise he’d lose his job. But for all that he has to be one of the most boring people on the planet, unless you happen to like cricket of course. There can’t be many people who can hold forth on the Bodyline tour of 1932 with knowledge and enthusiasm for as long as Ralphie can. If there are I hope I’m never in the same room as them.

Added to this I once slept on their sofa bed and discovered that he and my sister are very enthusiastic in the bedroom and incredibly noisy. Lying awake at half past three in the morning listening to them giggling and whooping I thought about complaining or getting some ear plugs and then I realised I should be a bit more considerate. After all in her position I’d have been the same. I don’t mean with Ralphie of course but you know what I mean. And perhaps I should have said in her situation, not position.

*

How had it come to this? I mean I don’t seem to get it right when it comes to men and personally I think I have something to offer. I’m well educated thanks to nine years spent at vast expense in Cheltenham and three years at Oxford. I’d had two years of visits to the orthodontist and I have my own flat and a comfortable bank balance following years of hard work churning out book after book for my devoted readers. I’d once had high expectations for my relationship with Benedict, but two years on, deep down I knew I wasn’t happy with the way things were going. I had hoped we could work through our differences like grown-ups and commit properly. Perhaps even buy a place together. But at that point I wasn’t sure.

I never seemed to meet a decent man. What do I mean by decent? A man like the heroes of my books, I suppose. A man who doesn’t gawp at other women when he’s out with me, tidies up after himself, doesn’t eat with his mouth open, and while we are what Benedict playfully describes as ‘an item’, only has carnal knowledge of me and no one else. Is that too much to ask? When things go pear-shaped, as they inevitably do, I’m always useless at getting rid of them.

Why, when I can control every tiny aspect of my fictional characters’ lives was I unable to sort out my own?

I needed to think fast. At the back of my mind an idea was doing some shrieking of its own and it began to look more and more appealing as the minutes passed. I dressed quickly and found my mobile. I couldn’t explain why but something was drawing me back to Devon.

‘Sally? I need to ask a favour.’

Chapter Four

A few days later I packed a bag and went via Waitrose and stocked up on all the essential things I might need: gin, Fevertree tonic, chocolate biscuits, that sort of thing. And I left a short, pithy note for Benedict to think about. As I drove past his chambers I was tempted to open the car window and shout a few farewell reminders, but then I saw a PCSO and thought better of it. Five and a half hours later I was back in Devon walking through the front door of Barracane House.

Funnily enough, this time it seemed okay. Well, more than okay. Everything that had been depressing and muddy and dull on my previous visit with Jassy was now fresh and clean. The air as I got out of the car was as cold and clear as crystal, bringing with it the promise of spring. The wind that last time had swept down the chimney with howling rage was now helpfully blowing the clouds away to the distant coastline, leaving behind a blue, washed sky. I felt as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I felt an unexpected little leap of optimism.

I unloaded my bags, looked at the gin and then put the kettle on. It was going to be different this time. I didn’t have to worry about Jassy; I would focus on myself and Choose Yes and get hours of productive and satisfactory rewriting done. I’d get back into the plotting groove too, a place I hadn’t actually been for several months. I have no idea why – there always seemed to be something more attention-grabbing to distract me from a morning at the laptop, banging out words. Sometimes I even did the ironing and that’s not a thing I do out of choice.

I’d have the damned book ready in no time, and meanwhile I would forget about Benedict and London. I would be rejuvenated and invigorated. I might even start to plot my next book. I’d been thinking about it for ages. I just needed to put stuff down. I’d found a fab notebook in Paperchase and that’s always a good start.

*

That night I slept better than I had for months, if not years. The bed was warm and soft and snuggly. I certainly didn’t remember that from my last visit. It had just seemed unfamiliar and irritating. Perhaps I was tired from the drive and the stress of Benedict and my own lack of focus? But I’d rather enjoyed driving away from everything I was familiar with. It felt exciting and daring. As though I was having a mini-break. Actually, thinking about it, it seemed like an adventure. I’d been on long stretches of motorway where there wasn’t any lighting at all. And once I had left the M5 near Tiverton and got off the dual carriageway there were even roads where I hardly saw any other traffic. Once, I had to pull into a gateway and let a tractor pass and instead of feeling exasperated, I gave the driver a carefree toot on my horn and received a cheerful wave in return. This was the life.

I showered and dressed and went downstairs to have breakfast. Barracane House was Sally’s investment and occasionally a holiday destination for her family and friends, so it was well equipped and beautifully furnished and decorated. Not like some rental properties I’ve been in which are full of cast-offs and none of the china matches.

I sat and ate my breakfast croissants and apricot jam, looking out of the kitchen window and admiring the sweeping view down the valley and feeling quite affectionate about the place. I even had a little wander around the utility room, reminding myself how to use the washing machine and tumble dryer.

And then, unable to stop myself, I thought about Joe Field.

Not with the aim of establishing any sort of romantic thingy. I mean, I was still in a relationship with Benedict. Just because we were having a bit of a wobble, it didn’t mean I’d looking for something or someone else. Obviously I wasn’t looking for … Well, I mean Joe was very attractive and I’ve always had a thing about broad shoulders … and there is something about a man who is both strong and competent, isn’t there? And he really had got us out of a hole when he sorted out that flat tyre, so it would only be neighbourly to make an effort to thank him properly, wouldn’t it?

Hmmm. But he was probably married. Men who are that age and look like that always are. Probably to someone who looked like whatshername on Countryfile. You know the one I mean. Smiley and outdoorsy with a figure that looked good in jeans and Barbour jackets and fleece hats and clear, glowing skin from all the fresh air and clean living. A woman who says she loves animals and doesn’t just mean kittens. The sort of woman who could bake bread and drive a Land Rover through a stream and gut a fish without screaming. Not like me, who couldn’t do any of those things.

I was overthinking this situation. Joe might live with a disreputable family in a massive old farmhouse like you see on episodes of Miss Marple, where there is a mad aunt weeding the borders in a floppy sunhat and a grandfather who looks like Ranulph Fiennes but without the frostbitten fingers.

I saw an article about him in The Times the other day; he’s very rugged.

I decided to put on my new, white, oversized cashmere sweater so I was warm and comfortable and also so I looked chic in case Joe Field should come calling and then I settled down to work on Choose Yes.

The morning really did fly past and I got some good words down for the first time in ages. After a bit I rewarded myself with some coffee and opened the packet of Wagon Wheels I’d chucked into my trolley. I don’t know why because I’d never had a particular liking for them. But then I started looking out of the window again and thinking about Joe Field some more. I mean, what a waste of time. I was guessing he was about my age and how often do you find a decent man without attachments?

He might be engaged or of course he could be gay.

I’ve actually been ‘in a relationship’ with men who were both those things. For example I met Charlie at some awards thing. I was getting an engraved silver salver for book sales and he came over to my table with a couple of pissed friends to ask me to sign a book. How dumb was I? Did I really believe ‘little Anjelika’ was his much younger sister? We went out for months, with me never questioning why he hardly ever came over at weekends, why he wasn’t around at Christmas and why he had three phones but I only had the number of one of them.

I eventually met ‘little Anjelika’ when she saw us having dinner in the German Gymnasium to celebrate our six-month anniversary. She came over, all spiky legs and gnashing teeth to tip his langoustines into his lap and chuck his engagement ring into my salad. They of course had then gone off to have a first-class row, leaving me to pay the bloody bill. When we heard her shrieking what she intended to do to his nether regions once she got her hands on some house bricks, every eye in the place turned enquiringly to look at me and see how I was taking it. I crept away wishing I could pull my coat over my head.

And then there was Luke who was a fitness fanatic, built like a bookcase and strangely hands-off. Eventually when we got to date number twelve and he still hadn’t made a move on my virtue, such as it was, he admitted he was only dating me to keep his ailing grandfather happy. Shortly afterwards the old chap died, the will was read, I was unceremoniously dumped and Luke went off to Peru with Piers. To be honest I had wondered why Piers was always hanging around, and why he and Luke seemed to share a wardrobe. I don’t think my gaydar is particularly good.

Perhaps Joe Field was off women because his wife went off with the … who would it be? Who would call at these farms with any regularity? A seed merchant? No he did sheep, didn’t he? A man selling bales of hay then? Or sheep food? Or a sheep shearer. A shearer called Alan!

Of course. It was almost like a ready-made plot! An Australian sheep shearer who looked like Hugh Jackman. Perhaps Joe’s wife had been left on her own once too often while Joe went out across the moor on his tractor doing farmerly things. I wasn’t actually sure what. Perhaps he would have a couple of faithful sheepdogs with him who would look at him with actual dogged devotion and sit under the table with their paws on his feet when he had his meals.

I wasn’t convinced that was right actually. Didn’t farm dogs live outside in all weathers in kennels? They were working animals after all, not pets.

I came to and realised I had wasted half an hour staring out of the window and thinking about what Joe Field did.

So, back to work.

It was already getting a bit dusky outside as the clouds rolled in across the valley and it was only early afternoon. In London it never gets really dark. There are streetlights and shops and cars. Still, I didn’t want to be wandering around the house in the gloom, did I? So I put on some of the upstairs lights. And then I stood looking out of the bedroom window, watching a big bird wheeling about over the darkening moor. I wished I had some binoculars.

I didn’t actually know where Joe lived but he had mentioned seeing my house lights last time so this was as good a way as any of attracting his attention. And if he could see this house maybe I could see his? I started rummaging in my make-up bag for a lipstick and then stopped.

Pathetic. What the hell was I thinking?

I turned all the lights off again and went downstairs, stamping on each step, annoyed with myself. I was here to work, not think about some unsuspecting farmer I didn’t know.

*

To be fair once I got into some sort of routine I began to enjoy myself. It was a curious liberation not having decent Wi-Fi or much mobile signal. I didn’t have to reply to emails; I didn’t spend time online looking at handbags or clips of raccoons. I adore raccoons. It was only then that I realised how much time I wasted on social media pretending I was doing research. Back in London I would have been googling pictures of Hugh Jackman by now.

After a couple of days I actually did need to go out to get milk so I made my way to the nearest sizeable town. First of all I spent an hour in a café with free, reasonable Wi-Fi to check on my emails. But there wasn’t anything much of interest apart from three emails from Benedict asking why I had gone off in a strop for no good reason, when was I coming back and where was the toothpaste?

I sent a brief reply saying I was working, I wasn’t sure when I would be back and the toothpaste was in my bathroom cabinet where it always was. Then, feeling a bit guilty I sent a second, slightly kinder email saying I was okay, we could have a proper chat to iron things out when I got back and I hoped the latest case was going well.

A couple of miles down the road I found a Superfine Supermarket and stocked up on a few basic provisions.

Then I carried on shopping and found some stuff I didn’t need, like cake, more Wagon Wheels (I seemed to have developed a taste for them) and – as a gesture to my emotional turmoil – some cigarettes.

I hadn’t smoked for a while because of course Benedict didn’t approve. He was always banging on about clean eating and exercise and used to make swamp-like smoothies for breakfast, leaving me to clean the stringy bits out of the blender. He had tried to persuade me to buy a bike too, presumably so we could both look like complete prats as we scythed our way through Notting Hill on our way to the organic, wholefood, vegan market he liked. Actually, I think the only reason he wanted me to get a bike was so I could take pictures of him on my head-cam and then he could post them on Twitter and admire himself. The distance between us seemed to sharpen up my focus. He really could be Smug on a Bike.

I drove home liking the way the weak, winter light scattered across the dark moorland spread out around me. The road was almost straight, like something the Romans would have built, and it was deserted and pitted with the sort of frost damage that would have attracted TV camera crews in London and outrage about what the GLC was spending our council tax on.

I was in a mood. I wanted a man who wore tweed, waxed jackets and chunky sweaters and could do useful things like clear gutters and put the recycling out without doing rock, paper scissors first. A man who liked fried bread and double cream and beer. Preferably at the same meal. A man who used fewer products on his skin than I did. A man who didn’t believe every health scare he read. A man who nicked himself shaving and didn’t make a three-act drama about it, not a metrosexual twat with sensitive skin.

I was being irritable and disloyal. Benedict loved me; he’d said so. And he’d ended his message with a sad face emoji and a GIF of two kittens hugging.

We’d been together for two years. We had shared Christmas and holidays and thrown each other surprise birthday parties. We had fun. He could be kind and unexpectedly generous. Why wasn’t it enough? Why was I feeling like this?

*

When I got back to Barracane House I put the shopping away and, feeling quite daring, took a cup of tea and a cigarette outside.

It wasn’t quite as marvellous as I remembered, and I did quite a bit of coughing and inhaled a bit of tea, which caused me to start spluttering and choking, and just as I made the most unattractive hawking noise and spat my tea out, someone came round the side of the house and started laughing.

‘Are you quite all right?’

I looked round, my eyes streaming with the effort to stop, and of course it was Joe Field standing watching me, and close on his heels were two black and white sheepdogs.

‘I’m fine,’ I croaked, fishing in my pocket for a tissue. ‘Just having a breath of fresh air.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ he said with a grin.

One of the sheepdogs stepped forward on hesitant paws and then stopped at a brisk hand signal from Joe.

I got myself under control and tried to look vaguely sane.

‘Can I help? Were you just passing?’

‘I saw there were lights on again. I just thought I’d come over and see if it was you.’

He’d remembered me? How marvellous.

‘Yes I left my sister in London. Her husband is back from the West Indies and then – well, for various reasons I came back. I have a book to finish after all.’

‘Keen reader are you?’ he said. ‘The woman who bought this place is something to do with books.’

‘She’s my literary agent,’ I said.

‘Ah.’

‘I’m a writer.’

‘Oh yes, of course, you told me. Well as long as you’re getting on okay,’ he said. ‘I like to keep an eye on things. Not that there’s much crime around here but you never know.’

‘No I suppose you don’t.’

We stood silently for a moment while the two dogs sat at his feet, watching him and trembling slightly.

‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said at last.

He was on the point of going and I felt the need to say something.

‘I wanted to thank you for sorting out my puncture,’ I said.

‘You did thank me.’ He tightened the blue woollen scarf at his neck. It looked hand-knitted and I hoped it was one his aged aunt had made for him, not his adoring wife. He was bareheaded, and the breeze ruffled his dark curls. He didn’t seem to notice. If Benedict had been here he would undoubtedly have been wearing some foolish tweed cap in a pointless nod to rural life.

‘Well I wanted to thank you properly,’ I said.

God I’m such an idiot; that sounded as though I wanted to have sex with him or something. I could feel myself blushing and puffed at my cigarette again, not noticing that it now had an inch of ash on the end, which fell onto my boobs and lay for a moment like a tiny slug before I brushed it off.

‘Really there’s no need,’ he said, ‘but what did you have in mind?’

I think he was laughing at me again and I nearly lost my nerve. For a second I couldn’t even look at him. But if it was okay for Benedict to spend time with friends of the opposite sex then it was okay for me. He’d said so.

‘A drink?’ I said, my voice squeaking with tension.

He thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes that sounds like a nice idea. Thank you.’

‘When would be good for you?’ I said, taking another puff and hoping I looked sophisticated. I had the awful feeling I looked like a complete idiot. Probably with mascara running down my face from my coughing fit to add to the glamour.

‘I’ll pop back,’ he said, ‘meanwhile, I must get on.’

He clicked his fingers at his dogs and they followed him, their synchronised noses close on his heels.

Like an idiot I let him go and watched as he disappeared up the hill, around the bend in the lane and presumably into the fields where his sheep were.

It was only later that the nebulous nature of the phrase ‘pop back’ dawned on me. Buggeration. What did that mean this time? Tomorrow? Next week?

*

I went back in and carried on writing and then I decided to make some soup to sustain me through the evening. That was a rural, rustic thing to do, wasn’t it? That morning I’d loaded up my supermarket trolley with loads of vegetables. None of them were organic so Benedict wouldn’t have touched them but they were an absolute bargain. A bag of carrots from an actual farm for less than a pound! A massive bag of potatoes from the same farm for two quid! It must be an enormous farm because they sold onions, leeks, swedes and pineapples too. And kiwi fruit and bananas. I had vast quantities of stuff for under a tenner. Considering Benedict had once bought six muddy purple carrots for nine quid I could hardly believe my eyes. There was no doubt about it, living in the country was much cheaper than in town.

I started peeling vegetables and in no time I had a vat of soup bubbling away like something out of Harry Potter. It didn’t taste of much so I slung in some curry powder and some other stuff I found in a drawer. I felt quite Nigella-ish too; perhaps I should have tried cooking before?

When I got back to London perhaps I would have the kitchen remodelled? I could have a KitchenAid, a really cool retro one in shiny chrome. And one of those racks that hang over the cooker to keep all my tools handy. Perhaps I would diversify into writing cookery books? Recipes for Hungry Writers? Or Say Goodbye to that Writer’s Arse? Brilliant idea!

I left the vat simmering on the Aga and went back to my writing with a glass of wine and another Wagon Wheel. Well it was nearly five o’clock and everyone knows red wine is full of something or other, almost a health food. I worked on for a while, rather enjoying my new role as a countrywoman who made her own meals. I would spend the evening sitting by the fire with some fortifying soup, more red wine and one of the books I’d been sent on my Kindle and not got round to reading. I would not spend the evening watching rubbish on TV and picking the last of my nail varnish off.

*

I turned the TV on at six o’clock and listened to the latest ghastly headlines before turning over to a quiz programme and shouting the answers at the screen when I knew them. After a while I was aware of an unusual smell. Hmm, perhaps there was something on the last piece of wood I had jammed in the wood burner? Moss or something?

I topped up my wine glass and flicked through a few channels. There were only a few, no cable or satellite TV here. Well everyone knows there is nothing worth watching half the time unless there’s a David Attenborough on or Strictly. I got mildly absorbed in a programme about a couple buying a house in Orlando. Jolly cheap there too. So if you moved to Florida and made your own soup …

I shot out to the kitchen where the air was starting to thicken with fumes from my soup cauldron. Miraculously I caught it just in time before it actually burned, although the bottom of the pan was thick and claggy.

I added a load of cold water and put some of it into the blender rather carelessly.

Big mistake.

The lid of the blender shot off and in seconds the front of my gorgeous new white cashmere sweater was splattered with vegetable gloop.

I stood rooted to the spot with shock for a moment and then let out a despairing wail. Bloody hell! This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Of course at that precise second someone rang the doorbell.

And yes, it was Joe, popping back with a bottle of wine in his hand.

He bit his lower lip and looked at me for a moment.

‘I can see this isn’t a good time, sorry.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I said, wiping a glob of soup off my forehead.

‘It’s just I never quite know when I’m going to get an hour to myself.’

‘I absolutely understand,’ I said calmly, dabbing at my sleeve with the tea towel. ‘I need to just y’know? Go and—’

I was going to say have a shower, but I was suddenly reluctant to share that sort of imagery with him.

‘—tidy up.’

‘Of course. Can I help?’

He was wearing an Aran sort of sweater under his waxed jacket. That would look nice with some of my pond-slime soup all over it.

‘Absolutely not. I have it under control here.’

‘Perhaps another time?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘What exactly are you doing?’ he said at last.

‘Me? Making soup,’ I said and closed the door.

I could hear him laughing as he walked away. Bloody hell.

I spent the next couple of hours cleaning up the mess. I don’t know what power that blender had but it had splattered soup all over the ceiling, worktops, cabinets and floor. And I seemed to have developed a new sort of industrial-strength adhesive in the process. Left to its own devices, the soup began to solidify into immovable blobs. I could have wept.

Fortified by a couple more glasses of wine I flopped into bed exhausted and then realised I still had soup in my hair. So I dragged myself out again and went and had a shower. Picking up a towel from the floor I managed to whack my cheek on the sink. Stunned and rather wobbly I then dropped my hair dryer and fused it.

This was not good news on any level; if I went to bed with damp hair I would look like I’d stuck my finger in the light socket by the morning. And I was going to accessorise that with the beginnings of a black eye.

It hadn’t been a great day after all. In fact it had been an Olympic-standard bastard of a day with knobs on. What was I doing here again?

Chapter Five

I camouflaged my developing black eye with several layers of Touche Éclat and went out again the following day as I had decided I was low on something. It might have been loo cleaner or olives. I can’t remember and really I was just looking for an excuse to get out and about. To see people and talk to them. Which was odd because in London no one talks to anyone unless they absolutely have to and it never bothers me. And if you do they look at you as though you’re some sort of maniac rather than just someone who is asking about delays on the tube.

In Superfine Supermarkets I was unreasonably thrilled to see my latest paperback was on the shelves at number four. I looked around furtively and then moved my book to take over the top space, which should have been filled with Dan Brown’s new one but it had sold out. Yes, I know it was very childish but I was sufficiently pleased with myself to take a shelfie, which I then posted onto Twitter with ‘Oooh look, I’m doing well in Devon!’

You would think after all the books I’ve written and all the bestsellers I’d be immune to it but I’m not. I bet even J.K. Rowling is pleased to see her books in the window in Waterstones.

Then a load of emails landed on my phone so I did what a lot of other people seemed to be doing and went to the supermarket café for a cup of rather unsatisfactory coffee and a slice of cake.

I went and bought a few more things I didn’t need and some stuff for washing delicate woollens in the hope that I would ever get the crusty soup deposits out of my cashmere sweater. And then I saw a stand full of Ordnance Survey maps and I bought the one that covers the area of Sally’s house. This isn’t in any way the sort of thing I would normally do. I don’t quite know what was coming over me. I even flicked through a glossy magazine dedicated to all the local attractions of Dartmoor and Devon in general and was almost seduced into buying it when I saw an article about artisan bread making in Tavistock. Then I started looking around for binoculars. Binoculars? I mean really, do stop it.

I was past the checkout when my phone rang.

‘What are you doing? Where are you? You do realise you’ve missed that do at the National Portrait Gallery you were so keen on going to?’

‘Hi, Jassy, everything okay?’ I said, steering my trolley past a small boy having a tantrum because his mother wouldn’t let him have a go in the coin-operated fire engine.

‘No actually. No, everything is not okay. I’ve had Benedict on the phone every evening since you left London. He’s really upset. He says he just had a friend round to his home and you got the hump.’

‘I didn’t, I just reacted as anyone else would have when I found him entertaining a scantily dressed blonde in my frigging kitchen and tried to pass her off as just a friend.’

‘So why did you just shoot off like that? What’s the matter with you? Chuck him out, for God’s sake! You could stay here if you want time to cool off. I mean now you’re miles from anywhere. I’ve been ringing you and emailing you and you never answer.’

‘And by the way it’s not Benedict’s home, it’s mine and perhaps he needs to be reminded of it.’

‘Then even more reason why you’d better come back. Leaving him to get on with it isn’t really the best way of teaching him a lesson. What on earth’s the matter?’ Jassy said in an eye-rolling tone of voice.

‘No, okay, right. Look, I found him with a strange woman in my kitchen. I think I have a perfect right to be annoyed. Don’t you?’

‘He just said he had a friend round and you flew off the handle.’

‘A friend? Yes right! She was wearing my frigging apron – the one I bought in New York as a joke – and chopping up onions with my knife too. And Benedict knows I hate anyone cooking in my kitchen. I’ve lived there for nearly three years and never so much as turned the grill on. And there she was wobbling her breast implants all over my granite worktops!’

‘Yuk! That’s not a nice image!’

‘Look, Jassy, that’s not the point. The point is that I went back to my home, as I’m fully entitled to do, and Benedict had some tart in the kitchen.’

‘Oh he said that was Tess. I can’t remember her last name. She’s on that late-night chat show with thingy with the beard. She gives out the drinks. You know, where the guests are sitting there talking about their latest book or film or husband. She’s the one who comes round with a tray of champagne and not much on.’

‘Well she had even less on when I saw her! Trollop!’ I shouted.

Two people looked round and steered their trolleys pointedly away from me.

‘Well no wonder you were mad with him,’ Jassy said soothingly, ‘but why didn’t you show him the door instead of going off on holiday?’

‘I just need to get away, okay? I needed some time to think.’ I closed my eyes for a moment. I hadn’t been thinking straight for quite some time.

‘It’s not the same without you here. The Gang are all missing you.’

The Gang.

I could just imagine them all sitting around our favourite table in our favourite wine bar with an eclectic clutter of bottles and glasses in front of them. All of them partying like they were still in their twenties, even though so many of our other friends had already married and had kids. The very thought of seeing the Gang was suddenly rather exhausting.

I tucked the phone under my chin, got to my car, opened the boot and started putting my shopping in.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Jassy, calm down. I’m not having a holiday; it’s more of a working mini-break. I’ve been writing and it’s been going well. I just want to finish off a couple of things. What day is it?’

‘Um, um, Tuesday.’

‘Right well I’ll come back at the weekend. If you see Benedict—’

‘He’s bound to drop in.’

‘—tell him I’m still furious and he’d better not have any more friends like that in.’

‘Okay, stop shouting. You can always come and stay with me you know. You’re very welcome.’

I thought about it. Remembering Ralphie’s lascivious growling at my sister ‘Come here, you, I’m going to bowl a maiden over,’ in the next room was not something I wanted to repeat.

‘Look I’m probably over-reacting. Let me think about it. I’m a bit messed up at the moment,’ I said.

‘I’ll say! Where are you anyway?’

‘In the supermarket car park.’

‘Look, just come back. Otherwise Benedict is going to drive me mad.’

‘So it’s okay if he drives me mad?’

‘Well he’s your boyfriend. Stop being so difficult! Get rid of him. Hang on, Ralphie’s just got back. He’s been out to fetch his dry cleaning.’ She giggled. ‘We got chocolate body paint on his DJ trousers. You would have howled. We’d been—’

‘Please, Jassy, I don’t want to know.’

‘Promise me you’ll be back at the weekend? And by the way we’ve got an invite from Penguin for Samira’s book launch. Waterstones. Piccadilly.’

‘Yes I promise.’

*

I got back to Barracane House as dusk was falling, and for the first time the dark shadows of the little outhouse and the stunted trees looked a bit forbidding. I hurried inside and put some lights on. As I brought the last bag of shopping in I saw a handwritten note had been pushed through the letterbox. Now this was rather exciting.

‘Sorry to have missed you – I wondered if you would like to meet up for a drink in the Cat and Convict. They do good food too. It’s only a couple of miles down the road. I’ve drawn a map for you. If so, I’ll see you there about seven. Joe Field.’

I hadn’t expected that. What a marvellous idea! And after my spectacular cooking failure, eating out would be a great alternative. But what should I wear?

In London I would have fished out some spiky shoes and something from the latest go-to designer. There was always a bit of jostling for position with that in the Gang. The men seemed to get away with the usual shirt/chinos/jacket/stupid knotted scarf combo, but for we girls it was always a tense little moment when we saw what the other girls were wearing and whether we had scored more points on the cool/trendy/sexy/enviable … Oh boy, all of a sudden even the thought of it sounded draining.

I just chose some simple jeans (7 for all Mankind – I mean I do have standards) and a pale blue sweater (Brora – cashmere) and left Barracane House just before seven. I was feeling quite chilled out but I still wasn’t going to arrive first. I mean I wasn’t desperate or anything.

I’d done a bit of remedial work on my hair (on the cusp of complete chaos) and my incipient black eye (not as bad as I’d feared) and set off for the Cat and Convict.

*

It sounded like a lot of modern pubs that take on a silly combination of names in order to sound whacky and end up being pretentious and tiresome, but I was pleasantly surprised. A framed notice in the hallway told the tale of a convict who had escaped from Dartmoor Prison in the nineteenth century and escaped capture because he hid in the barn with the pub cat.

Inside, the place was already quite full with a lot of country tweeds and waxed jackets heaped up on the coat stand by the door. You wouldn’t do that in Notting Hill.

There was a preponderance of low beams, dark furniture and what looked like half a small tree burning in a massive inglenook fireplace. The successor to the cat of legend was asleep on the lintel above it, surrounded by pewter tankards and brass candlesticks. As I walked in, every head turned to look at me. Not in a threatening or unfriendly way, just sort of naturally curious.

‘There you are.’

Joe was at my side, and he led me over to a table that was close enough to the fire to be warm without singeing my clothing. He already had a pewter tankard of beer with his name engraved on the side. Evidently he was a local in every sense of the word. I sat down as relaxed as a first-time buyer asking their bank manager for a mortgage.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Red wine would be lovely.’

I sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire for a few minutes until he returned with my drink and two menus.

‘Hungry? They do some great food here if you are. Especially the pies.’

‘I haven’t had a pie since I left school!’ I said, slightly faint with the thought.

‘Then this would be a good time to try one,’ he said. ‘The steak and ale is a house speciality.’

I thought about eating a pie in front of him. I get a bit funny about eating in front of people, in case they think I’m greedy I suppose. Stupid.

I looked down the menu for something less fattening. A salad or a light bite. There wasn’t anything. There were, however, a lot of things I absolutely love: proper comfort food, like cottage pie and fish and chips. Chilli and lasagne. Things I’d not had for a very long time. I’ve been on a diet for about twenty-five years, if I think about it.

‘I’ll have the cottage pie,’ I said at last.

Joe nodded approvingly and went to order.

I saw him exchanging a joke with a man behind the bar who was as wide as he was tall and they both turned and glanced at me. I looked away and watched as the cat got down from the mantelpiece by a circuitous route involving a plate rack, a shelf, a bookcase and an armchair before it stopped on the hearth and washed its paws.

Joe came and sat down again and the cat strolled over to wind itself round his legs. He reached down to scratch its ears.

‘Friend of yours?’

Joe grinned. ‘I like most animals, don’t you?’

‘I suppose so, but there aren’t many in my life if I’m honest. The occasional designer dog maybe?’

‘Designer dog.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So you’re a writer?’

I nodded and sipped my wine.

‘And what do you write?’

‘Romance. Some chick lit. I’ve done some medical and some psychological as well. And dabbled in erotica …’

Damn, why did I have to say that? Why did I say the word erotica?

Would he have read Housemistress and Headmaster?

Bloody hell, I hope not. My publisher had put a particularly suggestive cover on that one. A close-up of glossy red lips and very white teeth biting a man’s hand. It had done brilliantly in America; they couldn’t get hold of it fast enough.

He grinned. ‘Really? That’s fascinating.’

Quick, change the subject.

‘And you’re a farmer. A sheep farmer? That’s hard work I bet.’

‘It is.’ He leaned back in his chair next to the fire and sipped his beer. ‘My father and grandfather before me too. Although these days a lot of the hard graft is done by my farm manager and his brother. And my mother and my stepfather are still at the big farmhouse and Will does a lot. When I get a bit of free time I sometimes write freelance magazine articles. So what are you writing at the moment?’

‘I’m working on a book called Choose Yes. I finished the first draft last year and now I’m editing. My editor wanted me to tweak some changes to the plot by the end of last December and I’m nowhere near finishing. I keep having to put her off with different excuses.’

‘What’s it about?’

This was embarrassing because I kept reworking it and now even I wasn’t entirely sure.

‘It’s about a woman who swaps houses for the summer with a doctor. She was single then I made her a jilted bride and now she’s a widow. My editor thought it would work better. The hero is a paediatrician – terribly noble and altogether wonderful. When they eventually meet up of course it’s love at first sight, whoop de do and happy ever after. All that bollocks.’

He laughed. ‘You sound rather jaded about it if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Well, life’s not like that is it?’

At that moment the barman came over with two massive meals and placed one in front of me. Then there was the required exchange about cutlery, sauces and did we need more drinks.

‘Not seen you in here before,’ he said, wiping his hands on a tea towel before offering me a meaty paw to shake. ‘Pete Skinner, pleasure to meet you. Friend of Joe’s are you? That’s nice.’

‘Otherwise why would she be sitting with me?’ Joe laughed.

Pete raised his bushy eyebrows and tilted his head. ‘I’m just saying; bit of a surprise though if you know what I mean.’

‘Thanks for that, Pete,’ Joe said.

Pete wound the tea towel between his hands and then flicked it gently at the cat to shoo it off. ‘I mean there’ll be some that will have summat to say, I’ll bet.’

‘Thanks, Pete,’ Joe said again, his voice carrying a warning.

Pete laughed and went back off behind the bar.

The meal looked and smelled delicious and was about three times the amount I would have normally eaten.

‘So you don’t believe in love at first sight?’ Joe said after a few minutes.

‘Good heavens no,’ I said. ‘I suppose that makes me a bit of a hypocrite. Selling books crammed with love and happy couples when I don’t believe a word of it. Pretending there is a Mr Right out there. That perfect someone. If you just think about it the chances are unlikely and the divorce statistics speak for themselves.’

He blinked a bit and looked away for a moment. Then he grinned. ‘So you haven’t met Mr Right?’

‘Not a chance,’ I said, realising with a surprise that it was true.

The funny thing was as I said all this I knew I didn’t believe it. Deep down I wanted there to be a particular, special, wonderful person.

Benedict was nice-looking, well spoken, educated and clever with what my mother would have called ‘good prospects’. He had a lot of positive points. There wasn’t any one thing about him I could violently object to. Even after two years there was nothing terrible. However, recently there had been lots of little things, which were adding up to a series of arguments that got less and less reasoned and more and more heated as I released my irritation about his bike, his hypochondria and his inability to load or unload the dishwasher. And then I’d caught him with a half-dressed woman in my kitchen. I think anyone would find that off-putting.

‘This meal is fantastic,’ I said, hoping to change the subject, ‘and this place is everyone’s dream of a country pub. The décor, the look of it. You’d never get anywhere like this in London. It’s all chrome and spindly bar stools and meals served on blocks of wood or bits of slate.’

‘I told you it was a nice place. And they brew their own beer in the basement. The building is at least four hundred years old, maybe more. There was a rumour one of the big chains wanted to buy it only recently. There was uproar.’

‘I bet.’

We carried on eating and chatting until eventually I had to concede defeat; in the battle of woman versus food, food had won.

‘So, I didn’t think you’d be in tonight, Joe?’

I looked up as a young woman stopped at our table, one hand on Joe’s shoulder. She watched me with narrow, suspicious eyes.

Oh heck! The girlfriend? The wife?

Joe looked up unconcerned.

‘Hello, Ellie, how are you?’

‘Oh fine, had to get the vet out to Maggie the night before last.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘I think so. Got the sheep sorted? They say the weather is going to turn.’

‘Yes Jim and Ken did that yesterday.’

Ellie stood looking at me.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

‘Of course. This is Louisa. She’s staying in Barracane House for a few weeks. She’s a writer. You might have heard of her.’

‘Have I heard of you?’ She looked at me with flinty grey eyes, her antagonism obvious.

‘Lulu Darling, I usually write romances. But occasionally some medical or family saga.’

Too much information; I was prattling.

Ellie screwed her face up in thought. Even then she was remarkably pretty. She had a thick, blonde plait that hung down over one shoulder and she took hold of the end of it and stroked it against her cheek.

‘Nope I don’t think so. Oh hang on I think I might have tried to read one once. It wasn’t quite my thing. I prefer real books.’

No, I expected you to say something like that.

‘Ah well, you can’t please everyone,’ I said cheerfully.

She gave me a sweet, nose-crinkling smile, pulled out the chair next to mine and sat down.

‘You don’t mind do you?’ She leaned across a little bit, just enough to block my view of Joe, and put her pint on the table. ‘How did you get that black eye? Been fighting?’

I touched my cheekbone defensively. ‘Oh it’s nothing – just a little bump.’

Ellie turned away to speak to Joe. ‘I was hoping to talk to you about Ivy.’

‘Yes, go on,’ Joe said.

‘You don’t mind?’ She shot me a look.

‘Well …’ Joe said.

‘Good. I was talking to Isobel the other day. She says Penny Barron has a grey. Lovely temperament. She wondered if you’d be interested.’

‘Yes I might be, but I’ll talk to her about it. After all it’s up to Ivy in the long run.’

Ellie took a pull at her cider. ‘If you like I’ll go with her one day next week – she could have a look. Have a trial?’

‘Look, Ellie, I’ll ring Penny and have a chat, okay. And thanks.’

‘It’s no trouble, honestly.’

Joe leaned forward to look at me. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, wondering if it was acceptable to accidentally tip the remains of my meal over Ellie’s feet. And who was Ivy? And Penny?

Pete returned with his tea towel tucked into his belt.

‘All done are we? Didn’t finish, eh? Looks like the little lady doesn’t have much of an appetite. Not for my cottage pie anyway! Them cottages takes a lot of catching too I don’t mind telling you. Ha ha ha!’

‘Delicious, Pete, as always.’

‘Dessert menus is it?’ Pete said, wiping his nose on his tea towel.

There should be a hygiene certificate somewhere. I wondered what it said.

‘Um not for me thanks,’ I said.

‘Well it’s your loss, me duck. There’s toffee apple crumble on too. Betty’s best I call it.’

‘So what shall I say to Penny?’ Ellie said. ‘I’ll be seeing her next week. She’s bound to ask.’

‘No toffee apple crumble for you?’ Pete said. ‘You knows you likes it.’

Joe stood up. ‘No, not this evening thanks; in fact I think we’ve got to go. I’ve got to be back by nine.’

I looked at the clock. It was only eight twenty-five. He’d had enough.

‘Oh yes,’ Ellie said, darting me another look, ‘of course.’

Joe paid the bill. I followed him outside and he walked me over to my car. I’d parked it ready for a swift getaway, facing the exit in case the evening turned into a disaster. Of course it hadn’t been a disaster; Joe was a lovely man. Easy to talk to, good company in fact. But—

‘I’m sorry about Ellie,’ he said at last as we came to a stop beside my car.

Other vehicles surrounded it now that the car park had filled up. Most of them were massive four by fours. They made my little sports car look like a baby trying to join in with the adults.

I shook my head. ‘You don’t have to apologise. I’ve had a lovely evening.’

I just wondered who Ivy was. And what was Ellie to him?

‘Good, I just wanted to find out more about you. You’re a one-off.’

I reached into my bag to find my car keys. ‘Is that a good thing?’

Joe laughed. ‘Oh yes. Are you all right?’

‘Of course.’ I felt silly and brittle.

I opened the car door and slung my bag into the passenger seat.

Joe put one hand on my arm and I looked up at him.

The night around us was dark and frosty and his breath steamed on the cold air. He had a red scarf this time, tucked in to the collar of his coat, and it scraped gently against his stubble as he shrugged his shoulders against the chill. ‘Thank you, it’s been a great evening. I’ve enjoyed your company.’

‘Thank you. It was lovely. I really enjoyed it too.’

‘Louisa—’

I wondered for a mad moment if he was going to kiss me. Why would he do that? He wasn’t the sort of man to do that. Was he?

Suddenly, I hoped he was.

I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. I wanted …

No I didn’t. What on earth was I playing at? I had a partner. I needed to get home, put on some warm pyjamas, make some hot chocolate and get into bed.

On my own.

I wanted a good night’s sleep, undisturbed by my usual complicated dreams of being back in school and trying to hide a burn mark in my sweater. Just before I came out I had discovered yet another plot chasm in Choose Yes. Tomorrow I would concentrate on solving it. I wanted nothing more than that.

I absolutely didn’t want this big bear of a man to put his arms around me, press me back against my car and kiss the breath out of me.

Of course I didn’t. I was already in a relationship. I had Benedict.

‘It’s fine, absolutely fine,’ I said. I could feel a stiff smile stretch across my face. He took a step back and the moment was lost.

I got into my car and waved goodbye to him as I pulled out of the car park and my little car dived into the dark night.

Chapter Six

I got my wish.

No not that wish, the other wish.

I drove back to Barracane House, made some hot chocolate and went upstairs. It was only nine thirty. At home I’d be thinking of going out. I had this ridiculous feeling that Joe might suddenly arrive at the house with explanations and apologies and I didn’t want that.

So I closed the bedroom curtains and put all the lights out and got into bed. I settled down with my laptop and was astonished to see that for once I had some Wi-Fi.

Several emails arrived, most of them junk of course but two were from Sally, my agent, who was politely but firmly enquiring how I was getting on with my rewriting. There was one from Jassy reinforcing my need to return to London as we had been invited to a private viewing at the National Portrait Gallery at the end of the month. Ralphie had man-flu, Benedict was being a complete pain and she was sick of fielding his questions about where I was and why I was being like this.

Then there was a long email from Benedict himself, saying how unfair I was being and how it wasn’t his fault. I’d misunderstood the situation apparently. I wouldn’t have thought there was much to misunderstand. Still if I was honest I did feel rather miserable about it too. I sent him a short email saying I would be back at the weekend and then I closed my laptop.

The room was warm and comfortable and pretty too in shades of grey and dusky pink. Sally certainly had good taste when it came to interior décor. Either that or she had a friend who did. The curtains at the little windows were thick and cosy, the quilt on the bed was handmade and just the right side of charming without slipping over the edge into fussy.

Soon I was going to pack up all my stuff and leave. I would spend the rest of my time here writing and being impressively productive. Sally would be thrilled and forgive all the weeks I had spent messing about and not getting anything done.

I fell asleep just after midnight and woke with a start at eight o’clock. I was still in the same position I’d been in when I fell asleep. Why couldn’t I sleep like this at home? In London I had black-out curtains and triple glazing so not a sound from the street below ever disturbed me. My bed was large and warm and orthopaedic as Benedict had occasional back trouble and yet there I woke up every couple of hours, restless and uncomfortable. Of course it hadn’t helped that for all his healthy lifestyle, dairy-free diet and adhesive nasal strips Benedict sometimes snored loud enough to rattle the windows.

*

I did my best for the rest of the week, trying to wrestle with my feelings about Benedict and the future and at the same time not think about Joe. But I had a job to do. I was a writer who took the job seriously. Sally was waiting for me to deliver this book. I had stacks of food in the house; I didn’t need to go out. The weather was gradually getting colder by the day – even though at this time of year it should have been getting warmer – so I didn’t really want to.

That morning I woke just after seven o’clock and went downstairs looking for tea. Something had changed. It was still quite dark outside but the light was different. For a few minutes I couldn’t work out what it was. Then I pulled open the kitchen blind.

In the night it had snowed. It had snowed a lot and it was still snowing. Should it snow like this in March? Outside in the drive my car was little more than a series of mounds and bumps covered over with a thick white blanket. Childishly excited, I ran to the sitting room and pulled back the curtains. There was a fabulous panoramic view down the valley that was now blurred by the snow falling.

I couldn’t see any hedges or roads and the air had a strange yellowish tinge that suggested the storm was not over. I opened the front door, pulling my dressing gown around me, and shivered. Not so much from the cold as the excitement. I hadn’t seen any decent snow for years and I couldn’t remember a snowfall like this one. The air was very still with only the tiny sound of snowflakes rustling onto the ground. There were no birds, no animal tracks, no distant sound of dogs barking; nothing disturbed the silent morning.

I went back inside and had some breakfast. This sort of weather called for hearty stews and home-made bread. I didn’t have the wherewithal for either so instead I had a sachet of instant porridge.

I was supposed to be going home soon; back to London and parties and private viewings and real life. If this snow carried on there was no chance that would happen and suddenly I grinned. I wanted to go back to London, didn’t I? I needed to go back. People were expecting me. Benedict wanted me back. We had things to talk about. But some demon inside me whispered you can’t – you might be stuck here for a bit longer. The prospect didn’t seem to bother me at all.

I cleared up and surveyed the contents of the fridge. There was some long-life milk in the cupboard, plenty of tinned food stores and some bread in the freezer. I’d have to restock when I got the chance. It was going to be another adventure. A sort of strange childish escapade that involved being marooned for an indefinite time.

I prodded the dying embers of the fire and stirred it into life with some kindling. There weren’t many logs left. I’d have to go out at some point to fetch more wood from the shed. Sod it – I wasn’t looking forward to that.

I meant to settle down and get a good morning’s work in but instead I kept looking out of the window, hoping it was still snowing. I wondered what would happen to Joe’s sheep. I remembered him talking about Jim and Ken sorting them out. That would be a relief. Even with a tractor it wouldn’t be much fun traipsing over all these fields. And the poor sheep too. Didn’t their feet get really cold?

I went to make more coffee and rummaged in the back of the store cupboard until I found some biscuits. I went back to my place by the fire, opened a packet of chocolate digestives and ate one. Then I had another two. I never ate biscuits at home. What was I doing? I’d be the size of a house at this rate.

Oh well.

I did a bit more editing and found another place where the plot went up the creek. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before. There was no way my heroine would take three days to drive from Oxford to Kendal unless she had a disastrous sense of direction or was going in a pony and trap. I’d have to dispense with the overnight stop in Chesterfield where the hero came to her hotel room and took her to paradise and back. Which was a shame as I’d rather liked the sex scenes I’d written. Then I looked at a book of maps and realised if she was stopping in Chesterfield she probably did have a terrible sense of direction.

I gave a sigh and redirected her to Knutsford. The climactic (in every sense of the word) meeting with the hero would have to wait until she got to Kendal. I didn’t want her to spend a night of bliss in a motel on the side of the motorway. And that meant I would have to reschedule the showdown with her ghastly mother.

There was a sharp rap on the window and I nearly fell off the sofa with the shock. I got up and went to see who it was. It was Joe. He was back!

He stood on the doorstep muffled up in a thick tweedy coat and a woollen beanie hat.

‘You okay?’ he said, excited and smiling broadly.

His face was red with the cold and he stood stamping the snow off his boots for several seconds, resisting my invitations to come into the house.

‘Just called in to see you were all right. I knew we were forecast some bad weather but I don’t think anyone expected this.’

‘I’m supposed to be going back to London tomorrow,’ I said.

I persuaded him to come into the hall where he stood dripping melted snow onto the flagstones. He pulled off his beanie hat and patted down his hair where it had ruffled into unruly curls.

‘You won’t be going anywhere tomorrow if it stays like this,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The roads are difficult between here and Exeter. Little car like yours, well you’d never get through.’

‘No I suppose not.’

We both took a moment to think about this.

‘I was worried that you might not have much stuff here: wood and milk, that sort of thing. Ivy wondered if you’d like to come over for dinner tonight?’

Ah, Ivy must be his wife. So had she known I’d met up with him last night? Perhaps she did. Perhaps they had an open relationship where she occasionally went off with sheep shearers and he chatted up stray women? No don’t be ridiculous.

‘That’s very kind of her, but how—’

‘Well it’s midday; I could come and get you later on. This snow isn’t going to last long. I’ve got the sheep to see to and a few things to sort out, but I could fetch you in the Land Rover. About seven. Okay?’

He began pulling his hat and gloves on again, ready to leave. It was a fait accompli.

‘I don’t know—’ I said.

‘Go on, it’ll be fun.’

He gave me a slightly crooked smile that made me feel a bit funny inside. I wanted to object; to tell him I had a significant other. I wasn’t the sort of girl who liked being told what to do. And I certainly didn’t like being pushed into a speedy decision. He needed to know that.

Instead I smiled. ‘I’ll see you at seven o’clock then.’

‘Great, see you later.’

Well that told him.

I watched him tramp off down the lane, his boots crunching into the snow. I would see him again later and the thought suddenly made me feel rather giddy. For heaven’s sake I wasn’t a teenager. Perhaps my blood sugar was low?

I ate another two chocolate digestives just in case.

I supposed Ivy was the brisk, no-nonsense blonde pocket Venus I had imagined. I expected she would produce a hearty stew made from their own lambs and their own vegetables and probably an apple pie made from their own apples. There might even be hand-thrown plates, hand-blown glasses and hand-made cutlery. There would be a table hewn from a local tree and a cloth woven from their own wool.

Right, I was getting a bit hysterical and silly here.

But I was certainly curious.

*

Just before seven o’clock I pulled on every warm garment I possessed and my cute, embroidered gloves that were fashion items with as much warmth in them as a tea towel. I didn’t have any warm headgear, so I borrowed a maroon bobble hat from the cupboard under the stairs that proclaimed me a supporter of the Washington Redskins, whoever they were.

I heard the distant rumble of a heavy vehicle coming up the lane. During the afternoon the snow had stopped and the lowering clouds had disappeared over the moor leaving a clear and cold sky. It was nearly dark and Joe’s headlights pierced the gloom in a very reassuring way as he pulled up next to the house.

He leaned across to open the door of the four by four for me and I clambered up beside him. It was surprisingly warm in there. Heat was blasting out onto my feet and after a few minutes I pulled off the woolly hat and the useless gloves and tucked them in my pocket.

A short while later he slowed down and took a sharp turning to the left. We drove carefully up a single-track lane. It was incredibly dark and I could see random snowflakes blowing against the windscreen. We stopped by a farmhouse, which was big and built from dark stone. There was a light on over the front door and as I got out of the car I heard the sound of dogs woofing behind it. The barking increased in volume to a furious level and then a high, female voice called for them to stop being silly. Who was that then? Ivy?

‘Don’t mind the dogs. I’ll put them out in the kitchen. Come on, let’s get inside.’

I followed him into a hallway that had the sort of old flagstones that would have cost a small fortune in any reclamation yard in London. From there we went into a sitting room bright with an open fire in a massive inglenook fireplace. There were tapestry sofas and thick curtains closed against the darkness. It looked absolutely perfect. Every piece of furniture was dark wood and held the patina of old age and generations of polishing.

‘Not a very nice night,’ he said.

‘No.’ I was suddenly shy in a way that I hadn’t been since I was seven.

‘Can I take your coat?’ he said. ‘Ivy will be down in a minute. She’s gone up to have a bath. She’s a bit under the weather.’

Who the hell is Ivy? Why didn’t I have the nerve to ask?

‘Oh wow you should have said something; I wouldn’t have come at all if I’d known. She doesn’t want to be catering for guests if she’s unwell.’

Joe shook his head. ‘She’s fine with it. I told you it was her idea.’

I felt awful. I imagined the pocket Venus lying mournfully in her bath, one hand over her eyes. Would she have Jo Malone bath oil? Or would she make do with something less fancy? Sheep dip or something?

Joe returned with two glasses of red wine – not three – and handed one to me. Perhaps Ivy was off wine? Or perhaps she was a recovering alcoholic? The sort who would say things like ‘No, none for me thanks. It’s been three years and two months and four days since I touched a drop. I feel so empowered these days. Alcohol is a poison you know, and so many empty calories too. I’ll just have a glass of Appletiser.’ And then she would watch with hungry eyes as we swigged back our glasses of toxins.

‘Something smells wonderful,’ I said. It did too.

‘Beef stew. After all, I know you’re not a vegetarian.’

‘No I’m a carnivore through and through,’ I said, toasting the prospect with my wine. I could almost imagine the shudder Benedict would have given if he’d heard me. It was eighteen months since I’d had a bacon sandwich, thanks to him.

‘Excellent. Come and relax.’

The minutes ticked past and we talked about the snow and he told me about the worst winters he had known.

Had Ivy drowned or gone to bed?

I wondered if he got lonely or if Ivy ever wanted to seek out the bright lights, but I didn’t ask. Out in the hallway a clock chimed the hour.

‘Is Ivy all right?’ I said at last.

‘She’ll be down in a minute.’ Overhead the floorboards creaked. ‘There you are, she’s coming down now. I expect she’s in her best pyjamas in your honour.’

What? What? Had I walked unknowingly into something weird?

A few seconds later the door opened and a little girl came in.

‘Come and say hello,’ Joe said holding out an arm to her. ‘This is my daughter Ivy.’