LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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