LITMIR.BIZ

       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

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