LITMIR.BIZ

       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

Скачать книгу