The Lost Guide to Life and Love - Sharon Griffiths

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

      But his face had definitely lit up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       Chapter Six

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

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

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

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

      ‘No, just a token gesture.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      He clearly thought he was so important just because he could kick a ball around a bit. Expecting everyone to be so impressed. Just because he had a nice smile and knew his way round a wine list. But, I had to admit, there was something about him. He was just so…alive. Even when he was just sitting on a bar stool with a glass of wine in his hand, you could feel the energy in the man. ‘Quicksilver,’

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