3) Declutter wardrobe in manner of impossibly stylish woman. Put all remaining clothes into order using limited colour palette so I don’t look as though I’ve dressed in the dark. Become known as elegant, sophisticated person whose clothes fit. Get measured for bra.
4) Declutter kitchen cupboards. Check use-by dates on all items and discard where appropriate. Do not replace on the off chance I will be using a lot of ground nutmeg any time soon.
I paused to think and chewed the end of my pen.
5) Get second bedroom cleared of all junk. Ditto garden shed. Do not scream and hop about; woodlice are harmless. Find out what purple flower thing in garden is.
6) Find a proper job that pays proper money, has a pension scheme, and paid holidays.
7) Do 6) first. Before all the other things.
8) Get a tattoo. A really small one I can hide.
9) Consider eyebrow waxing.
10) Rethink shoes. Ugg boots – while comfortable and cute – are only suitable for children and people who go to the supermarket in pj’s. Wear heels more often so am forced to be elegant and stand up straight and not scuttle around like a beetle on speed.
I read back through the list. It sounded manageable, but also a bit outside my comfort zone – when was the last time I had allowed myself to imagine I could ever be stylish? I’d never been stylish. But wasn’t that the point? And a tattoo? I wasn’t even sure I approved of them.
And could I start a new career? Even just thinking it made me shiver with anticipation.
Maybe it would be possible. But doing what? For the moment I needed to concentrate on tomorrow. I was going to make a Victoria sponge and a chicken carbonara sauce. And two quiches for lunch.
Would Oliver approve of that?
Real men don’t eat quiche.
Matt said that the first and only time I made it for him. I should have known then it was never going to work out between us. He didn’t like salad either and only tolerated fruit as a decoration.
Did Oliver eat fruit? And salad? Would he like the cake I was going to make?
I clicked off my pen and lay down again, impatient with myself. I’d just written a list of all my big adventurous plans and I couldn’t stop thinking about a man! And an annoying man at that. Anyone would think he was the only guest here; the others were equally as important. Just because he was famous didn’t mean I should fixate on his needs.
His needs.
Did Oliver Forest have needs?
What sort of needs?
Was Pippa his girlfriend? Was she in love with him? All the evidence pointed to no.
But maybe she was and that was why she was prepared to tolerate his moods?
Not a chance in hell. Surely not, considering the way he spoke to her! Even I wouldn’t stand someone treating me like that and my self-esteem had been flattened over the years.
Did he have a softer side when they were alone together? Was he sweet to her when no one else was looking?
Perhaps he was bad tempered because he was missing her?
Perhaps he was sex-starved.
Was he good in bed?
FFS! Shut up, woman!
I thumped my pillow and tried to think about something else.
It struck me that: 11) Finish the book and get it published hadn’t figured in my thinking at all. That was a bit of a surprise wasn’t it?
There was no denying it: my work of so-called light-hearted Tudor romance had solidified into a turgid disaster over the last six months. I think it’s very hard to write about love when you’re not in love yourself. Perhaps I should shift to writing about revenge killings?
There was a soft glow from the street light outside the house but at midnight it went out and the room was intensely dark. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I looked through the open curtain next to my bed and saw a clear, dark sky studded with stars.
I tried the usual methods of getting myself to sleep. What would I do if I won the lottery? One million? Ten million?
Nope, nothing worked.
Perhaps I should try and read one of Oliver’s books?
My eyes snapped open.
Now that was a thought! I wondered if there were any rude bits? You know, sex scenes?
For God’s sake, how childish was I?
I could certainly remember some erotic scenes in the film; the sight of Channing Tatum with his shirt off was the only thing that made the film worth seeing in my opinion. Had Oliver written them, or had they been put in by Hollywood? I couldn’t wait to find out. I lay wide-eyed in the gloom and considered the possibilities.
I’d not read many sex scenes by male authors. It wasn’t as though I went looking for them, but I was intrigued. Would Oliver’s style be realistic? Would his hero dump his submachine gun behind the bedroom door and do erotically slow and explicit things to some silky-skinned beauty who had been panting for him since their first meeting?
Or maybe his sand-encrusted hero would be forceful and determined, sweeping women away on a tide of lust and pheromones? I could almost imagine him, pulling his scarf off his face with a devilish laugh and ripping her flimsy garments with his strong white teeth? Coo er, actually that sounded rather good to me.
Or possibly he would close the bedroom door behind him in a flurry of asterisks.
Perhaps by the end of the week he would be swapping tips with Vivienne about alternative names for body parts? Maybe I could sneak downstairs without disturbing anyone and get one of his books off the bookcase and find out? It suddenly seemed a really exciting prospect. And then I fell asleep.
The following day I woke late to find Helena had already dressed and gone downstairs. I hurriedly dragged some clothes on and ran a brush through my hair, wondering how I had managed to sleep through her departure. She wasn’t usually so considerate. If she was up then generally her view was I should be too.
She was in the kitchen prising frozen croissants apart with a knife and putting them onto a baking tray. She had already sorted the juices and jams ready for people to come down for breakfast.
‘Afternoon,’ she said rather tartly.
‘Sorry. I slept really badly,’ I said. ‘I didn’t hear you get up.’
‘I chucked a pillow at you and even that didn’t work.’
I jerked my head towards Oliver’s room. ‘Any sign of himself?’
‘Nothing yet. I expect he’s still asleep. I’ve tried to keep the noise down.’
I looked at the kitchen clock; it was nearly eight o’clock – breakfast time – and I could hear someone coming downstairs. It was Nancy, swathed in a strange voluminous garment of various shades of purple topped off with a jaunty cerise beret. She was certainly eye-catching.
‘I can smell coffee,’ she said. ‘Exactly what I need.’
Helena put a tray of clean mugs and a freshly filled cafetière on the table in front of her and Nancy helped herself.
‘So? Any sign of our celebrity?’ she hissed.
‘Nothing yet,’ Helena said.