‘Yep.’
Do come in, thank you so much.
‘Your coffee and some cookies.’
How kind.
‘I don’t want those,’ he said. ‘You women are obsessed with cake and biscuits. Take them away.’
You women?
He hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. I felt rather like tipping the whole lot over him. Except it would probably result in a legal claim for actual bodily harm; not a good idea if you think about it.
International bestselling author in burns unit.
‘I swear she did it on purpose,’ said Ross Black, his face and both hands heavily bandaged. In the background I was being led away in handcuffs.
I put the tray down on the table, picked up the basket of cookies, and turned to go.
‘Lunch is at one o’clock,’ I said encouragingly.
‘One moment,’ he said.
I stood with the basket held out in front of me like a begging bowl as he typed on, his fingers rattling the keys at great speed. What was he going to say? Was he going to make an effort to be polite?
Maybe he would say something to make up for his rudeness.
Sorry if I sounded a bit brusque back then. I’m on a tight schedule. My editor wants this by yesterday.
I looked around the room as I waited, hoping for some clues into his character. Maybe a photograph, or some personal items. Everything was still extraordinarily tidy. It didn’t look as though anyone had slept in the bed. Perhaps he hadn’t; maybe he slept bolt upright in the wardrobe with his sweater hooked over a hanger? The waste paper basket was filled with tightly screwed-up bits of paper and on top of the chest of drawers there was a mobile phone on charge.
‘I can come back later if you prefer,’ I said.
He held up an index finger and then carried on typing. He was evidently on a roll and the words were flowing.
At last he stopped, poured some coffee out into his mug, and drank some while he scrolled back to check something. He made a sort of harrumph, annoyed noise on a couple of occasions and sipped his coffee. I stood there like a spare part fidgeting from one foot to the other. I cleared my throat to remind him I was still there, and he looked up at me.
‘I’ve told you, I eat at one-thirty,’ he replied at last.
I took a deep breath, ready to give him the benefit of my opinion, and then bit back my rising temper. He was the paying guest after all. He was perfectly entitled to his preferences. I shouldn’t be so dogmatic.
‘I’ll bring something in for you then,’ I said and left him to it.
I think I saw the sudden movement of his head as he looked up, but I didn’t wait to hear what he was going to say and I had the feeling I was being rude and unprofessional. I like looking after people; I like it when they are happy. Nothing seemed to be working with Oliver Forest.
I closed his door with care despite longing to slam it off its hinges and was about to tell Helena exactly what I thought of him, but she wasn’t in the kitchen. The timer was making apologetic bleeping noises, and something was burning.
My beautiful cake was ruined thanks to Oliver bloody Forest. I grabbed a tea towel, yanked the cake tins out of the oven and chucked them in the sink. It was half past ten now, time to think about elevenses for the others.
Helena came into the kitchen frowning, her hair still damp from the shower.
‘I can smell burning,’ she said.
‘Yes I know, it’s my cake. It was going to be lovely too,’ I said mournfully. ‘Flaming Oliver bloody Forest – he kept me in his room for so long it burned.’
Helena giggled. ‘My word, what were you doing?’
‘Nothing like that I can assure you! He was writing and kept me hanging on while he rattled out another scene of death and destruction and bombs and feeble-minded women.’
I gave a growl of fury.
‘I suppose the others are panting for their coffee? I’ll stick the kettle on,’ I said.
We didn’t see Oliver at all for the rest of the day. The others were quite happy writing and occasionally chatting. Most of the time all we could hear from the three in the dining room was the tiny machine-gun rattle of laptops. Elaine was writing in a notebook with a propelling pencil and sighing.
There were occasional book-related groans of ‘I’ll never get this damn book finished’ or ‘Why did I set this book in the nineteenth century?’ but that’s another great thing about writers en masse: they love to make a helpful suggestion or take ten minutes out from their own problems to offer suggestions about someone’s synopsis, plot holes, or character names. In fact, they love it because it means they can procrastinate, which is the other thing writers love doing.
I made a successful replacement cake and a cottage pie for tomorrow’s dinner, then I went upstairs for half an hour with The Dirty Road. I have to say it really was very good: one of those books that grabs you by the lapels and drags you off on a roller coaster ride of unexpected phone calls and safe deposit boxes and strangers in dark rooms. I flicked through to find a rude bit and enjoyed reading about the hero doing some imaginative things with his love interest (the flexible Selina) on a couchette whilst the Orient Express thundered suggestively through some tunnels.
Lunch came and went and I made a tray of food for Oliver and left it outside his room on a small table I had found in the hall. He’d taken it and two coffee offerings without so much as a comment. It was like having a permanently hungry poltergeist in the house. Or like The Man in the Iron Mask when the jailers leave food for the prisoner and take the empty tray away later without actually ever seeing anyone. Weird.
The three ladies returned to the front room to write and Nick and Helena left at two o’clock as the tower was due to open at two-thirty; excitement was reaching fever pitch. I don’t know what they were expecting to see from up there: a lofty view over the Serengeti plains perhaps, or herds of elk migrating across the tundra? I settled down to a quiet afternoon at the kitchen table with my laptop and was just getting into things when Oliver’s door opened.
He stood and looked around as though he was only half awake. His eyes were sort of distant and unfocused. Perhaps he was deep in his work and not really with it?
‘Can I get you anything, Mr Forest? More coffee?’
Blimey, surely not?
‘Can you come in here a minute?’ he said and he flapped his hands in a ‘come here’ sort of gesture. I stood up and went towards him.
‘Now turn round,’ he said.
I did so, mystified and looking around for a suitable weapon in case he was going to have a funny turn. There was an umbrella in the stand by the door and the usual fixture outside his room – an empty cafetière. I could fetch him a nasty whack with either if the need arose.
He stood behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.
‘Good heavens, you’re very short. How tall are you?’ he said.
‘Five foot three,’ I said, standing up as straight as I could.
‘Really?’ He laughed.
Why do people always find that funny? I wouldn’t laugh at him for being – what – six foot two?
He positioned one forearm in