I looked wildly around gauging how much food was left and what I would do if he came out to find nothing left but a few crumbs and some Stilton.
We all looked towards the closed bedroom door and waited for a second in case Oliver was about to come crashing out, snarling and looking for food. Nothing happened so we all took some more cheese and grapes and carried on chatting.
‘Well have a good look around the house. There’s an interesting book about its history on the desk in the hall. Find yourselves a nice spot to settle down and write this afternoon,’ I said. ‘There are plenty of armchairs in the sitting room, and a dining room if anyone prefers a table. I’ll be making cake for tea and sorting out this evening’s meal if anyone needs anything.’
‘And I’ll be going out to the local shop later if there’s anything you need picking up,’ Helena said. ‘There’s a newsagent, a grocer, and a couple of other gift shop sort of places. The church is fourteenth century with a fifteenth-century rood screen if that type of thing interests you. The tower is open on Wednesdays. I checked.’
I took a sneaky look at my watch; it was one-twenty-eight. Was Oliver going to be so precise? If so, he was verging on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum in my opinion.
His bedroom door opened and Oliver stood there, still looking rather rumpled, almost as though he’d been sleeping. Surely not?
‘Ah, this must be Mr Forest,’ Nancy said. ‘Pleasure to meet you. Do join us.’
Oliver favoured the group with a bad-tempered stare and it was obvious he hadn’t had any intention of sitting down, but then Nick stood up and pulled out a chair for him, shaking his hand and introducing himself. Oliver was rather blindsided into it.
‘I was just going to have something in my room,’ he said.
‘Oh that would be a pity,’ Vivienne said, patting the chair next to her. ‘We’re all writers. We spend more than enough time on our own. Come and sit down. Tell us all about yourself.’
Oliver darted a rather accusing look at me; like it was my fault he had no social graces. I don’t think so.
‘Well if I’m not interrupting anything …’ He came and sat down, handing his stick rather arrogantly to Nick who hung it up on the back of the kitchen door.
‘How did you hurt your leg?’ Nancy asked.
‘Bike accident,’ Oliver replied tersely. ‘There’s supposed to be soup? I presume all the crashing about and door slamming resulted in something?’
‘Oooh yes, sorry.’
I darted off to the stove where, thank heavens, the remains of the vegetable soup were still steaming. The others, still not properly aware of his prickly nature, were polite and engaging – asking him how far he had come to get here, was it his first time with us, what sort of thing was he trying to write?
Oliver replied with resolutely monosyllabic answers until I brought him back a bowlful of soup and some more hunks of French bread.
‘You didn’t go to school in Godalming did you?’ Nancy asked. ‘Your name is familiar. Vivienne and I were teachers there.’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t go to Oxford?’
‘Born in America, educated in Scotland.’
‘I was going to New York just before Christmas,’ I said. ‘Tickets bought and everything. I even had an ESTA and then … well I didn’t.’
I tailed off into stuttering silence. I hadn’t gone to New York because of course Matt had dumped me and taken someone else – but that might be a share too far.
Oliver shot me another look and this one was far from friendly although what I had done to annoy him this time I wasn’t sure.
‘Anyway, Oliver, tell us what you write,’ Vivienne said.
Oliver didn’t look at her, but concentrated on his soup. ‘Thrillers.’
Nancy didn’t think much of this answer. ‘And?’
‘Political, and sometimes aspects of espionage.’
‘Sounds good,’ Nick said. ‘Are you published?’
‘I have a paperback out fairly soon.’
Everyone sat up a bit straighter, me included. Of course! Pippa had mentioned a launch. A book launch! This was exciting stuff; it was what we all aimed for.
‘And what are you doing at the moment? I mean why are you here?’ Nancy said. She was persistent – you had to say that for her.
‘Working on the next one.’
‘And how’s it going?’
‘OK.’
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment while we all thought what to say next.
‘None of the demon writer’s block then?’ Elaine said. ‘You don’t find yourself sitting there not knowing what on earth to write?’
‘No,’ he said with a little snort of laughter as though the very idea was too ridiculous.
‘Oh I do. It’s awful when you sit there in front of a blank screen and your mind is equally empty isn’t it?’
The others made general noises of agreement and sympathy.
Helena took up the thread. It was a useful topic of conversation to get things moving. ‘I mean it happens, doesn’t it? I wonder how we all cope with it?’ she said.
We looked around the table for suggestions and unexpectedly, Oliver got in first. ‘There’s no such thing as writer’s block.’
‘Really, do you think so?’ Elaine said.
‘Have you ever heard a girl in a supermarket complaining she had checkout block? I used to be a teacher and we all know what a thankless job that can be but ever heard of a teacher with teacher’s block? Basically, it’s a fancy name for laziness and lack of discipline. People moaning about their pathetic word count when they’ve spent most of the morning on social media looking at pictures of kittens or playing games.’
Well that told us. I mean I’ve looked at pictures of kittens – of course I have. And everyone likes Candy Crush don’t they?
Oliver finished his soup, the spoon scraping on the bottom of the bowl. He looked up at the unexpected silence. ‘I seem to have spoiled your flow,’ he said.
I felt it was up to me to get things going again. ‘OK, what does everyone do if you find your story has stalled into a soggy mess in the middle?’
Nancy chipped in. ‘My book is such a muddle and I know it’s because I work in fits and starts. I might leave it for a couple of weeks because I’m doing some tutoring or I’m on holiday. Then I can hardly remember who is the main character, let alone who are the suspects or who actually did it.’
Oliver looked at his watch, a chunky, expensive-looking thing on his tanned wrist. I think he was keen to get away. ‘You’ve solved your own problem. Write every day and plot properly. It sounds as though you haven’t plotted your book at all, so it’s not surprising if you get in a muddle, is it?’
‘Do you write every day?’ Nick asked, squaring his shoulders as though going into battle.
‘Yes,’ Oliver said, pushing his chair back, ready to get up.
‘And where do you get your ideas?’ Nick said.
Oliver suddenly realized he was the centre of attention and everyone had stopped eating to listen to him. He looked very uncomfortable. ‘Well where do you get your