Pippa came to open it and took the tray from Helena. We both peered round her, trying to see what was going on.
‘Everything OK?’ I said cheerily, craning a little.
I could see Oliver Forest sitting in the armchair next to the window with a large notebook on his knee. He was writing, his dark hair tousled as he ran one hand through it. Almost as though he could feel my gaze on him, he looked up. His eyes really were beautiful, and he stared at me for a moment in that funny way writers do when they are deep in a plot and they aren’t actually seeing you.
Bloody hell.
#Rathergorgeous.
He was beyond handsome. How had I not noticed this before? He could have been a prototype for any dark and brooding hero. His long legs, one of them in the plastic boot, were stretched out on a footstool. He looked to be in his late thirties, had a clean jawline, strong straight nose, and rather kissable mouth.
He blinked a couple of times and came back into the real world with the rest of us. ‘What now for heaven’s sake? Is there a problem?’
‘No, no, no, absolutely not,’ I said, covered in confusion.
I backed away and trod on Helena’s foot, making her yelp. She started hopping around – her knee held very high – and I hopped after her, apologizing. We must have looked a right pair of clowns.
Luckily there was a knock on the back door and we scurried off to welcome the first of our other guests.
Happily it was a couple of old friends from our first retreat: Nancy and Vivienne, both retired teachers who had travelled down together from Shropshire.
‘Well the roads were really clear,’ Vivienne said, shedding her soft silk scarf and folding it neatly into her coat pocket. ‘We made excellent time. Have we missed anything?’
‘No, you’re the first to arrive. Apart from our unexpected extra,’ Helena said. She lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘He’s in his room. His name’s Oliver Forest.’
Nancy frowned. ‘Oliver Forest – that name’s familiar. Has he been before?’
‘No, believe me you would remember him,’ I said with feeling.
‘Did we ever teach a boy called Oliver Forest?’ Vivienne asked Nancy who had spotted the coffee and was already halfway through a cookie.
‘Maybe,’ she said through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Short boy? Ginger?’
‘No, he’s dark-haired and’– ridiculously good-looking – ‘quite tall,’ I said.
‘Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Come on, Nancy, let’s go and get settled in. It’s always the exciting bit, finding out what our rooms are like. Are we next door to each other again?’
We took them upstairs and along the corridor that divided the house in half. The floorboards – centuries old and polished by time to a wonderful patina – were warped and uneven. The house was scented with wax polish and wood smoke and bowls of potpourri in odd little nooks. I began to calm down again. Oliver Forest was only one person. There was no reason why he should monopolize the week. It would be OK.
I trundled Vivienne’s suitcase into the front bedroom where a high four-poster bed was waiting, piled high with snowy bed linen and pillows. There was a built-in wardrobe whose doors lurched unevenly to one side, wedged shut with a scrap of cardboard, a huge tapestry armchair in one corner, and a rickety Indian carved table.
‘The bathroom is down there, between your room and Elaine’s.’
‘I thought Elaine was going to have the downstairs room,’ Nancy said. ‘I remember because it’s got an en suite, and I wanted it.’
‘She did, but Oliver Forest has a leg in a boot and he commandeered it before I could stop him. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Elaine,’ I said.
Nancy went into her room – a large single with an exceptionally ugly turquoise sink in one corner.
‘Goodness, this is a ghastly thing,’ Vivienne said, evidently pleased that she had the better room. ‘How did they get away with putting this in? I thought this house was listed?’
‘Ah but just think! This could be the very sink where Charles I brushed his teeth before the Battle of Bosworth,’ Nancy said.
Vivienne snorted. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake. So what time is lunch? One o’clock? Good, there’s time to get freshened up and have a power nap.’
Nancy went into her room and closed the door and I went downstairs to help Helena with lunch. I was going to make soup and she had arranged a fresh fruit platter. There’s no point loading people up with large meals in the middle of the day; they only go to sleep and miss out on good writing time in the afternoon.
Suddenly the door to Oliver Forest’s room opened and Pippa came out, struggling into her coat. She looked like a condemned prisoner seeing the cell door left unexpectedly open.
‘Are you off then?’ I said.
Pippa closed Oliver’s door quietly behind her and came towards me, her eyes slightly wild.
‘Yes, I’m … absolutely … I’ll avoid the traffic if I go now … Paris … I might …’
She had already missed the armhole of one sleeve three times and I went to help her.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? Would you like a drink of water or something?’
‘Yes fine. No. Really. Absolutely.’
She had an outstandingly pretty face, but it was clouded with unease. I could almost feel the stress coming off her in waves.
‘I wonder if you could take Mr Forest in some more coffee in a minute? Black, no sugar. And don’t bother with those silly little mugs – I think he’d prefer a bucket if anything. He has lunch between one-thirty and two p.m. But no shellfish and definitely no cheese – it makes him sleepy and grouchy.’
‘No cheese; thank you for the warning. I don’t think we’d want to risk making him grouchy would we?’ I said. ‘But surely he’d want to come out and meet everyone?’
Pippa shot me the smallest smile. ‘Good luck with that then.’
I trailed after her as she edged towards the back door. I was curious to find out more before she disappeared in a flurry of angst.
‘Back to London are you? I expect you’ll enjoy a few days off,’ I said.
‘Yes, I mean no … I have plenty to keep me occupied. Paris – I should – Oliver’s work, difficult, you know how it is.’ She stopped to blow her nose on a tissue and take a deep breath. I swear she was about to burst into tears. ‘And, of course, the blasted launch has been postponed. It’s far from ideal … but then needs must. Anyway, I’ll be along on Friday to collect Mr Forest.’
‘We have to be out by ten-thirty, remember? Don’t be late! We don’t want to have to leave him on the doorstep!’
‘Yes of course. God Almighty! No, please don’t! He’d go mad!’ Pippa said, wide-eyed at the prospect.
‘I was joking,’ I said.
‘Oh. Were you? OK. Well you’ve got my mobile number. Right, I’ll be off.’
Pippa shot out of the door and round the corner of the house. I closed the door after her and went back to my vegetables, wondering what it would be like to work for someone who