‘Oh yes, of course, you told me. Well as long as you’re getting on okay,’ he said. ‘I like to keep an eye on things. Not that there’s much crime around here but you never know.’
‘No I suppose you don’t.’
We stood silently for a moment while the two dogs sat at his feet, watching him and trembling slightly.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said at last.
He was on the point of going and I felt the need to say something.
‘I wanted to thank you for sorting out my puncture,’ I said.
‘You did thank me.’ He tightened the blue woollen scarf at his neck. It looked hand-knitted and I hoped it was one his aged aunt had made for him, not his adoring wife. He was bareheaded, and the breeze ruffled his dark curls. He didn’t seem to notice. If Benedict had been here he would undoubtedly have been wearing some foolish tweed cap in a pointless nod to rural life.
‘Well I wanted to thank you properly,’ I said.
God I’m such an idiot; that sounded as though I wanted to have sex with him or something. I could feel myself blushing and puffed at my cigarette again, not noticing that it now had an inch of ash on the end, which fell onto my boobs and lay for a moment like a tiny slug before I brushed it off.
‘Really there’s no need,’ he said, ‘but what did you have in mind?’
I think he was laughing at me again and I nearly lost my nerve. For a second I couldn’t even look at him. But if it was okay for Benedict to spend time with friends of the opposite sex then it was okay for me. He’d said so.
‘A drink?’ I said, my voice squeaking with tension.
He thought about it for a moment. ‘Yes that sounds like a nice idea. Thank you.’
‘When would be good for you?’ I said, taking another puff and hoping I looked sophisticated. I had the awful feeling I looked like a complete idiot. Probably with mascara running down my face from my coughing fit to add to the glamour.
‘I’ll pop back,’ he said, ‘meanwhile, I must get on.’
He clicked his fingers at his dogs and they followed him, their synchronised noses close on his heels.
Like an idiot I let him go and watched as he disappeared up the hill, around the bend in the lane and presumably into the fields where his sheep were.
It was only later that the nebulous nature of the phrase ‘pop back’ dawned on me. Buggeration. What did that mean this time? Tomorrow? Next week?
*
I went back in and carried on writing and then I decided to make some soup to sustain me through the evening. That was a rural, rustic thing to do, wasn’t it? That morning I’d loaded up my supermarket trolley with loads of vegetables. None of them were organic so Benedict wouldn’t have touched them but they were an absolute bargain. A bag of carrots from an actual farm for less than a pound! A massive bag of potatoes from the same farm for two quid! It must be an enormous farm because they sold onions, leeks, swedes and pineapples too. And kiwi fruit and bananas. I had vast quantities of stuff for under a tenner. Considering Benedict had once bought six muddy purple carrots for nine quid I could hardly believe my eyes. There was no doubt about it, living in the country was much cheaper than in town.
I started peeling vegetables and in no time I had a vat of soup bubbling away like something out of Harry Potter. It didn’t taste of much so I slung in some curry powder and some other stuff I found in a drawer. I felt quite Nigella-ish too; perhaps I should have tried cooking before?
When I got back to London perhaps I would have the kitchen remodelled? I could have a KitchenAid, a really cool retro one in shiny chrome. And one of those racks that hang over the cooker to keep all my tools handy. Perhaps I would diversify into writing cookery books? Recipes for Hungry Writers? Or Say Goodbye to that Writer’s Arse? Brilliant idea!
I left the vat simmering on the Aga and went back to my writing with a glass of wine and another Wagon Wheel. Well it was nearly five o’clock and everyone knows red wine is full of something or other, almost a health food. I worked on for a while, rather enjoying my new role as a countrywoman who made her own meals. I would spend the evening sitting by the fire with some fortifying soup, more red wine and one of the books I’d been sent on my Kindle and not got round to reading. I would not spend the evening watching rubbish on TV and picking the last of my nail varnish off.
*
I turned the TV on at six o’clock and listened to the latest ghastly headlines before turning over to a quiz programme and shouting the answers at the screen when I knew them. After a while I was aware of an unusual smell. Hmm, perhaps there was something on the last piece of wood I had jammed in the wood burner? Moss or something?
I topped up my wine glass and flicked through a few channels. There were only a few, no cable or satellite TV here. Well everyone knows there is nothing worth watching half the time unless there’s a David Attenborough on or Strictly. I got mildly absorbed in a programme about a couple buying a house in Orlando. Jolly cheap there too. So if you moved to Florida and made your own soup …
I shot out to the kitchen where the air was starting to thicken with fumes from my soup cauldron. Miraculously I caught it just in time before it actually burned, although the bottom of the pan was thick and claggy.
I added a load of cold water and put some of it into the blender rather carelessly.
Big mistake.
The lid of the blender shot off and in seconds the front of my gorgeous new white cashmere sweater was splattered with vegetable gloop.
I stood rooted to the spot with shock for a moment and then let out a despairing wail. Bloody hell! This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Of course at that precise second someone rang the doorbell.
And yes, it was Joe, popping back with a bottle of wine in his hand.
He bit his lower lip and looked at me for a moment.
‘I can see this isn’t a good time, sorry.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said, wiping a glob of soup off my forehead.
‘It’s just I never quite know when I’m going to get an hour to myself.’
‘I absolutely understand,’ I said calmly, dabbing at my sleeve with the tea towel. ‘I need to just y’know? Go and—’
I was going to say have a shower, but I was suddenly reluctant to share that sort of imagery with him.
‘—tidy up.’
‘Of course. Can I help?’
He was wearing an Aran sort of sweater under his waxed jacket. That would look nice with some of my pond-slime soup all over it.
‘Absolutely not. I have it under control here.’
‘Perhaps another time?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘What exactly are you doing?’ he said at last.
‘Me? Making soup,’ I said and closed the door.
I could hear him laughing as he walked away. Bloody hell.
I spent the next couple of hours cleaning up the mess. I don’t know what power that blender had but it had splattered soup all over the ceiling, worktops, cabinets and floor. And I seemed to have developed a new sort of industrial-strength adhesive in the process. Left to its own devices, the soup began to solidify into immovable blobs. I could have wept.
Fortified by a couple more glasses of wine I flopped into bed exhausted and then realised I still had soup in my hair. So I dragged myself out again and went and had a shower. Picking up a towel from the floor I managed to whack my cheek