Maddie Please - The Mini-Break

My parents were somewhere in America touring around the national parks in a Winnebago large enough for a scout troop. I suppose I could have gone to stay in their house, but they live near Inverness and they have a lot of rules about smoking and wine consumption and knowing my luck the fridge would be empty and the freezer full of vegan, gluten-free, preservative-free meals. At my age I need all the preservatives I can get.

I mentally ran through my address book and couldn’t think of anyone who would have me in their house for an indeterminate time while I got some much-needed distance from Benedict or with whom I could bear to share a bathroom.

Property prices being what they were in London, hardly anyone I knew could afford to buy a two-bedroom flat and most of the people I socialised with these days were child-free like me and didn’t need to consider a flatmate, so that automatically meant a sofa bed. Perhaps I was getting soft in my old age? Or perhaps I was just too fussy. I suppose the same constraints applied to Benedict. And let’s be honest he’d have to be desperate to move in with Percy. I couldn’t do that to him no matter how cross I felt.

I could have gone to stay with Jassy but the following day Ralphie came back from Antigua.

I mean I quite like Ralphie; he’s handsome in a floppy, public schoolboy, blond Hugh Grant sort of way. He’s reasonably tidy and clean and well behaved – well he has to be after all the bad behaviour on cricket tours of years past, otherwise he’d lose his job. But for all that he has to be one of the most boring people on the planet, unless you happen to like cricket of course. There can’t be many people who can hold forth on the Bodyline tour of 1932 with knowledge and enthusiasm for as long as Ralphie can. If there are I hope I’m never in the same room as them.

Added to this I once slept on their sofa bed and discovered that he and my sister are very enthusiastic in the bedroom and incredibly noisy. Lying awake at half past three in the morning listening to them giggling and whooping I thought about complaining or getting some ear plugs and then I realised I should be a bit more considerate. After all in her position I’d have been the same. I don’t mean with Ralphie of course but you know what I mean. And perhaps I should have said in her situation , not position.

*

How had it come to this? I mean I don’t seem to get it right when it comes to men and personally I think I have something to offer. I’m well educated thanks to nine years spent at vast expense in Cheltenham and three years at Oxford. I’d had two years of visits to the orthodontist and I have my own flat and a comfortable bank balance following years of hard work churning out book after book for my devoted readers. I’d once had high expectations for my relationship with Benedict, but two years on, deep down I knew I wasn’t happy with the way things were going. I had hoped we could work through our differences like grown-ups and commit properly. Perhaps even buy a place together. But at that point I wasn’t sure.

I never seemed to meet a decent man. What do I mean by decent? A man like the heroes of my books, I suppose. A man who doesn’t gawp at other women when he’s out with me, tidies up after himself, doesn’t eat with his mouth open, and while we are what Benedict playfully describes as ‘an item’, only has carnal knowledge of me and no one else. Is that too much to ask? When things go pear-shaped, as they inevitably do, I’m always useless at getting rid of them.

Why, when I can control every tiny aspect of my fictional characters’ lives was I unable to sort out my own?

I needed to think fast. At the back of my mind an idea was doing some shrieking of its own and it began to look more and more appealing as the minutes passed. I dressed quickly and found my mobile. I couldn’t explain why but something was drawing me back to Devon.

‘Sally? I need to ask a favour.’

A few days later I packed a bag and went via Waitrose and stocked up on all the essential things I might need: gin, Fevertree tonic, chocolate biscuits, that sort of thing. And I left a short, pithy note for Benedict to think about. As I drove past his chambers I was tempted to open the car window and shout a few farewell reminders, but then I saw a PCSO and thought better of it. Five and a half hours later I was back in Devon walking through the front door of Barracane House.

Funnily enough, this time it seemed okay. Well, more than okay. Everything that had been depressing and muddy and dull on my previous visit with Jassy was now fresh and clean. The air as I got out of the car was as cold and clear as crystal, bringing with it the promise of spring. The wind that last time had swept down the chimney with howling rage was now helpfully blowing the clouds away to the distant coastline, leaving behind a blue, washed sky. I felt as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I felt an unexpected little leap of optimism.

I unloaded my bags, looked at the gin and then put the kettle on. It was going to be different this time. I didn’t have to worry about Jassy; I would focus on myself and Choose Yes and get hours of productive and satisfactory rewriting done. I’d get back into the plotting groove too, a place I hadn’t actually been for several months. I have no idea why – there always seemed to be something more attention-grabbing to distract me from a morning at the laptop, banging out words. Sometimes I even did the ironing and that’s not a thing I do out of choice.

I’d have the damned book ready in no time, and meanwhile I would forget about Benedict and London. I would be rejuvenated and invigorated. I might even start to plot my next book. I’d been thinking about it for ages. I just needed to put stuff down. I’d found a fab notebook in Paperchase and that’s always a good start.

*

That night I slept better than I had for months, if not years. The bed was warm and soft and snuggly. I certainly didn’t remember that from my last visit. It had just seemed unfamiliar and irritating. Perhaps I was tired from the drive and the stress of Benedict and my own lack of focus? But I’d rather enjoyed driving away from everything I was familiar with. It felt exciting and daring. As though I was having a mini-break. Actually, thinking about it, it seemed like an adventure. I’d been on long stretches of motorway where there wasn’t any lighting at all. And once I had left the M5 near Tiverton and got off the dual carriageway there were even roads where I hardly saw any other traffic. Once, I had to pull into a gateway and let a tractor pass and instead of feeling exasperated, I gave the driver a carefree toot on my horn and received a cheerful wave in return. This was the life.

I showered and dressed and went downstairs to have breakfast. Barracane House was Sally’s investment and occasionally a holiday destination for her family and friends, so it was well equipped and beautifully furnished and decorated. Not like some rental properties I’ve been in which are full of cast-offs and none of the china matches.

I sat and ate my breakfast croissants and apricot jam, looking out of the kitchen window and admiring the sweeping view down the valley and feeling quite affectionate about the place. I even had a little wander around the utility room, reminding myself how to use the washing machine and tumble dryer.

And then, unable to stop myself, I thought about Joe Field.

Not with the aim of establishing any sort of romantic thingy. I mean, I was still in a relationship with Benedict. Just because we were having a bit of a wobble, it didn’t mean I’d looking for something or someone else. Obviously I wasn’t looking for … Well, I mean Joe was very attractive and I’ve always had a thing about broad shoulders … and there is something about a man who is both strong and competent, isn’t there? And he really had got us out of a hole when he sorted out that flat tyre, so it would only be neighbourly to make an effort to thank him properly, wouldn’t it?