Maddie Please - The Mini-Break

Hmmm. But he was probably married. Men who are that age and look like that always are. Probably to someone who looked like whatshername on Countryfile . You know the one I mean. Smiley and outdoorsy with a figure that looked good in jeans and Barbour jackets and fleece hats and clear, glowing skin from all the fresh air and clean living. A woman who says she loves animals and doesn’t just mean kittens. The sort of woman who could bake bread and drive a Land Rover through a stream and gut a fish without screaming. Not like me, who couldn’t do any of those things.

I was overthinking this situation. Joe might live with a disreputable family in a massive old farmhouse like you see on episodes of Miss Marple, where there is a mad aunt weeding the borders in a floppy sunhat and a grandfather who looks like Ranulph Fiennes but without the frostbitten fingers.

I saw an article about him in The Times the other day; he’s very rugged.

I decided to put on my new, white, oversized cashmere sweater so I was warm and comfortable and also so I looked chic in case Joe Field should come calling and then I settled down to work on Choose Yes .

The morning really did fly past and I got some good words down for the first time in ages. After a bit I rewarded myself with some coffee and opened the packet of Wagon Wheels I’d chucked into my trolley. I don’t know why because I’d never had a particular liking for them. But then I started looking out of the window again and thinking about Joe Field some more. I mean, what a waste of time. I was guessing he was about my age and how often do you find a decent man without attachments?

He might be engaged or of course he could be gay.

I’ve actually been ‘in a relationship’ with men who were both those things. For example I met Charlie at some awards thing. I was getting an engraved silver salver for book sales and he came over to my table with a couple of pissed friends to ask me to sign a book. How dumb was I? Did I really believe ‘little Anjelika’ was his much younger sister? We went out for months, with me never questioning why he hardly ever came over at weekends, why he wasn’t around at Christmas and why he had three phones but I only had the number of one of them.

I eventually met ‘little Anjelika’ when she saw us having dinner in the German Gymnasium to celebrate our six-month anniversary. She came over, all spiky legs and gnashing teeth to tip his langoustines into his lap and chuck his engagement ring into my salad. They of course had then gone off to have a first-class row, leaving me to pay the bloody bill. When we heard her shrieking what she intended to do to his nether regions once she got her hands on some house bricks, every eye in the place turned enquiringly to look at me and see how I was taking it. I crept away wishing I could pull my coat over my head.

And then there was Luke who was a fitness fanatic, built like a bookcase and strangely hands-off. Eventually when we got to date number twelve and he still hadn’t made a move on my virtue, such as it was, he admitted he was only dating me to keep his ailing grandfather happy. Shortly afterwards the old chap died, the will was read, I was unceremoniously dumped and Luke went off to Peru with Piers. To be honest I had wondered why Piers was always hanging around, and why he and Luke seemed to share a wardrobe. I don’t think my gaydar is particularly good.

Perhaps Joe Field was off women because his wife went off with the … who would it be? Who would call at these farms with any regularity? A seed merchant? No he did sheep, didn’t he? A man selling bales of hay then? Or sheep food? Or a sheep shearer . A shearer called Alan!

Of course. It was almost like a ready-made plot! An Australian sheep shearer who looked like Hugh Jackman. Perhaps Joe’s wife had been left on her own once too often while Joe went out across the moor on his tractor doing farmerly things. I wasn’t actually sure what. Perhaps he would have a couple of faithful sheepdogs with him who would look at him with actual dogged devotion and sit under the table with their paws on his feet when he had his meals.

I wasn’t convinced that was right actually. Didn’t farm dogs live outside in all weathers in kennels? They were working animals after all, not pets.

I came to and realised I had wasted half an hour staring out of the window and thinking about what Joe Field did.

So, back to work.

It was already getting a bit dusky outside as the clouds rolled in across the valley and it was only early afternoon. In London it never gets really dark. There are streetlights and shops and cars. Still, I didn’t want to be wandering around the house in the gloom, did I? So I put on some of the upstairs lights. And then I stood looking out of the bedroom window, watching a big bird wheeling about over the darkening moor. I wished I had some binoculars.

I didn’t actually know where Joe lived but he had mentioned seeing my house lights last time so this was as good a way as any of attracting his attention. And if he could see this house maybe I could see his? I started rummaging in my make-up bag for a lipstick and then stopped.

Pathetic. What the hell was I thinking?

I turned all the lights off again and went downstairs, stamping on each step, annoyed with myself. I was here to work, not think about some unsuspecting farmer I didn’t know.

*

To be fair once I got into some sort of routine I began to enjoy myself. It was a curious liberation not having decent Wi-Fi or much mobile signal. I didn’t have to reply to emails; I didn’t spend time online looking at handbags or clips of raccoons. I adore raccoons. It was only then that I realised how much time I wasted on social media pretending I was doing research. Back in London I would have been googling pictures of Hugh Jackman by now.

After a couple of days I actually did need to go out to get milk so I made my way to the nearest sizeable town. First of all I spent an hour in a café with free, reasonable Wi-Fi to check on my emails. But there wasn’t anything much of interest apart from three emails from Benedict asking why I had gone off in a strop for no good reason, when was I coming back and where was the toothpaste?

I sent a brief reply saying I was working, I wasn’t sure when I would be back and the toothpaste was in my bathroom cabinet where it always was. Then, feeling a bit guilty I sent a second, slightly kinder email saying I was okay, we could have a proper chat to iron things out when I got back and I hoped the latest case was going well.

A couple of miles down the road I found a Superfine Supermarket and stocked up on a few basic provisions.

Then I carried on shopping and found some stuff I didn’t need, like cake, more Wagon Wheels (I seemed to have developed a taste for them) and – as a gesture to my emotional turmoil – some cigarettes.

I hadn’t smoked for a while because of course Benedict didn’t approve. He was always banging on about clean eating and exercise and used to make swamp-like smoothies for breakfast, leaving me to clean the stringy bits out of the blender. He had tried to persuade me to buy a bike too, presumably so we could both look like complete prats as we scythed our way through Notting Hill on our way to the organic, wholefood, vegan market he liked. Actually, I think the only reason he wanted me to get a bike was so I could take pictures of him on my head-cam and then he could post them on Twitter and admire himself. The distance between us seemed to sharpen up my focus. He really could be Smug on a Bike.

I drove home liking the way the weak, winter light scattered across the dark moorland spread out around me. The road was almost straight, like something the Romans would have built, and it was deserted and pitted with the sort of frost damage that would have attracted TV camera crews in London and outrage about what the GLC was spending our council tax on.