Maddie Please - The Mini-Break

I was in a mood. I wanted a man who wore tweed, waxed jackets and chunky sweaters and could do useful things like clear gutters and put the recycling out without doing rock, paper scissors first. A man who liked fried bread and double cream and beer. Preferably at the same meal. A man who used fewer products on his skin than I did. A man who didn’t believe every health scare he read. A man who nicked himself shaving and didn’t make a three-act drama about it, not a metrosexual twat with sensitive skin.

I was being irritable and disloyal. Benedict loved me; he’d said so. And he’d ended his message with a sad face emoji and a GIF of two kittens hugging.

We’d been together for two years. We had shared Christmas and holidays and thrown each other surprise birthday parties. We had fun. He could be kind and unexpectedly generous. Why wasn’t it enough? Why was I feeling like this?

*

When I got back to Barracane House I put the shopping away and, feeling quite daring, took a cup of tea and a cigarette outside.

It wasn’t quite as marvellous as I remembered, and I did quite a bit of coughing and inhaled a bit of tea, which caused me to start spluttering and choking, and just as I made the most unattractive hawking noise and spat my tea out, someone came round the side of the house and started laughing.

‘Are you quite all right?’

I looked round, my eyes streaming with the effort to stop, and of course it was Joe Field standing watching me, and close on his heels were two black and white sheepdogs.

‘I’m fine,’ I croaked, fishing in my pocket for a tissue. ‘Just having a breath of fresh air.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ he said with a grin.

One of the sheepdogs stepped forward on hesitant paws and then stopped at a brisk hand signal from Joe.

I got myself under control and tried to look vaguely sane.

‘Can I help? Were you just passing?’

‘I saw there were lights on again. I just thought I’d come over and see if it was you.’

He’d remembered me? How marvellous.

‘Yes I left my sister in London. Her husband is back from the West Indies and then – well, for various reasons I came back. I have a book to finish after all.’

‘Keen reader are you?’ he said. ‘The woman who bought this place is something to do with books.’

‘She’s my literary agent,’ I said.

‘Ah.’

‘I’m a writer.’

‘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.