swear to God he’d been sleeping again.
‘No problem, I’ll make some more if you want it,’ I said. He was doing this on purpose. Just to be bloody difficult. ‘It won’t take a moment.’
‘Go on then,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
I flicked on the kettle and made more tea, rinsing out the pot and dropping in fresh tea bags. No sooner had I dowsed them in boiling water than he said, ‘I don’t want tea. I’ll have coffee.’
I gritted my teeth, chucked the tea away, and made coffee instead.
Back at the table he was looking into space. I put the cafetière down in front of him and offered him one of the giant mugs.
He looked at it for a moment and then pushed it back across the table to me. ‘I don’t know why you always give me those. I’d really prefer an ordinary one.’
‘But Pippa …’ I bit back the protest and went to find him another mug, which I placed in front of him. ‘Sorry.’
He didn’t answer but poured himself some coffee and took a slice of cake.
‘What have you been doing?’ he said.
‘Cooking, clearing up, washing up,’ I said cheerfully as I put some dirty mugs into the dishwasher.
‘Nothing exciting then?’
I swear he was laughing at me and I felt my hackles rising in annoyance.
No, I would be calm and not lose my rag. I would take a deep cleansing breath and think nice thoughts. I would not knock the milk jug over accidentally on purpose so it soaked his legs.
‘I like doing it. I like looking after people. And I might get some writing done later, after I’ve abseiled off the roof,’ I added under my breath. ‘And you? What are you writing about?’
Oliver topped up his coffee.
‘Sandstorms. War. Nothing to appeal to you. I mean there are no cupcakes or shoes. So you really enjoy doing this?’
I bit back my annoyance at such a patronizing attitude.
‘Do I like running retreats? Yes I do.’ Otherwise I wouldn’t do them. ‘Are you enjoying being here?’
He shrugged and took another bite of cake.
‘I mean are you sufficiently relaxed to write? No plot holes or – you know – writer’s block to worry about?’
‘What?’ he looked up rather sharply.
‘I said plot holes and writer’s block. You don’t suffer from those then? Oh no that’s just lack of discipline or something isn’t it?’
He stood up, favouring me with a hard look, and without a word stomped back into his room, taking his coffee with him.
Well someone was grumpy. I mean grumpier than usual. It must have been the Stilton.
That evening Oliver didn’t come out to join us for a drink before dinner. And he still hadn’t come out when we sat down to eat.
Helena and I did Rock, Paper, Scissors and went to the best of three. She lost so I made her go and knock on his door. She returned very quickly, pulling a face. We went and had a muttered discussion in the hall out of earshot of the others.
‘Blimey, he’s in a mood. He practically growled. He’s writing. He says he’ll grab something later.’
‘It’s gone eight o’clock. We’ll have tidied up and set the things out for breakfast by the time he comes out. Does he want something in his room?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He’s looking very thundery – I couldn’t wait to get out of there,’ Helena hissed.
‘Jeez. Come on, let’s get back to the others.’
‘I’ll open some more white wine. The red is already on the table.’
Oliver Forest must have been in the middle of a really determined sulk because the aroma of the beef casserole was wonderful. It would have persuaded anyone else out into the open but not him. I almost felt like wafting it towards his door with a tea towel, but undoubtedly he would have caught me doing it, so I didn’t. It wasn’t as though I minded that much to be honest. He could eat when he liked really; it was just his attitude that got me going.
‘No Mr Forest this evening?’ Elaine asked as we came back into the dining room. ‘Perhaps he’s finding the distance from his bed to the dining room too difficult as well?’
I looked at her and caught the twinkle in her eye before she returned to her meal.
‘Lovely casserole,’ Nancy said. ‘Really delicious sauce.’
‘It should be – it’s ninety per cent red wine,’ I said.
‘Fabulous. So how have people got on today?’ Vivienne asked, helping herself to more green beans. ‘I did awfully well. I’d been having trouble with the scene involving a pair of handcuffs and some tangerines—’
Nancy put her knife and fork down with a clatter. ‘Viv, leave it!’
Across the table Nick laughed. ‘I’ve been researching sandstorms. My main character has parachuted out of his plane in the Western Desert; well, he’s been shoved out. Do you know sandstorms can blow at one hundred kilometres an hour? And in the sixth century an army of fifty thousand soldiers was lost in one?’
‘You ought to ask Oliver Forest if you want to learn about sandstorms,’ I said acidly. ‘He’s writing about them too. Well he said he was – he might have been winding me up. He thinks all women ever read about is cupcakes and knitting—’
‘I love cupcakes,’ Helena said, ‘although I’m not so hot on the knitting.’
‘And running teashops. I bet if I asked what he was writing about it would just be bombs and submachine guns.’
Nick stopped and looked thoughtfully at me for a moment and then shook his head and carried on eating.
‘So how about you, Elaine? How is your work progressing?’ I asked.
Elaine was staring into space and jumped as she realized I was talking to her.
‘Well this house has given me a marvellous idea for a plot twist. Do you think it would work if my doctor – who’s just married the vicar’s daughter, remember – was the one to poison the squire because he found out the squire was actually her father … and after the wedding … no, of course the squire was in India for twenty years so perhaps not. Although he could have just stolen the child couldn’t he? Or found her at the end of the garden? I wanted to use a bit of folklore about the fairies and how awful they are. Always stealing babies apparently. Oh dear, if I imply he found her I’d have to re-work the whole of the first part yet again. I need to think it through properly. I’m beginning to wonder if Mr Forest isn’t right and I should plot the whole thing out properly. It goes against the grain though.’
‘I saw someone do a plot sheet once. It looked very complicated,’ Nancy said. ‘There was something to do with Post-it Notes and different-coloured pens. I don’t know what all that was about.’
I passed round the wine again and went to get some more water. In the kitchen I glanced at Oliver’s door. It was still closed. I filled the jug and found some ice. I began to worry. What if he was unwell or – encumbered by his plastic boot – had fallen over?
I imagined him prone on the bathroom floor, his head banged up against the radiator, lying in a pool of gore. I’d have to phone an ambulance and there wasn’t any phone signal. I could almost see myself running down the road waving my mobile