edged over towards his room on tiptoe and stood listening. Nothing.
I stepped closer, cleared my throat and made sort of ‘goodness me I wonder where Oliver is’ noises. Nothing.
I knocked and received no reply, so I knocked harder.
After a moment’s hesitation I opened the door and looked round. No sign of him anywhere. The room was immaculately tidy, the curtains closed, the bed tightly made, and no sign of Oliver or any of his possessions. I relaxed a bit; perhaps he had left? No, his suitcase was still tucked in next to the wardrobe.
He must have gone out. But how? And why? After insisting he couldn’t manage the stairs, would he just go off for a walk? Bloody cheek of the man! I had a good mind to get all his gear together and just move him into another room upstairs and put Elaine into the room she had booked months ago. I’d have to change the bedding though. I mean, I wouldn’t want to sleep on someone else’s sheets. Even if he wore pyjamas.
I bet he didn’t.
I bet he slept with nothing on.
Shut up! Shut up! Stop thinking such ridiculous thoughts! He’d probably kept his clothes on during his nap. Hadn’t he? I would.
I didn’t think I could bring myself to do it. There would be all sorts of man stuff. I remembered only too clearly what it was like when I went on holiday to Cornwall with Matt. Clothes and shaving kit and personal things with plugs and chargers. I couldn’t just, you know, rummage around in his drawers. I snorted with laughter despite myself.
There was a sudden movement just out of my eye line.
I turned.
There in the shadowy corner was a naked, one-legged man.
I screamed and instinctively clutched the water jug to my chest. In the same second that the iced water splattered all over me and a couple of ice cubes sneaked down my top into my bra, I realized it was Oliver with his injured leg in a black bin liner. He’d been having a shower. The only correct part of my assumption was he was naked.
Don’t look! Don’t bloody look for God’s sake.
Too late!
Jeeezus!
I shut my eyes as tight as I could and took a step back and of course fell over something. And tipped the rest of the water over myself.
I heard myself yelping like a trampled puppy and someone roaring with laughter and then I fled out of the room. Nancy and Vivienne, alerted by the noise, had come out of the dining room and were standing there. Nancy was still chewing.
‘Are you all right?’ Vivienne said reaching out a kind hand. ‘You’re soaking wet. What on earth have you been doing?’
I babbled for a second and then thrust the empty water jug towards her before sprinting upstairs.
I stripped off my clothes, trying hard not to wail too loudly. After all, when you have a house full of guests it’s not the done thing. I found a towel and some dry clothes by which time Helena was rattling on the door trying to come in.
‘What the hell have you been doing?’ she called through the door. ‘Are you hurt? Are you OK? Let me in!’
I struggled into a clean top and some jeans that I preferred not to wear as they were a tad tight, and unlocked the door.
‘Just don’t ask,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older and I’ve stopped cringing.’
‘Well obviously you’re not going to get away with that. Have you had a shower?’
I rubbed at my wet hair with a towel and glanced in the mirror. I had mascara running down my cheeks. My hair looked as though I’d stuck my finger in a light socket.
‘No, I haven’t had a shower. Look can you just go back downstairs and keep them all happy for a few minutes? I’ll explain later!’
‘Well come on and stop messing about,’ Helena said chucking me a comb. ‘Oliver’s just turned up and he wants his dinner.’
*
Oliver didn’t even look at me, not so much as a sly glance, a cocked eyebrow, or a suppressed snigger to imply he was at all bothered by the last half-hour. I on the other hand was puce with embarrassment. I went to fetch a clean plate for him and placed it on the table before scurrying off, pretending I was checking something in the kitchen. I went back into the pantry and had another sneaky glass of wine to bolster me up.
The apple pie was on the worktop looking glamorous and golden, its sugary top glistening in the kitchen spotlights. There was crème anglaise and vanilla ice cream to go with it, so I pretended to mess around with jugs and saucepans to give myself time to calm down. I was feeling quite hot and bothered and quickly realized my long-sleeved sweatshirt had been a bad choice. I should have gone for a cotton shirt. Or a T-shirt. Or just stayed in my room with a paper bag over my head.
I tried thinking about something else – the plot of my novel. I was writing a scene where the hero meets the feisty young heroine and rescues her from a flash flood. Or should it be from a dangerous dog? Or a dastardly villain with evil intent?
One thing I would not do was allow my hero to continue morphing slowly but steadily into Oliver Forest. With dark hair curling onto his neck and eyes the colour of a summer night sky. White, even teeth. Skin tanned and taut over just the right amount of muscles. Tall, broad shoulders, long legs, narrow hips.
And no clothes.
Blast.
Shut up.
*
I couldn’t hide in the pantry forever, obviously. And to try and do so would be really immature and pathetic. I put the pie on a tray and decanted the crème anglaise into a pretty blue and white jug. Then I took the plastic box of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer and carried the lot into the dining room as Helena carried the dirty plates away. Oliver had just finished his casserole and the discussion around the table had moved on to one of our favourite topics: the difficulty of finding an agent.
Elaine was talking.
‘I used to have an agent, back in the day, but then I lost her and no one else wanted to take me on. So I was cast out into the literary wilderness. Since then I haven’t had much luck finding a replacement – and getting a book published without one is impossible these days. I did wonder about self-publishing and then I didn’t have the nerve.’
Nancy nodded vigorously, her grey curls bobbing. ‘And the utter shame of a load of one-star Amazon reviews. People can say the nastiest things. And sometimes it’s for ludicrous reasons. I read one once where the person had given one star simply because the book had arrived late. And someone else gave five stars because they liked the cover. Nothing to do with the standard of the writing.’
Nick was looking very thoughtful. He threw Oliver a curious glance. ‘So what do you think, Oliver?’
Oliver made some sort of non-committal noise and took a sip of red wine.
It was Helena’s turn to look pensive. ‘Hang on; Pippa said your launch had been delayed because of your accident?’
‘What did you do?’ Vivienne asked. ‘We never did find out.’
‘I told you, a spill off my motorbike,’ Oliver said.
For some reason I’d assumed he had fallen off a bicycle. There’s nothing I find remotely appealing about neon Lycra, padded gel saddles, or aerodynamically designed bike helmets. But motorbike leathers? Big biker boots?
Yummy scrummy! Now you’re talking!
I nearly had to grab hold of the back of a chair to steady myself. For heaven’s sake what was the matter with me?
Helena wasn’t going to be distracted. ‘So, this launch. Have you written other books? Or is this your