The Lost Guide to Life and Love. Sharon Griffiths
me which of these you prefer. You too,’ he said to me, offering me a plate. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry…’ His sudden smile completely transformed his face. He was, I realised, quite good looking and probably not as old as I thought, maybe just ten years older than me. And I decided I wasn’t in a hurry at all as he went on, ‘I try and use everything as local as possible, but it’s got to be good, so all opinions welcome.’
I sat myself back at the bar and tried two bits of sausage. ‘Definitely the second one,’ I said.
‘Why?’ asked Dexter.
‘The first one was good, but highly spiced, so all you could really taste was the chilli. Good, but overwhelming. The second one was quite simple, but proper meat, proper flavour. Didn’t need the spices to tart it up.’
Dexter nodded approvingly and I felt as though I’d won a prize. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he said. ‘That’s the one we’ll go for. Have another bite to be sure.’
So there I was, perched at the bar of a stone-flagged, wood-smoky pub on top of a moor in the middle of nowhere, eating sausages, with grease on my chin, when we heard outside the sort of roar made only by a very expensive, show-off car. It stopped right outside. A moment later the pub door opened and in strode two men. Young, fit and extremely good-looking men, radiating testosterone and confidence and that sort of glow that belongs to the very rich and very successful.
Becca gave a small, breathless yelp. I gawped. It was the last thing I’d expected in the middle of nowhere. I blinked and stared to make sure. There was no mistake. Footballers. Clayton Silver and one of his team-mates, the young Italian Alessandro Santini.
The last time I’d seen Clayton Silver was in Club Balaika back in London. What on earth was he doing here?
Suddenly the bar, which had seemed so warm and cosy earlier, now looked faded and dusty, dimmed by the dazzle of these celebrities. I’d felt so comfortable perched at the bar, and now that cosiness was spoilt. Only Dexter remained completely unfazed.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And what can I get you?’
‘A decent sat-nav would be a start,’ said Clayton Silver, removing his dark glasses. (Dark glasses. In England. In October. What a poser.) ‘The money I paid for that motor and it dumped us in the middle of a stream. A fucking stream, man! Don’t you have roads up here?’
‘Depends where you’re trying to get to,’ replied Dexter.
‘Some big house, Sim Maynard’s place.’
‘Ravensike Lodge. Well, you’re very close,’ said Dexter, ‘but there hasn’t been a road across there for fifty years or more. It’s just a track now. You’ll have to go back down the dale for about ten miles and then turn off and come back up the other side of the moor. Shouldn’t take you long in that car. Just watch out for sheep.’
‘Sheep! All we’ve seen is sheep!’ said Silver. ‘There’s sheep all over the roads. Why don’t they stay on the grass? Why do they want to eat roads? Why did we decide to drive? We should’ve flown up. We’d be there now. Relaxing, not getting stuck in streams on mountains. God, I need a drink.’
‘Stuck in streams?’ asked Dexter, clearly trying not to smile.
‘Yeah. The road just stopped. Bang. Middle of nowhere. In a farmyard or somewhere. There was a bridge, but that didn’t go anywhere. Just the stream. The sat-nav lady kept telling us to go straight on, but there was no straight on to go to. Nothing. It’s the end of the world up here.’
He looked baffled and angry. But suddenly, instantly, his mood changed and he smiled—a beautiful wide, handsome smile, as if he realised it was all a bit silly really. He shook his head, ‘All that money on that car, and we were just sitting in a stream. Could have opened the window and done some fishing.’ He laughed. ‘It took us ages to get out of there. Thought we’d have to get out and push. I think we need a drink before I trust that thing again.’
Alessandro ordered a Peroni but Clayton Silver was looking at the wine selection chalked on the board above the bar. He smiled and picked out the most expensive one there. ‘Let’s try some of that.’
Dexter opened the bottle. ‘It’s a shame it won’t have time to breathe.’
In one smooth, silky movement, Silver sat on one of the bar stools, waved his hand—beautiful long fingers, immaculate nails—to dismiss such quibbles. Then he looked at Becca and me. He smiled that amazing 100-megawatt smile straight at us. ‘You ladies care to join me?’ he asked.
I wanted to say no, if only because I didn’t like the way he just assumed I would say yes. He was clearly used to women swooning at his feet. Not me. I began to slither off the high stool, ready to make my escape.
On the other hand…Maybe in my world of new-found freedom, I should just go with the flow. Carpe diem, the sampler had said. Seize the day. Why not?
Becca had no doubts at all and gathered her wits before I did. ‘Thank you,’ she said with great aplomb, putting down her knitting. ‘That would be very nice.’
‘OK, thank you,’ I said, trying to find a balance between being polite and unimpressed, and slithering, not very elegantly, back onto the stool.
And that was how I got to know Clayton Silver…
I couldn’t deny it. Clayton Silver had the most gorgeous eyes that lit up when he smiled. The trouble was that he knew it all too well. I remembered him arriving at Club Balaika, with the cameras flashing and the security men clearing the way for him. Well, there were no VIP booths in The Miners’ Arms. We were all equals here. He passed me the glass with the wine glowing in the bottom, reflecting the firelight.
‘Breathe it in first,’ he said, ‘the smell’s almost enough to get drunk on by itself. ‘As his eyes looked into mine, I looked away quickly and breathed in the rich smell of the wine. ‘Now take a small sip.’ I looked over the glass at him. I wanted to say, ‘Look, sunshine, I’ve drunk plenty of decent wine before you walked in here. My godfather’s restaurant has one of the best cellars in the country and I’m a respected food writer.’ But I dutifully sipped.
The wine slid down, soft and velvety. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the flavour. It was delicious. ‘Oh wow!’ said Becca. ‘That really is good.’
‘Glad you like it,’ said Clayton, still gazing at me. His hair was cropped close, revealing the shape of his skull. His skin was the colour of pale coffee. He had a Jamaican grandfather, I remembered I’d read somewhere.
But I refused to be impressed by his glamour and confidence. Just because he was good at football, and got paid ridiculous amounts of money for it, didn’t make him a god, I thought crossly.
‘Not bad,’ I said about the wine. ‘Though I’ve had better.’
He looked at me and smiled again, as though he knew exactly why I’d said what I had. ‘Lucky girl. But this is still pretty good to find in a pub surrounded by grass and sheep.’
Condescending or what? I’d only just discovered this was my ancestral homeland, but I was already indignant on its behalf. ‘Just because people live in the back of beyond doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate good wine,’ I said, while Becca blinked at me, surprised.
Then Clayton spotted the plate. ‘Sausages!’ he said and helped himself.
Then suddenly he was laughing again about the stream and the sat-nav. ‘That car’s a city car. It needs streets and signposts and lots of nice tall buildings to make it feel safe. That sat-nav lady ain’t a country girl at all.’ And Dexter drew him a little map showing how to get to the shooting lodge and asked him if he was going to be doing any shooting. Clayton grinned