A Year of New Adventures. Maddie Please
it onto a plate. She pushed the jug of crème anglaise across the table and I handed over the tub of ice cream. ‘Anyone else?’
She was busy for a few minutes sorting out the dessert and it wasn’t until she was sitting down with a small serving of her own that Helena returned to her question.
‘So, Oliver? About this book and the launch? How incredibly exciting. I mean we would give a lot to be having a book launch – small, medium, or otherwise wouldn’t we?’
We all nodded in agreement.
‘Oh, you know,’ he said vaguely.
‘Where is it? Can we come?’ Nancy said boldly.
‘Ludlow. I’m not organizing it,’ Oliver said. He jabbed at his dish with his spoon. ‘This is delicious by the way. Excellent pastry.’
I don’t know if anyone else noticed but I certainly saw what was going on. Oliver was very keen not to talk about himself. He was in a room full of writers and they are some of the nosiest people on the planet, so he was on a hiding to nothing.
‘Ludlow is a lovely little town,’ Vivienne said. ‘I remember going there with the WI years ago. Lots about Catherine of Aragon and Prince Arthur I think.’
I ambled around the table, heading back towards the kitchen, and was almost knocked over by Nick who had darted out of his seat leaving his dessert half eaten. He skidded out into the hallway and I heard him running upstairs to his bedroom two at a time and slamming his bedroom door.
Flipping heck, I hope it wasn’t anything to do with our cooking? I mean we had both done a load of online training and certificates about hygiene, food preparation, and handling, but there’s always the fear of someone coming down with salmonella or botulism or something isn’t there?
I stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for sounds of retching and heaving but couldn’t hear anything, so perhaps he was all right after all. I carried on into the kitchen to start loading the dishwasher with the dinner plates.
By the time I returned to the dining room Nick was back in his place, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked a bit pinched and pale around the mouth.
‘Are you OK, Nick?’ I asked.
He nodded and didn’t speak. He was looking at Oliver with a strange expression.
‘Anything wrong?’
He shook his head. Not a sudden attack of typhoid then.
‘I know who you are,’ Nick blurted out.
We all looked at him, a bit startled.
He was still staring at Oliver.
‘I knew your name was familiar. I knew I’d heard of you,’ Nick said.
Nancy and Vivienne looked up from their dessert, their synchronized noses scenting some unexpected excitement.
Oliver didn’t say anything. He just looked a bit irritated. No it wasn’t that – he looked resigned if anything.
Nick went on, his face still pale and determined. ‘I just went upstairs to google you. And I can’t think why it took me so long. You’re one of my favourite writers. I’ve got your books. I’ve seen your photo on the dust jackets. You’re Ross Black aren’t you?’
There was a split second of silence and then an audible intake of breath from the others. Everyone turned as one to look at Oliver, waiting for his reaction. He finished his mouthful of pie and put his spoon down.
He gave a crooked grimace. It was almost a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Ha!’ he said.
We sat in silence for a few seconds and looked at him. In a moment he had changed from being just a disagreeable guest with a leg in a boot to one of the country’s most successful writers of thrillers.
Oliver Forest was Ross Black. This man in his perfectly ordinary-looking dark-blue sweater and jeans was Ross Black. Seven years ago he’d been teaching maths in an oversubscribed comprehensive, writing a book in the school car park during his lunch hours. It was snapped up by the agent of the day who organized a bidding war and he’d become a literary sensation in the space of a year.
A Hollywood film of his first book, The Dirty Road, had been made, with Channing Tatum in the lead role, and there was another one planned for the sequel: The Fool in Charge. I had even been to see it. I couldn’t remember too much but without a doubt there had been sandstorms, a brilliant car chase, heroism against all the odds, and men with scarves wrapped round their faces. I think there had been a woman with a twisted ankle too come to think of it. I’d been too busy watching the hero’s muscles rippling to remember much about her. Except her clothes kept falling off.
His books had topped the bestseller lists; he had been nominated for several prizes and awards. He was a success. His next two books had been bestsellers too. The fourth one, Death in Damascus, was due out sometime this year; Uncle Peter had an order in for it.
Oliver Forest would have been all over the celebrity pages if he hadn’t been so reclusive. What the hell was he doing with us in the middle of nowhere, eating our food and wandering about with no clothes on?
For a moment it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. And everyone just sat and gawped at him for a few minutes, waiting for him to do something unexpected and unusual. As though he was a juggling dog.
He didn’t really do anything; he just took a bit more ice cream. At last he looked across at us.
‘It’s no big deal, you know,’ he said at last.
‘The Dirty Road is one of my favourite books,’ Nick said at last, hero worship glowing all over his face.
‘I bet there are at least four people in this room who haven’t read it,’ Oliver said.
Elaine fidgeted a little. ‘Well I’ve heard of you obviously, but I’ve never read any of your books.’
‘Me neither,’ Nancy admitted. ‘Not really my thing.’
‘Nor me,’ Vivienne said. ‘I did try one once … but …’ She tailed off in embarrassment as she realized what she was about to say.
‘There you are, told you. Helena? What about you?’ Oliver said.
Helena blushed and shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’
‘And you, Billie?’ He looked at me, his eyes dark and unfathomable.
I would have given a lot to have a heated debate with him about the merits of his books.
I imagined myself musing how the plot had been a bit patchy in places, whether or not a macho, dirty vest-wearing, gun-toting hero was politically acceptable these days despite my secret crush on Bruce Willis and my addiction to the Bourne Trilogy. And was the use of explosives and destruction to solve a political crisis really OK in the twenty-first century? Unfortunately I didn’t have the knowledge or the nerve.
‘Well, yes … no. I mean I’ve always m-meant to read them and I think … I mean I’m sure I would enjoy them. I think … I did see the film, well I saw a bit of it once. I went with Matt. My b-boyfriend.’
I have/had a boyfriend. See, I’m not completely pathetic.
I’d been in a crabby mood through most of that film actually. Matt and I had been heading downstream towards the end of our two years together and we both knew it. We’d gone to the cinema because we didn’t feel like having sex and it was easier than talking to each other.
I would have preferred to see the latest chick flick playing in Screen 1. All my friends had enjoyed it and my mother described it as nauseating garbage to set the feminist