Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty (2 page)

‘Buttersley?' repeated Jake, raising his eyebrows optimistically.

‘Left at the junction and you're there,' she replied, tossing him a cursory smile.

‘Great. Thanks.'

She didn't look at him again, but held up her hand in reply, before stuffing the earphone back in.

Well, thank goodness for that, mused Jake. He was on the right road – at long last. He glanced in his rear-view mirror as he drove away. The girl was still running – with those legs. He swiped a bead of sweat from his brow and suddenly felt quite peculiar.

An hour later, eventually arriving at his destination via the village pub where he'd tucked into a hearty portion of fish and chips followed by apple pie and custard, Jake almost had to pinch himself. Fate had definitely shone on him the day he bumped into Jasper Pinkington-Smythe at the London airport a few weeks ago. Jake was flying home to Scotland after a meeting with his literary agent. Jasper had been en route to his family's villa in Majorca. He asked Jake what he was up to and Jake muttered something about having a stab at writing a book. The predictable ‘what about?' followed. Never comfortable talking about his writing, Jake mumbled something vague about a murder-mystery set in a medieval castle.

‘If you're looking for somewhere atmospheric to write it, you could always use Buttersley Manor - our family pile in Yorkshire,' Jasper chuckled. ‘Not quite a castle, but it's medieval and even has the obligatory ghost apparently.'

‘That's very kind,' Jake replied. ‘But I couldn't.' He hadn't seen Jasper for years. It didn't seem right. Jasper, on the other hand, didn't seem remotely bothered by that fact.

‘Why not? The place will be empty for the next six weeks. Seriously. You'd be doing us a favour. Always better to have someone in it. Security and all that.'

‘It's really good of you to offer, but I couldn't,' Jake insisted.

And the subject had been dropped. Or so Jake had thought. Emptying his rucksack at home later that evening, he'd discovered a large brass key wrapped in a brown paper bag. On the bag were a couple of blobs of strawberry jam and scribbled directions to Buttersley Manor. Jasper had obviously hidden it in the bag when Jake wasn't looking.

Jake's initial reaction was to return the key. But, bitten by curiosity, he couldn't resist Googling the manor. The images had blown him away. Seeds of inspiration had sprouted just looking at them. But he couldn't possibly take Jasper up on his offer. It didn't seem right. Then again, hadn't he said the place would be empty for the next six weeks? Hadn't he insisted Jake would be doing them a favour? And, if the man had been resourceful enough to slip Jake the key, didn't that provide some indication of how much he wanted him to go? Flicking through the pictures Jake decided he did want to go. Very much. Six glorious uninterrupted weeks in a majestic setting, where he could write to his heart's content. What more could an author ask for?

Now, inside the manor, wandering from wonderful room to wonderful room, breathing in the heady mix of wood polish, dust, and centuries of Pinkington-Smythe family history, Jake couldn't believe his luck. The place was a writer's heaven, a creative paradise oozing atmosphere from every knot of wood, stone fireplace and panelled wall. Excitement bubbled in his stomach. He would stock up on provisions, find the perfect writing spot – a small drawing room on the ground floor overlooking a lawn looked promising – and he would absorb himself in the writing of his next book. Lose himself, once again, in another imaginary world – one infinitely preferable to the real world.

Of course, Jake had not always harboured such reclusive tendencies. A short time ago such an existence would have seemed complete anathema to him. A life without the buzz and banter of the office – without the adrenalin rush of split-second, multi-million pound decisions, and without the constant need to keep one step ahead, to keep one's pulse on world affairs and second-guess the markets – would not have seemed like a life worth living. But that had been five years ago. Before Nina's death. Before her beautiful young life had been abruptly ended on a country road by a cocky seventeen year old.

At first people blamed shock for Jake's change in behaviour. Time is a great healer, they said. But it wasn't. Jake could still remember opening the door to the chubby policeman as if it had been yesterday. The man's hands had been covered in flecks of white paint. For some unfathomable reason it was those flecks of paint Jake had focused on as the devastating news had drifted from the constable's mouth. The words had bounced off him like hailstones off a tin roof. He'd heard them but couldn't take them in. It wasn't until Nina's funeral ten days later, as he stood in the graveyard watching the mahogany box which contained her beautiful body – the body he had known so intimately – being lowered into the hole in the ground, that the implications of what had happened struck him. Nina was dead. And so, too, was the child she'd been carrying, the child they'd created together, the daughter he would never now hold in his arms. That evening he cried until the tears ran dry. Then he sat up all night and made some life-changing decisions.

‘But you can't sell the business,' his second-in-command, Mark, protested the following day. ‘You've spent years building it up. Look at all the blood, sweat and tears you've put into it. You're exactly where you wanted to be – the most successful fund manager in Europe.'

‘Well, maybe I don't want to be there any more,' Jake countered. ‘Maybe now I want something completely different.'

‘You're rushing into things. Why don't you take a few months off? Go travelling or something? Do … I don't know … whatever you feel like doing.'

‘This is what I feel like doing.'

‘But you're in shock. It's only days since Nina … since Nina … '

‘Died, Mark. Nina is dead,' Jake cut in, amazed that such a tragic incident, which had ended two lives and touched so many others, could be summed up in three short words.

‘Exactly. Which is why this is not a good time to make
any
decisions, never mind one so drastic.'

‘It's what I want to do.'

And so, despite the media furore and industry speculation, Jake organised a management buyout, offloading the business to his employees. He sold his Chelsea apartment and bought a small cottage in Scotland on the banks of Loch Tay - a modest, peaceful house in a secluded spot, nestled amongst the heather. After a few months the invitations to London parties and requests to visit dwindled. Jake had been relieved. London – and his old life - seemed a million miles away, as if it had all belonged to someone else.

Becoming accustomed to his own company, Jake spent weeks exploring the Scottish countryside, days walking from dawn ‘til dusk. Then, as winter drew nearer and the days grew shorter, he looked for something to occupy his time indoors. He decided to write a book.

From a germ of an idea, a dark mystery set in Victorian London sprouted. With only a vague idea of the plot, once Jake began to type, the words flowed and flowed - at an astonishing rate. It took only ten weeks for him to complete the book. Ten weeks in which he completely absorbed himself. He didn't listen to the radio, he didn't watch TV, he didn't read a newspaper, he scarcely set foot outside the house. Then he looked at the four hundred pages filled with neatly typed words and wondered what to do with them. In the absence of any better ideas he emailed them to a literary agent in London using the pen name Martin Sinclair. To his amazement, he received a reply eight weeks later, saying they were very interested and would like to meet him.

It had been strange flying down to London for the meeting. There was a whole world out there he'd completely forgotten about: a bustling, busy world he no longer belonged to. He made his way to the agent's office in Mayfair where he was introduced to Tanya. He had intended to say little about his past but, to his dismay, Tanya recognised him immediately.

‘Oh my god,' her glossy red lips gasped. ‘This is fantastic. Marketing will have so many angles to go at. Jake O'Donnell – billionaire financial genius – now a successful author.'

‘No,' Jake protested. ‘I want the book published under my pen name.'

As if addressing someone of below-average intelligence, Tanya's voice adopted a quelling edge. ‘Now that would be silly. Using your real name we could triple sales, quadruple them even. You could make a fortune – well, another fortune,' she added, with a knowing titter and a flutter of heavily-mascaraed lashes.

Nausea engulfed Jake at the mere thought of all the media hype. ‘I don't care,' he maintained. ‘Either the book goes out under my pen name, or it doesn't go out at all.'

And so, despite Tanya's pouting and whingeing and unsubtle attempts to use her feminine wiles to persuade him otherwise, Jake won. His first novel had been published under his pen name, as had his subsequent two books. And in each one the author biography merely stated
Martin Sinclair lives in rural Scotland.
Unlike other authors Martin Sinclair had no website, no blog, and, most significantly of all, no media photograph. The agency remained unimpressed but, with the books contributing significantly to their profit margin, on the whole they kept quiet. It was a situation Jake was more than content with. And now, at Buttersley Manor, he itched to start work on his next offering, to lose himself in a new book. To erect yet another temporary shield to protect himself from his feelings. Feelings he had had never admitted to another living soul.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Mum, can we go to Disneyland for our summer holiday?'

Icing a cake, with her back to her daughter, Annie's heart sank. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and closed her eyes for a moment. As much as she loved being a single mother – the privilege of having her daughter all to herself; the luxury of no one interfering with her child-rearing decisions – occasionally it was just, well … hard. Especially at moments like this. She took a deep breath in and plastered a smile on her face before turning around to face the child.

‘We can't go this year, sweetheart. But remember we are saving up to go when you're a little bit older.'

Sophie didn't look up from her colouring-in at the kitchen table. ‘Bethany Stevens is going in the summer holidays.'

Well, she would be, Annie resisted saying. The Stevens's hot-tub business was doing so well they were struggling to keep up with demand. ‘We're going to that lovely little cottage at the seaside like we did last year,' she said, cramming as much enthusiasm as she could into her voice. ‘Remember the great time we had on the beach every day - looking for crabs, and building sandcastles, and throwing the ball for Pip?'

Sophie nodded but Annie could see the disappointment written all over her pretty little face. She blinked back tears. Honestly, she could kill Lance at times. If he hadn't run off to Japan, then, between the two of them, they could have given their daughter everything she wanted. Not that she wanted to spoil the child. Far from it. She did her best to ensure Sophie appreciated the value of money. But, as much as she could merrily strangle Lance with one of his designer ties, it would have been good for Sophie to have her father in her life: a father she saw for more than a few hours a year, and one who contributed more to her upbringing than a monthly cheque. Not that, according to Lance, being a part-time father had been his original intention. Oh no. Much to Annie's amazement, he appeared overjoyed when she eventually plucked up the courage to tell him she was pregnant. It was, after all, a mistake; a slip up after a boozy night out. It was she who had been most shocked at the discovery. At twenty-nine she hadn't been ready for babies, she had a successful career as a museum conservator and she loved her job. But having a baby didn't have to interfere with her career, Lance assured her. Between the two of them they could have it all. And Annie believed him. She sailed through her pregnancy with Lance super-glued to her side. He attended every scan, every hospital appointment, every ante-natal class. And at the birth he held her hand and mopped her brow – just like in the films. He continued in this perfect supportive partner role for eight weeks after the birth. Then, arriving home from work one evening, he made an announcement that turned Annie's perfect world on its head. He was taking a new job – in Japan. Alone. Naturally he came up with a raft of excuses and reasons – not one of which Annie understood. She had been too dazed to argue with him. Too stunned to plead or question. Motherhood alone was enough of a shock. Combined with the desertion of what she'd thought was her perfect partner, Annie felt as though she had been run over by a tank.

Weeks later, when she could think more logically, she recalled seeing the advert for Lance's new job. She'd accidentally knocked his industry magazine off the coffee table on her way out to her six monthly ante-natal check. It fell open at the Vacancies page and the ad had been circled in red. Floating around in a pregnancy-induced bubble of happiness, her baby kicking in her belly, Annie hadn't given it a second thought. Lance, on the other hand, while acting out the role of The Perfect Father To Be, had seemingly given the matter a great deal of thought; planning and plotting behind her back, attending interviews and negotiating start dates and salary, without allowing her the slightest indication of his intentions. ‘Betrayed' didn't come close to how she felt, but that emotion had been overridden by another: foolishness. How could she have been so stupid, so gullible, not to have realised what he was up to? How could she have placed so much trust in one man? Trusted him with both her future and her child's?

Had it not been for Portia, Annie had no idea how she would have coped those first dreadful few months. Given that Lance had abandoned his daughter, Annie had no wish to do the same. She couldn't face the thought of leaving her child with minders every day. Consequently, she shelved all plans to return to work, and somewhere cheaper than London to live became a priority. Portia offered her the little gatehouse to Buttersley Manor – the Pinkington-Smythe's ancestral family seat.