Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (13 page)

I also learnt from Jed that the building I had passed on my way to the farmhouse is the warehouse of Fairfax Agricultural Machinery, a business belonging to Edward.

‘Edward hires out farm equipment. My mum runs the office from the store and I see to the clients here. You’ll get the hang of things as time goes on,’ Jed added.

He had kindly stepped around wet floors, shooed out unwanted hens and found me a box that I could use as a bed for the cat. Molly had followed me everywhere and soon she became the perfect companion. Edward didn’t return all day and by four that afternoon I had cleaned the whole place, apart from Edward’s room which I felt uncomfortable entering. The lounge was cleared and the sofa and chairs vacuumed, the furniture polished and I even tidied the CD collection. The hallway floor was washed thoroughly and the back door scrubbed. Jed gave it a kick and it opened with a loud creak.

‘That’s not been opened in years,’ he laughed.

There was a small room at the end of the hall, which I presumed was Edward’s study, and apart from a quick vacuum I left everything as it was. I was exhausted when I’d finished but it felt good, and all the tension I had built up over the past few weeks melted away. By four-thirty I was sitting on a tatty swing just outside the back door reading my book until it got chilly. As the time gets closer to the taxi picking me up, I feel quite shaky. Remembering a bottle of whisky in Edward’s study I allow myself a small glass. By the time I’m ready to leave I have allowed myself three small glasses and feel nice and warm inside. You know that feeling, the one where you don’t care if your date looks like Count Dracula and the cat peeing on the floor seems romantic in a funny kind of way.

On checking my reflection I see that I resemble a rosy Pink Lady apple. Bugger it. I powder my face so frantically that, when the taxi hoots, I look like a ghost. I run a
wet wipe over my face and finally resemble something halfway between a ghost and a Pink Lady apple, which I suppose is something of an improvement. The taxi driver opens the door for me. Heavens, they don’t do this in London.

‘Where we going love?’

‘The Heifer.’

He looks startled.

‘You could walk it from here.’

I look down at my shoes and he follows my eyes.

‘I don’t think so.’

I’m wearing my black ankle strap wedges and if I have any more alcohol I’ll go arse over tit in them. It feels like seconds before he pulls into the pub car park and I attempt to manoeuvre my somewhat tipsy body from the car with as much decorum as possible. I make a marvellous effort only to be foiled by the shoulder strap of my handbag. Why do they insist on clipping these bloody things inside the bag? If I’d wanted a shoulder bag I would have bought one. The stupid strap gets tangled in my wedge and I go sprawling forward and where to? Yes, you guessed it, straight into Edward Fairfax’s arms.

‘I’ve had some whisky,’ I confess. ‘I was a bit nervous.’

In my tipsy state he looks rather gorgeous. No, he really is gorgeous. How could I have not noticed this?
Are you mad getting pissed?
I can hear Georgie cry
. Are you asking to be raped?

He slides his hand down my arm and I shiver. Ooh yes, maybe I am. His hair I see has been expertly cut and the style makes him look boyish. His hazel eyes are warm and heavy lidded giving him a sexy sultry look. He smells divine. If I don’t eat something soon I will start on him. All I’ve eaten since breakfast is half a tube of sour cream flavoured Pringles. My breath is a combination of sour cream and whisky. What a turn on, not. I hold onto his arm for support. Good heavens, what is that tingling that’s going on down there? I was jilted only a few weeks ago and let’s face it I’ve not had sex for a few weeks. In fact, I’ve not had decent sex for a few years. Never go on a date with only Pringles and whisky in your stomach. You’re likely to do something silly is my experience. There should be a warning on all
whisky bottles,
detrimental to your dignity, after three glasses you may screw anything
. Oh, stop it Alice, this is not a date, I repeat, this is not a date.

Wondering if Charlie may have texted me I pull out my Blackberry just to see if, by some freak of nature, I have a signal. His clownish face stares back at me. It was taken at a New Year’s Eve party about a year ago. I really should remove it as my wallpaper.

‘It seems that whisky has gone straight to your head. Did you leave any for me?’

I tuck the strap safely back into my handbag and follow him into the pub. Even before we enter I can hear raucous laughter and the thump of darts hitting a board. Edward opens the door and the hubbub ebbs away and I find myself staring at a roomful of men. I feel my red apple face grow even redder. I am so conspicuous in my posh frock, wedged heels and make-up. It’s the local bloody pub for Christ’s sake. I feel like a total idiot. I’d even painted my toenails and popped in my best pearl earrings. It’s one extreme to the other. One minute I’m at Claridge’s with the rich and famous and the next I’m in a Cornish pub with a load of cow farmers.

‘This is Alice,’ Edward states flatly.

‘I’m so overdressed,’ I say self-consciously.

‘Just a touch,’ he says handing me a pub menu
. ‘It’s the local, not the Savoy.’

Just relax Alice and ignore the laughter from the bar. I peer around the gloomy interior and then study the menu. I feel ravenous. I used to love eating out, but don’t think I’ll be doing that very often now. I don’t imagine Edward will ask me out again. He’s more a ‘fish and chips out of the newspaper’ type.

Edward orders a bottle of wine and no sooner have I taken a sip than my Blackberry seems to go crazy, bleeping and vibrating as if it is having an orgasm. I’ve got
a signal at last. Edward ignores it and studies his menu. There are several messages from Georgie, one from my mother and a load from Vodafone, but nothing from Charlie. I stupidly feel my heart sink. The most recent is from Georgie.

I hope you’ve got everything. You know, money for a cab should he turn out to be a maniac and condoms should he turn out not to be. You don’t want to go catching anything.

Condoms, oh my God is she nuts? I stand up and feel myself sway. Heavens, has he spiked my drink? Glancing at my glass I see I have drunk half already. When did that happen?

‘I need the ladies,’ I say, trying not to sound too dramatic.

Fortunately I do not have to pass his fellow farmer cronies.

‘What do you mean condoms? I’m not going to sleep with him. After all, he’s my boss,’ I hiss down the phone staring at my flushed face in the mirror.

‘And why are you texting my Blackberry? You know I have to dangle myself from a window to get any signal.’

‘Marie lives near Truro, and she doesn’t have this problem. I’m sorry I didn’t put your other number in my phone. Hang on let me go somewhere quieter, the bar is packed here.’

I so miss London with its vibrancy and restaurants. I could cry with longing.

‘That’s better
. Like I said, Marie has no problems with her phone and she’s with Vodafone like you. There is something suspicious about that village if you ask me. It’s a good job we’re coming down next weekend. If we leave it much longer I reckon we’ll find you strolling around the supermarket in an apron looking like one of those Stepford wives,’ she laughs. ‘You need rescuing. How is it going with old Edward then?’

‘You’ll find me walking around with an overall on more like. Can you believe the nearest supermarket is Lidl? I mean, I’ve never stepped inside a Lidl. I don’t think you wear frilly aprons in there, more like body armour I imagine
,’ I say, slapping my face with a powder puff.

She tuts.

‘I never thought you could be such a snob. So, what is he like?’

‘He’s all right. Reasonably good looking,’ I lie, ‘but honestly Georgie, condoms? Have you gone mad? I barely know him, and I’m still missing Charlie.’

A thought occurs to me.

‘Oh God, Georgie what if you’re right?’ I say feeling myself go all a tremble and begin looking around the ladies loo for an escape route.

‘Right about what?’

‘The
Stepford Wife
thing,’ I say in a high-pitched whisper.

Georgie laughs.

‘Christ, I just swallowed my olive whole. Honestly Ali, your imagination.’

‘I bet it’s lovely there,’ I say with a stab of envy.

‘Fabulous and even more fabulous, James told me he is leaving his wife after Christmas. Honestly you could have knocked me down with a feather.’

‘I thought he was leaving her at Easter?’

‘Well, it was awkward then wasn’t it? Easter is a big thing for her apparently.’

And Christmas isn’t?

‘Look, I have to go, they’ve rung the bell and you know what the queues are like at the ladies. I’m deadly serious about the condoms. Don’t they have any in the loo?’

No they don’t and they also don’t have any queues outside the ladies either. Oh, I so miss London. Anyway just what kind of woman does she think I am? I’ve only just split from Charlie for goodness sake.

‘Georgie,’ I admonish, ‘I’m not over Charlie.’

She scoffs.

‘Well you should be. He is certainly over you. I saw him in Marco’s last night with some brunette with big tits, and he’s already marked himself as single on his Facebook profile, not to mention the shopping spree he was having in Marks last week and …’

‘What?’

Oh my God. She’ll be after my engagement ring next.

‘Got to go, if you can’t be good be careful.’

Luckily there wasn’t a condom machine in the ladies loo which was just as well, as in my angry and tipsy state I would no doubt have got some. Men honestly.

***

The waitress places the plate of escargot in front of me and I try to look at them nonchalantly. I’m obviously deeply grateful that Edward Fairfax is treating me to more than sausage and mash but escargot? What am I supposed to do with them? She carefully lays tongs at the side of the plate and my stomach churns. What the devil do I do with the tongs, what was I thinking? This is what comes of having too much to drink.

‘So just where in London do you hail from?’ Edward asks me as he sips his wine.

The smell of garlic drifts up my nostrils. I fiddle with my glass and wait hopefully for him to start on his snails first. Oh no, this is all I need, he is waiting for me. The one time I don’t need a gentleman. I so wish I could go back fifteen minutes and order prawn cocktail. I bet he did this on purpose.

‘The escargot is very good here. I imagine you eat it all the time in London,’ he had said with just the hint of a smile.

‘Oh, all the time,’ I had replied in a bored tone.

‘The chef here used to work in one of the top hotels in London. You really can’t beat his escargot.’

‘Really, how interesting. Actually though, it would be nice not to have escargot being as we always had it when in London,’ I had said trying to impress him although God knows why.

His eyes had widened and he had given me a little bow.

‘Wow, a real expert on snails then. In that case you must try Geoff’s and tell us what you think.’

Help.

‘Well, it would be nice not to have them. You know, for a change.’

What must I have sounded like?

‘No I insist.’

And now, here I am, with my first plate of escargot trying to look like a pro and the horrible man is deliberately waiting for me to start. I pick up the tongs casually and twiddle them around in my hand. He does the same, still looking at me. I put them down and drink some more wine.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

That’s because I’m so focused on the poor dead snails on my plate probably and even more focused on how I can actually get
them into my mouth. I feel sick. I need more wine. How much wine can you drink without actually killing yourself?

‘I’m a Chelsea girl, born and bred.’

‘Ah, I see.’

He nods at the snails.

‘Are you going to eat those?’

‘I don’t like them too hot,’ I say.

Maybe if I drink enough wine I will be able to forget those little details that were once my life. You know the kind of thing, fiancé, proper job, a nice flat of one’s own. He smiles in that cheeky way that I am already getting to know and carefully places a snail expertly in the tongs. I watch fascinated as he pulls it from the shell and pops it into his mouth so quickly that I don’t have time to take notes. I smile and pick one up while trying not to cringe. I attempt to put it expertly in the tongs and slowly lift them up so I can remove the snail. Honestly, it’s like one of those intricate operations you see on TV. The slimy little bugger slips and my attempt to re-clasp it results in the shell zooming across the room like a catapulted conker. Oh no. I close my eyes in horror and hear it land with a clatter onto the next table and finally it comes to rest on someone’s plate. Classic.