The Queen of New Beginnings (23 page)

Ronnetta sat up straighter. “But I thought you said he was weird.”

“He is.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you choose weird when you could have Bob?”

“When Cupid fires that arrow, it falls where it falls.” Alice winced. Did she really just say that?

Ronnetta pulled a face and looked about her. “Am I imagining things, or have you bought one of those plug-in air fresheners? The sort that now and then squirts an embarrassing sickly pong into the air?”

Alice laughed. “I’m sorry; it was a shocker of a thing to say. I have no idea where it came from.”

Smiling, Ronnetta said, “Any more comments like that, you keep them firmly to yourself. What shall I tell Bob? He’s going to be shattered.”

“He’ll be fine.”

They sipped their coffee in silence, until Ronnetta said, “I still think you look glum. What is it? Is it the weird bloke? Does he not feel the same way about you as you do for him?”

Again Alice was faced with a choice: pretend she was perfectly all right, or go some way in being honest. “It has nothing to do with him,” she said.

“What then? Is it something I can help you with?”

Touched that Ronnetta should want to help her, and knowing she had disappointed her over Bob, Alice felt the need to make amends in some way. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” she said. She then explained about growing up at Cuckoo House and how she had promised herself when she sold it never to set foot in it ever again. Too many bad memories, was as far as her sketchy explanation went—memories, she said, that had stirred things up for her. There was no need to go into all the details, was there?

“Well I never,” said Ronnetta when Alice had finished. “You think you know a person, and then out of the blue they completely throw you. You’re a strange one and no mistake.”

“Bet you’re now thinking Bob’s had a lucky escape. Who in their right mind would want to be involved with me?”

“You mean, other than the weird bloke?”

It was the first week of December and Clayton didn’t think he had ever experienced such bitter coldness. It bit deep. Right through to his marrow. Alice didn’t seem to be aware of the cold. But as she had reminded him several times already, she was made of tougher stuff than him.

They were taking a walk across the moors. So far they hadn’t encountered anyone else mad enough to be out. Surrounded by a landscape that was lunar in scale, vast and desolate, it was as if they had the world to themselves. He stood for a moment to adjust his scarf and to catch his breath. Alice was a fast walker and he was becoming increasingly aware that he wasn’t as fit as he could be. “It’s going to snow later,” she said matter of factly, tipping her head back to look at the sky; it was ominously grey and pendulous.

“A man could die up here all alone and no one would ever know,” he remarked. “He would be forgotten entirely. All trace of him gone for ever.”

She turned and smiled. “But at least the coyotes and grizzly bears would remember him fondly.”

“You wouldn’t be teasing me, would you?”

“Perish the thought.”

“Perish is exactly what will happen to me out here in this cold. How do you stand it?”

She laughed. “I love it when you’re so positive.”

He smiled back at her and on an impulse reached for one of her gloved hands. “Should we encounter any grizzly bears, you will protect me, won’t you?”

“You have my word.”

They walked on, hand in hand. A week had passed since they had last seen each other. Clayton had been surprised how disappointed he’d been when Alice had explained that she had a lot on and wouldn’t be able to call in and see him. It had felt like a long week since he had kissed her. He’d thought about her a lot in those days. It was hard not to, given that he was secretly writing about her on a daily basis. He’d also thought about George’s theory that he reminded Alice of her father. He still didn’t know what to make of that. He could think of worse men to be likened to, but he wasn’t at all convinced that George knew what she was talking about. He still thought charming bastards—men like Rufus—were Alice’s type. And charming was something he had never been described as. Only one way to find out where he stood in her estimation.

“Alice, can I ask you something?” he said as they stopped to climb over a stile.

“Yes,” she said, hopping over the wooden step and turning to face him.

He followed her over the stile, but with less elegance and agility. “Does James Montgomery bear any resemblance to Rufus?” he asked.

“Wow,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “What put that thought in your head?”

“Oh, you know, an inquisitive mind casually mulling things over.”

A fierce gust of wind blew at the hair that had worked itself loose from beneath her woolly hat. She removed one of her gloves, tucked the hair back into place and looked at him. They were standing very close, their bulky coats almost touching. “I think you’ve given this more than a casual mulling over,” she said.

“Does that bother you?”

“I think that my answer bothers me more, because you’re right, almost every man I’ve been attracted to bore some kind of resemblance to Rufus. You’d think I would have gone out of my way to avoid reminding myself of him, wouldn’t you?”

“Logic doesn’t always play fair. Um…would it be impertinent of me to suggest you try a different type of man?”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “Do you have a particular type of man in mind?”

“Well, there is this chap I know. He’s a complete idiot and can be relied upon at all times to do or say the wrong thing.”

The corners of her mouth lifted further. “So much for his good points. What about his bad points?”

“Ah, much too numerous to go into.” He bent his head and kissed her very slowly, very lightly. Her lips were icy cold against his own cold mouth, but he soon felt a warmth spring between them. He drew her closer to him, suddenly wanting to touch her in a way their coats simply wouldn’t allow. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin, the smooth softness of it. Just imagining how it might feel made his heart beat faster and a powerful, all-consuming surge of desire made him want only one thing: to get Alice back to Cuckoo House as fast as possible. “Have we walked far enough?” he whispered in her ear. “Can we go home, please?”

“Any reason why?”

“Plenty. And all of them guaranteed to make us both feel a lot warmer.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

• • •

After a frantic search, Clayton found what he was looking for in the master bedroom. The gods were looking down on him kindly for once. He shut the drawer and hurried back to where he’d left Alice in his bed. “We’re in luck!” he said, putting the box on the bedside table. “What’s more, it’s a full box.”

She smiled and flipped back the duvet, inviting him to get in. He didn’t need inviting twice. He stripped off what remained of his clothes and slid in alongside her. He lay on his side and ran a hand the full stunning length of her naked body. She sighed at his touch. He did it again and she closed her eyes and sighed louder still. He stopped what he was doing. “Now what do we do?” he asked.

Laughing, she rolled on top of him. He held her face in his hands, took in the happiness of her expression and kissed her. He then stared into her eyes and felt himself falling. Falling deep into the dark depths of her gaze. Nobody had ever told him falling could feel this good. She kissed him on the mouth, brushing her lips lightly over his, before working her way down to his neck, to his shoulders, and then to his chest. “Feeling any warmer now?” she murmured.

• • •

When they looked out of the window later, it was snowing. “You were right,” he said as they stood and watched the plump flakes falling from the sky. She was wearing his shirt—and nothing else—and Clayton could honestly say it had never looked better. Her legs were amazing and had no business being covered by jeans, which until today were all he’d ever seen her wearing. In fact, her body had been a revelation to him. It was unimaginably perfect. In every way. Having discovered the wonder of it, he was drawn to it like a magnet and he couldn’t stop touching her. He was touching her now, his hands around her waist.

“You do know that I can’t possibly let you leave here today,” he said. “Not in this weather.”

She turned and looked at him. “You’d like me to stay?”

“You don’t want to?” His heart plummeted. Had he presumed too much?

She smiled and wrapped herself around him. “I’d love to stay.”

“Excellent. How about something to eat? I need to build up my strength; you’re an exhausting woman to hang out with.”

As tightly wrapped around him as she was, she managed to press in closer still to him. He liked the feeling. He liked it a lot.

• • •

It must have snowed persistently throughout the night.

Sculptured by the wind, bulging drifts of perfectly white snow had transformed the garden and the surrounding moorland into a landscape of exquisite beauty. The sky was grey and low with the threat of yet another snowfall and, uncomfortably reminded of the very last time she had witnessed snow to this extent at Cuckoo House, Alice sat at the kitchen table watching Clayton get breakfast ready in his amusingly haphazard way. Humming to himself, he was repeatedly tracking back and forth to the fridge and cupboards because he kept forgetting something.

By rights they should both be exhausted after the night they’d had—sleep had not exactly been on either of their minds—but Clayton looked as alert and bright-eyed as she’d ever seen him. He broke off from humming. “How many eggs would you like?”

“Just the one, please.”

“And sausages?”

“Two, please.”

“Rashers of bacon?”

“Two again.”

“Have you ever thought of the word rasher?” he said as he began loading up the grill pan.

“Rasher?”

“Yes, rasher. Such a simple word, but the more you say it, the funnier it becomes. It’s what we call in the trade a comedy word. Hedge is another one. Go on, say hedge.”

“Hedge.”

“There you go. It’s a ridiculous word.”

“I must be missing something.”

“You don’t find it funny? My God, Alice, what’s wrong with you?”

She laughed. “It’s not me. It’s you. You’re barmy.”

“Bingo! You’ve hit upon another gem. The word mad isn’t the least bit funny, but barmy is bang on the money.”

“If you say so.”

“I
do
say so. The same goes for weasel. Rascal. Stout. Scuttle. Perky. Scoundrel.” He slid the pan under the grill and went over to the sink to wash his hands. “Tomatoes or beans?”

“Are they comedy words?”

“No, they’re options for breakfast.”

“In that case, tomatoes. You’re much too full of beans as it is.”

He came over and kissed her. “A man can’t be happy?”

She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her. “How shall we spend the day?”

He stroked her hair. “Here’s the plan. After we’ve eaten breakfast, I’ll make a fire in the sitting room and we’ll spend the day in there. And later, I might even do some more writing.”

She looked up at him. “Writing?
More
writing? When did you start?”

His hands stopped moving. “Um…just recently,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…I was—” He straightened up.

She took holds of his hands. “It’s OK,” she said, “I understand. It was too soon, wasn’t it? You didn’t want to jinx things. But how brilliant for you. You must be so pleased.”

He sat in the chair next to her. His expression was unexpectedly serious. “I am pleased,” he said slowly. “But the thing is, it’s…it’s all down to you.”

“Me?”

“I couldn’t have got going again if it wasn’t for you. You’ll never know how grateful I am.”

“Don’t be silly, I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes you have. You’ve…” He broke off.

“I’ve done what?”

He swallowed and squeezed her hands gently. “You’ve inspired me. You’ve inspired me to write something with more depth and gravitas than I’ve ever written before. Hey, if Bazza can move on, so can I.”

“Of course you can. But how did I help you?”

“By…” Again his voice fell away. “The thing is, Alice, what I’ve started is—”

Her gaze flickered away from his. “Sorry to interrupt you,” she said, “but I think we have what we call in the trade a grill-pan situation.”

“Oh hell!” He leapt to his feet and went to deal with the smoke that was billowing from the grill. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, flapping a tea towel at the pan.

Alice watched him with a growing sense of affection. He was such a one off. And fancy her being responsible for helping him to start writing again. Life was full of surprises.

• • •

It’s not as bad as it looks.

The words were yet another damning indictment of his behaviour; they would be chiselled on his gravestone, along with all the other less-than-flattering home truths. At the rate he was going he would need a stone the size of a skip to accommodate all his wrongdoings. Better still, why not toss his miserable remains in a skip and do away with a gravestone?

He hadn’t meant to open his great big gob; the admission that he had started writing had slipped out in a moment of unaccustomed elation. And, of course, he should have told Alice. He should have grabbed the moment and had the courage to explain exactly what he was writing. The longer he kept quiet, the worse it would appear.

But the thing was, he couldn’t tell her. He was terrified that if he did, two things could happen. One: the script, along with his newfound ability and confidence to write, would be jinxed just as Alice had suggested. And two: she would freak out and ban him from writing another word. She would accuse him of being exploitative. Of being untrustworthy. Of sneaking around behind her back. All of which was true.

The net result would be that he would lose the best script he had ever written. He would also, despite it being early days between them, lose Alice, who was surely the best thing to have come into his life in a long while. He was surprised by how much losing her bothered him.

Whichever way he viewed matters, the situation had disaster written all over it if he opened his mouth. He’d come this far; he simply couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his hands. If he could hold his nerve, he could finish the script, own up, and then somehow convince Alice that it really wasn’t as bad as it looked.