The Queen of New Beginnings (24 page)

“I’ve got bad news.”

“In that case, Glen, give me the good news first.”

“Did I say there was any good news?”

“OK, invariably it’s debatable as to how good the good news is with you, but it’s what agents do. You soften the blow of the bad with what you perceive as being good, even if you have to make something up. It’s in Chapter Two of the
How to Be an Agent
handbook.”

“What’s in Chapter One?”

“Avoidance Tactics, subhead, Beating About the Bush and How Never to Answer a Direct Question.”

“Clay, there is no good news.”

“Did you not read Chapter One?”

“There is no good news.”

“What? None at all?”

“Other than I managed to talk my way out of a parking ticket this morning.”

“Well, that is good news.”

“I thought so, too. Now about this bad news.”

“Do you have to? I was enjoying that rare and beautiful moment between us when it was all love, peace and harmony.”

“Sorry, I’m a busy man; I don’t have time for love, peace and harmony. Especially not with you.”

“There you go again, making me feel so special.”

“It’s a gift. But if you don’t mind me saying, you’re sounding remarkably chipper.”

“Am I?”

“Does that mean you’re still writing?”

“Like a demon.”

“Really?”

“Really. What’s more, I’m prepared to stake my life on you thinking this is easily the best thing I’ve ever written.”

“You don’t have to be modest with me, you know. Try a more upbeat pitch. Give it a touch more confidence.”

“I’m being serious.”

“All right then, when do I get to read this magnum opus, this stupendous work of genius?”

“Give me another week. Then I’ll email you some pages.”

“That’ll take us to the middle of December. The week before Christmas.”

“Is that a problem for you? Don’t tell me you’re forcing yourself to endure yet another five-star holiday in some unbearably luxurious location for the festive season?”

“Of course I am. What else would I be doing for Christmas? Sticking around here in the damp and cold? I don’t think so.”

“Silly me, I was forgetting Chapter Three of the
How to Be an Agent
handbook, the part that teaches the importance of impressing your clients with your dedication to the noble cause of spending the money they earn for you.”

“So how am I doing?”

“Oh, you’re right up there. You’re impressing the pants off me.”

“Well, put them back on because here comes the bad news. Craig and Anthea are coming home for Christmas. Some relic of a relation has died and, as we speak, they’re on their way back for the funeral.”

“And what would that have to do with me precisely?”

“It has everything to do with you, you moron! You’re staying in their house. You have to leave pronto.”

“But I can’t!”

“Sorry, you have to. Craig and Anthea will be arriving in Derbyshire the day after tomorrow.”

“But I can’t leave. It’s not as simple as that.”

“It’s going to have to be. This was never a permanent arrangement.”

“But I’m writing here. It’s working for me. For the first time in more than three years, it’s happening for me again.”

“I’m sure you’ll continue to write when you come back to London.”

“LONDON! Are you mad? I can’t possibly return there. It’s the last place on the planet I want to be.”

“It’ll be fine. You’re no longer the focus of the nation’s thoughts. Christmas and what to give smelly old Uncle Sidney is on everyone’s minds right now. You’re way down their list of concerns.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. I just know I won’t be able to write if I leave. I have to stay here at Cuckoo House.”

“Clay, we’ve established that isn’t possible. If you don’t want to come back to London and the area up there is providing the necessary ambience for you, why don’t you check into the nearest hotel? Meanwhile, you’d better make a start on your packing. I’ll ring the cleaning agency and organize for someone to give the place the once over before Craig and Anthea arrive. I’ll give you a ring in the morning.”

The line went dead. Clayton stared at the mobile in his hand. He could not have looked at it with more abhorrence if it were a dead rat he’d just found in his trouser pocket. He was all set to ring Glen back, to say heaven only knew what, when a flash of car headlights in the dark caught his attention at the end of the drive. With half an eye on the car as it approached the house, he scrolled through that day’s work on his laptop, saved and closed it. He went to let Alice in.

He hadn’t seen her for ages. Absolutely ages. Practically a lifetime.

Well, not since breakfast that morning.

For the last week, while she was commuting each day to the recording studio in Nottingham she had, at his suggestion, moved in with him. Every evening when she set off from the studio, she would text him to say she was on her way and during the time it would take for her to complete the journey, he would battle to concentrate on the scene he was writing. If he didn’t focus hard, he was in serious danger of frittering away the time imagining the awesome pleasure of making love to her that evening.

He had admitted to her last night in bed that he couldn’t remember when he’d been happier. “What about winning all those awards?” she’d asked. “Surely that must have been better?”

“Not even close,” he’d said. He had been speaking the truth. Awards, as he’d come to know, meant nothing. Any old fool could win an award. You only had to see the so-called award-winning rubbish on the television right now to know the truth of that. Too often it was nothing more than make-up and prosthetics, costumes and canned laughter. Where was the writing? Where was the talent? The craftsmanship? These people spent ten hours in make-up and about ten seconds stringing a few lines of lousy dialogue together to produce a sketch that your average smutty-minded schoolboy could write.

But happiness, as he’d learned, was as fleeting as an English summer. He’d been on top of the world lately, and indeed, only minutes earlier, he’d been happily looking forward to Alice arriving back and how they might entertain themselves for the evening. He’d even been thinking how lucky he was—he was writing better than he ever had and against all the odds he was in a relationship with someone he genuinely cared about. More amazing than that, she cared about him.

Of course there was still the issue of his confession to Alice hanging over him, but he’d managed to shove that down the back of the sofa cushions, so to speak. Out of sight, out of mind.

But now Glen’s phone call had ruined the happy equilibrium he’d been experiencing. Where the hell was he going to go? And wherever he ended up, would he still be able to write? Much as it pained him to consider it, was Glen right? Was it time to return to London? After all, he couldn’t stay here in Derbyshire indefinitely. He had to go home some time. That had always been on the cards.

• • •

“I stopped off at the Indian takeaway,” Alice said, putting a large brown carrier bag on the table. “I’ll put it in the oven, just to make sure it’s really hot. I hope you like what I’ve chosen. Clayton? What’s wrong? Did the writing not go well today?”

Without answering her, he helped her out of her coat. It was funny how he liked doing the smallest things for her. He removed her hat, smoothed out her hair and unwound her scarf. Then he kissed her, very slowly, very surely, one hand at the nape of her neck, the other resting on her rib cage, his thumb just grazing her breast. He was tempted to go on undressing her, but he knew he’d be doing it for the wrong reason: as a way to put off answering her question.

“I have to leave Cuckoo House,” he said, releasing his hold on her. “Tomorrow. The owners are coming back. Glen’s suggesting I go home to London. He seems to think I’m old news now and that all the hoo-ha has died down.”

“Oh,” she said. Her voice was flat. “London. Right. Well, yes, I suppose you do have to leave, don’t you?” She moved away from him and opened the oven.

He helped her load the foil dishes inside. “I don’t want to go back to London,” he said, when she’d closed the door. She turned and looked at him and he could see she was trying to hide how upset she was. “I don’t want to go back to London,” he repeated. “I don’t think I’ll be able to work there.”

“Is that the only reason you don’t want to go back?”

“No,” he said simply.

She swallowed. “Then don’t go back.”

“I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. Do you know of a good hotel nearby?”

She put a finger to her top lip as he’d frequently seen her do when she was concentrating or was uncertain about something. “What kind of hotel were you thinking of?” she asked quietly. A small frown had appeared on her forehead. She tapped her lip with her finger. For some reason the gesture seemed intensely erotic to him; it made him want to take hold of her and carry her upstairs to bed. “Because I’ll be honest with you,” she went on, “there are only B and Bs round here, and a lot of them will be closed for Christmas.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising.”

“I don’t think a B and B would suit you that well anyway.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” She took a step towards him. She tapped her lip again. His desire for her increased. “There is one place I know of which might suit you,” she said. “It’s not at all grand. Nothing like here.”

“Go on.”

She moved closer still, then placed the palms of her hands on his chest. She looked up into his face and he felt his pulse quicken. “The trouble is, the landlady is a stickler for rules,” she said.

“What, such as no guests after ten o’clock at night? That wouldn’t be a problem.”

“She also has a ban on muddy boots. Oh, and she’s not at all keen on hairs left in the plughole, shower, bath or basin. And she’s a total Nazi when it comes to toothpaste etiquette; if you squeeze from the middle you’ll be out on your ear. The same goes for touching the remote control for the television.”

He began to smile. “And the bedroom arrangements?”

“Ah, now that’s where things get interesting. It would be obligatory for you to keep her company at night.”

“You know, at a pinch I think I could manage that.”

“In exchange, she’ll leave you in peace to write to your heart’s content.”

“It sounds perfect. But are you sure the arrangements would work? I would hate to intrude. More importantly, I’d hate to—”

She raised one of her hands from his chest and placed the tips of her fingers over his mouth. Again he felt an erotic charge. “You wouldn’t be intruding,” she said softly. “Far from it.”

He kissed the tips of her fingers, then moved her hand aside and kissed her briefly on the lips. “So when do we tell George I’m moving in with her?” he said.

She laughed. “Now I’d pay good money to see that.”

He kissed her again. “How about we switch off the oven and go upstairs for a while? I need to show you just how grateful I am.”

It was a long time since Alice had let anyone live with her. The two occasions she had tried it had not been a success. Disastrous was nearer the mark. The close proximity of another person on a permanent basis had hastened the end of both relationships. So letting Clayton move in with her was a huge risk. But she had done it because the thought of him leaving had seemed infinitely worse.

In the split second when he had broken the news that he had to move out of Cuckoo House, and that his agent was suggesting he return to London, she had felt as if the air had been knocked out of her. To her surprise, she had been close to tears. It was then that she realized how strongly she felt about him and how upset she would be if things ended between them so abruptly. In a knee-jerk reaction to this insight she had invited him to stay with her.

So far, a week into the new arrangement, things were going well. Better than well, in fact. There was a natural ease to their being together. He seemed to fit in at Dragonfly Cottage quite comfortably. There were no wet towels lying on the bathroom or bedroom floor; no scrunched up socks left to find their own way to the linen basket; and no coffee mugs or beer cans lurking in obscure places. He even understood that there was no such thing as a dishwasher fairy who visited in the night and had readily taken on that particular duty, having previously memorized where she kept everything in the cupboards. What’s more, the tube of toothpaste was handled in the correct manner. Perhaps more unbelievable still was that this morning she had found him standing in front of the airing cupboard hunting for a toilet roll to replace the empty one in the bathroom.

There was a sense of rightness about his presence in the cottage with her. It was something she had never experienced before. It was something that also scared her. This was a man to whom she could become deeply attached and with a track record for not holding onto a man for longer than a few months—six months was her record—she was in the daunting position of having found someone she didn’t want to lose. All her previous relationships had been disposable; this one she wanted to keep for as long as she could.

Initially she had been frightened to trust her feelings for Clayton, seeing the relationship as too good to be true. But the more time she spent with him, the more real it felt to her. And the more secure she felt. She loved it when she discovered something new about him, such as the ease with which he could rattle off a cryptic crossword. Then there was his talent for juggling. OK, juggling wasn’t exactly the most useful of talents, but given how cackhanded he often appeared to be, he really was rather good at it. She had also discovered that he had never learned to drive and that he’d had a boyhood crush on Julie Andrews when she’d played the part of Mary Poppins. He said she was the first person he’d ever admitted this to.

Clayton’s appearance at Dragonfly Cottage had not gone unnoticed by Ronnetta and less than two hours after his arrival, she was tapping on the kitchen window under the guise of calling round for a cup of coffee. Introductions were duly made—Clayton having reverted to his alias of Ralph Shannon—a full investigation carried out, and after she’d left, Clayton said, “Is it my imagination, but would I be right in thinking your neighbour didn’t approve of me?”

“She was measuring you against her precious son.”

“And found me wanting?”

“I’m afraid so. But don’t take it to heart; no one could measure up to Bob in her eyes.”

Now as Alice weighed out the dried fruit for the Christmas pudding she was making, she could hear Clayton speaking on his mobile in the sitting room. She knew he had been waiting for a call from his agent ever since yesterday morning when he had emailed some of his script to him. She would have loved to read what he’d sent, and curiosity had very nearly made her ask him if she could, but because he’d seemed a little on edge she had held her tongue, deciding there would be plenty of time yet to read what he had written. It gave her a thrill knowing that she had unwittingly been a part of curing his writer’s block. He had called her his muse. “I hope you’re going to credit me,” she’d responded. “Muses don’t come cheap, you know.”

“I’ll do better than that,” he’d replied. “I’ll dedicate the whole thing to you.”

The one thing that she felt sad about since Clayton had moved in with her was that her visits to Cuckoo House had come to an end. She missed going there. She missed the newfound connection with her mother and father.

She stirred the Christmas pudding mix, reminded how her father had once tried to make one. Taking over the kitchen, he had insisted that he needed an audience while he created his culinary masterpiece, claiming that any great maestro needed an appreciative audience. Alice was summoned to watch him work, except her role proved to be participatory rather than that of observer and she was despatched to the larder to fetch the ingredients and to weigh them out. Only when all was to hand, was she allowed to sit at the table. As to be expected her father didn’t actually follow the recipe faithfully. He added or substituted ingredients for no real good reason, saying, as he tossed in a handful of Liquorice Allsorts, that adaptability was the name of the game. “Never be afraid to take a risk or try something different, Alice,” he told her. He had decided to cook the pudding in the pressure cooker and succeeded in smashing a window in the kitchen when the whole thing exploded. Undeterred, he declared he would have another crack at making a pudding the following Christmas, saying he wanted to create a tradition of him making one every year. “Do that and I’ll leave you,” Alice’s mother had threatened him.

The threat wasn’t ever put to the test as Alice’s mother didn’t live to see another Christmas. Following Julia’s arrival at Cuckoo House and her subsequent appointment of someone who knew what they were doing in the kitchen, Mrs. Randall made it clear that she would no more let her employer loose in her domain than she would serve Pot Noodles for Christmas lunch.

This Christmas Alice was hoping for a blend of the old with the new. She would be spending it with Clayton but intended to invite George to join them. Last year Ronnetta had had Alice round for Christmas lunch and had things been otherwise, Alice wouldn’t have hesitated to reciprocate the invitation, but given the circumstances she didn’t think Bob would appreciate being forced to sit across the table from Clayton.

• • •

On the phone with Glen, Clayton was punching the air and turning cartwheels. OK, the last bit was a lie. Cartwheels were beyond him, but the air was definitely being punched.

“I don’t know how you’ve pulled this out of the bag,” Glen said, “but I’m picturing you at the BAFTAs. Hell, this is EMMY stuff! Who do you think should play the character of Abigail? I’ve got Bill Nighy down as the father; he’d be perfect. I’ve got to hand it to you, Clay: you’ve done it. You really have. It was a long time in coming, but the wait was worth it. In the words of Hughie Green, I mean that most sincerely.”

“Hey, go easy on the sincerity; it’s dangerous stuff when you’re not used to it. If you’re not careful one of us will end up choking on it.”

“How long before you’ve finished the entire script?”

“Not sure. Another month perhaps.”

“Well, what are you doing wasting time talking to me? Get back to your laptop and write! Meanwhile, I’m going to start talking to people this end.”

“I thought you had a holiday to get on with?”

“That’s tomorrow. As soon as you’ve got off the line I’m going to make some calls.”

“Um…would you mind if we waited until I’ve finished the script?”

“Are you mad? I’m so excited about this I could kiss you!”

“Oh, God, not one of your big wet kisses. Anything but that. But seriously, Glen, and tell me the truth, do you think we should hold back from putting my name on the script?”

“No. I think sufficient time has passed for us to cash in on your infamy. Now get on with the rest of it and I’ll be in touch when I get back from Mauritius. You’re going to be the Comeback Kid of all Comeback Kids! Have a good Christmas. By the way, how’s that hotel shaping up?”

“It’s fine,” Clayton replied. He hadn’t told Glen that he’d moved in with Alice. He wanted certain things in his life to be private. Even from his agent.

He ended the call and stared out of the window at Alice’s small courtyard garden. He should have been feeling euphoric. He had been only moments earlier. But the feeling had passed. For the simple reason that, now that Glen was going to start pitching his script, he had to tell Alice what he’d done.

He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging the skin down roughly a la Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
. He felt a bit like having a damned good scream himself. And not a silent scream. Way down in his guts, he knew he’d messed up. He should have gained Alice’s approval and consent weeks ago. He shouldn’t have put it off. But in his heart of hearts he’d known all along that she would be horrified at what he’d done. She would see it as a betrayal, a betrayal of her trust. Hadn’t she told him that he was the first person with whom she had shared her story? And what did he go and do? Yeah, that’s right, pinch it with the full intention of selling her innermost secrets to the highest bidder.

By God, he was a class act!

But he was consistent, if nothing else. He would keep quiet a little longer, until after Christmas. A revelation like he had up his sleeve could well ruin Alice’s Christmas and with a trickle of integrity still flowing through his system he didn’t want to do that to her.