A Year of New Adventures: The hilarious romantic comedy that is perfect for the summer holidays. Maddie Please

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      The writers left their lairs and returned to the kitchen promptly at four-thirty for fruitcake, biscuits, and tea.

      Everyone was happy with the house and how comfortable it was. Nancy had been reading through her book, trying to sort the muddles out and attempting to plot it properly. Vivienne had read the house guidebook and discovered the tale of a shocking relationship between a gentleman who lived there in the nineteenth century and his ward, a girl more than half his age. They seemed to have produced three children who were passed off as foundlings and when the girl had threatened to confess the truth to the local rector, her guardian had strangled her – a crime for which he was hanged. Vivienne was thrilled and determined to transpose the tale into the twenty-first century, adding more scandalous detail and possibly some bondage.

      There was no sign of Oliver for which I was grateful and eventually people went off to their preferred chairs to continue writing. I was washing up and about to wrap the remnants of the cake in foil when Oliver’s door opened.

      ‘Oh! Have I missed tea?’ he said looking around rather bleary-eyed.

      I swear to God he’d been sleeping again.

      ‘No problem, I’ll make some more if you want it,’ I said. He was doing this on purpose. Just to be bloody difficult. ‘It won’t take a moment.’

      ‘Go on then,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

      I flicked on the kettle and made more tea, rinsing out the pot and dropping in fresh tea bags. No sooner had I dowsed them in boiling water than he said, ‘I don’t want tea. I’ll have coffee.’

      I gritted my teeth, chucked the tea away, and made coffee instead.

      Back at the table he was looking into space. I put the cafetière down in front of him and offered him one of the giant mugs.

      He looked at it for a moment and then pushed it back across the table to me. ‘I don’t know why you always give me those. I’d really prefer an ordinary one.’

      ‘But Pippa …’ I bit back the protest and went to find him another mug, which I placed in front of him. ‘Sorry.’

      He didn’t answer but poured himself some coffee and took a slice of cake.

      ‘What have you been doing?’ he said.

      ‘Cooking, clearing up, washing up,’ I said cheerfully as I put some dirty mugs into the dishwasher.

      ‘Nothing exciting then?’

      I swear he was laughing at me and I felt my hackles rising in annoyance.

      No, I would be calm and not lose my rag. I would take a deep cleansing breath and think nice thoughts. I would not knock the milk jug over accidentally on purpose so it soaked his legs.

      ‘I like doing it. I like looking after people. And I might get some writing done later, after I’ve abseiled off the roof,’ I added under my breath. ‘And you? What are you writing about?’

      Oliver topped up his coffee.

      ‘Sandstorms. War. Nothing to appeal to you. I mean there are no cupcakes or shoes. So you really enjoy doing this?’

      I bit back my annoyance at such a patronizing attitude.

      ‘Do I like running retreats? Yes I do.’ Otherwise I wouldn’t do them. ‘Are you enjoying being here?’

      He shrugged and took another bite of cake.

      ‘I mean are you sufficiently relaxed to write? No plot holes or – you know – writer’s block to worry about?’

      ‘What?’ he looked up rather sharply.

      ‘I said plot holes and writer’s block. You don’t suffer from those then? Oh no that’s just lack of discipline or something isn’t it?’

      He stood up, favouring me with a hard look, and without a word stomped back into his room, taking his coffee with him.

      Well someone was grumpy. I mean grumpier than usual. It must have been the Stilton.

       Chapter Five

      That evening Oliver didn’t come out to join us for a drink before dinner. And he still hadn’t come out when we sat down to eat.

      Helena and I did Rock, Paper, Scissors and went to the best of three. She lost so I made her go and knock on his door. She returned very quickly, pulling a face. We went and had a muttered discussion in the hall out of earshot of the others.

      ‘Blimey, he’s in a mood. He practically growled. He’s writing. He says he’ll grab something later.’

      ‘It’s gone eight o’clock. We’ll have tidied up and set the things out for breakfast by the time he comes out. Does he want something in his room?’

      ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He’s looking very thundery – I couldn’t wait to get out of there,’ Helena hissed.

      ‘Jeez. Come on, let’s get back to the others.’

      ‘I’ll open some more white wine. The red is already on the table.’

      Oliver Forest must have been in the middle of a really determined sulk because the aroma of the beef casserole was wonderful. It would have persuaded anyone else out into the open but not him. I almost felt like wafting it towards his door with a tea towel, but undoubtedly he would have caught me doing it, so I didn’t. It wasn’t as though I minded that much to be honest. He could eat when he liked really; it was just his attitude that got me going.

      ‘No Mr Forest this evening?’ Elaine asked as we came back into the dining room. ‘Perhaps he’s finding the distance from his bed to the dining room too difficult as well?’

      I looked at her and caught the twinkle in her eye before she returned to her meal.

      ‘Lovely casserole,’ Nancy said. ‘Really delicious sauce.’

      ‘It should be – it’s ninety per cent red wine,’ I said.

      ‘Fabulous. So how have people got on today?’ Vivienne asked, helping herself to more green beans. ‘I did awfully well. I’d been having trouble with the scene involving a pair of handcuffs and some tangerines—’

      Nancy put her knife and fork down with a clatter. ‘Viv, leave it!’

      Across the table Nick laughed. ‘I’ve been researching sandstorms. My main character has parachuted out of his plane in the Western Desert; well, he’s been shoved out. Do you know sandstorms can blow at one hundred kilometres an hour? And in the sixth century an army of fifty thousand soldiers was lost in one?’

      ‘You ought to ask Oliver Forest if you want to learn about sandstorms,’ I said acidly. ‘He’s writing about them too. Well he said he was – he might have been winding me up. He thinks all women ever read about is cupcakes and СКАЧАТЬ