A Year of New Adventures. Maddie Please

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      Oliver Forest was Ross Black. This man in his perfectly ordinary-looking dark-blue sweater and jeans was Ross Black. Seven years ago he’d been teaching maths in an oversubscribed comprehensive, writing a book in the school car park during his lunch hours. It was snapped up by the agent of the day who organized a bidding war and he’d become a literary sensation in the space of a year.

      A Hollywood film of his first book, The Dirty Road, had been made, with Channing Tatum in the lead role, and there was another one planned for the sequel: The Fool in Charge. I had even been to see it. I couldn’t remember too much but without a doubt there had been sandstorms, a brilliant car chase, heroism against all the odds, and men with scarves wrapped round their faces. I think there had been a woman with a twisted ankle too come to think of it. I’d been too busy watching the hero’s muscles rippling to remember much about her. Except her clothes kept falling off.

      His books had topped the bestseller lists; he had been nominated for several prizes and awards. He was a success. His next two books had been bestsellers too. The fourth one, Death in Damascus, was due out sometime this year; Uncle Peter had an order in for it.

      Oliver Forest would have been all over the celebrity pages if he hadn’t been so reclusive. What the hell was he doing with us in the middle of nowhere, eating our food and wandering about with no clothes on?

      For a moment it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. And everyone just sat and gawped at him for a few minutes, waiting for him to do something unexpected and unusual. As though he was a juggling dog.

      He didn’t really do anything; he just took a bit more ice cream. At last he looked across at us.

      ‘It’s no big deal, you know,’ he said at last.

      ‘The Dirty Road is one of my favourite books,’ Nick said at last, hero worship glowing all over his face.

      ‘I bet there are at least four people in this room who haven’t read it,’ Oliver said.

      Elaine fidgeted a little. ‘Well I’ve heard of you obviously, but I’ve never read any of your books.’

      ‘Me neither,’ Nancy admitted. ‘Not really my thing.’

      ‘Nor me,’ Vivienne said. ‘I did try one once … but …’ She tailed off in embarrassment as she realized what she was about to say.

      ‘There you are, told you. Helena? What about you?’ Oliver said.

      Helena blushed and shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’

      ‘And you, Billie?’ He looked at me, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

      I would have given a lot to have a heated debate with him about the merits of his books.

      I imagined myself musing how the plot had been a bit patchy in places, whether or not a macho, dirty vest-wearing, gun-toting hero was politically acceptable these days despite my secret crush on Bruce Willis and my addiction to the Bourne Trilogy. And was the use of explosives and destruction to solve a political crisis really OK in the twenty-first century? Unfortunately I didn’t have the knowledge or the nerve.

      ‘Well, yes … no. I mean I’ve always m-meant to read them and I think … I mean I’m sure I would enjoy them. I think … I did see the film, well I saw a bit of it once. I went with Matt. My b-boyfriend.’

       I have/had a boyfriend. See, I’m not completely pathetic.

      I’d been in a crabby mood through most of that film actually. Matt and I had been heading downstream towards the end of our two years together and we both knew it. We’d gone to the cinema because we didn’t feel like having sex and it was easier than talking to each other.

      I would have preferred to see the latest chick flick playing in Screen 1. All my friends had enjoyed it and my mother described it as nauseating garbage to set the feminist movement back fifty years. So I know I would have enjoyed it. Still, Channing Tatum’s rippling muscles were quite enjoyable too.

      Now I was a gibbering wreck. It was all I could do to stop staring at Oliver in the first place; now it was going to be hard not to ask for his autograph at some point. I glanced away from him and looked at the bookcases. And yes, there were his books. Three fat hardbacks, immediately recognizable, lined up on the middle shelf. Books the owner of the house obviously liked and had left for guests to read. They were all well thumbed, the dustcovers cracked and discoloured, the gilt of the title letters was tarnished. The Dirty Road, The Fool in Charge, Glory 17.

      Bloody hell. There we had all been, chattering on about writing and plot holes and word count and our piddling little WIPs. Droning on about how hard it was to get an agent, writer’s block, and how was it that pathetically ordinary novels became bestsellers, and in our midst was one of the most successful authors of the last few years. It was one of those cringing moments when you just want to hide behind the sofa. Except there wasn’t a sofa to hide behind.

      ‘Well you’ve just proved my point haven’t you?’ he said.

      ‘You should have put some cupcakes in or had a fete and then we would have found it more appealing,’ I said before I could stop myself.

      He bit his lip. ‘You could be right,’ he said.

      Horrified at myself, I stood up and put the lid back on the ice cream so I could put it back in the freezer. We were all crippled with unusual politeness for a while. We chatted quietly about non-contentious issues: what holidays we had planned, how Elaine’s recent house move had gone, whether or not Nancy’s three sons would ever get around to producing grandchildren. Oliver sat at his end of the table, eyes down, and finished his dessert.

      At last he looked up at us. You could tell from his expression he was expecting something. I couldn’t imagine what.

      Nick was the first to speak to him. ‘Um, Oliver, sorry but would you …’

      Oliver put his spoon down with a clatter and gave a humourless laugh.

      ‘Here we go. Now it begins. I knew it wouldn’t take you long. There’s always something. Would I what? Put in a good word with my publisher? Take a look at your manuscript? Talk about how to get an agent to your writing group? Chat to your book club? Give you a signed hardback to auction for your school? Open your village fete? Speak up to stop your library being closed?’

      Nick fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘No, I just wondered … would you pass the red wine, please?’

      I stood up and began collecting the dirty pudding bowls together. ‘Coffee, everyone? There’s more wine here if anyone wants it?’ I said, my voice shaking with laughter.

      This suggestion met with tremendous approval and everyone started talking at once very loudly. I went out into the kitchen and began making coffee and putting cutlery into the dishwasher. Helena wasn’t far behind me.

      ‘Well what do you think? How amazing! Ross Black here! Ross Black!’

      ‘Well yes but you’ve never read one of his books have you?’

      ‘No, but I know a famous author when I meet one. Even if he is a—’ Helena struggled to find the right word.

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