The Mini-Break. Maddie Please

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      I tucked the phone under my chin, got to my car, opened the boot and started putting my shopping in.

      ‘Are you still there?’

      ‘Yes, Jassy, calm down. I’m not having a holiday; it’s more of a working mini-break. I’ve been writing and it’s been going well. I just want to finish off a couple of things. What day is it?’

      ‘Um, um, Tuesday.’

      ‘Right well I’ll come back at the weekend. If you see Benedict—’

      ‘He’s bound to drop in.’

      ‘—tell him I’m still furious and he’d better not have any more friends like that in.’

      ‘Okay, stop shouting. You can always come and stay with me you know. You’re very welcome.’

      I thought about it. Remembering Ralphie’s lascivious growling at my sister ‘Come here, you, I’m going to bowl a maiden over,’ in the next room was not something I wanted to repeat.

      ‘Look I’m probably over-reacting. Let me think about it. I’m a bit messed up at the moment,’ I said.

      ‘I’ll say! Where are you anyway?’

      ‘In the supermarket car park.’

      ‘Look, just come back. Otherwise Benedict is going to drive me mad.’

      ‘So it’s okay if he drives me mad?’

      ‘Well he’s your boyfriend. Stop being so difficult! Get rid of him. Hang on, Ralphie’s just got back. He’s been out to fetch his dry cleaning.’ She giggled. ‘We got chocolate body paint on his DJ trousers. You would have howled. We’d been—’

      ‘Please, Jassy, I don’t want to know.’

      ‘Promise me you’ll be back at the weekend? And by the way we’ve got an invite from Penguin for Samira’s book launch. Waterstones. Piccadilly.’

      ‘Yes I promise.’

      *

      I got back to Barracane House as dusk was falling, and for the first time the dark shadows of the little outhouse and the stunted trees looked a bit forbidding. I hurried inside and put some lights on. As I brought the last bag of shopping in I saw a handwritten note had been pushed through the letterbox. Now this was rather exciting.

       ‘Sorry to have missed you – I wondered if you would like to meet up for a drink in the Cat and Convict. They do good food too. It’s only a couple of miles down the road. I’ve drawn a map for you. If so, I’ll see you there about seven. Joe Field.’

      I hadn’t expected that. What a marvellous idea! And after my spectacular cooking failure, eating out would be a great alternative. But what should I wear?

      In London I would have fished out some spiky shoes and something from the latest go-to designer. There was always a bit of jostling for position with that in the Gang. The men seemed to get away with the usual shirt/chinos/jacket/stupid knotted scarf combo, but for we girls it was always a tense little moment when we saw what the other girls were wearing and whether we had scored more points on the cool/trendy/sexy/enviable … Oh boy, all of a sudden even the thought of it sounded draining.

      I just chose some simple jeans (7 for all Mankind – I mean I do have standards) and a pale blue sweater (Brora – cashmere) and left Barracane House just before seven. I was feeling quite chilled out but I still wasn’t going to arrive first. I mean I wasn’t desperate or anything.

      I’d done a bit of remedial work on my hair (on the cusp of complete chaos) and my incipient black eye (not as bad as I’d feared) and set off for the Cat and Convict.

      *

      It sounded like a lot of modern pubs that take on a silly combination of names in order to sound whacky and end up being pretentious and tiresome, but I was pleasantly surprised. A framed notice in the hallway told the tale of a convict who had escaped from Dartmoor Prison in the nineteenth century and escaped capture because he hid in the barn with the pub cat.

      Inside, the place was already quite full with a lot of country tweeds and waxed jackets heaped up on the coat stand by the door. You wouldn’t do that in Notting Hill.

      There was a preponderance of low beams, dark furniture and what looked like half a small tree burning in a massive inglenook fireplace. The successor to the cat of legend was asleep on the lintel above it, surrounded by pewter tankards and brass candlesticks. As I walked in, every head turned to look at me. Not in a threatening or unfriendly way, just sort of naturally curious.

      ‘There you are.’

      Joe was at my side, and he led me over to a table that was close enough to the fire to be warm without singeing my clothing. He already had a pewter tankard of beer with his name engraved on the side. Evidently he was a local in every sense of the word. I sat down as relaxed as a first-time buyer asking their bank manager for a mortgage.

      ‘What can I get you?’

      ‘Red wine would be lovely.’

      I sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire for a few minutes until he returned with my drink and two menus.

      ‘Hungry? They do some great food here if you are. Especially the pies.’

      ‘I haven’t had a pie since I left school!’ I said, slightly faint with the thought.

      ‘Then this would be a good time to try one,’ he said. ‘The steak and ale is a house speciality.’

      I thought about eating a pie in front of him. I get a bit funny about eating in front of people, in case they think I’m greedy I suppose. Stupid.

      I looked down the menu for something less fattening. A salad or a light bite. There wasn’t anything. There were, however, a lot of things I absolutely love: proper comfort food, like cottage pie and fish and chips. Chilli and lasagne. Things I’d not had for a very long time. I’ve been on a diet for about twenty-five years, if I think about it.

      ‘I’ll have the cottage pie,’ I said at last.

      Joe nodded approvingly and went to order.

      I saw him exchanging a joke with a man behind the bar who was as wide as he was tall and they both turned and glanced at me. I looked away and watched as the cat got down from the mantelpiece by a circuitous route involving a plate rack, a shelf, a bookcase and an armchair before it stopped on the hearth and washed its paws.

      Joe came and sat down again and the cat strolled over to wind itself round his legs. He reached down to scratch its ears.

      ‘Friend of yours?’

      Joe grinned. ‘I like most animals, don’t you?’

      ‘I suppose so, but there aren’t many in my life if I’m honest. The occasional designer dog maybe?’

      ‘Designer dog.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So you’re a writer?’

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