Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (14 page)

‘Whoops, that’s the one that got away,’ Edward grins and looks over to the table.

‘That one is on us Jack,’ he calls, ‘but we will try not to follow up with the main course.’

The man laughs and waves at me. I blush and gulp my wine.

‘Do you want a second go,’ he laughs, ‘or shall I remove them. You know, just in case the next one lands in Jack’s soup.’

‘The tong things are different in the country,’ I say
. ‘I never had this problem in London.’

He removes a snail from the shell and holds the fork out to me. I place my hand over his and direct the snail into my mouth with closed eyes. When I open them again he is staring directly at me and my hand is still on his. I drop it quickly and swallow. He looks at me intently. This is a bit intimate.

‘Well?’ he asks.

‘Like a gritty mushroom,’ I say pulling my eyes away from his. ‘The thing is I’ve never had escargot before,’ I admit and dab at my lips with my serviette.

He roars with laughter.

‘You’re a good sport. I’ll give you that.’

I shake my head. Mad countrymen.

‘Seeing as I’m paying, you’ll have to eat the rest,’ he says seriously.

I look earnestly at him to check he isn’t joking and see that twinkle in his eye and before I know what I’m doing I’ve tossed them all onto his plate. He actually turns out to be good company and isn’t as serious as Charlie. It makes a nice change to have dinner without someone continually checking what is in the sauce and if any animal fat has been used and whether the vegetables were cooked near any meat. In fact it feels quite refreshing to just eat what I like.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening
,’ I say genuinely as Edward brings the Land Rover to a halt.

The farmhouse is in darkness. My fuddled brain struggles to think of something else to say when he leans towards me. Oh no, he isn’t going to try and kiss me? It wasn’t until I stood up to leave the pub that the alcohol practically floored me. I must have got through three large glasses of wine. Every time I thought of Charlie with the brunette I had taken another gulp. It had been a lovely evening, apart from the awkward moment when the bill came. I was about to pay my half when he pulled out a Coutts cheque book. I kid you not. I wanted to grab it off him to see if it was the real McCoy. So this is where the royal connection is. He’s probably something like the tenth richest man in England, and I chose the sea bass rather than the lobster because I didn’t want to be too extravagant. Bloody fool, I can hear Georgie say. Not because I ordered the sea bass but because I didn’t get the condoms. I look down at my crumpled dress to my bright red toenails and take a deep breath to calm my beating heart. What do I do? I’m still on the pill so it isn’t like I can’t do it with him. I wonder if Charlie is doing it with the brunette. Why do I have to think of Charlie all the time? The chances of him having
Aids, or something like that, are unlikely, Edward that is, not Charlie, but then again, if he is one of the richest men in the country he is most likely shooting up with something to overcome the boredom of having it all. I should have that boredom. Then again, if Trenowyth is having it all then I’m a monkey’s uncle. You wouldn’t see me shooting up, unless it is with Macrolane to sort out these lopsided breasts. I look up and realise he had no intention of kissing me whatsoever but is unlocking my door. I lift my head and before I know it I have headbutted him. My head swims.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I say swaying towards him and thinking how delicious he smells. ‘I think I’ve had too much to drink.’

Well that was sensible Alice. It’s like saying
I’m totally out of control, feel free to ravage me as I couldn’t possibly fight you off.
He helps me from the car and I look at the farmhouse. It looks really bleak by the light of the moon and I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where every step you take seems to take you backwards rather than forwards.

Edward clicks on the light and I come face to face with my reflection in the hall mirror, and in my drunken state I think I look rather appealing. I can’t feel the roof of my mouth mind you, and my head is developing a dull thud, but apart from that I look pretty good. I’m thinking hot bath, a bottle of water and two Paracetamol will make my night complete. Edward has other ideas it seems and before I can focus on the now spotless kitchen he has clicked on the kettle and placed two mugs on the table.

‘It looks like you’ve had a cleaning company in.’

I swell with pride. I must be drunk if I’m flattered by compliments on my cleaning. I’m almost tempted to show him the inside of the oven but instead I pounce on the fridge and devour a bottle of Perrier water.

‘You haven’t have you?’

What a cheek.

‘I did it myself thank you very much and destroyed several fingernails in the process.’

‘Right,’ he says stirring water into a mug. ‘I’ve got accounts to finish.’

Before I can answer he has disappeared into
the hall and I am left with doe-eyed Molly pawing at yet another pair of tights. Make coffee for yourself why don’t you? What a selfish man. An urgent need to pee sends me reeling to the loo. A loo which only yesterday I wouldn’t have been seen dead in, but now it is a pleasure to pee there. I even take pride in watching the blue toilet cleaner swirl around the toilet bowl. I am sad.

I toddle up the stairs and at some point must have got into bed. I am so relaxed and sleepy that I am asleep in no time.

My tongue is most certainly stuck to the roof of my mouth and the crowing of the cockerel jars through my head. The memory of Georgie’s wo
rds hit me like a sledgehammer and I fall back onto the pillows with a groan. What happened to my head? It feels like Satan himself is in there torturing me. Why did I drink so much wine?

I saw him in Marco’s last night with some brunette with big tits.

A brunette with big tits, well that clinches it. He’s going through some early mid-life crisis. He’s a bum man and always has been. Unless of course he really was a tit man all along and I was totally unaware of it. Mine being lopsided and hanging like crap wouldn’t have helped at all would it? And he never got to see me in my new bras with everything hanging right way up. This is terrible. How could he do this to me? I reach out to a glass of water that sits on the bedside cabinet, squinting against the small ray of sunlight that is straining to stream into the room as I do so. What a bastard. How dare he live it up in London while I’m doing
Upstairs Downstairs
in the bloody country? He’s creating a whole new life while I’m getting housemaid’s knee. He’s lording it up in Marks and Spencer while I’ve been reduced to shopping in Lidl. I fight back the tears and dive under the duvet. What have I come to? And why does shopping at Lidl feel like the end of the world? No, If Charlie is shopping at Marks then I’m buggered if I’ll shop at Lidl. I don’t care if I am a snob. I shall drive around all day if I have to until I find a decent Waitrose, and Edward Fairfax can go to hell. Yes, that’s the spirit. Oh God, did I make a total fool of myself last night? I probably talked far too much, and mostly out of my arse I expect. It doesn’t bear thinking about, and probably best not to remember. Edward Fairfax was bloody ungrateful. I’ve a good mind to pack my things and leave. Good plan Alice. Charlie doesn’t want you and Mum has rented out your room. I feel like the little orphan Annie. I lean across to check the time on my Blackberry. It’s only 6.30. Damn noisy farm animals. Can’t a girl have a hangover in peace? I fumble for the foil of Paracetamol, which I know must be in my handbag somewhere, while wondering where I can buy a shotgun. I’ll shoot that bloody cockerel first and then I’ll move onto the pecking hens. Who knows where my massacre will end? Just let Edward sodding Fairfax start on me this morning and I’ll mow him down too. It’s not such a bad idea. I don’t mean mowing down Edward Fairfax, obviously, but a shotgun. It will be very useful if I do have to go to Lidl. You know, to keep the riffraff at bay. I am such a snob, what on earth is wrong with me? I’m premenstrual that’s the problem, and I should never drink when I’m so close to my period. I must stop thinking about shotguns too. They’re probably two a penny here in the country. The last thing I should have in my hand five days before my period is a gun, shotgun or otherwise. I can’t believe Charlie has already changed his status to single on Facebook. I’ll unfriend him. That will make him think.

I untangle myself from the bedcovers and remove the earring that is stuck to my bum, check my emails and texts on my Blackberry and then remember there is no signal.

‘For goodness sake, how do you people cope in the country?’ I mumble while checking the Nokia.

There are two texts. I rub my sore eyes and peer at the first one. It’s from Georgie.

What happened? Was he a boring old country fart? Speak later. Love you loads. Xx

The other is from Cas.

Went to the docs this morning and the place is crap without you. They’re advertising your job at twenty hours. Tight bastards. Miss and love you. X

That’s that then. I can’t possibly work for twenty hours. I suppose I’ll have to stick it out in the country a little bit longer. I hear Edward crashing around downstairs and feel my premenstrual inner goddess rear her ugly head.

‘He’s messing up your lovely clean kitchen already. Are you really going to put up with this?’ she whispers.

I grab my woollen shawl from the bottom of the bed, and fly down the stairs in my nightie. If I am going to get pissing housemaid’s knee then I want some due respect. I storm into the kitchen coming to an abrupt halt when I see my nice shiny kitchen is still nice and shiny, and with a perfectly laid table. Edward is standing at the Aga in his wellington boots and muddy jeans. His hair is tousled where he has removed his cap and his cheeks are
ruddy from being outside. What time did he get up? There is toast on the table and coffee bubbling away in the percolator. Before I can turn around and creep back upstairs, he says,

‘Good morning.’

I can’t even begin to imagine what I look like. I’m in my nightie for goodness sake. I look down fearfully. Yes, and it is the one that has
fondle carefully
in big red letters all over my breasts. Oh piss it and piss it again. I don’t know what to do first. Tidy my hair, don some sunglasses or pull my dressing gown around tighter. If I had the shotgun I’d just shoot myself. Stop thinking of shotguns Alice. You’re premenstrual, and right now your tongue is more than sufficient to kill at twenty paces.

‘There’s toast and coffee. I’m making scrambled eggs and there’s bacon under the grill. I’m not good at apologies but I make a mean fry up,’ he
says, turning to face me.

My eyes meet his and there’s a little spark which takes me very much
by surprise. Don’t get me wrong it isn’t fireworks or anything. In fact it was probably just the percolator gurgling. Or perhaps it’s just something about his rugged appearance. Maybe there is something sexually arousing about farmers and sheep shit, all that rolling in hay and getting back to nature stuff. Or maybe I am so sexually frustrated that I’ll copulate with anyone when hungover. But rude, arrogant, Edward Fairfax … what am I thinking of? I’m hungover, not desperate. He strolls towards me. Now what? I shrink back but he pulls out a kitchen chair.

‘You look like you need a coffee,’ he smiles.

For a second I thought he was going to say
You look like shit
.

‘Do you have any Paracetamol?’ I ask pleadingly.

‘Drugs and coffee? You must be in a bad way.’

‘Not really. I just like the celebrity lifestyle. You know, booze drugs coffee, that kind of thing,’ I say, fighting the impulse to drop my head onto the table.

He places two white pills and a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. I pull a face but attempt a forkful of egg followed by a swig of coffee and the two Paracetamol.

‘The house looks nice by the way,’ he says shyly and covers his face with his mug of
coffee.

‘You’ve done a great job. I’m sorry for not seeming more pleased.’

He smells of soap and some other fragrance that I can’t quite place. I recognise it from last night. I feel sure it isn’t aftershave. He doesn’t seem the aftershave type. Just as well. The mixture of eggs, bacon, and aftershave would be the ultimate throwing-up combination.

‘Thank you. I have the knees and calloused hands to prove it.’

I feel ravenous and accept an extra bacon rasher.

‘The baby calf I delivered yesterday is a bit weak. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on her. Just to make sure she feeds properly. I just don’t have the time. Obviously if you can’t …’

As long as he’s not expecting me to breastfeed it. I feel my tits are as good as useless after hearing about the brunette with the big ones.
I take another gulp of coffee and feel better already. I’ve even managed to consume the bacon, and the toast is beginning to look rather appetising. As though reading my mind, he pushes the toast rack across the table.