The Reluctant Celebrity (2 page)

‘Nice
and spacious’ the old lady said from the doorway, as if the room needed the
extra description. ‘A little plain I know, but you wouldn’t believe the amount
of trouble I’ve had with hikers stealing my precious animals. In the end I had
to move them all downstairs. Never trust a hiker, that’s my motto.’

Jules
nodded, unable to think of an appropriate response.

Mrs
Beckwith continued regardless: ‘The bathroom is just at the end of the hallway.
As I said, you’ve got it all to yourself so feel free to leave any toiletries
in there. And on that note, I will leave you to it. Just knock on the kitchen
door if you need anything. Sleep well dear.’

‘Thank
you Mrs Beckwith,’ she replied lifting her hand in a small wave as she closed
the heavy wooden door.

It
could be worse, Jules told herself, dropping onto the lumpy bed and shrugging
off her jacket; but as her hands felt for the newspaper still hiding in her
pocket she struggled to see how. 

The hamlet
of Cottinghale is home to somewhere between eighty-five and two hundred
residents, depending on the day of the week, the person counting and the number
of ales they may have consumed in Cottinghale’s main and only focal point – The
Nag public house. No one is sure of the exact figure, only that the tiny
collection of homes hidden by a dip in the rolling English countryside, midway
between Cheltenham and Oxford, once served as the servant quarters to the vast
lands of the Cottinghale estate.

Luckily
for the residents of Cottinghale, when the estate burnt down in 1861, the
valley that had kept their existence perfectly hidden from the passing world
also protected the old staff houses from the crosswinds of the fire and the
destruction of their entire community.

Over
the years, changes have been few among the grey stone houses, surrounded by
sloping hills of thick unkempt woodland to the west and rich open farmland to
the east. The single road running through Cottinghale, fenced by tumbling stone
walls covered with yellow moss, twisted and turned through the countryside with
no particular destination in mind, making visitors to the community a rarity.
In fact, even people in the surrounding villages often forget its whereabouts.

If
it had not been for the sale of the Jules’ house, the owner of the estate
agents in Cheltenham would have been none the wiser to Cottinghale’s existence,
and more importantly, he would not have mentioned the unsellable property to
his cousin in Reading, who, in turn, would not have passed the details on to
Jules. It was a strange turn of events that had led Jules to hear about the
under-priced property in Cottinghale, which, in its position 200 metres further
up the road from the other homes in the hamlet, was a chance for her to make it
alone as a property developer, to start a new life far away from DIY
superstores and heavily stocked supermarkets. The life of contented solitude
she continued to look for but never seemed to fine.

But
it seemed in an equally absurd turn of events that Jules found herself
shivering under a worn and itchy blanket sipping a bright green sticky and
out-of-date crème de menthe from Mrs Beckwith’s alcohol shelf.

The
fifth long and sickly swig caused two thin trickles of liquid to fall from the
tiny china mug and down the sides of Jules’ mouth. The alcohol finally
defrosted the ice blocks of her feet from beneath the bed spread.

Did
out-of-date crème de menthe increase the alcohol content or reduce it? Jules
wondered. At least the arctic temperatures outside the bedroom kept the
disgusting drink too cold for her taste buds to protest. It was alcohol after
all
–
alcohol she so desperately needed. Jules let her eyelids close for a moment as
she felt her thoughts drift to the hidden crevices of her mind.

‘How
could he do this to me?’ Jules whispered to the empty room, the hit of alcohol
finally allowing her to unleash the thoughts that had been bubbling under the
surface of her consciousness since she seen the newspaper that now lay across
her lap. It should have been another layer of warmth, but each time her eyes
scanned the wretched article it chilled her to the bone.

It was dated yesterday, Valentine’s Day. Her picture had
been plastered across the front page of a trashy tabloid for twenty-four hours
and no one had contacted her. How could that be? But even as Jules asked the
question, she knew the answer.

Each
new project meant, among other things, a new location and a mobile upgrade. She
had replaced the number this time too, not bothering to tell anyone but her
parents of the change, and they were two people as unlikely to read the
tabloids as she was to keep in touch with old friends.
Her
eyes flicked back to the headline.

‘Bastard.’ The involuntary sound startled her as it
slipped out from somewhere inside. A sense of
déjà vu
spread through
her. She had been here before: a newspaper open in front of her; Guy’s face
staring back. But this time it was her
grinning face next to his. The
photograph, like a hundred others that had been taken throughout the years of
their relationship, showed her and Guy arm in arm on a night out, grinning at
the camera without a care in the world. Had she really ever been that happy,
she wondered suddenly, staring at the young girl with the smile so wide it
seemed to stretch across the entire length of her face.

Five years without a single word and then this,
Jules
thought, cutting off the memories from invading her mind. She had vanquished
Guy from her head a long time ago and had no plans to let him back in now. Why,
after all this time, would he be trying drag her back into his life? It was the
most impersonal form of communication, yet the worst possible intrusion.

It
had to be a publicity stunt, she realised. Nevertheless, it was another slap in
the face to the truth of how wrong she’d been about him (and herself for that
matter).

With
each sweet sip of the green alcohol Jules melted closer to numbness. She forgot
if it was anger or hurt that she was supposed to feel at Guy’s pathetic attempt
to boost his career and stomp over her private life in the process. Then,
without warning, the
déjà vu
probed again at the doors of her mind: the
flash of another cold bedroom, another lifetime, and the other newspaper spread
in front of her; the familiar feeling of alcohol coursing through her, the haze
luring her into a dark nothingness.

A
bitter taste of bile rose to the back of Jules’ throat as she recalled the
empty bottle of vodka and the crippling sadness that had hounded her. Just the
thought of that time in her life was enough to start the hammering in her
chest. How close had she been? Always the same question, never the same answer.
But she was a different person now, her own person, she reminded herself,
pushing the cup out of reach on the bedside table. She
shuffled further under the
covers as she pushed the images and the questions back to their hiding place
until her mind stopped churning and sleep took her away. 

The
constant early morning drizzle soothed Jules’ hot face as she pounded her legs
harder into the hillside. Her limbs seemed to move on mechanical autopilot as
she fought for one cold breath after another. The wispy shrubs of winter
scratched against the bottom of her calves in the space where her leggings stopped
and the cold started. Woodland stretched before her; the leaves from summer
still spread across the floor, crunching like orange and brown cornflakes
beneath her feet.

Jules
liked running. She liked the power it gave her and the way it kept her body
lean, but most of all she liked the healing force of running, the way it never
failed to clear the remnants of a bad day.

With
each mile of ground she covered Jules began to feel herself again. In fact, as she
threaded her way up the valley, she felt almost normal. The betrayal of Guy’s
lies meant nothing. One newspaper, one headline, one very old and
unrecognisable photograph, it would all be forgotten. She had been the victim
of a cruel publicity stunt and a slow news day. Nothing more.

Jules
felt as if she could run forever with her head down against the cutting
February wind, her mind pushing away the anger and hurt of Guy’s betrayal, and
the fear and frustration she felt towards the mess of her new house. But as her
feet fell upon the flat grassy hilltop Jules stopped. A sudden break in the
clouds unleashed a weak beam of sunshine, causing a momentary brush of light to
touch her face.

As
she turned slowly on her heels her eyes absorbed the view. Tangled branches
sprouted out from the woodland covering the slopes before her. Beyond the
hills, scattered beams of light dropped from the thick cloud like spotlights on
the dark and empty farmland. The sweet smell of fresh morning dew filled Jules’
senses. It felt like a different world compared to the bleak cement of the
bedsit in Nottingham, the flat in Slough, and the townhouse in Reading. Their
images deteriorated into one grey block in Jules’ mind compared to the
landscape before her.  

Not
for the first time Jules wondered how she’d come to own a property in such an
unusual place as Cottinghale. There had been none of her normal meetings with
the property management companies she’d worked for; no renovation cost
calculations or profit analysis completed; and none of the methodical planning
she’d applied to her life and her work over the past five years.

Within
a matter of hours from setting eyes on the detached stone house at the top of
the hamlet, Jules had found herself making an offer and beginning the
extraction of her small life in Reading. She still recalled the lure from that
first showing. The late autumn sunshine had shone through every window,
illuminating the stretching high ceilings and huge rooms.

She
had felt a pull towards it, as if something in the house had called to her that
day. It needed so much more than a new coat of paint and a laminate floor: it
needed her love; something she felt unqualified to give to anyone or anything.

Whatever
it was that had made her ignore the moulding wallpaper, the fraying carpets,
the desperate creaks of the stairs under her feet, she had responded to it. It
seemed she had finally found the solitude she’d been craving for so long.

As
her breath slowed, Jules felt the first tingle of cool air penetrate through
the thin layer of sweat cloaking her skin. Time to head back, she decided,
lifting her shoulders in a shrug as if apologising to the beauty that lay
before her
– except that, in the few short moments Jules had been
standing on the hilltop, each pathway leading back into the wood looked exactly
the same. She had no idea which twisting path led back to Cottinghale, Jules
realised on the verge of panic. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she
hadn’t bothered to keep track of her route and now she really was lost.

It
was early on a Sunday morning in the middle of nowhere. She could keep running
for miles in the wrong direction and find nothing but pneumonia and exhaustion.
Then, out of nowhere, a rustle sounded from the undergrowth directly in front
of her. Shit! Do they have wolves in the English countryside? No of course not,
she silently answered her own fear, but what about the panther sightings she’d
heard about a few months ago? Had that been near here? Where was here?

Just
as Jules prepared herself for a diving sprint to the cover of the woodland
behind her, the creature revealed itself. Galloping out from its hiding place,
a brown and white Springer spaniel, not much older than a puppy, bounded full
pelt towards her with his bright pink tongue flapping in the air at the same
rate as his giant floppy ears. Hardly the vicious creature she had feared,
Jules realised with relief.

‘Hello
there,’ she cooed as the dog sniffed her outstretched hands. His stubby white
tail wagging so hard that the whole back half of his body wiggled from side to
side. Jules ran her hands over the dog’s hot, damp back as she crouched down to
his level, leaving her hands covered in white and brown hairs.   

‘I
hope you’ve come to show me the way home.’

At
the sound of her voice, the dog wriggled with even more fury as he shoved his
cold nose towards her; the force causing Jules to topple back onto the damp grass
as he flapped his hot wet tongue across her face. A sudden smell of rotting
fish overtook the fresh morning dew.

‘Yes,
yes, I’ve said hello,’ she grinned, pushing the dog back so she could sit up. 

‘I
hope that’s how you greet everyone up here,’ a man’s voice said from behind her
as a pair of green wellingtons stepped into view beside her.

‘Oh,
sorry I was saying hello and your dog pushed me over,’ she replied, her eyes
widening at the sight of the rugged, immensely tall blond towering over her.

‘I
can see that,’ he replied with a broad smile, brushing a tassel of windswept
hair away from his face. ‘Now Maximus,’ he said, turning his attention to the
dog, ‘how many times do I have to tell you, it’s customary to take a girl on a
date before you slobber on her.’

The
unfamiliar sound of a laugh escaped from inside Jules as the dog barked his
response. Taking advantage of the dog’s wavering attention, Jules scrambled to
her feet, pretending not to notice the outstretched hand of the man offering to
help her up from the cold ground.

‘Well
you’ve already met Maximus, Max for short, and I’m Rich, and guessing by the
look of you, you’re lost.’

‘Jules,’
she replied, wiping Max’s saliva from her face and looking up towards the dog
owner. Even standing, Jules couldn’t help but feel taken aback by his height.
She barely reached his chest and she was hardly short herself at five-foot ten-inches.

‘And
I’m not lost; I was just taking a breather,’ she replied, the lie falling from
her lips before she had a chance to consider why.

‘Really?’
Rich raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes,’
she said, a little more hotly than she intended.

‘Well,
I’ll let you get on with your run then.’ Rich took a step back allowing Jules
to choose her direction, his gaze on her face unfaltering.

But
she couldn’t leave; she still had no idea which way led back to Cottinghale.
Damn, why hadn’t she just admitted that she was lost?

‘Everything
alright?’ he asked.

‘Yes
thanks, I’m just deciding which route to take back,’ she lied again.

‘And
where is back?’

‘Cottinghale.’

Before
Rich could reply, Max let out a loud piecing bark.

‘It
looks like we’re heading back together then if you don’t mind? Max wants his
breakfast.’

‘Sure,’
she replied, feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment.

‘It’s
beautiful isn’t it,’ Rich said, looking out across the valley, but making no
move to begin the journey home. ‘Be careful round here though, the ruins of the
Cottinghale estate are dotted all over the place, it’s easy to lose your
footing, especially after all the rain we’ve had this year.’ 

‘Right,’
she replied, brushing aside his warning without a second thought. Her
independence always seemed to bring out the protective side in some men, as if
they couldn’t quite believe she was happy on her own. ‘Shall we go then?’

Another
bark from Max mirrored her impatience. 

‘Lead
the way.’ Rich waved his hand in the direction of the woods, the edges of his
mouth twitched with a smile.

‘Sorry?’

An
unfamiliar sensation wound its way into Jules’ stomach. The mischievous twinkle
in his smiling blue eyes combined with his broad physique unsettled her.

‘I
thought you were deciding the route back? Me and Max don’t mind, do we Max?’

The
dog barked his agreement.

With
no other options available to her, Jules stepped in the direction of Max;
hoping the dog would lead the way for her.

‘Um
—
’

‘Something
wrong?’ Jules asked, frowning at the amused expression on Rich’s face.

‘Nothing.
I’m just surprised you want to go this way,’ he said, falling in step next to
her. ‘Don’t mind getting your feet wet crossing the river, I guess.’

‘No,
I was just
—
’

‘About
to admit that you are actually lost and ask the friendly dog walker for
assistance,’ he cut in.

‘Fine.
I’m lost, but in my defence I only moved here yesterday.’

Rich’s
deep laugh reverberated in her ears.

‘Now
that wasn’t so hard was it?’ he said, shrugging off his waist-length black coat
to reveal a fraying grey jumper, complete with what looked to Jules to be a
Bolognese sauce stain spread down the front.

‘Here,
take this.’

‘Thanks,
but I’m fine.’

As
if she hadn’t spoken, Rich placed the coat over her shoulders.

‘Take
it, if for no other reason it saves me having to carry you home when you
collapse from hypothermia, which by the look of your blue lips is any moment
now,’ he explained, eyeing her lips and creating another wave of unsettlement
to dance inside her.

‘Thank
you,’ she muttered, feeling as small as a doll as she slipped her arms into the
enormous sleeves still warm from Rich’s body.

‘Good,
now come on then, Max, this way.’ Rich clapped his hands at the dog, striding
towards the same path Jules had chosen moments earlier.

‘Hey,
what about the river?’ she quizzed, half running to keep pace with his long
strides. 

‘Oh,
there’s no river. I just wanted you to admit you were lost.’

‘Well
thanks again then.’ 

‘You’re
welcome.’

‘I
was being sarcastic.’

‘Really?
I didn’t notice. Us local folk don’t know much about sarcasm,’ he replied, the
amusement never leaving his voice.

They
walked in silence for a moment, following a zigzag path down through the
woodland. Max galloped around them, dividing his attention between the delights
of the undergrowth and the ear scratches from his new friend.

‘So
how is Mrs Beckwith treating you?’

‘What?’

‘Mrs
Beckwith, the landlady of the B&B.’

‘Yes
I know who she is, but how did you know I’m staying there?’

‘Ever
lived in a small place like Cottinghale before Jules?’ Rich asked.

‘No,
but
—
’

‘Didn’t
think so. Let me tell you exactly what it took me a month to realise. Everyone
knows everything.’

‘Really?’
she replied in a mocking tone. 

Rich
grinned at her. ‘Your name is Jules Stewart, you’ve just bought the old Mayor
House, and you’re staying at Mrs Beckwith’s because the house isn’t safe. Oh,
and apparently you don’t like being called Juliet. Did I miss anything out?’

‘Or
“lovey”,’ she replied, hiding her discomfort at how much he seemed to know
about her. ‘I don’t like being called “lovey” either.’

‘What
about darling?’

‘Nope.’

‘Peach?’

‘Definitely
not.’ The unfamiliar sensation of a smile began to form on her lips.

In
what felt like no time at all, Jules found herself standing outside the blue
front door of Mrs Beckwith’s guesthouse.

‘Here
we are then,’ Rich said.

‘Well
thanks for … err … keeping me company on the way home.’

‘You
mean thanks for saving you from hypothermia and certain death?’

‘I
wouldn’t go that far, but thanks,’ she smiled.

‘You’re
welcome, Jules.’

Seconds
passed between them as Rich’s smiling eyes never left hers. He stepped towards
her. ‘Any chance I could have my coat back then?’

‘Of
course. Sorry.’ Jules felt her cheeks colour as she shrugged the cosy layer
from her body and handed it back to Rich. A shiver travelled across her skin at
the chilly void it left behind.