‘What?’ He starts as he looks up at me, incredulity etched on his face.
I shrug.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Who to?’
His face is a picture of bewilderment, which I don’t quite get.
‘But … surely you had plans. I mean, thirty’s a biggie.’
‘I’m not big on birthdays. My friends Eleanor and Olivia organise something every year but I’ve always suspected that it’s more for them than for me.’ I smile at the thought of the two of them and then feel a bit guilty. I should have told them I’d be away. We hadn’t actually booked anything but we’d said we’d get together like always.
‘Why don’t you do birthdays? My friends say I’m a miserable bastard but I still celebrate.’
‘It wasn’t really a thing in my family.’
‘What do you mean? No presents? No parties?’
I give a mirthless laugh. My parents rarely acknowledged my birthday and on the very rare occasion they did, I wished they hadn’t. ‘There wasn’t really the money for presents. Although there were parties,’ I say with an irony that is probably lost on him. For some reason I continue opening up a little more of myself to him. ‘My parents’ parties were infamous.’
Tom frowns. ‘Not good?’
‘No. They invariably got out of hand.’ Tom doesn’t need to know that on my seventh birthday, I slept in the garden shed because two strange men had passed out in my bed with another three on the floor. But I do volunteer with a jokey smile, ‘On my ninth birthday, the police were called by the neighbours because the party was still going at five in the morning.’
‘Right.’ Tom nods as if that makes sense but I can tell he doesn’t really understand – why should he? – and I don’t really want to tell him. It’s not that I’m ashamed, none of it was my fault, but I just don’t want him to think differently of me. I’ve never felt sorry for myself and I don’t want anyone else to. My past has shaped me and I think I’ve come out things pretty well. I’m a well-educated woman with a well-respected and high-paying job and good in the sack – although, of course, the latter stat is just between Tom and me.
Chapter Twenty TOM
‘Don’t spend it all,’ admonishes Lydia from the kitchen behind me as I open the front door of the house.
‘I won’t,’ I promise. ‘I’ll just get some basics.’ We’re about to run out of her handy pasta packs and I’ve had enough digestive biscuits to last a lifetime, so I’ve volunteered to be hunter-gatherer.
‘And get some footage,’ she adds. I pat my pocket containing the GoPro which has been neglected for the last twenty four hours – hardly surprising.
‘Now, go and elevate that leg.’ Despite her usual protestations that it’s fine, I really don’t like the look of the gash on her leg.
‘Yes, Dr Dereborn.’ She gives me a cheeky wave. ‘Sure you don’t want to give me a final examination before you leave?’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ I growl, thinking of her warm body and the bed we’ve only recently vacated as I step out into the fine drizzle that immediately seeps down the back of my neck. Once again the clouds have closed in, bringing with them a flat grey light that blurs the edges of the landscape.
Despite the dank conditions, I could almost imagine I’m on holiday – I can’t remember ever feeling this relaxed. Must be all the sex. The endorphins have put a spring in my step as I stride out into the fresh air, pulling in a great lungful. My cheeriness is quite a contrast to the way I felt last time I walked this way. It’s amazing the difference being warm, dry, fed and sexually satisfied can make. Especially the last. The sex is just as good as I remember it, actually even better.
I ponder this as I head down the drive to the lane at the bottom. According to the instructions left by the owners of the house, I need to turn left and walk a mile before hitting a crossroads where I take a right turn, which will lead me to the farm shop a further mile away.
Why is the sex better? And what about it is better? I’m not normally one to think about such things. I guess it’s because I’ve got time and no other distractions as I plod along the empty road. The desperation and desire are as strong as last time, that’s for sure. I can’t seem to get enough of her, although she’s certainly not complaining, which is doubly nice. I fancied her the first time I saw her but I realise now I know her, I fancy her even more. ‘Fancy’ is one of those useless non-words that you can’t really define but it sums up the little frisson that fizzes in my chest cavity when she turns her head to look at me and, almost against her will, her mouth curves up even though it’s obvious she doesn’t mean to smile. Even now, thinking about it makes me smile. I like her. I mean, obviously I like her, I’m sleeping with her, but it’s more than that. I genuinely like the person she is. I enjoy being with her.
My spirits are high because there’s no pressure today. We can relax for another twenty-four hours before getting back on the road. I’ve almost forgotten why I entered the competition. I’m actually feeling quite content with life for once, although I know it’s because this isn’t real life. It’s a break from reality where I’ve let myself … I was going to say let myself go, but actually perhaps it’s more appropriate to say, let myself be me. Lydia is so easy to be with and the sex is the hottest, but I’m well aware this is an interlude and that we’ll go back to … to what? The question hammers into my head like an axe. I’m not sure if I’m unwilling or unable to answer it. Back to what? Being friends? We were never friends in the first place, so there’s no going back. We’ve done lovers, enemies – I think she would happily have skewered me at the beginning of this week and in Barcelona.
Could we be friends in the future? I’m starting to tie myself up in knots and I’m uncomfortable with the direction of my thoughts. Instead, I force myself to think of my screenplay and what I’d do if I had to film in these conditions. I pick up my pace and push myself to walk as fast as I can. Even though it’s unlikely the hunters will find us – hopefully they’re still trying to track us in Kendal – I don’t want to be out in the open for too long.
It’s a relief when the farm shop hoves into view and I can round up my thoughts to more practical matters. When I step over the threshold, I realise I’m in the Harrods equivalent of farm shops. The high, open-raftered barn is a positive emporium with everything from animal feed and saddlery at one end to high-end wines, a butchers’ and clothes at the other. There’s also a café from which emanates the rich, sinful smell of coffee. It’s been nearly a whole week since I’ve had a decent coffee. I’ve got a grand total of forty pounds in my pocket, Lydia and I have pooled our resources, but much as I’m tempted, I resist the siren smell of coffee. It seems awfully decadent to splash three or four pounds on a caffeine hit.
I wander round, adding up in prices my head as I go, before I commit anything to the trendy wicker basket I’ve picked up. Everything is quite expensive but as I shop I decide on a menu. I’m going to cook dinner for Lydia. I pick up some chicken thighs, a lemon, an onion, some potatoes. There are still plenty of frozen peas in the freezer, so I don’t bother with any more veg. I also grab the cheapest loaf of bread I can find and a tiny block of cheese, which I then put back because it’s over five quid, because that’s more than the chicken thighs. I spot a reduced, about-to-go-out-of-date section and splurge on bargain eggs – we can have scrambled eggs for breakfast – and pick up some duck paté, which is an absolute bargain. There’s also a best-before-today pack of fondant fancies. My gran always used to get those on family birthdays.
Shit, today is Lydia’s birthday. And my mother’s. I’d completely forgotten. I didn’t even wish Lydia happy birthday. I tot up what I’ve spent so far. Twelve quid. I head straight over to the wine section. Compared to everything else in the place, the wine is relatively inexpensive. For six pounds I can buy a cheap chardonnay. I pop it straight into the basket. Still not much of a thirtieth birthday celebration. I think of mine. My parents took me to a Michelin-starred restaurant and gave me a pair of diamond cufflinks. Though they were a symbol rather than a heartfelt gift. The ‘correct’ sort of present. I’ve never worn the bloody things even though they cost a fortune – I know because my dad told me the price a dozen times, so that I’d be suitably grateful. Gratitude is a big thing in our family.
I head over to a touristy gift area. I’m going to get Lydia a present. The budget isn’t going to stretch to much – and she’ll probably point out that it’s her money as well. I’m already going to be in neck-deep shit for missing my mother’s birthday, I don’t want to give Lydia a reason to be pissed off with me as well. Unfortunately, it’s slim pickings on the gift front. Everything is pricey and I’m mindful of Lydia’s words: ‘don’t spend too much.’ Whoever said it’s the thought that counts hadn’t met my family. Birthdays are a demonstration of loyalty and service, and the value of the gift and the amount of fuss you make on that one day equate directly to filial duty. In my experience, people who say, ‘Don’t make any fuss, don’t spend too much’ or ‘Don’t go to any trouble’ don’t mean it. Despite spending a small fortune on a gold locket – which my ex Natalie had dropped a dozen elephant sized hints about – I was told I hadn’t made the requisite effort because I should have had it engraved with a message. As she pointed out when we split up, it was yet another example of my emotional ineptitude.
I frown – what am I going to get Lydia? Is it worth it? Given the limited options, am I setting myself up to fail? Maybe I should stick with dinner and wine…
By the time I’ve made my final choices there’s quite a queue at the till and I realise that this place is a wet day destination for tourists in the local area. But I’m wary just in case any of these strangers might be associated with the hunters. After a lengthy wait, during which I get increasingly twitchy, I finally reach the front of the queue.
The lady at the till casts an eye over my eclectic basket.
‘Hello, love. This be all?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘You on holiday?’ she asks.
‘Mm.’ I nod. I’m hardly going to volunteer that I’m currently fleeing for my life. Communities round here are bound to be close-knit. Everyone probably knows everyone else. I freeze. What if she’s an informant for the programme?
‘Staying nearby, are you?’ Her eyes are beady bright with persistence and I can’t decide if she’s just chatty or I really am being paranoid.
‘No,’ I lie. ‘Just passing. Staying in Kendal,’ I embellish for extra colour, which I remember is a sure sign that someone is lying.
She looks at my sopping clothing. ‘Long walk from Kendal.’
