A Year of New Adventures. Maddie Please

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.

      ‘Rude, self-satisfied twat?’ I whispered.

      She nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose rude, self-satisfied twat would cover it. And we have to put up with it all week. We’ve always wanted to get a really famous author too. What a pity we got him.’

      She finished loading the dishwasher and shut the door. She turned to me, her face thoughtful.

      ‘It’s a bit of an opportunity though isn’t it? I don’t suppose he would do a workshop, do you?’

      ‘What on? Being obnoxious?’ I said. ‘You must be joking – you heard him just now. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. He’d only say no and do the sneery thing he does.’

      ‘I haven’t seen a sneery thing,’ Helena said, puzzled.

      ‘It’s just me then. Come on, let’s get this coffee into the dining room although, let’s be honest, he’s had enough caffeine today to run the Grand National.’

      I took the tray back into the dining room and found Oliver Forest, or Ross Black, or whatever he wanted to be called, had gone.

      ‘He’s in his room,’ Nancy said. ‘He said he wants his coffee in there.’

      ‘Oh does he? Right then.’

      I went stamping back into the kitchen and set out a tray for him with a second cafetière I had found and a second unattractive mug.

      ‘Here,’ I said to Helena, ‘can you take this to his majesty? I’ll start on the saucepans.’

      Scrubbing saucepans was the job both of us detested and we went to considerable lengths to avoid doing them, so my offer was unusual in the extreme.

      ‘Bloody hell, are you OK?’ Helena said.

      ‘Perfectly,’ I said, rolling my sleeves up and getting stuck in. ‘I’ll get rid of some of my irritation this way. God I wish we could go to the pub!’

      Going to the pub was out of the question, of course. We had to be on hand in case there was a food crisis or wine bottle needing to be opened. It would have been very bad form to leave our guests, and anyway it was usually fun to get to know new people and enjoy hearing their writing stories. Adding Oliver Forest into the mix seemed to have affected everything somehow. No it hadn’t; it had ruined it. Helena and I were going to have to work hard to get everyone relaxed and cheerful again.

      *

      We ploughed on, and gradually everyone began to enjoy themselves. This might have had something to do with the unexpected bonus of Oliver taking his coffee and staying in his room for the rest of the evening. Occasionally I went into the kitchen to fetch something or stack a few more dirty dishes on the worktop. Once I heard him shouting into his phone but on the other occasions it was eerily silent.

      I tiptoed around as though there was a sleeping tiger behind the door and put the crockery down with exaggerated care. I dropped a teaspoon and waited with bated breath in case he came out roaring, but nothing happened and I slunk back into the sitting room.

      ‘No sign of our celebrity?’ Nancy said in a stage whisper.

      I shook my head. ‘Perhaps he’s writing.’

      ‘Or maybe he’s gone to bed.’ Helena said.

      I fought back the mental image of Oliver Forest in bed and asked Nick how his novel was progressing.

      We all chatted happily enough until after ten-thirty, which was plenty late enough for me, and then Helena and I set the breakfast table in stressed silence in case we disturbed him. Shortly afterwards I went upstairs. I was quite exhausted. And this was just the beginning.

      Helena came up a few minutes later and rummaged around in her suitcase for her pyjamas and her sponge bag. We were sharing a bathroom with Elaine, so we did a bit of polite dodging backwards and forwards until we were sure she had finished her nightly rituals and was safely tucked up in her bed.

      I wanted to talk to Helena but as usual she was snoring gently in minutes, the product of an untroubled mind, whereas I lay in bed, unable to sleep at all.

      I tried to put Oliver Forest out of my thoughts, but instead I remembered what we’d talked about at lunchtime. I knew everyone was right. My life did need an adrenaline shot. What could I do to make my life more exciting?

      I needed a list.

      I know, a ten-point plan!

      I sat up and reached for my notebook and the pen that lights up in the dark that Helena had given me for my last birthday. What would someone put on an ‘adventure list’? Climb mountains? Hmm I’m not really great with heights. Explore foreign lands? That takes money. Learn how to do something dangerous … Did adventurous have to mean dangerous? I’d prefer it not to. Not only was my budget limited, if I was honest, what I really needed was to