Chapter 19
Beatrice
Aknock at the front door stirs me from my nap and as soon as my eyes open, my body aches with the realisation that I’ve been asleep on the old sofa for at least the last hour.
I don’t bother to jump up to answer it; it’s likely someone coming to ask Nan about the village bake sale, or one of Grandad’s mates come to have a look at his greenhouse to scout out their competition for the village fete.
He’ll never tell them he buys his prized marrows from a fella he knows in Yorkshire, so he always keeps a few decoys planted.
In the last few days I have essentially become nocturnal. Working like a thief in the night to finish work without the threat of being seen by anyone else, and then sleeping my way through the day alongside my grandad who snores through Countdown in his armchair.
I think I’ve finally lost the plot. At least that’s the only explanation for kissing Arthur Cavendish like I’m some horny groupie.
I don’t even like the guy, let alone have any desire to put my body on his in any way, so I’m pleading temporary insanity.
My dad always said the women in his family were crazy, or eventually went crazy, so at least I can blame my severe lack of judgement on whatever faulty genes he’s passed on to me.
The reminder of that night rips through me and I bury my burning face into one of the ten scatter cushions my nan has stacked on this two-seater. I’m hoping that groaning into its feathers will relieve my prolonged embarrassment in some way.
‘You all right, duck?’ My nan enters the room and I sit up, white spots floating in my vision from the thick cotton cushion cover pressing into my eyes for so long.
‘Yeah, who was at the door?’ Blinking through the blurry splodges, I finally see her, her white hair with the odd strand of black twisting through it, but it’s not her that my attention settles on.
She doesn’t need to answer my question, the answer is beside her peering around the doorway. Arthur clutches the doorframe with a wide palm and I rush to draw my dressing gown tighter around my body, though every inch of my skin feels as though it’s on fire.
‘It’s your friend from up at the farm.’ My grandmother winks not very subtly on the word ‘friend’.
Unless Tracy has told her, she has no idea about that night, she just believes that any man under the age of thirty-five who steps foot in this village is an eligible bachelor.
She does the same thing every time the postman comes to the door and he’s got three kids and B.O.
Trying to scrape all of the hair back into my ponytail, it all just springs back to its crazy state and I dread to think how I look from Arthur’s perspective in this moment.
He only grins, tucked away behind my nan as though using her as protection, knowing I can’t shout or swear at him in her presence.
‘Hi.’ He waves, and I roll my eyes instinctively, trying not to let my guard slip despite the knot of anxiety tugging at my stomach.
‘Do you fancy a cuppa, duck?’ Nan places a hand on Arthur’s arm and he smiles sweetly at her and I’m almost concerned that his uncommon good looks around these parts are going to be enough to turn even my grandmother into a blushing teen.
‘I’d love one, please.’
‘Milk, sugar?’ She flushes as she starts for the kitchen, and fans her face with the tea towel she must have had in her hands when she answered the door.
‘Just milk for me, please,’ Arthur says, taking her place in the living room and inching closer to me.
‘Of course, you’re far sweet enough as you are.’
That’s it, I’m telling my grandad as soon as he’s home. She practically skips to the kitchen and, without being invited, Arthur squeezes in beside me on the sofa, then looks around the room with wide-eyed curiosity.
Clutching my dressing gown ever tighter, I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I have yet to brush my teeth today, so as I speak, I try to open my mouth as little as possible.
‘Why are you here, Arthur?’ My words are slurred from the awkward positioning of my mouth and that only makes him lean in closer to try his best to hear.
‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’ He leans closer still, and I press my lips tightly together and try and murmur ‘nothing’ without moving them. ‘What are you doing?’ He leans closer still until I have no other option than to spring to my feet and show him the full length of my Christmas pyjamas.
‘What are you here for?’ I grunt, suitably humiliated.
‘I’ve been thinking about, you know … the other day.’ It’s his turn for his cheeks to redden.
‘Kissing you was a mistake, shouldn’t have happened, will never happen again,’ I rush before he can say anything of the sort.
And, of course, Nan chooses this moment to come and place two mugs of tea on the coffee table.
She bends down as slow as she possibly can without getting stuck and casts me a sparkling sidelong glance.
‘I’ll leave you kids to it. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’ She winks again and I can imagine she’s resisting the urge to clap her hands together with a little celebratory jump.
‘Okay, now that’s been said, are we done here?’ I fake a cough. ‘I’m poorly.’
‘Wow, you’re a worse actor than I am.’ Arthur leans back against the sofa and slings one arm over the cushions, making himself comfortable. ‘I actually wasn’t going to mention you kissing me but since we’re on the topic—’
I cut him off abruptly. ‘Nope. Just hurry up and say what you actually came for so I can go and tell my nan to cancel the fascinator she has definitely just ordered for the wedding she’s planning for us.’
‘I like her.’ A smug grin tugs at his lips. Oh, he’s enjoying this. Too much.
‘Arthur.’ I huff, resisting the urge to stamp my feet like a child.
‘Okay, okay.’ He seems to have lost all of his shyness and he’s lording this up. ‘I was thinking about what you said. You know, the night you kissed me …’ He lingers on the words and I roll my eyes. ‘And, I’ve been to see Bruce today.’
‘You could have led with that.’ My interest piques and I unfold my arms and encourage him on.
‘I wanted to know more about Jimmy. I didn’t exactly know why at first, but the more he told me, the more I knew you were right.’ His face is animated, though a little sorrow swells in his eyes. ‘These are stories that need to be told.’
Sliding a hand into his pocket he takes out a folded piece of paper.
The back of it seems to have something already printed on it, but the side he opens is filled with notes scribbled in pencil as though he has jotted down his thoughts on the first page he found.
He hands it to me with a slight tremble.
Before I can grasp it, however, he snatches it away. ‘Are you okay?’ His eyes are fixed on me as he speaks and his gaze is so penetrating that I take my seat again beside him, in the hopes I can hide in his periphery.
‘I’m fine.’ He readjusts himself, to look at me again. ‘I’ve been ill.’
‘My grandmother told me you haven’t taken a sick day in two years.’
I don’t look at him but I know he has his eyebrows raised. His face is far too open now he hasn’t got a fringe to hide behind and the fullness of his expression is overpowering.
‘It’s none of your business.’ I clam up, and reach for his notes. He whips them away again before I lay a finger on them.
‘I won’t show you until you tell me the truth.
’ He knows he has something to bargain with, something I can’t help but be curious about, and I lean back against the cushions of the sofa in a huff.
‘How can you kiss a man and then just disappear without a word?’ I shoot him a sidelong glance and he looks genuinely hurt.
‘You’re Arthur Cavendish, Hollywood’s sought-after bachelor, who has had half of Soho pressed against his lips on the front pages of gossip mags.
Don’t act like you’re bothered about my moment of weakness.
’ That’s all it was, as I have been reminding myself these last days: weakness.
‘I’m lonely, you’re not hideous, you’re a man, I kissed you, then I panicked. Okay?’
‘Not okay, not really.’
‘I knew what would happen if I stuck around. You’d tease me mercilessly. The whole village would know; they too would find it hilarious, and then I’ve lost all of my good reputation as a woman who works hard and isn’t distracted by every pretty boy who walks past.’
‘That’s what you think of me?’ Arthur frowns and I nod.
‘You’ve distracted me from my responsibilities. I just needed a couple of days to recalibrate. Think about a few things.’ I finally look at him fully, trying to keep myself firm. ‘Good enough?’ I hold out my hand for him to give me his notes and he places them down in my palm absently.
The very first thing scrawled in his urgent handwriting reads:
The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
I read it over and over. I feel him watching me closely, scanning each of my minuscule expressions, trying to gauge my thoughts.
Seeing his handwriting, feeling the warmth of his thigh pressed against mine, and the lingering emotion that has stuck around since the kiss, my mind swirls in a way that I know only writing can help.
My thoughts are so muddled, I need an outlet, a place to let out emotion and pretend it’s not mine.
The poem is all I needed to know that we’re on the same page. Folding the scrap of paper, I shove it into the pocket of my dressing gown and leap up, heading for the stairs.
‘What day is it today?’ I poke my head back into the living room where Arthur hasn’t moved even a twitch since my sudden burst of energy.
‘Er, Tuesday, I think,’ he answers, a little perplexed.
‘Perfect.’ I grin. ‘Give me three days. I shall meet you in the Big Apple on Friday at seven.’
‘Wha—’ Finally Arthur gets to his feet and follows me from the living room, brows knitted together and his hands flailing as though they too are trying to find the words to say.
‘Oh,’ I remember just as I open the front door and he instinctively steps through it, ‘try not to let my sheep out again, eh?’
‘How did you—’ he begins but I close the door before he can finish.
So I crack open the kitchen window and call to him as he reluctantly retreats down the garden path, ‘No one has secrets in New York, Artie lad.’ I grin before snapping shut the window and heading straight for the shower.
The next three days pass by in a blur. All of the minutes that I’m not at the farm, or behind the bar, I am writing.
Even when I am behind the bar, I’m secretly scribbling away under the optics as soon as I can worm my way from the regulars for thirty seconds.
For the first time in two years, the words return to me and I write as though my fingertips are on fire and I will explode if I can’t get them out fast enough.
It’s like I’ve lived with a blocked nose for months on end, and I can finally remember what it’s like to breathe clearly.
This is my way of feeling human, and I don’t think I had quite realised how alien I had been feeling before now.
Arthur has been around and about, but this has all been the perfect excuse to avoid him, or talk to him as little as possible on the farm.
He too seems distracted, as though every time he sees me, he is thinking of something else, or perhaps writing in his own head.
I’ve never known him so quiet. I hope whatever it is that fills his head has taken the place of that damned kiss, and then perhaps he can erase it from his memory altogether.
When he pensively opens the door to the pub on Friday, however, and I blush at the sight of him, I think it might still be a little while before I’m able to forget.
‘Come in, take a seat.’ I point to the stool at the very end of the bar before Barbara, Sandra, or any of the other older ladies try and corner him and he ends up spending his night brushing off several offers of arranged marriages.
Placing his regular drinks order in front of him, I reach behind the till to retrieve my last few days of work.
Though in writing it, I have never felt more confident, suddenly as I lay out the pages on the bar and he passes his eyes over them, I can’t help but feel a little exposed.
Not many people around here have seen this version of me, the one with a creative soul, the one that can create, at least not for a few years, so what has changed now?
Am I really going to lay myself bare in front of Arthur Cavendish when I can hardly stand the guy?
This man has read Hollywood scripts, been in the presence of this generation’s greatest writers.
What if he takes one look at my work and laughs?
I wouldn’t put it past him. What if I’m not as good as I used to be?
With shaking hands, I begin to recollect the papers, but Arthur places his hand over the stack and holds them all firmly in place.
‘This is what you’ve been doing?’ He looks at me with an unreadable expression, takes a swig of his pint, and refuses to allow me to remove my work from his line of sight. Nodding apprehensively, I pour myself a drink.
Arthur reads in silence whilst my patrons pull me away from watching his every facial expression. When he lingers pensively over a page, my insecurity gets the better of me.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. Or overtaken your project. They’re only ideas. Just things that I thought could help you if you wanted to. You’re welcome to completely ignore—’
‘It’s perfect.’