Page 5 of The Trouble With Love

I’ve pushed everyone too far, you see. Pushed and pushed and taken everything I could from them, the women who wanted to give me their lives and their hearts, and I took their bodies and their beds, and gave them nothing back. Then I took their dignity, their loyalties and screwed them all up so tight that it’s a wonder any of them had a life left when I’d finished. Oh, I still see them looking, women. Giving me the once-over, checking it out, this body that you gave me. Or did you? Was it you that bequeathed me the height to look down on them all? Or the eyes that they look into and see whatever they want to, reflections, nothing true, nothing real . . .

Because you gave me the looks of a romantic, and ain’t that an irony?

Chapter Five

‘I’ve had a look through the pictures and there’s nothing suitable, Holl.’

I cradled the phone under my chin and flicked through the albums on my laptop. ‘Are you sure, Guy? What about number 576? That little white place? People who own it are dead friendly, there’s masses of room for the lorries, and the neighbours even let you use their loo when it gets busy.’

Guy sighed down the phone, and I could picture his face. He ran a small production company on a shoestring out of Newcastle and looked exactly like someone who ran a production company on a shoestring, all cutting-edge hair design and thin-cheeked fret. ‘Nah. Like I said, Holl. Looking for something different. Doesn’t have to be for long; external stuff only is what I need here, establishing shots, bit of close work. Couple of days should see it finished, but the place has to be right. We’re talking more . . . I dunno, gothic.’

‘Gothic.’ Vivienne’s ‘Seven Dwarves’ Holiday Cottage’ came briefly to mind but was dismissed. Then I remembered Nicholas’s friend Kai, and his unlikely offer. ‘Hold on. There is somewhere that I had described to me as Gothic Cottage. I’ll go take a look, mail the pics to you if I think it’ll work.’

‘Thanks babe, you’re a star.’

I put the phone down and located the card in my Rolodex. Just ‘Kai Rhys’ and a mobile number, which took me straight through to answerphone. As I put the phone down it rang again. Megan.

‘Well, what about last night? What about Isobel, isn’t she nice? And Eve? And that Vivienne, isn’t she a scream — do you think she really does do magic in the woods? We won’t have to take our clothes off, Holl, will we, I mean, it’s okay for you what with you being size twelve all over, but . . . no one really appreciates how hard it is to dance topless with big boobs. All that slapping, it sounds like I come with my own applause.’

Bless her. Fifteen years I’d known Megan and the only thing that really took the shine off her incessant Angelina Ballerina cuteness was period pain and heartbreak. ‘You do know that I don’t believe a word of what she said, don’t you?’ I wandered through to my kitchen carrying the phone. ‘Vivienne is deluded at best.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘. . . what if.’ I finished for her. ‘It’s okay, Meg. I’ve said I’ll go along with it.’ And it could have been worse, she could have discovered the French cinema . . .

‘Great! Only she rang me this morning, we’re having another meeting tomorrow evening at six. In the woods this time. She said to bring a blanket and a warm coat. Apparently we’re going to do some visualisation exercises.’ Her voice went up in a little squeak. ‘Isn’t it exciting!’

‘I thought you said it was going to be like a knitting group.’

‘But you can’t knit, Holl, can you?’

No, but I can bloody well visualise, and if I’d been feeling really cynical I would have told Megan what it was I could visualise, i.e. a bunch of gullible women getting duped into helping some nutjob of a deserted wife slice up her ex’s designer suits. But I was taking a day off from pessimism. ‘No, I can’t knit. I’ll be there. Six o’clock, Barndale Woods. Anywhere in particular, or do I roam the whole hundred acres, like Eeyore on a really bad day?’

In my hand the phone buzzed.

‘Text me, Meg, got another call coming in.’ I switched to the new caller.

‘Rhys.’

‘Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.’ I was about to put the phone down when I recognised the accent. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. Returning your call?’

‘Okay.’ I explained my — or rather, Guy’s — predicament. ‘So if you’re still willing to put your place forward, I’d like to come and take a look at it.’

There was a pause. Right, so he’d changed his mind, fine, that happened all the time. People thought it would be glamorous to see their house on TV, until they read through all the forms and disclaimers and waivers which practically ensured that the crew could burn down your home, disembowel your children, run over your dog and wave a cheery, and unsue-able, goodbye at the end of the day.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll go scouting, there’ll be somewhere.’

‘No, no, just thinking. I’m not at home at the moment. I could be back tonight but you won’t want to come here in the dark, so how about tomorrow? Fourish?’

He gave me directions. Later, when I traced them onto the Ordnance Survey map, I found his cottage was on the opposite side of Barndale Woods to Vivienne’s, their houses lying either end of a connecting track. Barndale Woods was a sprawling mass of ancient forest, although the map made it look an innocent green blob, and I knew that some bits were quite inaccessible. If the track wasn’t driveable, at least it meant Kai’s place was close enough to Vivienne’s not to condemn me to getting embarrassingly lost on foot. I could go straight from his place to meet up with Megan, for our cosy-in. Well, maybe not straight there; I’d quite like to get tanked on vodka before I had to meet up with the Earnest Sisters again.

I shook my head over the map. What the hell did they all think they were playing at? A bunch of grown women making wishes? I let my eyes trace the contours of the local hills. Sensible lines, practical lines, nothing whimsical or fanciful about them, nice and plain and solid; unchanging. If only all of life could be that impassive and sensible, that rooted in reality . . . and it hadn’t escaped my attention that all the women’s wishes were a bit man-centric. Isobel, wanting to be someone’s whole world; Megan, wanting to be a goddess; Vivienne and her, quite frankly, scary desires for her ex. Even the outwardly sensible Eve. What the hell was it with them? I mean, yeah, okay, men were fine in their place, and I’d had a good time with quite a few over the years. They could be good company for an evening, over a meal, and then later they were entertaining for a while in bed, but anything else? Not for me. Oh, not that I’m a slapper or anything — I mean they’ve all known the score — but, nah, I don’t regret any of it. Fun, that’s what it was for, all it was ever meant to be. Fun while it lasted.

I’d realised a long time ago that the manacle round the third finger, left hand was not for me. I wasn’t meant to be tied down and restricted; liked my own space too much. My lovely triangular house with its double-fronting onto the main Malton road, which tapered in an unlikely fashion to the world’s only Isosceles kitchen at the back. My office, my sunny bedroom, all untainted by scattered copies of Top Gear magazine and skiddy underpants. I spent long enough clearing up Nicky’s messes — in his kitchen, even the mice had mice — and, what with keeping his laundry up to date and making sure he had regular meals, coming home to do it all again would be enough to make Kirstie Allsopp run for the hills. So, since I had no desire to have children, could acquire a casual shag whenever I wanted or needed one, what on earth would I want a man for?

Besides, I travelled so much. I’d worry about who was exercising him when I was away.

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