Page 63 of The Do-Over

‘You mean there are organisations for this kind of thing? I mean, I get that it might be a fantasy for someone who gets off on big cogs and whatever else is in here, but it’s pretty niche, isn’t it? You haven’t turned Amish and eschewed all mod cons, have you? Do you even have electricity this far out?’

‘Alasdair,’ I say firmly. ‘You’re in Kent, not Outer Mongolia.’

‘Hmm. And this…’ He waves his arm around vaguely, with a dubious expression on his face. ‘This is really what you want now?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ I ask defensively. ‘I wanted a change of direction. This is a change of direction. I don’t get what you’re finding so difficult about it.’

‘Let me tell you a story,’ he says, his eyes solemn. ‘Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess called Thea. She was brave and clever, and all her courtiers admired her. There wasn’t a problem in the whole land that she didn’t know how to solve, and solving problems made her happy. In fact, she’d devoted her whole life to learning how to solve problems so that she could be the very best she could be. She lived in a lovely palace in Walthamstow and she worked hard doing what she loved. Then, one day, a fat ugly king called John died, and Thea decided, quite out of the blue, that she didn’t want to be a princess and solve problems any more. So she went to live in a land far, far away where it was muddy and cold and nothing worked properly. And she told herself she was happy, but she wasn’t, because there weren’t any problems to solve, and she missed it.’

‘Are you having a nice time?’ I interrupt crossly.

‘I was going to say how she tried to go back to her palace, but nobody believed she could be a princess because she looked like a farmer and so she ended up in a muddy field crying and her hat got eaten by a goat, but maybe I’ve made the point. I guess what I’m trying to illustrate is that there’s a difference between a change of direction and throwing everything you’ve ever worked for in the bin to become some kind of semi-recluse, grinding flour in your ancient watermill and complaining to your fellow villagers about “them city folk” while you sip your warm beer with dead rats floating in it.’

‘Alasdair,’ I say warningly.

‘OK, OK. Are you sure you don’t want to come back though? I mean, you’ve had a nice nine-month sabbatical, but aren’t you bored? You’ve got one of the keenest minds I’ve ever seen. I guess I just struggle to see how this can stimulate you. I’ve talked to a few of the other partners, and they’d be open to finding a way back for you. Not at partner level, obviously, but I’m sure we could swing senior associate.’

I cast my mind back to my previous life. Yes, it was mentally stimulating, but I had no friends outside work, my family barely knew me and I was basically a wage slave, imprisoned in my golden handcuffs. The thought makes me shiver.

‘I don’t want to come back,’ I tell him politely but firmly. ‘Thank you for the offer.’

As he gazes around, evidently trying to figure out what this ancient piece of machinery could possibly do to make me reject a lucrative job offer, another decision starts to crystallise in my mind, catching me unawares. It may be a clanking, obsolete museum piece, but I’ve grown very attached to the mill and I’m suddenly sure I don’t want to let it go. Even Ernest’s dull monologues about how you need to learn to listen to the mill to understand what it’s trying to tell you about its health, daily checks and so on have begun to penetrate, because I’ve started to care about it as if it were a living thing. I’d still prefer it to be George teaching me how to use it though. I briefly allow myself to indulge a fantasy where George and I are working in the mill together. It’s a warm, sunny day and he’s bringing in sacks of wheat, his muscles flexing under a tight T-shirt. He’s smiling at me, his gorgeous lashes blinking languidly as I run my fingers over his taut chest.

‘Penny for them?’ Alasdair’s voice brings me crashing back to reality.

‘Sorry?’

‘You were miles away just then. I just wondered where you’d gone.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I say, conscious of the flush of heat creeping up my neck.

‘Of course it is,’ he says, laughing. ‘That’s why you’re suddenly blushing like a lovestruck teenager. I’d flatter myself that it’s a reaction to me, but you’ve never reacted to me like that in all the time I’ve known you. Methinks I have a rival for your affections. Who is it?’

Bloody Alasdair. I’d forgotten how easily he can read me.

‘Nobody,’ I tell him. ‘And it’s been nine months, so don’t assume you can just slip back into my bed because that’s what we used to do.’

He just stares at me, saying nothing. I know what he’s trying to do; he’s letting the silence draw on until I blurt what’s on my mind just to fill it. Two can play at that game.

‘OK. I get it,’ he says nonchalantly just when the silence is getting unbearable. ‘Nothing to do with me. Sorry I asked. I hope he’s worthy of you though.’

‘It doesn’t matter, since he’s currently doing everything he can to avoid me,’ I reply before clapping a hand over my mouth in horror at what I’ve just revealed.

‘Aha!’ Alasdair exclaims triumphantly. ‘I knew it. What’s his name?’

I sigh. ‘George.’

‘George,’ he repeats, rolling the name round his mouth as if it were a fine wine he was tasting. ‘And what does George do?’

‘He works for the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust. He’s been advising me on the mill, which is how we met.’

I’m braced for another sarcastic remark, but Alasdair surprises me. ‘He matters to you,’ he says simply.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The look on your face. Why’s he avoiding you?’

I study Alasdair for a moment before answering. It feels odd, almost disloyal, to talk to him about George, but then he is one of my longest-standing friends and, when I can get him to be serious, his insights are usually spot on. I think back to our last serious conversation over breakfast after John Curbishley died; he wasn’t completely right that time, but he certainly helped me to put my thoughts in order.

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