The Lost Guide To Life And Love Part 4

'Nice thought, but I've got work to do. Anyway, I'm not sure I would like to go through the ford or up that track in the dark.'

'There's always someone who'd give you a lift back up-if you don't mind the back of a pick-up or a quad bike.' He cleared my plates away and, with a wave to Becca, I went out into the gloom.

This time, drunk on neither wine nor exotic footballers, I managed the ford without any problem and PIP roared up the track. Already the house felt like home. I switched on all the lights, made myself a strong coffee and settled down to work. First of all I looked through my notes, marking good quotes, underlining parts, linking pa.s.sages. Usually I worked in the office or at home with Jake to distract me. It's amazing how much more work you can get done when there are no distractions.

Soon I opened up my laptop and started writing. The words flowed and the piece almost wrote itself. I finished the rough draft. That would do for tonight. I'd read it again and polish it in the morning. Like soup, a piece was always better when you'd left it to cook for a bit. I switched off the laptop, yawned and stretched. It was ten o'clock and I was suddenly hit with a wave of loneliness as well as fatigue.

If I'd been at home now, working at the table by the window in my little sitting room, Jake would probably have been there, working on his own laptop or sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the news or sports channels. He'd have brought me a gla.s.s of wine, maybe a little plate of cheese and biscuits or some hot b.u.t.tered toast. And when I'd finished working, I would have cuddled up against him on the sofa.

I missed him. But was that because he was Jake, or just because he was someone, anyone, to be there? I was beginning to see that we'd just drifted into our relations.h.i.+p. Bits of it had been good. And I realised-almost for the first time, that yes, he brought me toast and cheese and things-but only when he fancied them for himself. And while I worked, Jake would lie there with the TV blaring, constantly flicking between channels. But if he was working and I wanted to watch something, he'd get cross, because how could he concentrate with all that noise? So I would read a book or listen to my iPod so he could work in peace. I'd been pretty dumb, hadn't I? Not quite a doormat, but heading that way. Silly Tilly indeed.

I thought about it as I flexed my stiff shoulders, made my way upstairs and ran a hot, deep bath. And as I lay there, listening to the sheep-not scared at all now-I realised that yes, I was a little bit miffed that he could talk to Felicity, work with her and not me. So maybe my pride was a little bit dented. But my heart? I probed the idea and my heart like worrying a bad tooth. A twinge, maybe. But agony? No. I didn't think so. I twiddled the tap with my toes and added a great gush of hot water and settled back comfortably. I could live without Jake.

The track was steep, the rain like icicles. The photographer dismounted and walked alongside the pony as they plodded up the bleak fellside and thought about the photographs he had taken that morning, an old man and a boy cutting peat. He thought he'd possibly caught an expression. He hoped so. He longed to get back to his studio, the darkroom, to find out. It was a lucky chance to find someone like that. The overseer at the small mine there hadn't been too sure about photographs, nothing that would stop the men working. He would call back. But first he had to get into the next dale, get pictures of mines, machinery and the men who worked them.

The path was slippery now, partly from the driving rain and partly from the mud that flowed down from a ramshackle row of cottages that seemed to have grown up from the fellside and seemed ready to collapse back into it. One or two showed signs that the inhabitants had made an effort, with makes.h.i.+ft curtains made from sacking, but most were indistinguishable from the midden heaps behind them. Above him he could see another house. Even through the driving rain he could see it was in a better state than the others, with clean windows, a proper path and a tidy wall providing some slight shelter for a spa.r.s.e vegetable plot. A bedraggled hen squawked as a tall woman emerged from the house carrying a bucket, which she filled from the water b.u.t.t with one hand, the other holding a shawl over her head. She must have sensed the photographer looking at her, for she stopped and turned.

For a moment, despite the rain, she stood perfectly still, gazing down at him. She was straight-backed and strong-jawed, unfl.u.s.tered and unbothered. Her long skirt and shawl were the colours of the fellside behind her. She seemed made of the very soil and rock.

'Good afternoon!' said the photographer cheerily through the rain, touching his hand to his dripping hat.

'Never so good for taking pictures,' said the woman.

'Ah, you already know my business in the dale.'

'Word travels.'

She would, he knew, make an admirable subject for his camera. Just so, with the steep and narrow track beside her and the towering expanse of hill behind. He touched his hat again. 'Would you be interested in a photographic portrait?' he asked.

She looked down at him and for a brief second seemed almost amused at the thought. Then her mouth hardened again. ' "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," says the preacher,' she said. 'But you are in need of shelter. If you wish, you can rest out of the rain a while.'

'Gladly. Thank you.'

He tied the pony to the gate, checked that the tarpaulin was keeping his precious camera dry, and then followed the woman into the house.

Chapter Eight.

The next morning was wonderful, one of those autumn days that are almost still summer. Even up there, at the top of the world, I could feel the warmth through the window. It was only my third morning here but already it felt right. I felt at home. I burbled happily to myself as I sat at the kitchen table, with my laptop and a mug of coffee, and kept glancing out at the glorious views while I tidied up my piece on the cheese-maker. Finally, satisfied with what I'd done, I saved it on to a memory stick, ready to go down to the pub and send it off. But I didn't have to go yet, did I? The sun was s.h.i.+ning. That track at the back of the house was too enticing. Work done, I had no one to answer to but myself. Not even Granny Allen could argue with that.

I tugged on my walking boots, bought last year for a holiday in Wales with Jake. The fleece too. At least I looked the part.

It didn't take me too long to get up to the ridge again. Pausing at the top to get my breath, I looked down the dale. I thought about what Dexter had said. It was like looking at ghosts-those abandoned buildings, the ruined houses. A whole industry had thrived here and then vanished. The path plunged down past abandoned heaps of stones that must once have been buildings for the mines. Tall chimneys towered over empty s.p.a.ces where hundreds of men once worked but now were left to sheep, which sheltered among the soaring pillars and cropped the gra.s.s, as if nothing had ever disturbed the peace.

I felt a little uneasy, like an intruder. Was it sensible to be up here on my own? Jake had thought it wasn't sensible for me to stay the night in the cottage on my own, but I'd done that, hadn't I?

Some new railings and a warning sign surrounded an arched entrance opening straight into the hillside. 'Danger. Old mine workings. Keep out,' it said. I peered into the entrance, could see the skilfully arranged pattern of bricks in its ceiling, still supporting the moor above it. At my feet were rusty railway lines. Even though they were much grown over with gra.s.s and turf, I could follow them into another vast arched building, open now to the elements, with birds fluttering among the high bricks. I sneezed and the sound echoed and bounced round the huge empty and deserted s.p.a.ce. It was an eerie place. What must it have been like here, I wondered, with all those men and machinery, the noise, the activity? The buildings could have been inhabited by a race of giants. Now they had all gone. Now it was just me, the sheep and the birds and silence. Weird. Seriously weird.

Walking alone in this strange landscape felt like the start of an adventure but just a little creepy. It was rea.s.suring to see a Public Footpath sign. Very twenty-first century. It was a good firm track, too, easy walking on the springy turf. I had no map, no idea of where I was or where I was heading, but I couldn't get lost. I would just walk on for another twenty minutes or so, then turn round and come back. The track curved round a low hill. I would just see what was on the other side...

I strode out briskly. The air smelt clean and fresh and was nicely cold on my face. It really woke me up. Bouncing along a turf path is a lot more fun than pounding away on a treadmill in the gym, and certainly better without the posers and preeners and designer Lycra. Above me I could hear the cries of birds. Didn't know what they were. Maybe I'd get a bird book and find out, I thought. This country air was definitely getting to me.

I suddenly realised that n.o.body knew I was here. No one. I was completely free. I didn't have to get back at a particular time or for a particular person. Or fit in with anyone else's plans. My heart thudded a little at the thought. It was frightening, but it was also wonderful and exciting. Total freedom, to please myself. I did a little skip to celebrate and then strode out along the path.

I could hear another noise now, a strange sound that I sort of recognised but couldn't quite place. Some farm machinery, I supposed, though I didn't think there was much actual farming going on up here, not the sort that used combine harvesters or things like that. Apart from hearing The Archers, when Mum was listening to it, I was a bit hazy on all things agricultural. But I was pretty sure that this wasn't the sort of land where you grew things, apart from gra.s.s and sheep. Whatever was making the noise, though, it had to be big. I'd soon find out, as I rounded the bend at the foot of the hill. And then I saw it.

A helicopter. Right in front of me. So close it seemed enormous. Like a huge buzzing dragonfly perched on a flat, white-painted piece of moorland. I could feel the force from the blades, and see it sending ripples across the gra.s.s. What a strange place to find a helipad. But then I looked further and understood. Just a few hundred yards away was a vast house, all Victorian turrets and chimneys, surrounded by a high stone wall and large gates. 'Ravensike Lodge', said a sign. 'Private'.

Of course. Ravensike was originally a Victorian shooting lodge, that's why it was plonked down in the middle of nowhere surrounded by moors and grouse and partridges and all those things that people liked to shoot at. And now it was owned by a billionaire who owned a glitzy football club and a helipad. I wondered what the grouse made of that. Don't suppose it made much difference to them who took a pot shot at them.

Intrigued, despite the noise and the blast from the blades, I walked slowly towards it. A man was sprinting down the drive. Presumably he was the pa.s.senger the pilot was waiting for. He ran effortlessly, fluidly. He was clearly pretty fit. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket. His hair was closely cropped, almost shaved. He had a beautifully shaped head.

Oh my G.o.d, it was Clayton Silver. Was there no getting away from the man?

I wanted to turn and run back to the cottage, but instead I just stood there staring at him; he must have felt my look because he stopped on the edge of the helipad and glanced over in my direction. He looked away and then back again.

'Miss Tilly!' he shouted above the roar. 'Is that you?' He ducked under the rotor blades of the helicopter and then strolled towards me.

'You skipping work?' he shouted, the draught from the helicopter blades whipping his words away. 'Shouldn't you be writing about sausages?'

'Cheese-makers!' I yelled. 'And I've done it. I'm just getting some fresh air before I go back and do some more. I didn't know where this path led. I'm just-'

'Come for lunch.'

'Sorry?' I couldn't have heard properly.

'I said come for lunch. I've got to see someone in Newcastle. Come along.'

'But I can't. I mean...' Did I even want to go to lunch with him? Why did this man keep popping up in my life? First the club, then the pub and now, just when I thought I'd found one of the most isolated parts of England, he turns up there too. I shrugged my arms to show I was in jeans and a fleece and boots and, in any case, wasn't too impressed by celebrity footballers.

'That don't matter.' He laughed. 'The pilot's getting a bit antsy. You've got ten seconds to make up your mind, Miss Tilly. Lunch or no lunch. Deal or no deal. Ten...nine...eight...' He was grinning as he turned to go back to the helicopter.

The nerve of the guy! He was so in love with himself that he expected everyone else to be as well. Just turning away like that, as if I would meekly follow him. Who did he think he was?

'...four...three...two...' He turned back, grinning and stretching out his hand towards me.

Despite myself, I was smiling now too. Why not? What was the point of this sudden feeling of freedom if I didn't do things I'd never done before?

I'd done most of my work for the day. A helicopter ride was always going to be fun, whoever it was with. My mum always told me never to get into strange cars. She never said anything about strange helicopters. Seize the day...I grinned.

Clayton grabbed my hand and we ran under the blades and jumped up into the helicopter. As we soared upwards, the ground dropped away, glorious views stretched out for miles. Clayton was still holding my hand. I eased out of his grip and, rather primly, sat on my hands as I looked out of the windows.

Inside the helicopter it was still noisy, not ideal for intimate conversation, even if I'd had a clue what to say, so I contented myself with working out where we were. We flew over miles of moorland then above the motorway. 'Durham Cathedral!' I said, pointing into the distance. Then, a few minutes later a huge metal giant loomed up on a small hill at the side of a motorway, families looking like dolls playing at its feet. 'It's the Angel of the North!' I exclaimed and then, 'All those bridges! It must be Newcastle.'

We followed the Tyne for a while-I hadn't realised it was a country river too-until we hovered over a golf course and then landed gently in the grounds of a huge country house hotel, where the helipad sat in the middle of perfectly tended lawns. Clayton helped me out of the helicopter and then yelled to the pilot, 'I'll give you a call, mate.' As if it was just a normal minicab. We walked across a path and into the hotel. It was one of those seriously stylish places, where they were so cool they didn't bat an eyelid at my walking boots. I wanted to giggle. This was turning into a ridiculous adventure.

'Good morning, Mr Silver,' said the receptionist. 'Your guests are waiting for you in the Brown Room. Would you like coffee or drinks brought through?'

'No thanks. But I'd like a table for lunch, in about half an hour. For two.'

'Certainly.'

'This won't take long, Tilly,' said Clayton. 'Get yourself a drink or whatever you want and I'll be back soon.' And he vanished, leaving me in my jeans, boots and fleece in one of England's poshest hotels. I had no bag, no money, not even a lippy or a hairbrush. The receptionist was hovering.

'Can I get you anything, madam?' he asked.

'Some coffee, please,' I said. 'And I don't suppose you could conjure up a hairbrush? A comb? Anything?'

'Of course, madam,' he replied, as if it was the most normal request in the world.

He rematerialised about two minutes later, with a d.i.n.ky little bag containing brush, comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, face cloth, and razor. How many guests must arrive here as ill prepared as I was? I dashed to the Ladies, cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair, helped myself to some of their richly scented hand creams and cologne and felt a little better. Back in the reception area, the coffee was waiting for me. I sat back in the leather armchair thinking that I might as well enjoy all of this.

Then Clayton was standing in front of me, smiling down. 'Time to eat,' he said, 'and to drink something a bit more interesting than that.'

'What about the people you were meeting?'

'Gone,' he said dismissively. I didn't ask more. But I wondered who they were, why he would be meeting them all the way up here. I wondered if it was the sort of thing that Jake would want to know about.

We sat in the big bay window of the dining room, with a view across lawns down to the river. The menu was full of delicious things. I dithered over Thai-scented salmon salad with lemon potatoes, or maybe quails' eggs and capers, pigeon and celeriac, pumpkin gnocchi or sea trout...I would have liked to ask for a copy to show to Bill. Clayton hardly seemed interested. 'Just bring me some grilled chicken with lots of vegetables,' he said to the waiter, but then spent ages poring over the wine list.

'I know, Miss Foodie, who cares about every mouthful,' he said in a laughing, mocking tone, 'but food is just fuel to me. Yeah, I can see what the club dietician means about not too many pies and pizzas and all that, but food is just there to keep you going. But wine...well, wine is something else. Do you know,' he asked as he finally made his choice, 'I was seventeen before I first tasted wine? I thought it was for poofs and posers. Then Denny Sharpe, the manager at my first club-he was a bit of a wine buff-he gave me a gla.s.s of Chateau Laf ite. "Just shut up and drink that slowly," he said, and I was like, wow, why didn't anyone ever tell me about this before?! I was hooked. It is just so-o good.'

'Clever Denny.'

'Yeah, he was. Not just about the wine. I was a bit of a smart-a.r.s.e street kid, I guess, thought I knew it all. I knew nothing. Absolutely rock-all. But Denny was good. He was good with all us young lads. Tried to keep us in order-I say tried, because we were a wild bunch all right. He and his missus took us out to places like this, proper places, you know what I mean, taught us our table manners and stuff. He even had us doing exams.'

I looked at him, enquiringly.

'Bunked off school too much to do exams, didn't I? Too busy playing football. Reckoned I didn't need exams. But the club-well, Denny really-said there was an awful lot of life once our football days were over, so they got this tutor guy in. And me and a couple of others got some exams. I've got English, maths, PE and geography,' he said proudly. 'I'd have done some more but then I moved into the Premiers.h.i.+p and it was all different then. And I was nineteen by then, so they reckoned I was all grown up, couldn't tell me what to do.'

'Must have been hard studying after you left school.'

'No, it was all right really. Sort of interesting. There was just four or five of us and the teacher was pretty good. Didn't treat us like kids. Couldn't really. Even then we were earning shed-loads more than he was. But it was pretty cool. Never done anything like that before. My mum didn't do books. Too busy trying to survive. She was only a kid herself when she had me.'

I was trying to remember what I knew about Clayton Silver. A tough childhood, on a council estate where gangs and guns were commonplace. He was always being held up as an example of how sport could make a difference, provide a way out for a lad with talent and determination.

'No dad?'

'He skipped off when I was still in nappies. Turned up again when I signed for the Premiers.h.i.+p and said he wanted to make up for lost time. Yeah, right. Just wanted a slice of my money, more like. Told him where to go.'

For a moment his lively face looked bleak, far away. So I told him about my father and the drunk driver.

'So we're both half-orphans then,' he said. 'Not easy, eh? But I had lots of dads. Different one every few months. Mum would get lonely. Not surprising, she was only young. Then some bloke would move in, start throwing his weight around and then there'd be a row and in the morning he'd be gone too. There was a lot like that. Losers, most of them, absolute losers. Except for Travis. Travis was all right.'

'What made Travis special?'

'Well, for a start he stuck around longer than most. He could cope with my mum's moods and tempers-which took some coping with, trust me. She had a mean temper on her. And he used to take me to the park, so we could both get out of her way. He'd kick a ball about with me. He was sound. It was Travis who took me to the Lions Boys' club. Knew the guy who ran it. Told him I had talent. That was my big break, all thanks to Travis. He used to come and watch me, cheer for me. I told everyone he was my dad. Wished he was.'

'What happened?'

'Oh, in the end even he had enough of my mum. I looked for him, you know, when I signed for my first club. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to be proud of me. But I couldn't find him. Then a few years later I heard he'd died, been killed, knifed. Got into an argument with the wrong guy. '

He took a fierce forkful of the vegetables piled high on his plate.

'What's your mum doing now?'

'Selling overpriced clothes in a little shop in Spain. She went out there a few years ago with some guy she met on holiday. Actually, he seems all right. Don't see much of him. But he makes Mum happy. Him and the sun. She's really nice when she's happy, you know? If it had worked out with my dad, she might have been happy all the time and been a different person. Who knows? Anyway, I bought her this shop and a villa, so if it all goes pear-shaped-which it usually does with my mum-then she's got somewhere to live and a job to keep her occupied. But this guy seems to have lasted longer than most. He's a lot older than her but they do a lot of travelling together and a lot of partying. She's having fun and deserves that. Like I say, she was only a kid herself when she was left with me. Can't have been easy.

'Was it the same for your mum?' he asked. 'Was there always a new dad in the morning?'

I shook my head. 'The complete opposite. She didn't want anyone else. All she cared about was me and work. Too much so, sometimes. I wished she had let another man into her life. It might have taken the pressure off...' I went back to my meal-wonderful juicy scallops with lemon and ginger and the finest angel-hair spaghetti I'd ever tasted. My childhood hadn't always been easy, but hearing about Clayton's I had no right to complain.

'Which just goes to show,' Clayton went on, 'that in the end you're on your own and you've just got to look out for number one, because no one else is going to do it for you.'

There was a moment's silence as we both backed off from the conversation that had quickly got so heavy.

But soon Clayton was relaxed again. He leant back in his seat, took a sip of wine and grinned at me over the gla.s.s.

'You look nice, Miss Freshface,' he said, 'All clean and outdoorsy.'

'Well, I feel a mess,' I said, and told him about the goodie-bag of brush and comb, which made him laugh.

'I guess they're well used to providing such things for unexpected female visitors,' he said.

There was a sudden frisson in the air, a little ripple of something that suddenly made me feel not so safe. What had I got myself into-getting into a helicopter with a complete stranger, about whom I knew so little? If I had to make a run for it, I was done for. No money. No credit cards. I'd have to hitch back to High Hartstone Edge. It would take me some time. Especially as I wasn't even sure exactly where I was. As I began to panic, some spaghetti unrolled from my fork and fell messily onto my chin. Clayton leant over and gently wiped it away with his napkin. He held the napkin close to my face for a little while longer than necessary. 'What big eyes you've got,' he said, gazing into them. 'Beautiful big eyes,' he said slowly, dreamily, seductively...

Then he suddenly crowed with delight.

'And you blus.h.!.+ Oh Miss Freshface, you blushed.' This had him chuckling to himself. 'You know, I spend a lot of time with a lot of lovely ladies. Seriously hot ladies. They have all the clothes, the hair, the look, you know. But not once have I seen one of them blush. But you, girl, are the brightest, prettiest pink. I can't really believe you're a city girl. Really, you're a little country miss at heart, like that girl in the book, Tess, that's it-Tess of the D'Urbervilles.'

Oh G.o.d, why did I blush so easily? Now he probably had me down as a little girlie completely overcome by the big famous footballer. As if.

So to change the subject, I told him about my great-great-grandmother and how my family was from round here. He looked almost wistful for a moment and said it must be nice to have roots somewhere, to belong.

'Oh, I'm as much a stranger as you are, but it's interesting seeing where some of the family comes from, tracing any connections. And yes, I think it already feels special somehow.'

The waiter cleared our plates away and offered desserts. Clayton shook his head but said, 'The lady will have one.'

'No, it's all right. I'm fine, thanks.'

'Have a pudding. I bet you'd like to really.'