The Lost Guide to Life and Love

‘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 glass.

‘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 blush! 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 God, 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.’

‘Well, yes,’ I grinned. He’d clearly read my mind. ‘Go with the flow,’ I’d said, hadn’t I? ‘I suppose I would.’ So I ordered the lemon tart, so deliciously sharp and lemony that it almost made my eyes water. Clayton watched me eat it, rather as though he were an indulgent uncle. As I took the final forkful, he smiled, ‘It’s good to see a lady enjoying her food.’

Which, of course, immediately made me feel huge and greedy. I bet the women he normally took out for lunch did nothing more than nibble a lettuce leaf with no dressing. Maybe an olive if they were going really mad. I went pinker.

‘Aren’t you shooting today?’ I asked hurriedly before he could comment on it again. ‘I thought that was the point of coming up here.’

‘Nah, it’s pretty boring really. You stand where you’re told, wait for some guys to shoo all the birds in front of you and you go bang! bang! and that’s it. And it’s all rules and etiquette and, “If you don’t mind, sir,” and a gamekeeper with a seriously bad attitude. I wanted to go off and shoot in another direction. I could see plenty of birds there, but he just says, “I’m sorry, sir, we’re not shooting those drives today.” Well why not, eh? And you should see the clothes. He was wearing a suit right out of a picture book, like that boy in the film about the trains, you know, the one with wotsername in.’

‘Jenny Agutter? The Railway Children?’

‘Yeah that’s the one. All tweedy with trousers to the knee and bright red socks. What a prat.’

By now Clayton was well into his stride. I could just imagine how he stood out on an expensive shoot, even amongst new-money millionaire businessmen and a bunch of footballers.

‘I asked him how many birds we’d shot and he said, “About thirty brace, sir.” Thirty brace? What’s that mean? It means sixty, yeah. So why couldn’t he just say sixty?’

As I laughed he glanced at his very expensive watch and sighed. ‘Well, Miss Tilly, we’d better go. I have to be there when they come back and then we’re back in training tomorrow.’

I sipped my last drop of wine as he paid the bill. For a nanosecond, the waiter’s eyes lit up as he checked the amount and his impassive mask almost slipped, so I reckoned Clayton must have left a generous tip. Show-off. He made a couple of calls and when we went out, the helicopter was waiting for us. And we were heading home.

As the helicopter came down by Ravensike Lodge, I looked out anxiously for the shooting parties, but they were out of sight, thank goodness. I didn’t think that the gamekeeper would take too kindly to a helicopter buzzing through his carefully driven birds. We got out, the rotor blades slowed down gradually to silence. The pilot walked off with a wave and Clayton and I were still standing there, with only the sound of the sheep.

‘Thank you for lunch,’ I said. ‘And the helicopter ride.’

‘It was a pleasure,’ replied Clayton. ‘Are you OK to get home from here? If not, I can get someone to drive you.’ He nodded his head towards the house.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s been good.’ And it had. I was surprised at how much I’d enjoyed myself. When he wasn’t showing off, Clayton Silver could be OK, really. I supposed.

‘Hey, I guess I’d better have your number, yeah?’

‘Well, yes. If you think…I mean…Well, why not?’

He took out his desperately stylish phone, keyed something in and then handed it to me.

I saw that he’d typed ‘Miss Tilly’. I tapped in my number and I resisted the urge to scroll down through his other numbers. I didn’t want to seem too keen, so I just smiled and handed it back to him, as if it were neither here nor there.

He put his phone in his pocket, then put his arms round me and kissed me, first on the cheek and then on the mouth, just lightly but very nicely indeed. I didn’t want to enjoy it. But I did. Quite a lot. I tried to look indignant but I failed.

‘I’m glad you could join me,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed the conversation and I just loved making you go pink!’ And, of course, I immediately went bright pink again. I was cross with myself. Cross with him. He laughed and added insult to injury by kissing my cheek once more before turning and loping back up the drive and in through the gates of Ravensike Lodge, which opened magically as he approached. I expect famous footballers get used to that sort of fairy-tale thing.

The house was sparse, but clean. It had a flagged floor scattered with pegged rugs and a fire burned cheerfully in the range. As the photographer’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed with surprise a small selection of books on a shelf by the window, and, in a chair by the fire, a boy of about eight or nine, his leg wrapped in makeshift bandages round a wooden splint, resting on a stool. The boy seemed to be knitting. He turned to look at the stranger.

‘My youngest,’ said the woman. ‘He hurt his leg in a fall and cannot yet get back to work.’ She dipped her head and shrugged off her shawl. He almost gasped at the sight of her hair—a rich red auburn. As she shook her shawl, one thick lock of her hair came loose and fell gently down around her throat. Impatiently, she pinned it back and he marvelled at the elegance of her movement. He could, he thought, have been looking at one of the society women who came to his studio to be photographed, not someone scraping a living in this wild dale. She nodded in the direction of the boy. ‘Until he’s back at work he can knit and make himself useful that way.’

She went to the fire, stirred something in the pot, tasted it and looked at the boy. ‘You can have your broth now.’ The boy’s face lit up.

The woman looked at the photographer. ‘You’re welcome to a drop.’

‘That would be very kind.’ He was cold and wet and some broth would indeed be wonderful, but he knew there wasn’t much food to spare in this household. ‘But only a drop, please, Mrs…’

‘Allen. Matilda Allen.’

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