The Lost Guide to Life and Love (17 page)

As soon as I woke up, I put the necklace on again, scarcely able to believe that Clayton Silver had given it to me and fastened it round my neck. It looked particularly fetching with my pyjamas as I made my first pot of coffee of the day, my hair like a scarecrow’s and my mascara giving me panda eyes.

But, even through the slightly fuzzy thinking after too much wine the night before, one thing was clear. I couldn’t keep it. I just couldn’t. Twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of necklace? What would Granny Allen say? What would my mother say, come to that? It was beautiful, but definitely not for me. Suddenly it seemed to be burning my skin. What could I have been thinking of ? What did he expect in return? How much had I had to drink? Quickly, I took it off and tucked it carefully into its velvet-lined box.

I would ring him, thank him and sort it all out. But first I had to get to a phone. Living up here didn’t exactly make for spontaneous action. Tony had brought me back right to the cottage, splashing disdainfully through the ford. So the van was still at the pub. I tucked the box into my bag in the wardrobe. And, after a quick shower, and dressed in jeans and boots, I set off down the track.

Matty was in the farmyard talking to the driver of a milk tanker. When they saw me, the driver waved genially as he
pulled out of the yard and Matty walked over to me. With her hair in a single long plait over her shoulder and no make-up it just emphasised the natural flawlessness of her skin.

‘No van?’ she asked. ‘Has it packed up already?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘but last night…’ and I told her the whole story, about Clayton and the dinner and the auction and the necklace.

‘Twenty-five thousand pounds! Just like that. And then he gave it to me—just as if it was the paper flowers from the napkin.’

‘Flash bastard,’ said Matt, seriously unimpressed. Her reaction was just what I needed to bring me down to earth. ‘Let’s face it, twenty-five thousand isn’t much more than a day’s wages for someone like Clayton Silver. Still, very clever. Makes him look good. I bet his generosity “accidentally” gets leaked to the press. But at least it made some money for a good cause.’

I nodded miserably.

She looked at me sharply. ‘You’re not keeping the necklace, are you?’

‘No!’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m going to the pub now. I want to ring him, tell him so.’

‘Good,’said Matt. ‘Bad enough that he can act big without you going all girly and grateful on him. Just remember, those footballers like to show off, throw their money around. They lose that much on a game of cards on an average evening. More money than brains, that’s for sure. Anyway, do you want a lift to the pub? I’ve got to go down to the village.’

‘Great, thanks. I don’t mind walking but I have a lot to do and the sooner I talk to Clayton the better.’

As we rattled down the road to the pub, Matt said, ‘I’m flying out to Egypt tomorrow.’ She looked almost hungrily
out as shadows of clouds scudded over the short grey grass. ‘I guess the weather will be a bit different from here.’

‘Very glamorous,’ I said.

Matt snorted. ‘You’re joking! The hotel will be fine—when we’re there, which won’t be much. But out on the shoot it will be hot, dusty, everything covered in flies. Like the time we were shooting in Marrakech and I was trying to look cool and mysterious while mosquitoes were biting my ankles.’

‘Is it really that awful?’

‘No, of course not. And I get paid silly money. It’s a whole lot easier than Mum and Dad’s life, where they have to get up at dawn, day in, day out. When you have animals to look after you can’t get sick or take a day off or just snuggle back under the duvet when you want to. I can just wear a few clothes and a daft expression. If I ever feel hard done by I remember the winter we all had flu and it snowed. Getting out of bed in the dark and the icy cold when your legs are like cotton wool and you can hardly lift your head and you have to go outside and see to the animals and there’s a gale-force wind and the sleet is driving into your face—now
that
‘s what I call hard work.’

I tried to imagine it. I couldn’t.

‘But what would you
really
like to do?’

‘I don’t know. I love the buzz of London and there’s so many opportunities…but the more I’m away from this place, the more I miss it, the more I feel I belong here.’

‘Like Dexter, I suppose,’ I said. ‘I mean, he could have sold the house, and not bothered to turn it back into a pub. But something brought him back.’

‘Yes, it did, didn’t it?’ said Matt thoughtfully. She was silent for a moment then continued, ‘I’d really like to share my time between both places I guess—not farming, I’ll leave that to the rest of them. But I’d like to find a way of
living and working up here. Of keeping the farm going so it will be here for always—well, for as long as any of the family want to farm it. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘I might not be flavour of the month for much longer, so I’ll make the most of it till then. What about you?’

‘Oh well, once I’ve finished all the interviews I’ve got lined up I’ll have to go back to London too. Sort out my life.’ I wasn’t sure myself if I was pleased or not to be going back. This was turning out to be a nice little holiday, a small escape from reality. ‘It seems a shame to leave all this. I know I’m a townie really, but I’ll definitely be back.’

Now I’d found this place I wanted to keep a bit of it for me. It was, after all, the place that had given me that wonderful sense of freedom.

As Matty pulled the Land Rover into the pub car park we could see Dexter in the yard at the back splitting logs. He swung the huge axe effortlessly and added to the pile of neatly quartered logs piled up in the basket beside him. He looked up.

‘Well hello! I wasn’t expecting you back today. Thought you’d still be gallivanting with the rich and famous. And talking of the rich and famous, hello, Matt.’ He smiled at her. She leaned out of the Land Rover window and smiled back, surprisingly shyly. The two of them stared at each other so awkwardly that I couldn’t work out what was wrong.

‘Coming in?’ asked Dexter.

‘Why not?’ said Matty, and jumped neatly down from the vehicle.

Jan was on today. ‘So Becca not back from your Newcastle adventures yet?’ asked Matty.

‘Yes, she’s just on a day off. We came back last night.’

‘You mean your famous footballers didn’t expect you to stay the night with them? I’d have thought Silver would
have expected something for his twenty-five thousand,’ Matt was saying wryly as Jan bustled off to clean some tables.

‘No. No, he didn’t. It was a bit odd really. They weren’t staying; they all had to fly back to London.’

‘You got away lightly, then.’

There was a rumble as Dexter unloaded the logs into the basket by the fire. ‘So you two are long-lost cousins, are you?’ he asked, gazing at Matt.

‘Yes, thanks to Granny Allen, of course,’ said Matt, glancing up at him and then looking quickly away.

‘Ah, talking of which,’ said Dexter, suddenly sounding nervous. ‘I have an idea for a new project. Come and look at these for a moment. See what you think.’ He hurried us over to the high-backed wooden settle at the far side of the bar. The seat was covered with photographs, many very old. Stern portraits, serious wedding groups, many looking very Granny Allen-ish, as well as some of miners, farmers, a wonderful postman with extravagant whiskers. ‘These are all people from the dale, mainly in Victorian times.’

‘Where did you get all these from?’ I asked, intrigued.

‘Oh, there were a few photographers working in the dales in the nineteenth century. The Victorians were very big on finding out how strange savages lived—and they thought the frozen north was pretty much the edge of the known world. So there’s quite a lot of old pictures about. Some of these are mine already. Others are from neighbours. But some—and this is what gave me the idea—some I’ve copied from the people who come here doing their family history. These are their great-great-great-grandparents. They’ve brought the photos with them when they come to see where Granddad lived.

‘When you look at the old pictures and then at the modern people, it’s very interesting.’ Dexter was getting really enthusiastic. ‘It’s amazing how often there’s still a
family resemblance. Sometimes the interest is in the sheer contrast—one of these weather-lined faces compared with her pretty, pampered descendant. But see that one…’ He picked up a faded photo of an old farmer in heavy tweed suit and waistcoat with a proud expression standing by a pair of plough horses. ‘Well, his grandson came back here. He came with
his
grandson who’d driven him. The lad was only about twenty but he stood outside by his car, one of those posh Minis, and the expression on his face was exactly the same as this chap in the photo with his horses.

‘So I thought, wouldn’t it be interesting to do photos of the modern people in the same places or the same poses as their ancestors? It would really show up the contrasts and the similarities. And it would sort of finish the story, too, wouldn’t it?—all those people who left the dale. We’d know what became of them. Well, some of them. What do you think?’ He looked anxiously at us both, but especially at Matty.

‘I think it’s a
brilliant
idea!’ said Matt, as she looked at the pictures and then beamed at Dexter. ‘It’s pictures, people, history, a sense of place; it’s stories, it’s everything!’ She was laughing with enthusiasm and approval. ‘Can I be in it? With Mum and Granny Allen?’

‘Yes please,’ said Dexter, smiling happily now that we—or rather Matt—had given such approval. ‘I hoped you would be.’ Soon the two of them were busy sorting through the photographs, talking excitedly. ‘That’s Pete Metcalfe’s granddad—I’ve seen the picture in their house…What a wonderful head. Oh, she’s lovely, who’s she? Now that
must
be an Allen…’

It wasn’t that they were ignoring me; it was just that they had completely forgotten I was there. I left them to it and disappeared into the snug with my phone to send a text to Clayton. ‘Thank you for a fantastic evening…’ No,
‘fantastic’ sounded a bit extravagant. ‘Thank you for an excellent evening.’ Still a bit grovelling. ‘Thank you for a good evening.’ That was the right tone—polite but not carried away, ‘and for organizing a lift home.’

So what do I say about the necklace? ‘Thanks but no thanks’? Er, no. I stared at the screen so long it went black, so I clicked it back on and texted quickly. ‘Necklace amazing but need to talk to you about it.’ And sent the message straightaway, before I had time to think about it further.

Immediately, the phone rang and my insides lurched nervously. Could Clayton reply so immediately?

‘Hi, Jake,’ I said, carefully keeping my voice neutral.

‘Sorry, battery’s going so I’ll be quick,’ he said. ‘I’m going back down to London tomorrow. I thought I’d ask if you want to come with me?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I’m not ready to go back yet. I’m staying on for a week or so. I have a few more interviews lined up.’

‘Fine.’ His tone was chilly but I was just happy that it wasn’t my problem now.

‘So, thank you for the offer, Jake, I appreciate it, but I shall make my own way back to London, thank you.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Right, I’ll see you back down there then.’

‘Possibly. Goodbye, Jake.

‘Oh and Tilly,’ he said, just as my finger was about to press End call. Reluctantly I lifted the phone back to my ear.

‘Remember that model you somehow “forgot” to tell me about? The one who jumped through the loo window at the club?’

‘What about her?’ I asked, already beginning to panic at what he was going to say.

‘Well, a couple of the red-tops have tracked her down. Her real name’s apparently Matilda and she’s from this part of the world. Some farm near here somewhere. So thank you very much, Tilly. If you’d told me sooner, I might have found her first, which could have been very useful to my career. But too late now. Anyway, goodbye, Tilly.’

The phone went dead and I sat staring at it, horrified. The paparazzi knew Matty’s name and roughly where she lived. Hartstone Edge was her bolthole, her escape from the world. How could it ever be that again if the press knew where she was? I looked across the bar, where she and Dexter were still enthusing over the pictures. I had to tell her…

‘Matty…’ She looked up, her eyes still sparkling over something Dexter had said. Then she noticed my expression. ‘What is it?’

‘The press know where you are. They know your name and that you live somewhere near Hartstone. Jake, my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—just told me.’

‘You mean
you
told
him!
‘ snapped Dexter, his expression suddenly terrifying. ‘All the time you’ve been on the computer here or on your mobile, that’s what you’ve been up to.’

‘No, no. Absolutely not,’ I said, frightened of this furious Dexter.

Matty looked at me, her expression frozen. ‘How else did they find out?’

‘I don’t know. Jake just said that they knew. He was angry that he hadn’t found out first. I didn’t tell him. Honestly. I wouldn’t. Ever.’

‘You didn’t? Not even a hint? You’re sure?’ Matty was glaring at me.

‘Absolutely. Not even the faintest whisper. Anyway, I’ve hardly even spoken to him since I found out.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter how they found out, what’s
important is that they have.’ She slumped down on one of the benches, her hands stuck into her jacket pockets and her long legs tucked under her, looking utterly miserable. ‘It was only a matter of time, I suppose. I was lucky to have got away with it for so long. I don’t mind it in London, but not here…Oh God, they’ll be all over the place, getting in the way of Mum and Dad. Trying to get secrets out of folk. It’ll be good for business, Dexter, but hopeless for everyone else. Awful. And I’m off to Egypt tomorrow. So they won’t even get any pictures of me anyway.’

With that my phone rang again. I turned my attention to it, glad to get away from Matty’s misery. Not Jake this time. Not Clayton Silver. Instead it was Penny, my mother’s PA.