Escape to Willow Cottage: The brilliant, laugh-out-loud romcom you need to read in autumn 2018

Something else she could lay firmly at Nick’s door, not only had she left behind the life she’d built for herself in London, her job, her parents and pretty much everything she knew, she had also had to cut herself off from her friends. But if she thought about it she knew this hadn’t happened overnight. Hindsight was a wonderful thing. When she looked back she realized things with Nick were changing long before that fateful day. Nick’s apparent easy-going manner had been replaced over time by a persuasive argumentative one that manipulated Beth into doing what Nick wanted. The seemingly throwaway comments about the people Beth socialized with were all intended to drip-feed his messages of control and it had worked. Slowly Beth saw less and less of her friends until it was just Carly on a Wednesday night. Carly and Fergus were pretty much her only friends now but if she had them then that was all she needed.

It was the middle of the afternoon and, despite her mercy dash home to swap her shoes and redo her make-up and hair, Carly had been fifteen minutes early arriving at Eros’s statue. She hadn’t enough time to do a proper job but a quick go with the straighteners had spruced it up a treat. She got out her clear lip-gloss and applied another coat to make sure. She wanted to look and feel perfect when he proposed. Carly checked her watch again – only five minutes to go. Her stomach was doing all sorts of things; it felt like it was full of hungry caterpillars instead of butterflies.

Carly searched the busy streets for Fergus. He was tall, quite lanky really, so often was easy to spot in a crowd but there was no sign of him yet. The minutes ticked by as she watched the busy hum of London life around her: the Big Issue seller on one side and the young person with a large sign directing people to a new shoe shop on the other; it interested her that the Big Issue seller was a lot more enthusiastic than the sign holder.

Carly checked her watch again. Now Fergus was late. She had to keep moving out of the way for tourists to take photos of Eros, and photos of them pulling silly faces and kissing each other in front of the statue. It was starting to get annoying. She watched couples hand in hand heading into the Criterion restaurant looking all loved up and happy. People kissing each other good-bye as they piled out of taxis. Others sat on the steps of the statue watching the world go by.

Fergus was fifteen minutes late. Carly’s feet were starting to hurt. These heels looked fabulous but they weren’t designed for standing about in or walking any distance. She thought about texting him but he rarely felt the vibration of the phone so that was probably pointless, and right now she didn’t trust herself to text something that may spoil the mood of the ever-so-romantic proposal she was sure was about to materialize.

Carly spotted a mop of unruly black hair bobbing her way and instantly relaxed. It was Fergus, he was late but he was here. As the crowd parted she saw his grinning face. He looked particularly pleased with himself, which was a good sign. He was dressed which was definitely another plus but he was wearing jeans and a Star Wars T-shirt – not her first choice for the beautiful memory of his proposal but now was not the time to get picky, she thought.

Fergus kissed her. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘The blog chat ran over,’ he explained but Carly wasn’t really paying attention – that didn’t matter now.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

‘Wait and see.’ He took her hand and led her into the tube station. Immediately her spirits plummeted. She was wrong about the Ritz and Tiffany’s and she tried hard to erase the pictures of the stunning rings she’d seen in magazines. Her feet didn’t take kindly to the tube station steps but she was trying to stay positive.

A few sweaty minutes later they emerged at St Paul’s and Carly tried to think of nearby places that were ideal for a proposal. She was struggling to think of any; all that was nearby was the London Stock Exchange and St Paul’s Cathedral, its dramatic white dome visible above the grey office buildings. Fergus gave her a reassuring smile. Perhaps he could sense her anticipation, but did he realize how important this moment was to her?

Carly had been dreaming of the perfect proposal and perfect wedding ever since she was a girl and watched Monica and Chandler on Friends. He led her through the streets, past the front of St Paul’s and then into the magnificent cathedral by the sightseeing entrance. Carly had been here as a child but remembered little of its vastness and awe-inspiring interior; it did take your breath away.

Fergus pulled her close and hugged her. She held her breath. ‘This way.’

The steps at the Underground were nothing to the ones she was facing now. The sign told her it was 528 steps to the Golden Gallery. She gulped hard, pointed at the sign and then at her shoes.

‘It’s okay, we’re not going all the way to the top,’ Fergus told her with a cheeky smile.

At about the 150-step mark it got better because the burning feeling in her toes was replaced by a numb sensation, which was still painful but didn’t make her wince with every step. Fergus gave her reassuring glances every so often as he almost jogged up the steps in his well-worn trainers. Carly forced a grimace onto her face. Dear God, this had better be worth it, she thought.

She was about to admit defeat and resign herself to a life of spinsterhood when Fergus beckoned her up the last few steps and into the first gallery. They stood by the balustrade. The views in all directions were breath-taking and the ornate dome above them was resplendent in symmetrical perfection. Carly did her best to ignore the smug-looking faces peering down on her of those that had climbed all the way to the upper gallery. She was certain they would not have done it in heels like hers. She tried hard to ignore the throbbing in her feet and blanked out the thought of the descent that was yet to come.

Fergus guided her to the wooden seating that ran around the gallery walls.

‘This is the Whispering Gallery,’ he told her and she nodded. She had forgotten all about it until he said but now she could hear the echoes of a foreign language as another couple shared their messages into the architectural phenomenon. Fergus kissed her gently and then walked around to the other side of the gallery.

Some children appeared and proceeded to share obscenities around the walls until their parents emerged at the top of the steps and intervened. The walls echoed with the sound of their stifled giggles. Carly was glad of the sit-down and so were her feet. She so wanted to take off her shoes but she dare not remove them in case she couldn’t get them back on.

Eventually the gallery was silent. Fergus sat on the far side of the dome. Carly felt her heart rate quicken and she took a deep breath. Fergus gave her a little wave and she saw him put his face to the wall. This was it. She closed her eyes and listened to his melodic Irish accent magically emanating from the wall behind her.

‘I love you, Carly Wilson,’ he said and she felt a tear form. ‘And to prove it to you … I’m taking you away for a magical weekend in a treehouse.’

There was a very long pause. Carly didn’t want to open her eyes. She played the words around her head again but it didn’t matter – whatever she did, that was definitely not a proposal of marriage. She opened her eyes to see Fergus giving her a thumbs-up from the other side.

‘You utter tosser,’ she said with feeling into the wall and, for the first time, she was grateful that Fergus was deaf.

It was early evening and Leo was gently purring in his sleep. Beth looked around the small room with its ancient wardrobe, candlewick bedspreads and plastic framed scenic pictures on the wall. Jean was lovely but staying here was slowly draining the life from her. She needed a plan and she needed to take action. Perhaps a trip to the pub was exactly what she needed.

Jean was more than happy to babysit Leo and seemed thrilled that Beth was taking her advice, so Beth slung her bag on her shoulder and headed out. There was a breeze but it wasn’t cold. The sun was setting and Beth stopped for a moment to take it in. The colours were majestic; the soft orange hues melding with a deep yellow glow as the sun slowly melted into the silhouetted countryside. The only sounds were the light wind rippling through the trees and a few birds squabbling over where to roost for the night.

The scary pub sign was creaking gently and Beth pulled her eyes away. As she reached the pub, she could hear the welcoming chatter inside. She truly hoped it wouldn’t stop as soon as she entered like it did in all good horror films. The heavy old door took a bit of shoving and unbeknownst to her a large man inside the pub had seen her approaching and had got up to give it a pull just as she gave one more hard push. The door opened swiftly and as it disappeared from beneath her touch Beth stumbled inside with a clatter of heels on wooden floor but thankfully she managed to stay upright and avoided falling to her knees. The large man was awfully apologetic, as was Beth who had almost landed in his lap. Beth recovered quickly and realized that nobody was really watching, they were all thankfully engrossed in chatter.

‘You okay?’ asked the smiling barmaid nodding at the door.

‘I feel a bit of an idiot. Otherwise, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘I’m Petra, landlady,’ she said in a soft, but indistinguishable, Eastern European accent as she offered a hand across the bar. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’m Beth. Gin and tonic, please. What gin do you have?’

‘Ah, just the standard, I’m afraid. Nothing fancy here.’ She pointed to the optic.

‘That’s fine,’ said Beth, trying to look like she meant it.

‘You’re in time to join a team, quiz is about to start.’ She pointed to a bald man with a rather large belly who was blowing into a microphone.

‘No, really, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll observe.’

Petra shook her head. ‘Jack, here’s your fifth team member,’ she called and Jack turned round from his position on a nearby stool. Beth was sure there had been a smile on his face a split second before he’d realized who his fifth member was going to be. He stood up and beckoned her over, his expression resigned.

Three rather more friendly faces greeted her and budged up to make room on the bench seat as they machine-gunned their names at her – Melvyn and Audrey, who were clearly a couple, and Simon who was very smiley and whose ginger hair had receded back to his ears. As she glanced around she could see this was by far the youngest group in the pub and, apart from her and Jack, none of the others were under forty.

‘I’m Beth,’ she said, with a self-deprecating smile.

‘Eyes down, look in,’ bellowed the tubby man who clearly didn’t need a microphone. Beth felt her blood run cold. Not bloody bingo, she thought. ‘Noooo, only joking!’ There was the equivalent of human canned laughter before it went silent and he carried on. ‘Welcome to the Bleeding Bear Pub Quiz. Round one: the nineteen sixties. Are you ready? Question one …’

Oh, terrific, thought Beth, I wasn’t even born in the sixties or the seventies and didn’t spend very long in the eighties for that matter!

She was as much help with the answers as she expected she would be, which was no help at all, and it made her feel quite the simpleton. Thankfully it was Melvyn and Audrey’s era so, as a team, they had something written down for each answer. Not for the first time, Beth was missing her job. It had been pressured and demanding but she was good at it and valued by her boss. Here, she was a dunce, who, when the question was Who was famously assassinated in Dallas? she said – J.R. Ewing. At least it got Jack laughing. There was a brief pause at the end of round one and everyone started to chatter again.

‘What’s this I hear about you bribing the locals with cake?’ asked Jack, avoiding eye contact and taking a sip from a near full pint of Guinness which gave him a milky moustache.

Beth frowned for a second. ‘Oh, you mean Ernie. I thought I should at least try to get to know the man who is virtually living in my willow tree.’

‘How’s the cottage coming along?’

‘Well, it’s not. The quote I had was sky high. I mean I’m sure it was accurate it’s just that so much needs doing to it.’

‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Jack.

‘It is.’ She resisted the urge to sulk.

‘But Wilf was living there up until he had the heart attack, so I don’t see why you can’t live in it while you do it up yourself a bit at a time.’ Jack was blunt.

‘Maybe Wilf and I have different views on what constitutes liveable.’ Beth could feel she was starting to get grumpy. She finished her drink. She decided now might be a good time to leave but as if to thwart her plans Petra appeared at the table and replaced her empty glass with a full one.

‘On the house. You deserve it if you’re putting up with this lot,’ said Petra. ‘Welcome to Dumbleford.’ She couldn’t leave now.

Round two was no better as it was naming the national anthems of various countries, and round three was sport, but thankfully Simon on their team knew everything there was to know about football and cricket so they were covered. As round four approached Beth was losing the will to live.

‘Round four is countries’ internet name extensions.’ There was grumbling from the teams. ‘You know like dot co dot UK for United Kingdom. Which countries do these letters represent …?’

Beth sprung forward, this was something she knew. Working in London she’d dealt with people from all over the world so this was her opportunity to add some value to the evening’s proceedings. Jack noted her sudden alertness and moved the answer sheet square in front of him. Beth noted the gesture and the battle lines were drawn. As each question was read out they both whispered the answer at the same time. As they reached question seven she could sense Jack’s annoyance.

‘C-h,’ said the tubby compere.

‘China,’ whispered Jack at the same time as Beth whispered, ‘Switzerland.’ Jack turned to look at her, his face full of superior smugness. ‘I think you’ll find it’s China,’ he said, as he wrote it on the sheet.

‘You’re wrong, I know it’s Switzerland,’ Beth was emphatic.

Jack gestured to the rest of the team for an opinion and they all pulled puzzled faces and shrugged.

‘So what’s China then if it’s not c-h?’ asked Jack.

Beth pondered the question. She did know someone in China but their email finished in dot com as many did. She bit her lip and pondered some more. She saw Jack smirk. ‘Look, I may not know what it is, but I know what it isn’t. And it isn’t c-h!’

‘Um, could it be Chile?’ offered Simon and he was instantly shot down by Jack.

‘No, it’s China!’

Questions eight and nine were uncontentious as they both spat out the same country names at the same time but number ten set them against each other again.

‘M-c is Monaco,’ said Jack for the second time.

‘I think it’s Morocco,’ repeated Beth, and Jack sighed his frustration. ‘Okay, like you said to me, if m-c isn’t the Internet initials for Morocco then what is?’ She folded her arms.

It was Jack’s turn to have a hard think. ‘I think it’s m-a,’ he said at last.

‘M-a?’ snorted Beth. ‘How does that fit with Morocco? There’s no “a” in Morocco.’ Jack studiously ignored her and started checking that their answer sheet was all filled in.

Beth bought the team a round of drinks, which was well appreciated especially as it appeared that Melvyn and Audrey were planning on making their single drinks last the whole evening. Beth’s competitive side had been reawakened and there was no way she was going back to the B&B until she had been proved right. Her and Jack were still sniping about it when the answers were read out.

‘Number seven is Switzerland …’

‘Ha!’ said Beth with feeling in Jack’s right ear, making the compere turn his attention to Jack’s table.

‘Did you get that one, Jack?’ asked the compere, his ruddy face in a beaming smile. ‘Seeing as you’re the school IT specialist.’

Beth sat with her arms folded and her eyebrows high, radiating smugness – she was enjoying this. Jack looked from Beth to the compere.

‘Uh, no. We got that one wrong, I’m afraid.’

‘I didn’t,’ grumbled Beth, as she took a swig of her drink.

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jack but before Beth could ask him to repeat what he’d said the answers for nine and ten were being read out.

‘Nine, South Africa and ten, Monaco.’

A huge grin spread across Jack’s face. ‘Monaco, not Morocco. Do you have something you’d like to say?’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Beth. Jack looked complacent.

‘Another drink? To show there’s no hard feelings.’ Jack was already on his feet. ‘You need to stay for the results – we might have won sausages!’

Beth shook her head. Had she misheard him with all the babble in the pub?

Jack returned with the drinks. ‘Petra says I need to play nice,’ he said, tilting his head towards the bar where Petra was wagging a finger in his direction as well as giving him a sultry wink.

‘She’s right,’ said Beth, taking her drink.

‘Look, it’s the school holidays so I have a few days to myself. Would you like a hand with the cottage?’

‘I don’t think I’m ready for my IT to be installed just yet but thanks.’

‘I meant taking the boards down and stuff. I renovated my place but, mind you, it wasn’t as neglected as Wilf’s.’

‘What makes you think I need your help?’ Beth’s tone was waspish.

Jack looked taken aback. ‘I’ve seen Wilf’s place and from the car you arrived in I’m guessing you’ve not got a ladder stashed in there?’

Smartarse, thought Beth. She was tussling with her defences, which were on high alert following Nick but at the same time her common sense told her this was a genuine offer, not an attempt to patronize her.

‘Will everyone please stop calling it Wilf’s.’ She knew she sounded prickly. ‘Sorry, but it’s really annoying.’

Jack sipped his Guinness. ‘I think you’ll find it’ll be Wilf’s for a while yet. People round here take time to adjust to change. The bungalows where Ernie lives are always referred to as the “new” bungalows. They were built in 1975!’

‘Blimey,’ said Beth, feeling more than a little silly for her outburst.

‘The offer of help is there if you want it. Do you usually get people in?’

Beth sipped her drink again and shook her head. What was Jack talking about? She’d never done this before.

‘I assumed you renovated places for a living?’ he added.

Duh! thought Beth. The alcohol was letting her guard down. The last thing she wanted to do was start giving away information about her previous life. She shook her head theatrically. ‘I do get people in for anything structural but this is my first project like this. Usually it’s more of a general spruce up; painting and decorating, interior design. That sort of thing.’ She took a deep breath, she found lying was quite uncomfortable.

‘Right,’ said Jack, looking satisfied with the explanation. ‘So, do you want a hand then? I’m free tomorrow.’

Beth was taken aback by the offer. She could say no but that wouldn’t be making a stand for independent womankind; it would be cutting off her nose to spite her face.

‘I know that’s probably the Guinness talking but I’m going to say yes, please.’

Simon, Melvyn and Audrey already had their cardigans on ready to leave as the compere started up again. ‘Third place are the Village Idiots.’ Beth leaned forward to get a look at that team because, quite frankly, that could be half the village. ‘Second place tonight and only three points behind the winners was the Quizzly Bears. Sorry, Maureen.’ Everyone looked over to where Maureen was downing her pint with a face like a thundercloud.

‘And the winners are … The Spanish Inquisition.’

Jack jumped up, narrowly missed knocking over the glasses as the other team members started shaking hands. Melvyn and Audrey got up to leave.

‘I’m guessing that’s us then,’ said Beth, as Jack gave her a huge bear hug and then instantly looked rather awkward and pulled away. ‘First time we’ve won since Easter.’ He looked genuinely thrilled and Beth had to admit that she too was feeling quite pleased with herself. The compere came over to hand out the prizes.

‘Um, thanks,’ said Beth, as she really didn’t know what else to say when someone hands you a dozen pork sausages.

Chapter Six

Fergus had lost his hearing due to contracting a severe case of mumps as an adult. He had spent the first year after it happened confined to his old flat. A lot of it was shock at the sudden loss of a primary sense but with that comes fear and erosion of self-confidence. Losing his ability to communicate had made him feel cut off and frustrated. Even simple tasks were suddenly much harder and took more effort, for example trying to find out information was no longer just a phone call away. Fergus was shocked too by the number of people who treated him like he was mentally slow just because he couldn’t hear.

He had made a positive move when he had joined a British Sign Language course and the added bonus had been falling for one of the tutors, Carly. She had introduced him to the deaf community and all the support that brings from people that actually know what it’s like to be in the same situation. Although his experiences were different from those who’d encountered discrimination all their lives he had found learning sign language immediately expanded his social group and set him on the road to recovery. Sadly, some people never do manage to adjust to such a trauma but, with support and all the latest gadgets, Fergus had slowly progressed and was now living again.

This meant engaging in all aspects of normal life including arguing with your partner. Carly found it was exceedingly difficult to have a row with a deaf person. No matter how competent you were at sign language you couldn’t get the words out quickly enough and if they chose to look away the argument was over. Fergus was looking perplexed and kept signing ‘sorry’, which was probably because he felt she was overreacting a little to the fact that he’d used the last tea bag but, after a sleepless night, Carly was desperate for a cuppa. All of her frustration at the non-proposal was flooding out into tea-gate. She added a couple of digs about him playing games all day and not getting dressed, then grabbed her bag and stormed out. She slammed the door behind her. He wouldn’t hear it but it was likely the vibration would convey her level of annoyance.

She stood outside the flat door and screamed. It was a primal scream that went on long enough to make a front door open to check what the matter was, which for London, where everyone kept themselves to themselves unless something disastrous had happened, was quite exceptional.

‘Sorry, I needed to let that out,’ said Carly, as the door quickly shut again. It had worked, she felt a fraction less frustrated, although her desire for a cup of tea was still raging. Fergus was so laid-back about everything and most of the time that was a good thing but sometimes it drove her potty. She felt it wasn’t unreasonable for her to be thinking about getting married after three years together but she was beginning to wonder if Fergus would ever get around to proposing. She sent Beth a text but when she didn’t respond immediately she called her.

‘I’m guessing it didn’t go well as I didn’t get an excited phone call from you last night,’ said Beth.

‘Didn’t go well! That’s a bloody understatement. He took me up 257 steps in heels to ask me if I wanted to spend a weekend in a bloody treehouse.’ Carly was indignant.

‘Ooh, a treehouse sounds nice, when’s he taking you?’

‘Did you not hear what I said? 257 steps up to the sodding Whispering sodding Gallery at sodding St Paul’s.’

‘What a lovely thing to do. I think you’re being a bit mean. He’s booked a nice mini-break and he took you to a wonderful place to tell you about it.’