Page 39 of Autumn at the Willow River Guesthouse
The woman looked up and grinned nervously. A little overweight, short, and with greasy hair pressed under a beanie hat with a tractor logo on the front, her teeth were spaced out too much for her to be attractive, and she had a pimple on her chin that really needed either squeezing or concealing. And the beige that permeated her clothing needed replacing.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said.
‘Not a room?’
The woman put a book on the counter and turned it over to reveal Victoria’s author picture.
‘This lady. I heard she lived around here. I just wondered if you knew her—’
Lily shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. She … have you asked in the farmer’s market? They get a lot more business than we do. If she does live round here, they’d surely know.’
The woman’s eyes brightened. ‘Oh? Really? I’ll go and ask. Thank you very much.’
She shuffled out before Lily could say anything, leaving Lily staring at the closing door, wondering whether she’d been too harsh, unkind, or not harsh enough. She had thought of sending her on to where Jimmy Donbury worked as a kind of joke, but perhaps she could talk to Victoria about actually engaging with some of these people. After all, if she had genuine fans, shouldn’t she be flattered? Or had something happened with one of these stalker types that had forced her into being a recluse in the first place?
She had left her message page open on the sent message to Michael, and before she could stop herself, she added a little postscript: She still seems popular, judging by the people that sometimes come by, looking for her. Did something happen?
She sent the message, then reread it and wished she hadn’t. In her original message, she hadn’t even mentioned that Victoria had issues. Now, with the tone of her second message, she had suggested it.
A new message popped up in her inbox. From Michael. Lily stared, terrified to open it, but unable to resist.
Hi Lily,
Thanks for letting me know. Yeah, she had a bit of a meltdown after TTGTR blew up. Couldn’t handle the attention. We had to have her sectioned for a couple of months, but when she got out she did a disappearing act. I’ve been in touch with her publisher and agent, but even they don’t know where she is. Please tell her I’m thinking about her, and I’ve love to see her again. I really appreciate you getting in contact with me. Thank you for putting my mind at rest.
Yours, Michael.
Lily stared. She started to type a reply, but thought better of it. She needed to take stock of everything and calm down before she did. Michael sounded so nice, so mature. She remembered the boy in the picture, looking at her, and wondered what kind of adult he had become. Was he handsome? Was he—
(we)
—married?
‘Lily, screw it back on,’ she muttered to herself, then gave the side of her head a tap. ‘Numbers, numbers, numbers.’
Growing up with two artistic—and therefore often poor—parents, she had chosen to study maths, economics, and financial management for a reason. Numbers were logical. You could trust numbers. The emotive world—the art world, both inside the mind and out—were unpredictable. She had fallen completely for Steve, an artist, only to have her heart shattered. It surely wouldn’t have happened if she’d fallen for a lawyer or a bank manager. Sure, they might have been a little boring, but they would certainly have been dependable.
Now, she felt an unhealthy compulsion to reply to Michael’s message, in the vain hope that the young boy who had shown her such interest at the guesthouse’s fiftieth anniversary would have grown into a modern day Prince Charming.
Not likely, but the idea was exciting.
She switched off the computer and stood up, forcing herself to walk away. There were bins that needed emptying, perhaps some pans had to be scraped, or she could go outside and pick dead leaves off the rose bushes. It was autumn, and winter would soon follow. Dark was approaching, dark and cold. Rain, long, windy nights, morning frost, and more rain. There was no reason to have any optimism.
However, when she looked out of the restaurant window, the sky was a clear, aquamarine blue, and the Willow River valley was as delightful and pristine as a travel agent’s calendar.
Why couldn’t she be optimistic? Why couldn’t she dream?
Uncle Gus and Aunt Gert were getting out a Monopoly set—Devon Edition—and called to her to join them for a game. She hadn’t played in years, but she had to satisfy her compulsion first.
‘I’ll be there in a sec,’ she said.
‘Which piece do you want? I’m the top hat, and Gert’s the old boot.’
‘I am not. I’m the car, as always.’
‘I’ll be the dog,’ Lily said.
‘Ah, you can’t be the dog. We lost it a year or two back when we had a guesthouse tournament. You can be the plastic elephant we replaced it with.’
