Vancouver, with Granny picking battles, but I had a hunch my holidays would not be much more restful. Bridget had a certain knack for finding trouble. The drive to Wales alone was an adventure.
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until it came out in a sigh of pure relief, as the driver ahead of us slid his rust-riddled Ford off the roundabout's first exit.
"Bloody good job, you dozy old pillock!" Bridget called after him, uncaring that he couldn't hear. She put her foot to the floor and her sporty blue MGF sprang forward, accelerating with a force that pinned me to my seat. "Some people," she informed me, "should be taken off the road."
I bit my tongue in time.
Turning my head, I focused on the blur of passing hedges and went on playing the little silent travelling game I always played when driving with Bridget, counting the number of times we escaped certain death. I'd lost count in that near collision just outside of Bristol, but since then the score had risen once again to a respectable nineteen. Twenty, I amended, as we hurtled past the next car on a blind curve.
Not that I really expected any harm to come to us. Bridget could have walked blindfold across a minefield and come safely out the other side—her life was somehow charmed. But it did make me breathe a little easier when we came round the curve to find the road was empty.
"Not much traffic here," I remarked.
"You want to see it in the summertime. Tourists everywhere." She pulled a face. "It took me ages to get down here last July."
I looked round. "Last July?"
"Mm. James had the house then, as well, for a fortnight."
"I see. So the two of you are ..."
Bridget glanced sideways, mischievous. "That would be telling."
"I thought you liked telling."
She laughed. "Bloody cheek. I've half a mind to become celibate, and leave you lot at Simon Holland with nothing to talk about. Is Graham still running a book on my love life?"
I assured her that he was. "But I'm afraid he's put rather long odds on James Swift."
"Poor old James." She sighed, fondly. "I met him at the London Book Fair this year, did I tell you? One of those cocktail party things, I don't remember it exactly. James took me to dinner afterwards, and... well, you know. He is a damned good-looking man, I must admit."
"But?" I prompted, and she smiled.
"Exactly. But."
"He's very much your physical type," I said, knowing how much she admired the sleek and slightly predatory look, "so I'm assuming it's not that."
"Oh no, he's prime," she said, using her trademark term of approval. "But you know me, I need a challenge. James is far too dull."
I refused to believe it. "A man who writes novels like The Leaden Sky can't possibly be dull."
"Cerebral, then. He thinks too much. I like a man to act."
Turning in my seat, I looked at her, amused. "So why on earth did you agree to spend this Christmas with him?"
"Because he asked me. And I do so hate to disappoint." Shifting gears, she overtook another car and nearly clipped a cyclist, who waved his fist and shouted as he wobbled in our wake. "Besides," said Bridget, taking no notice, "James isn't the only interesting man in Angle."
I recognized her tone of voice, and knew that it spelt trouble. "Oh, Bridget."
"What?" She looked round, innocent.
"You're never thinking of making a play for some other poor sod while we're here, are you?"
"Darling." Her smile was arch. "He's not a poor sod. He's a playwright."
I rolled my eyes heavenward. "God, give me strength."
"Oh, don't be so Victorian. It's not as though I'm married to James, or anything."
"Well, true, but surely when you're staying with him—"
"Don't worry," Bridget said. "I'll be discreet."
"Define discreet."
"No photographs." She winked. "Besides, James will be so busy talking to you that I doubt he'll even notice what I do."
"Oh, I see." I smiled, catching on. "So that's why I'm here, is it? To create a diversion while you do the dirty work."
"And maybe get yourself another
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until it came out in a sigh of pure relief, as the driver ahead of us slid his rust-riddled Ford off the roundabout's first exit.
"Bloody good job, you dozy old pillock!" Bridget called after him, uncaring that he couldn't hear. She put her foot to the floor and her sporty blue MGF sprang forward, accelerating with a force that pinned me to my seat. "Some people," she informed me, "should be taken off the road."
I bit my tongue in time.
Turning my head, I focused on the blur of passing hedges and went on playing the little silent travelling game I always played when driving with Bridget, counting the number of times we escaped certain death. I'd lost count in that near collision just outside of Bristol, but since then the score had risen once again to a respectable nineteen. Twenty, I amended, as we hurtled past the next car on a blind curve.
Not that I really expected any harm to come to us. Bridget could have walked blindfold across a minefield and come safely out the other side—her life was somehow charmed. But it did make me breathe a little easier when we came round the curve to find the road was empty.
"Not much traffic here," I remarked.
"You want to see it in the summertime. Tourists everywhere." She pulled a face. "It took me ages to get down here last July."
I looked round. "Last July?"
"Mm. James had the house then, as well, for a fortnight."
"I see. So the two of you are ..."
Bridget glanced sideways, mischievous. "That would be telling."
"I thought you liked telling."
She laughed. "Bloody cheek. I've half a mind to become celibate, and leave you lot at Simon Holland with nothing to talk about. Is Graham still running a book on my love life?"
I assured her that he was. "But I'm afraid he's put rather long odds on James Swift."
"Poor old James." She sighed, fondly. "I met him at the London Book Fair this year, did I tell you? One of those cocktail party things, I don't remember it exactly. James took me to dinner afterwards, and... well, you know. He is a damned good-looking man, I must admit."
"But?" I prompted, and she smiled.
"Exactly. But."
"He's very much your physical type," I said, knowing how much she admired the sleek and slightly predatory look, "so I'm assuming it's not that."
"Oh no, he's prime," she said, using her trademark term of approval. "But you know me, I need a challenge. James is far too dull."
I refused to believe it. "A man who writes novels like The Leaden Sky can't possibly be dull."
"Cerebral, then. He thinks too much. I like a man to act."
Turning in my seat, I looked at her, amused. "So why on earth did you agree to spend this Christmas with him?"
"Because he asked me. And I do so hate to disappoint." Shifting gears, she overtook another car and nearly clipped a cyclist, who waved his fist and shouted as he wobbled in our wake. "Besides," said Bridget, taking no notice, "James isn't the only interesting man in Angle."
I recognized her tone of voice, and knew that it spelt trouble. "Oh, Bridget."
"What?" She looked round, innocent.
"You're never thinking of making a play for some other poor sod while we're here, are you?"
"Darling." Her smile was arch. "He's not a poor sod. He's a playwright."
I rolled my eyes heavenward. "God, give me strength."
"Oh, don't be so Victorian. It's not as though I'm married to James, or anything."
"Well, true, but surely when you're staying with him—"
"Don't worry," Bridget said. "I'll be discreet."
"Define discreet."
"No photographs." She winked. "Besides, James will be so busy talking to you that I doubt he'll even notice what I do."
"Oh, I see." I smiled, catching on. "So that's why I'm here, is it? To create a diversion while you do the dirty work."
"And maybe get yourself another
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