Rebecca Hillary . net

Bailey stared down at the blank page in front of her, and thought about what she should write. It was impossible. How did anyone ever get writing done? That JK Rowling had churned out seven books, which are arguably the best fantasy stories of the modern era, and she had kids to worry about too! This just wasn’t fair.
The plan was to write a thrilling novel, but so far all she had was a paper cut on her little finger, an ink stain on her shirt, and a headache.
Love Actually. That was what started it off. Bailey’s obsession with that dishy Colin Firth had tempted her to buy the film on DVD and she had gloried after Jamie Bennett, deciding that she wanted to be just like him. Well, just like him but without the shy-but-oddly-alluring Portuguese maid that is.
Bailey Herbert was a nerd. There was no denying it. Her computer was her life, and she couldn’t live without it, but this novel was a pet project of hers that required a more natural approach. She needed pens, paper, and a villa. Sadly, her budget had not been able to stretch to a villa, so she had to make do with a cottage instead. She gazed out of the window at the Yorkshire landscape, but instead of the glorious greens and blue sky that she had hoped for, there was a grey, muddy quality to everything, owing to the dull morning fog that limply blanketed the hills. No blazing sun, just a faint yellow blur in the East, which brought the phrase ‘piss-hole-in-the-snow’ to mind.
Again she stared at the crisp white of the paper on the desk, as if hoping that the pen would start writing by itself. She had heard of the phenomenon before, but it was usually connected with trying to contact the dead, and she wasn’t a great believer in that sort of thing. She had known too many people who had died, and none of them had ever contacted her.
There was someone who she wished was dead who wouldn’t stop trying to contact her, but that was neither here nor there. Kevin was, and always would be, a prize idiot, and that was just the way of it. Stupidity had dragged him into the bed of another woman, and Bailey wasn’t the type to suffer fools gladly, so she had kicked him out on his ear. Now he would phone or text at least twice a day, begging for forgiveness and swearing on his mother’s grave that he would never do it again. Bailey had to laugh, she was getting four weeks in a lovely Dales cottage, and it was Alice Moran, Kevin’s own mother, who had lent the place to her. Swearing on his mother’s grave indeed. What a bloody cheek!
So what of now? The page was still blank, and it didn’t seem to be making any sort of effort to be written on, the pen clearly was not about to jump up and say ‘hey Bailey, let me write this for you,’ and the day was wearing on slowly, in that unique way that you can only possibly have seen if you’ve been in the Yorkshire Dales out-of-season.
Then it hit her. Music! How could she have been so stupid? She had been sitting at her desk for the last hour, staring into space, and hearing nothing but wood pigeons and the occasional G4 fighter. She believed the latter may be flying considerably lower than they should be, but other than calling up the RAF and saying ‘stop those bloody Tornados flying so bloody low over my cottage, I’m trying to work here,’ there was little she could do about it.
There was nothing for it now; she would have to get her computer out. There was simply no other way of going about it, because all of her music was on it. In addition to being a highly portable and extremely cute little laptop, her Apple Mac Book was also a totally cool and slick jukebox. With a quick press of the power button the computer booted up, and Bailey was confronted with the gorgeous smiling face of yet another obsession, David Tennant. “Got to love Doctor Who!” she thought to herself, and had a moment or two to drool onto her keyboard. iTunes took just moments to open up, and soon the acoustics of the room were doing their best to cope with the onslaught of Chris de Burgh at stupidly high volume.
Now this was more like it. A computer, a play list that her mother would be duty bound to despise, but which she happened to be very attached to, and a pointlessly grey view out of the window. But whom needed a good view out of the window when you could constantly change your wallpaper on your computer to any ocean view or sexy bloke you wanted?
This was where it was to begin. Paper was irrelevant and the world was Bailey’s oyster. Where was the phone socket? Never mind that, her mind was a melting pot of ideas, and she just had to get them down somewhere. Where was her pen? Sod the pen; she needed to scrabble down her thoughts while they were still fresh in her mind. Her computer. No, why was Microsoft Office so bloody slow? She needed it now… There it was. Open New Document. Yes! There it was! There was a truly white sheet just waiting for her thoughts to be poured onto them. She pounded frantically at the keys, trying to make sense of what she was writing, but the words were just spilling out in reams that made no sense to the naked eye. All she could hope was that the self-typed lexicon in front of her would make some sort of sense when she came back to it later.
Just as she was about to make sense of the tangled forest of words in front of her the doorbell rang. Shit! Why did it always happen like that? Even in all the stories she loved so much as a teenager the doorbell always rang at the moment when the heroine was about to get her man. It just wasn’t fair.
Sulking at her seeming misfortune, she dragged herself to her feet, blew a kiss to her handsome desktop hero, and went to the front door. The silhouette that awaited her bore a flat cap. Again she cursed the typicality of what was occurring. Just as she was on the verge of something great, some dodgy farm boy had decided to come and ask her if she wanted milk delivered to the cottage or something. Bloody farmers; never know when they’re not wanted.
Resisting the urge to yell certain obscenities at the waiting shadow, she opened the door and quickly did a double take. Not some dodgy farmer did she see, but a totally buff demigod of a man, with a sexy half-tan and eyes that were as green as she had hoped the hills of Yorkshire would be. Why weren’t the hills as green as those eyes? All the photos she had ever seen of the Yorkshire were green as emeralds and the very idea was just as precious. Just another shit-up in a long line of shit-ups that seemed to be happening lately…
“Hi, uh, it’s Bailey right? Uh, Alice said you’d be here. I‘m supposed to come and see you’d arrived and make sure that you had everything you wanted.”
Oh, how cute, he’s nervous! Poor creature can’t speak without saying ‘uh’ in every sentence! But he obviously has no manners. Stupid sod hasn’t even bothered introducing himself yet!
“Uh, the name’s Alistair Madsen.”
Ok, so not as provincial as I thought he was…
He stood staring at Bailey with a vague look of confusion, and she wondered what he was waiting for.
Talk you idiot! Bailey, he’s standing there waiting for you to say something, and you’re standing here gawking like a moron! Speak!
“Uh, yeah. Uh, yes, I’m Bailey. Bailey Herbert.” Very smooth, saying ‘uh’ in every sentence… Shut up, Brain! “Yes, I have everything I need. Alice seems to have gotten everything in order.”
“Oh.” Maybe it was Bailey’s imagination, but this vision of loveliness seemed to be disheartened. “Well, I guess I’ll be off then.” He turned to walk away, and Bailey knew in her heart of hearts that this was her moment.
“Do you want to come in and have a coffee or something?”
“I don’t drink coffee, but I’ll have a tea if you’ve got some going spare.”
“Uh, yeah, it’ll take a while to get a pot on, but if you don’t mind waiting…”
“No, that’s fine. I don’t mind.”
Sweet, Bailey you’re a genius! Sex-god wants a cup of tea! Way to go, you! “Well, uh, would you like to come in?”
“Yeah.” he laughed. Was it jus me or did that laugh sound like a silver wind chime in an autumn breeze? ,,, Hey, I told you, Brain, shut the hell up! “I suppose it’s better than me standing on the doorstep, the neighbours might talk!”
“That’s ok, they aren’t really my neighbours,” Bailey grinned, “so I guess it doesn’t matter what they think about me.”
As Alistair crossed the threshold it seemed to Bailey that he was moving with the gait of a tiger or other lordly cat on a savannah or some such place. Bailey would be the first to admit that she had been crap at geography, and didn’t watch nature programs, so she wouldn’t know the first thing about what animals lived where. The only animals she knew about where she lived were the annoying local kids’ cats and dogs, the rats which she was convinced were tearing open her garbage every night, and those seven snakes owned by Jason ‘The Freak’ O’Rourke, two houses down. Yeah, remember when one of them got loose and turned up in your bath? ... Seriously, Brain, if you don’t quit it I’m going to pound you! ... Bad idea in front of sexy bloke… Good point!
It was obvious that Alistair had been in the cottage before, because it was he who led the way into the kitchen. While Bailey knew how to get into the kitchen, she had no idea of where anything was, with exception of the fridge-freezer and the microwave, which she only knew because she had only eaten a few ready-meals she had picked up in Tesco on the way out here, and seemed to be drinking only mineral water. Nevertheless she eventually found a kettle and a teapot in the back of a cupboard, and dragged out a large selection of teas from her bag, which had been thrown randomly into the corner of the room.
“Uh, would you like normal tea, or a fruit infusion?” She asked, assuming that Alistair would never have heard of fruit infusion teas.
“Do you have anything of a strawberry or mango variety?”
Quite taken aback, Bailey managed to stutter out that she actually had a strawberry and mango infusion, and ten minutes later they were sitting at the table, sipping on piping hot tea, and watching the sun break through the last wisps of fog in the valley. As the light caught the array of greenery on the distant hills, it appeared as if the green of Alistair’s eyes had intensified, giving him a very sultry and mature look.
“So, what do you do?” Alistair asked, his voice sounding as though it was being transported through a long tunnel, perhaps a few hundred feet long.
“I’m a guitarist.” Bailey replied, slopping tea down her chin, which thankfully he hadn’t seen owing to the fact that he was gazing out of the window towards a distant farmhouse.
“Really? That’s cool! I learned the guitar as a kid, but I don’t get to play so much since I moved to the farm with my uncle Evan. I don’t even own a guitar now.” There seemed to be resentment in his voice, but if there was then his face wasn’t letting anything on, and he suddenly shot a bright smile. “I don’t suppose you have a guitar with you?”
Bailey half-smiled, half-grimaced, because she knew it was only a matter of time before he asked her to play a few songs, as was usually the case, but she cheerfully asked “Six-string, twelve or bass?”
Much as it may have seemed that Alistair should have been somewhere else, mucking out horses, or doing whatever it is that you’re supposed to do with sheep and cows in autumn (insert stereotyping Yorkshire joke at your own convenience), for over an hour they sat at opposite ends of the very unfashionable three-seat sofa, playing endless riffs worthy of Brian May, and many of which Mr. May had actually written or played, but as all things have to end, Alistair stood up and sighed as he headed towards the door.
Just before he left, Alistair turned around with an inquisitive look in his eyes. “Do you fancy going out to the pub tonight?”
“Yeah sure, uh, pick me up at seven ok?”
“Sure thing.” Halfway out of the door he evidently remembered something he was supposed to have been asking. “Oh, yeah,” he said nonchalantly, “you know I mentioned my uncle, Evan? He asked if you’re wanting us to deliver milk on a morning?”