Rebecca Hillary . net

Before the sun even conceived the idea of trying to rise and burn through the morning mist, Bailey had been up and feverishly writing away at her computer. Ok, so the electricity bill would be staggering, and the neighbours would have complaints to make later in the day about how she had been playing ‘that bloody Chris de Burgh music full blast at all hours of the night’ but at least she was getting some work done, and that was what counted. All the notes and plots she had made yesterday had faded into obscurity after Alistair had left, and after getting in from the pub at eleven thirty she had gone straight to her computer to start writing.
She looked at the clock now. She had been writing for eight straight hours, and only had a few short breaks to go to the toilet and to make herself a fish finger and mayonnaise sandwich. But there it was. Her first draft of her first chapter was completed and she was well onto the second. Much as she was enjoying her writing, she figured it was probably time she got a shower and maybe a couple of hours sleep.
After half an hour in the shower she got out and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked a wreck, but she didn’t care. She had dark circles under her eyes and her eyes were bloodshot. Her skin was off color, and she could have done with some serious beauty therapy, but her hair was it’s usual vision of envy of so many of her female friends. She could never understand that. At best it looked like Elvis with a bad hair day (but how often did that ever happen) and at worst it had a mid seventies Chris de Burgh look about it, but it had a habit of forming that ‘just out of bed’ look, even when she had attacked it with half a can of hair spray, so she had long since given up using anything other than just a good shampoo, conditioner and hair serum on it.
Back in her bedroom she pulled on a pair of comfy pajamas and climbed into bed, but her computer seemed to be sobbing forlornly at her from the dressing table, which she knew would be a strange thing for a computer to do, seeing as the have no lachrymal glands, so it is impossible for them to produce tears. As it happened she hadn’t turned it off and iTunes was still playing quite happily at a very low volume, so it sounded like a tiny cry from inside the machine.
Don’t go to it. If you go to it then you’ll only start writing again, and then where will you be? You’ll never get any sleep, and Alistair will go and find himself someone who is prettier and not deranged from lack of sleep. You know he will, and if you think that I’m going to keep doing all of your thinking for you then you have another thing coming, my mate. Bailey, are you listening to me?
“You know what, Brain? I don’t care. Alistair is a sensible lad, he’ll understand, and I want to get this done.”
You realize don’t you, that you’ve just been talking to your own brain, out loud, in the middle of your bedroom?
“And?”
Nothing. Just so long as you know.
“I do. Now can I get back to my writing?”
If you insist, then I guess I have no option, do I?
It was only a lot later that Bailey realized that perhaps talking to herself was bordering on insanity, but it got her back into her mindset at the time, so it did little to dissuade her from doing so every time it seemed as though her brain was getting away from her.
Back at the desk though, the words kept pouring out into the circuitry of her computer. She had no idea where the story was leading, or what the plot was. She failed to even grasp who her characters were or what they did, but it was evident that the story was going somewhere, and that was good enough for the time being.
At eight in the morning she heard a light knock at the door and pulled on her dressing gown. Alistair was standing on the door with two pints of milk in glass bottles. How long had it been since she had last seen a glass milk bottle she couldn’t remember, because where she lived, milk was always sold in cartons or plastic bottles, and was usually either soy milk, or it came from goats. Proper cow’s milk was like a gift from the Gods. Ambrosia. Bailey took one of the bottles, pierced the foil cap with a grubby, chewed down thumbnail and drank down the whole bottle in a single swift motion.
“Thanks for that, Alistair. Don’t suppose I could trouble you for an extra bottle could I?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess we could manage that.” Alistair looked shocked, but turned towards the van that was parked at the end of the little driveway outside the cottage. “Hey, Evan, bring another pint up here for Bailey, will you?”
Bailey heard the door of the van open and then it swung shut with a bang. The side door slid open and there was a sound of chinking glass before the door thudded closed and stones were crunched underfoot. She tried and failed to suppress a huge yawn, and closed her eyes with the effort. When she opened them again she had to blink against the sun as it scorched through the quickly dissipating mist, and suddenly, standing before her was a man who must have been barely older than her, with flaxen hair, peach skin and deep brown eyes. Uh, this could be a problem, now there are two hot farm boys to choose from. How will you ever decide?
Alistair was in the process of retrieving the fresh bottle of milk from the newcomer when it occurred to him that he should probably give some sot of introduction.
“Bailey, this is Evan Mandeville. Evan, this is Bailey Herbert.” He obviously found this introduction amusing, because as Bailey shot a look at him he appeared to be smirking.
“Nice to meet you Evan.” Bailey said, offering her hand and then turning back to Alistair. “Your uncle?”
“Yeah, he is.” Alistair said, feigning offence. “Honestly, he is my uncle!”
“Maybe I should explain this one, you soft idiot.” Evan said, clouting Alistair across the head. “You see, my dad, that’s Alistair’s grandfather, is a bit of a randy old sod and met my mother after Ally’s grandmother chucked him for being such a womanizer, I was born eight months later, perm of course, and then my father left again shortly after because he couldn’t cope with such a sickly baby as his son. So, I guess I’m actually Ally’s half-uncle, but as you can probably tell, I’m younger than he is.”
“Yeah, tell her how old your kid brother is.” Alistair urged with a grin.
Evan looked as though he was fighting an urge to thump him, but just glared at him instead, then reluctantly and hesitantly admitted, “I have a half-brother who is only four years old.”
Alistair evidently found this admission hilarious, as he creased up with laughter as soon as Evan had finished speaking, to which Evan glared at him and announced, “I think we should be going now, don’t you, Ally?”
“Yeah, I guess. Milk doesn’t deliver itself.” Alistair put out through his laughter, “See you later, Bailey.”
“Yes, see you later, Bailey.” Evan muttered.
“Bye then, lads.” Bailey said as Alistair set of down the driveway. “It was nice meeting you, Evan.”
“It was nice meeting you too, Bailey.” Evan said with a smile. “I, uh, I don’t know if you’re interested, but I’m having a bit of a get together tonight, ad I wondered if you wanted to come. It’s not much, just the usual birthday thing, friends, drinks, people throwing up in the rosebushes because they’re one over the eight, that sort of thing.”
“It’s your birthday?”
“Yeah, but I don’t really go about announcing things like that, it tends to get a bit monotonous when everybody you speak to is all like ‘ooh, happy birthday’, ‘ah, another year nearer to your grave’, and of course the ever favourite ‘oh, I would never have believed you were that old.’ I mean how old do they think I am anyway? I’m only twenty-five for Christ’s sake! No, wait. Make that twenty six.”
Bailey grinned. “And there I was, about to say happy birthday to you.” She laughed despite herself, and then added, “In that case, I’ll just do this.” She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him softly on his cheek. “What time do you want me?”
She thought there was a touch of innuendo in his voice as he answered with “Any time you’re ready, love.” He reached inside his jacket, and handed her a small rectangle of blue card. “This is the address.”
“Farmers have business cards now, huh?”
“Yep! We’ve got to stop living in the past and embrace the future, or we’ll just get swept under the rug of time like our forefathers.”
“Ooh, very poetic!”
“I try.” He said with a wrinkle of his nose. Where had she seen that before? Never mind, she’d surely remember later. “So I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
Bailey walked back inside the cottage and gently closed the door behind her. She leaned against the wall inside the door, and let out her breath slowly so as to slow down the hectic pace of her heart.
You know what this means, don’t you? You’ve got yourself into another of those demented situations that is going to require me t get you out of it.
“No,” she told her brain in no uncertain terms, “it means that I’m going to have to go shopping.”