Nearest Thing to Crazy by Elizabeth Forbes

almost sick with worry.
    ‘Oh my God,’ she said, when she saw the joint, and the roast potatoes and parsnips, ‘a proper Sunday roast. How amazing . . . Now I feel even worse about Coco. I stupidly thought as it’s so warm today we’d be having something cold . . . Oh God, I’m so sorry . . . look how hard you’ve worked . . .’
    ‘I suppose cold would have been more appropriate on a day like today,’ Dan said, disloyally.
    God! He loved his meat and two veg, did Dan.
    Ellie saw me frown at him. ‘Heavens, no,’ she said. ‘Honestly, this is so nice. Such a change from all those fancy Mediterranean dishes everyone’s into. Good to see there are still some corners of the earth that Ottolenghi hasn’t penetrated yet.’
    I bit my tongue to stop myself from asking ‘Otto what?’
    When we were all three of us seated in the sunshine with my unsuitable roast and all the trimmings piled high on our plates; when the salt and pepper, mint sauce and gravy had been passed, I said, ‘I can’t believe I haven’t asked you what your book’s about,’ but Ellie didn’t appear to hear me. She just carried on eating as though I hadn’t said anything. So I asked again.
    ‘Your novel, Ellie. What’s it about?’
    ‘Sorry?’ she said.
    ‘She obviously doesn’t want to say,’ Dan said.
    I blushed. Honestly. I felt my cheeks go pink and I heard myself mutter ‘sorry’.
    I racked my brains for some other topic of conversation to cover the awkwardness. ‘So . . . how long have you had Coco?’
    Dan glared at me, and raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘well done’. I mean, for God’s sake. It was only a bloody dog. I began to feel humiliated by them both, so I poured more wine into my glass and gave it one more try.
    ‘How did you start out, writing, that is?’
    ‘I used to be a journalist, on Mode. ’
    ‘Oh? I didn’t realize you were in fashion. How glamorous.’ The connection made sense. I had watched her daintily attacking the overcooked piece of leather that had started off life so promisingly as tender pink lamb, pushing her food around the plate and guessing that, judging by her skinny frame, she probably had the sort of food issues that came with the job. I could imagine her sitting, beautifully groomed, at one of those catwalk shows, poised in the front row with her spiral-bound notebook and leather-clad photographer.
    ‘Must be very different, though – going from real people to invented characters.’
    ‘When I was a journalist I had a knack of getting people to tell me things they wouldn’t tell other people.’ She was staring at me so directly that I felt uncomfortable. ‘I still find uncovering other people’s secrets is a really good skill to have, and it helps give me ideas.’
I shuddered, as though her teeny cowboy boots had just pirouetted over my grave. ‘Sadly we don’t have any secrets for you to uncover.’ My mouth smiled, but my eyes didn’t.
    ‘Everyone has secrets, it’s just that some are bigger, more interesting, than others.’
    ‘Well I’m sure you must have loads of experience . . . secrets . . . to draw upon, from your own exciting life . . .’ I was really trying to say: “Watch out, ’cos I know your secret”.
    ‘I can’t imagine you’d get any inspiration round here. We’re a fairly dull lot,’ Dan said.
    ‘You’re definitely not dull,’ she said, staring directly at him.
    ‘Actually you’re right,’ Dan said, returning her look. ‘Because
I’m a little bit unpredictable . . .’
    I swear her cheeks flushed. I felt confused by her, caught off balance and struggling to understand the reason for it. Dan seemed oblivious to what was going on. Like most men, Dan was surprisingly adept at only reading face value, especially when it came to attractive women. Funny really, when you thought it was supposedly his business to work women out. I’d love to be that simple and straightforward, but life’s all about subtexts. And I was beginning to wonder