The Lost Guide to Life and Love by Sharon Griffiths

Just turning away like that, as if I would meekly follow him. Who did he think he was?
    ‘…four…three…two…’ He turned back, grinning and stretching out his hand towards me.
    Despite myself, I was smiling now too. Why not? What was the point of this sudden feeling of freedom if I didn’t do things I’d never done before?
    I’d done most of my work for the day. A helicopter ride was always going to be fun, whoever it was with. My mum always told me never to get into strange cars. She never said anything about strange helicopters. Seize the day …I grinned.
    Clayton grabbed my hand and we ran under the blades and jumped up into the helicopter. As we soared upwards, the ground dropped away, glorious views stretched out for miles. Clayton was still holding my hand. I eased out of his grip and, rather primly, sat on my hands as I looked out of the windows.
    Inside the helicopter it was still noisy, not ideal for intimate conversation, even if I’d had a clue what to say, so I contented myself with working out where we were. We flewover miles of moorland then above the motorway. ‘Durham Cathedral!’ I said, pointing into the distance. Then, a few minutes later a huge metal giant loomed up on a small hill at the side of a motorway, families looking like dolls playing at its feet. ‘It’s the Angel of the North!’ I exclaimed and then, ‘All those bridges! It must be Newcastle.’
    We followed the Tyne for a while—I hadn’t realised it was a country river too—until we hovered over a golf course and then landed gently in the grounds of a huge country house hotel, where the helipad sat in the middle of perfectly tended lawns. Clayton helped me out of the helicopter and then yelled to the pilot, ‘I’ll give you a call, mate.’ As if it was just a normal minicab. We walked across a path and into the hotel. It was one of those seriously stylish places, where they were so cool they didn’t bat an eyelid at my walking boots. I wanted to giggle. This was turning into a ridiculous adventure.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Silver,’ said the receptionist. ‘Your guests are waiting for you in the Brown Room. Would you like coffee or drinks brought through?’
    ‘No thanks. But I’d like a table for lunch, in about half an hour. For two.’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘This won’t take long, Tilly,’ said Clayton. ‘Get yourself a drink or whatever you want and I’ll be back soon.’ And he vanished, leaving me in my jeans, boots and fleece in one of England’s poshest hotels. I had no bag, no money, not even a lippy or a hairbrush. The receptionist was hovering.
    ‘Can I get you anything, madam?’ he asked.
    ‘Some coffee, please,’ I said. ‘And I don’t suppose you could conjure up a hairbrush? A comb? Anything?’
    ‘Of course, madam,’ he replied, as if it was the most normal request in the world.
    He rematerialised about two minutes later, with a dinky little bag containing brush, comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, face cloth, and razor. How many guests must arrive here as ill prepared as I was? I dashed to the Ladies, cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair, helped myself to some of their richly scented hand creams and cologne and felt a little better. Back in the reception area, the coffee was waiting for me. I sat back in the leather armchair thinking that I might as well enjoy all of this.
    Then Clayton was standing in front of me, smiling down. ‘Time to eat,’ he said, ‘and to drink something a bit more interesting than that.’
    ‘What about the people you were meeting?’
    ‘Gone,’ he said dismissively. I didn’t ask more. But I wondered who they were, why he would be meeting them all the way up here. I wondered if it was the sort of thing that Jake would want to know about.
    We sat in the big bay window of the dining room, with a view across lawns down to the river. The menu was full of delicious things. I dithered over Thai-scented salmon salad with lemon potatoes, or maybe quails’ eggs and