Page 6 of The Only Way Is Up

Daisy was baffled and wondered if the man was drunk. He appeared to be in his fifties with a scruffy thatch of silvery hair, a straggly beard and an oversized Fair Isle jumper that was mostly holes. He also looked familiar, but Daisy couldn’t place him. She raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he huffed.

‘God, this is fucking ridiculous. Can I come in? I’ll explain, but I’m getting soaked out here.’ He noticed her discomfort and held out his veg-filled hands in a gesture of openness. ‘I’m a gay chef, not an axe murderer. I promise.’

Daisy eyed him carefully, then the pieces fell into place and she finally worked out who he was. Justin Drummond, former TV chef and restauranteur. He’d disappeared from public view a few years ago after a scandal involving . . . what was it? Tax? Creative accounting? Something like that. Definitely nothing involving beating women to death with root vegetables. She opened the door wider and he bustled past into the warm room, immediately shaking himself like a wet dog.

‘I’m Justin. Have a welcome gift.’ He thrust the carrots at her, which were dripping on the carpet, so she took them.

‘Daisy,’ she muttered, disappearing into the kitchen to dump them in the sink.

‘Oh yeah, course. Sorry, didn’t recognise you.’ Daisy waited for the inevitable ‘with your knickers on’ but it didn’t materialise. ‘I’ve been out of circulation for a while, house don’t have a TV or internet or anything. Are you still doing that talent show thing, what’s it called?’

Daisy was momentarily stunned, unsure if he was joking. ‘Spotlight.’

‘That’s the fella. That still going strong?’

‘Yes. Doesn’t start until next July though, so I’ve got a bit of a break.’

‘Good for you. I’ll be long gone by then.’

Daisy put the kettle on and put a spoonful of coffee into a mug as Justin loomed over her shoulder. He smelled quite organic, like he hadn’t troubled a bar of soap or a box of Persil in a while.

‘Pop another spoonful in there, will you? Nice and strong, lots of milk.’

Daisy obliged, reaching further along the counter to retrieve a box of chocolate fingers. Justin pulled the plastic tray from the box with a moan, visibly salivating.

‘Oh God, do you promise you won’t tell?’

He started stuffing biscuits into his mouth until they were poking out like fangs and he could no longer speak. Daisy folded her arms and waited for him to swallow, then watched, mesmerised, as he washed everything down with half the mug of coffee.

‘Why would anyone care about you eating biscuits?’

Justin gave a barking laugh, his mouth still glued together with chocolate fingers. ‘I’m writing a book.’ He drained the mug and held it out, so Daisy spooned in more coffee for a refill.

‘A book?’

‘It was a stupid fucking idea but I can’t afford to sack it off now. I’m living off grid for a year, got four months to go, then I can get out of this festering shithole.’

Daisy was intrigued. ‘How off grid, exactly?’

‘Very,’ Justin mumbled through another mouthful of biscuits. ‘No phone, no electricity, no internet, no food that I don’t grow or rear myself. I’ve got a smallholding over by the school with veg and chickens and pigs and a goat. Got a polytunnel and some beehives, I can forage fruit and stuff locally. The kids help out and I do some lessons in exchange for firewood.’

‘And why here, exactly? Why not somewhere nearer London?’

‘It was my publisher’s idea,’ huffed Justin. ‘One of the senior editors owns the cottage next door; she used to live here and thought it would make a great location. I should have asked why she left before I agreed to move in.’

Daisy raised her eyebrows. ‘Is it actually that bad though? It’s not like you’re living in a tent and eating grubs.’ She was impressed when Justin managed to stuff more biscuits in, even if it wasn’t at all pretty.

After some sticky chewing, Justin shrugged. ‘It was brilliant in the summer. Loads of fruit and salad. Spending all day outside, plenty to do. Now it’s all root veg and pickled stuff, and I have to actually write the fucking book. I don’t have a computer. The house is freezing, I have to make my own soap and some days I would flog my right arm for a coffee.’ He looked at the empty box of biscuits. ‘And a chocolate finger. Don’t tell anyone. I’d probably have to pay back my advance. Fuck, I really miss flour and proper sugar.’

‘Do you want another coffee?’

‘No, thanks, I’m buzzing off my tits already.’

Justin leaned back against the kitchen counter, his arms folded over a healthy belly that suggested he definitely wasn’t going hungry, however much he was missing bread and pasta. He eyed Daisy appraisingly. ‘So, what are you doing in Shipton Combe? It’s not exactly a celeb hotspot.’

‘It’s a long story. I’m only here for a few weeks, my ex-husband owns this cottage.’

Justin raised his eyebrows and gave her a salacious smile. ‘Ah yeah, I remember. Simon wotsit. Left you for a hunky man. Big old scandal back in the day.’