Just Haven't Met You Yet(18)

“Whatever you think is fair,” I say gratefully.



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Once he starts driving, I don’t ask where we’re headed but jump straight on my phone and start leaving messages for Le Maistres. The hotel receptionist kindly made me a copy of the Le Maistre page in the phone book. As keen as I am to track down my mystery man, I’m also now increasingly anxious to get my own bag back. It makes me wince to think about some of the things I’ve confessed to my journal, words not meant to see the light of day. There is simply too much in my bag I cannot contemplate losing: my research notes, my favorite jeans, my vintage silk blouse—one of the last presents Mum gave me, the L-shaped earrings she and I made together; all things I would not have checked into the hold if I’d had more than thirty seconds to think about it.

Gazing out of the window as I dial another number, I watch the suburban sprawl of houses, schools, and shops morph into more rural scenery. I notice how considerate all the drivers are to one another. Ted waits to let cars out from junctions, as though we have all the time in the world. It is a far cry from the aggressive London driving I am used to. The Le Maistre number I’ve called rings and rings, so I hang up.

The roads narrow into single-track, tree-lined lanes, and we pass dog walkers ambling along next to freshly plowed fields. Then, as the houses disappear entirely and we’re surrounded by green, I see the distinctive face of a Jersey cow peering over a fence.

“Oh, a Jersey cow! Can we stop?” I ask. “Oh, will you look at them? They’re so beautiful!”

“You want to stop to look at the cows?” Ted asks, as though I’ve just asked him to stop so that I can inspect the exciting tarmac on the road.

“If there’s somewhere to pull in, do you mind? I’d love to get a photo.”

He makes a nondescript grunt but pulls the car onto a grassy lay-by.

I get out of the car and walk around to tap on the driver’s window, which he slowly winds down. Ted looks up at me and I see his full face for the first time in daylight. He has these dark, penetrating eyes with heavy lids that track my gaze—they’re a little intense, unnervingly so. I glance away, then ask, “Would you like to come?” assuming he might want to stretch his legs.

“I’m good, thanks. I’ve seen cows before,” he says, pulling a newspaper from the passenger seat and unfolding it in his lap. I suspect Beardy McCastaway lacks the rapport necessary to be a real tour guide.

Reaching the cow field fence, I take a long, deep breath. The early morning air is yet to be warmed by the sun, but the sky is a vast, vibrant blue, like a freshly unboxed day. Alongside the narrow road, ivy-covered oak trees sit behind a bosky bank of hawthorn bushes and wild grasses. It’s so peaceful, I can hear the birds chirping in the trees, the low hum of a tractor several fields beyond, and the faint buzzing of flies as they flit around swishing cow tails. I step cautiously up the bank, fearful of spooking the herd, but the few cows standing near the fence simply eye me with idle curiosity.

I read about Jersey cows in the in-flight magazine—they’re famous for producing amazing milk. They’re basically the Kate Mosses of the cow world: elegant, angular frames, soft fawn, teddy-bear-colored bodies, and wide doe eyes. One with a dark brown face and long lashes blinks at me, flicking flies away with a twitch of her head.

There is a photo of my mother next to a cow just like this one, so I turn my phone around to try and take a similar shot.

“OK, buddy, don’t move,” I say quietly, shuffling myself into position. It’s hard to get the angle right. Maybe if I just step up onto the fence rail, I’ll be able to fit both of us in the frame. In fact, I could climb over into the field, just for a second, and the positioning would be so much better.

As I’m stepping down onto the grass, I feel a sharp jolt of pain and my leg suddenly buckles beneath me. I lose my footing and fall flat on my face, my phone flying from my hand. What the hell was that? I scramble to my feet. Turning around, I see a thin wire running alongside the wooden rail—an electric fence. Ten points to me for being a complete urban cliché and not noticing that. Brushing down my dress, I see a muddy mark near the hem. What an excellent start to the day; electrocuted and muddied before it’s even ten a.m. Just as I’m thinking it can’t get much worse, I feel a nudge from behind. One of the cows is pushing into me.

“Hey, back off.”

When I look up, more cows are heading in my direction.

“Go away!” I plead. “Just shoo, will you?” I point a stern finger at the nudgy one.

“What are you doing?”

My head snaps back around to see Ted standing by the fence, watching me with a bemused expression. Nudgy is now looming over me, and I reach out my hand to push her away.

“They’re not pets, you can’t get in and stroke them,” says Ted, looking at me like I’m completely clueless.

“I know that! I wasn’t trying to pet them. I didn’t know the fence was electric and— Hey, get off me!” The running cows are getting closer, and I feel a rising panic in my chest. People die from being trampled by cows, don’t they? It always seemed a rather comical way to go, but now I’m staring death in the doe-eyed face, it doesn’t seem funny at all. “Ahhhh!”

Ted jumps over the fence in one swift movement—he’s surprisingly nimble. He walks purposefully toward the cows with an arm outstretched and says in a deep, stern voice, “Back you go now.”