I am absolutely thrilled to be today's stop on The Olive Branch Blog Tour by Jo Thomas and have an exclusive extract from this wonderful book to share with you. The Olive Branch was published by Headline on 2nd July 2015.
My hand
hovers over the mouse. My heart is pumping and I’m not sure if it’s the
Prosecco we’ve drunk or pure madness racing through my veins.
I
take in the bare room around me. It’s soulless, empty of furniture and
feelings.
I
look at my friend Morag, her eyes bright with excitement.
The
clock is ticking, and with every passing second my heart beats louder.
‘Ten,
nine . . .’ The timer clicks down. My mouth is dry.
‘Eight,
seven . . .’ I feel sick, again not sure if it’s due to Prosecco or tension.
This is insane.
‘Six,
five . . .’ I look around the place I once called home – now an empty shell,
like me.
‘Four,
three . . .’ I consider my options. There’s only one as far as I’m concerned.
‘Two
. . .’ And it’s utterly reckless.
‘One.’
I glance at Morag, who looks as though she might burst, and I don’t know if I
do it intentionally, or if my finger just twitches involuntarily. But I press
the button, and we fall giggling into a Prosecco-fuelled slumber on the lumpy
settees.
The next morning, after paracetamol
and gallons of water have started to take effect, a slow realisation creeps
over me like cold custard. I rush to the computer and check my emails. There it
is, in black and white, bringing back my moment of madness and reminding me of
why it should be compulsory to take a breathalyser test before using the
internet late at night.
Congratulations!
You were the successful bidder!
My heart jumps into my mouth and bangs noisily against my ears. Now what am I
going to do?
My panicked thoughts
are interrupted by a knock at the door, and as I stumble across the room to
open it, my heart thunders some more.
‘Hi, we’ve come for
the sofas,’ says the bright, wellspoken young woman who is standing there with
her eager boyfriend. I look at the couch where Morag is still sleeping. ‘We’ll
just be a moment. I’m nearly done here,’ I say as the young couple start
lifting the sofa that was my bed until a few minutes ago. There’s only one
thing I can do, says the mad, impetuous voice in my head. And I realise it’s
mine.
Chapter
One
As I watch the goat
marching up and down the courtyard, like a foot guard at Buckingham Palace, I
wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
‘Recalculating!
Recalculating!’ My sole companion for the entire journey continues shouting,
her voice cutting through me like a dentist’s drill. I switch her off firmly,
with pleasure, before turning off the engine of my little Ford Ka. The
windscreen wipers let out an exhausted whine and the screen is a whiteout of
water in seconds, like fake rain in a low-budget film. Only this is not fake,
it’s very real, I remind myself, as the water drums noisily on the car roof.
I take a deep breath.
It’s been like this ever since I left Bari, the sprawling port at the top of
Italy’s heel, where I stopped off to do a quick shop in Ikea for essentials and
lunch. This is another thing I wasn’t expecting, aside from the goat:
torrential rain in summer in southern Italy.
I gaze out of the car
window and pull my lightweight hoodie closer around me. A collection of silver
bangles jangles on my wrist and I look down at my Rolling Stones T-shirt, which
I’ve cut into a crop top, and my paintsplattered cut-off Levi’s. I’m definitely
underdressed. Grabbing my favourite
vintage leather jacket from the seat beside me, I pull it on and shiver. I
should be in waterproofs and wellies.
Taking another deep
breath, I pull the handle and push the car door open against the driving rain.
I straighten up, holding one hand over my eyes, and shiver again as I look down
at the envelope in my hand.
The rain lashes
against the paper, making the ink run, and I have to keep shutting my eyes
against the deluge. The goat glances in my direction and I’m sure I hear it
snort.
I use one hand to
shield my eyes and strain to look at the house in front of me, then back at the
long, potholed drive I’ve just driven down. I can hardly see the big stone
pillars and red metal gates at the entrance. I shove the envelope back in my
pocket and pull out a printed picture of the house. The image is papier mâché
in seconds, disintegrating and landing on the wet stones at my feet. If I’m not
quick, my canvas slip-ons will go the same way. This has to be the right place;
there’s nowhere similar nearby.
I passed a couple of
small houses on the way in, as the narrow road led me up and down and round and
round like a fairground ride, with occasional potholes for added fear factor.
Some of the houses had curved roofs, while others were modern and flat-roofed.
I also spotted the occasional collection of dilapidated trulli – small circular
houses with conical roofs, like clusters of field mushrooms. But I’m not
looking for a trullo. The house in front of me now is like something from a
film set. It’s old, weatherworn, faded pink and big – much bigger than I
imagined. There’s nothing else like it on the lane. This must be it.
I hold my hand up
against the punishing rain, and half wonder whether a plague of locusts is
going to follow next. Perhaps this is a sign . . . I push the silly thought
away, along with the memory of my mum’s despairing phone messages and Ed’s
disapproving emails.
My T-shirt is stuck to
my skin and the rain is dripping down my short hair and on to my face, running
off round my nose stud like a little waterfall. There’s no point in rummaging
in the boot for my raincoat now, so I sling on my lavender leather satchel and
wonder what I’ve let myself in for. I could get back in the car, drive away
from here as quickly as possible and email Ed to tell him he was right all
along: I am daft, impetuous and irresponsible.
But then again, at
least I’m not boring and stuck in my ways. There’s only one way to go:
forwards! I bow my head, pull my bag tighter to me and run towards the listing
veranda groaning with an unruly and neglected bougainvillea.
With my chin tucked
into my chest, I spot a large pothole and sidestep it, slipping and skidding on
the worn cobbles. I’m startlingly close to the cross-looking goat, which is now
standing across the front door. I am in the middle of my worst nightmare.
‘Maah,’ the goat
bleats, making me jump. God, that was loud. I stare at the goat and it stares
back at me. Its eyes are different colours: one scarily yellow, the other blue.
For the first time in weeks, I have no idea what to do. Guard goats were not on
my list of essential information.
I wonder whether
‘shoo’ has the same meaning in Italian as it does in English. It’s not
something I can remember covering in my evening classes. But I need to do
something. I’m freezing out here.
‘Shoo, shoo!’ I say,
waving my hands in the goat’s direction and backing away at the same time. I
don’t want it to run at me with its horns, which look pointy and sharp. You
don’t get goats standing in the way of your front door back in Tooting. The odd
drunk camping out for the night, maybe, but somehow they seem easier to
overcome than this.
‘Shoo, shoo!’ I try
again, this time with more handwaving. The goat flinches, as do the terrified
butterflies in my stomach, but still it doesn’t move from its position in front
of the big, dark wooden door. Even the three-day drive down through France and
Italy, with stop-offs in laybys to catch forty winks and only an irritating,
indecisive satnav for company, is nothing compared to this.
I’ve spent the past
six weeks dealing with estate agents, flat viewings and solicitors, packing up
and dividing the belongings Ed and I shared. I separated everything out and
gave over custody of our joint retro record collection and the player I found
on eBay. I sold off redundant furniture, oversaw its collection and moved
myself out of our flat. It all went without a hitch; nothing fazed me. But
territorial goats? No idea! I throw my hands up and turn my back on it.
Opening up my satchel,
I search around for some kind of magic bean that will help me out here. Then I
spot it: a half-eaten Kit Kat I bought in a service station somewhere outside
Rome. I thought the sugar boost might get me round the greater ring road – that
and Dolly Parton on the CD player. It sort of worked. I got round on a wing and
a prayer, nerves jangling, heart in mouth, high on energy drinks and with a lot
of hand gestures and horn honking – not necessarily mine. I pull out the Kit
Kat and wave it at the goat. It steadfastly ignores me, looking the other way
from its sheltered position. I quickly pull back the wrapper.
‘Come on. It’s
chocolate.’ I wave it, immediately feeling like the Child Catcher in Chitty
Chitty Bang Bang, and break off a piece to toss in front of the goat. As it
backs away, I think I’m going to have to give up and look for somewhere else to
stay tonight until I can find the owner. Then it sniffs at the taster and
snaffles it up with appreciative noises, walking towards me, no doubt hoping
for more.
‘See, it’s good.’ I break
off another bit, tossing it in front of the goat, which is now moving faster
and faster. I walk backwards, getting quicker all the time. I feel like I’m in
a scene from You’ve Been Framed. I’m miles away from home, in the heaviest rain
I’ve ever seen, with my worldly possessions in a Ford Ka, trying to tempt a
goat away from a front door with half a Kit Kat. I’m beginning to understand
how Noah felt, and I’m debating whether there would be room for goats on my
ark.
This is all Ed’s
fault! I think irrationally. And my mum’s. The goat keeps hoovering up the Kit
Kat and I’m nearly at the edge of the slippery forecourt. I step back and my
heel hits a low stone wall, giving me a reality check.
I step up on to the
wall and my phone springs into life. I pull it out, hoping for some kind of
encouraging words. Two text messages and some missed calls. I don’t bother to
check the calls. The texts are from Ed and my mum. That’s all I need. If Ed
knew that at this moment I was trying to bribe a territorial goat, he’d start
by saying ‘I told you so,’ with lowering eyebrows. It’s his reaction to
everything I do – he thinks I’m impulsive; ‘hot-headed’, he calls it. He’s
forever telling me I always leap before I look. He, on the other hand, doesn’t
do anything without consulting Google or Facebook first. We’re total opposites.
At first, that was the fun part about it. But now he thinks I knee-jerk-react
to everything. I think he thinks too long and hard about things and doesn’t
take risks. It could’ve been the perfect combination. But it wasn’t.
If Ed had been here,
it would be a whole different story. He wouldn’t have stepped out of the car
without a team of health and safety officers inspecting the place first, and
he’d’ve employed Bear Grylls himself to get rid of the goat.
No, I can’t fall at
the first hurdle now, even if this goat does have the guarding instincts of a
Rottweiler. It pushes its face up towards my hands and I can’t move. I do the
only thing I can: reach out a tentative hand and scratch it between the eyes.
It seems to like it. But I’m stuck here now. If I stop, it nudges me, hard.
There’s nothing for it, it’s now or never.
I throw the last piece
of Kit Kat as far as I can, beyond the uneven cobbles. The goat turns and
nearly topples over in its excitement to get to it, slipping, sliding and
clattering across the stones before leaping on the tasty treat. I throw myself
towards the front door. My hands shake as I pull out the big, rusting key and
push it into the lock, whilst trying to keep one eye on the goat. In the
process, I drop the envelope on the wet floor. I pick it up and push really
hard against the door. It doesn’t budge. The goat is trotting back towards me.
I pull away, dip my shoulder and give the door an almighty shove; it flies open
just as there is a huge crash of thunder and a silver sliver cracks across the
sky. I fall through the front door, desperate to escape the elements, into a
cavernous room, along with the goat.
‘Maah,’ it says loudly, dripping all
over the floor. A great wave of despair washes over me. What on earth have I
let myself in for?
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