Pompomberry House (21 page)

“Oh, so you’re calling them ‘coincidences’ now, are you?”

“Whatever they are, they’re not murders.”

“But Biff’s death was murder!”

“Biff’s what?”

“You heard me.”

“Who’s Biff?”

What was he playing at? He knew exactly who Biff was. He’d
been there when we heard the scream, there when we discovered the body, and had
been part of the frantic search for the killer. There was no way he could have
forgotten Biff, or his killer.

“Perhaps you need a holiday, Dee.”

“Oh no you don’t! You do not turn this around and try to
make it seem like I’m going crazy. You’re the one who failed to report a death —
no, a
murder
— to the police,
not
me.”

“You’ve been going through a lot lately — your divorce, the
book launch ...”

“Book launch?”

“
The Book of Most Quality Writers.
”

“I didn’t even know my story was in it until recently.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I never submitted my story. My memory card was stolen.”

“Really? I wondered why ...”

“... there were mistakes in it?”

“No, I was going to say, I wondered why it didn’t have your
usual level of over-editing.”

“What?”

“It was much better than
The Red River.
It just flowed
better. You can tell that you usually re-draft to death.”

“It’s called
writing
.”

“Is it, Dee? I liked ‘natural Dee’ much better than ‘heavily
revised Dee’.”

“Well, thank you for your input. I didn’t realise that
The
Red River
didn’t flow.”

He chuckled, enjoying the pun.

“And how can you put a book launch in the same category as a
marital separation?”

“I don’t know. Some of us have never been divorced. Book
launches are pretty stressful though — the apprehension, the thrill, the fear ...”

“A separation is like having your guts torn out through your
nostrils whilst somebody breaks your toes one by one with a hammer.”

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed.”

“A bit different then.”

“Yes. A bit different.”

“Sorry.”

“Never mind.”

“You miss him a lot, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“Your husband. Who do you think I mean? Danger Smith?”

“I don’t miss him.
I
asked
him
to leave.”

“That doesn’t mean that you don’t miss him.”

“I do not miss Gareth!”

“It’s only natural to want your ex back from time to time.
You wouldn’t be human if ...”

“I — do — not
—
want — Gareth — back! It’s over. I’ve
made my decision and that is it. It’s not like I’m sitting here longing for him
to call.”

“I never said that you were.”

“I have moved on.”

“Good.”

“In fact, I think I’ll delete his number. I’m so over him
that I won’t be needing it anymore.” I took out my phone and began searching for
the address book.

Rafe took my hand. I was surprised by the softness of his
grip — it wasn’t pushy like most of his gestures. “Dee, don’t do anything rash.”

“What’s rash? I kicked him out
weeks
ago.”

“Well then, one more hour won’t make a difference.”

“Fine. But the moment I leave here, that number is toast.”

Rafe smiled. It was a smile I hadn’t seen before; it was
subtle, without the usual smug corners stretching up toward his ears. I didn’t
know that he had a humane mode.

Unexpectedly, he changed the subject back to his ill-advised
fling. “I do care about Annabel,” he said softly.

I shot him disbelieving eyes.

“Just because I don’t want to settle down, doesn’t mean I’m
a monster. I’m not
pretending
to like her or anything like that.”

“I never said you were.”

“I do like her, in a funny sort of way. To be honest, a
romance seemed like the only good thing to come of that weekend. The only way I
could make it all a bit less terrible.”

“It was a horrible weekend,” I agreed, softening.

“It was doomed from the start,” he said. Then he looked at
me and the twinkle returned to his eye, “‘Journey’ — ‘gurney’.”

“Ha ha! Hang on ... Danger said that before ... You
were
listening outside the door! I knew it! I knew you didn’t
spontaneously come up with your response. What was it again?”

“He regarded her through his deep, cobalt eyes ...”
began Rafe.

We continued together, “... as his gaze journeyed
across the room.”

I looked at his cheeky face and we both fell about laughing.

“Well, somebody had to mix it up a bit,” he chuckled.

“Wasn’t the rivalry between Dawn and Monty just
embarrassing?”

“Oh, it was terrible. Did you notice the sexual tension
though?”

“Between you and Annabel?”

“No, between Dawn and Monty!”

“No!” I cried, shuddering. I had had my suspicions but the
last thing I ever wanted was confirmation. They were both revolting in their
own right; the idea of the two of them doing the hippy hippy shake disgusted me.
Surely Dawn-Monty love would pose a threat to the planet, like two tectonic
plates grinding together. Oh! Why did I have to think of the word ‘grinding’? Thank
goodness they were too old to reproduce. Ugh! No! I started to imagine the
offspring of piggy-faced Dawn and faux-aristocrat Montgomery. The poor kid ... “Please
tell me they’re not ...” I gulped. “... 
at it
?”

“To be honest, I don’t speak to them much. I think they’ve
been abroad though.”

“Together?”

“I think so. They’re pretending that Dawn’s out there alone,
but why would a wife and mother-of-three go off on such a long holiday alone?”

“Well, it is Dawn we’re talking about.”

“True, but they both update the forum from a Spanish IP
address.”

I shuddered.

“Good luck to them, I say. I hope I’m still at it when I’m
his age.”

“Really? With
that
?”

“Oh, good point!” he said, and we laughed again. I was
surprised by how approachable he was when he took off his mask. Suddenly his
colossal good looks didn’t seem to offend me anymore.

“Tell me honestly,” I began, “what do you think of the
anthology?”

Rafe buried his head in his hands melodramatically, and when
he raised it again, he was shaking it profusely. His floppy mop danced around
on his head.

“I hope nobody reads it,” I admitted.

“Nobody has,” he told me. “As of last night, it had sold
seven copies.”

“Seven?” I was irate! How could my readers know that there
was a new Dee Whittaker story out there, and not be tempted to take a look?
Then I remembered the title, the cover, the blurb, the other writers and the
content, and it was all painfully clear.

“Seven,” echoed Rafe.

“But I hear Enid Kibbler’s written a review. Seven copies
and the book’s got an Enid already?”

Rafe nodded, looking glum. “It’s got three reviews actually.”

“Three?” Dammit, why hadn’t I remembered to check the
reviews? There it was again, that compulsion to grab my phone.
Must know
what’s being said about me, and must know now!
“Who?”

“Patti.”

“Patti from Goodreads.”

“Yep.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“She said, ‘After reading this collection of short stories,
I felt it required a special collection of its own on my Kindle.’”

“Well, that’s all right.”

“Then she added, ‘Yes, I now have a collection named
crap
.’”

“Ah.”

“And Lexi Revellian, you know, the author, said ...”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“‘After reading this collection, I have given up on
literature and taken up sky-diving instead, which is not as convenient when
commuting.’”

I buried my head in my hands. Then a worrying thought stuck
me. “Well, if that’s what
they
said, how bad is the Enid?”

“Bad.”

“One star?”

“Two.”

“Two stars?”

“Yeah, apparently she liked ‘Busty and Giving’.”

I cringed once again at the mention of that title. How could
they have degraded my work in such a way? But then I realised what Rafe had
said — Enid Kibbler liked my work. Enid Kibbler, the indie hater,
liked
my work.

“What did she say?” I was trying to sound as casual as
possible, whilst secretly my heart bubbled like a volcano of excitement.

“She said it was badly written, littered with typos ...”

“No, what did she say about
my
story?”

“That it was badly written, littered with typos and was a
blemish on the face of literature, but that it was the collection’s saving
grace and she was delighted to have finally found an indie who might actually, one
day write something verging on average.”

Wow. I felt myself glowing with pride. Enid Kibbler felt
that I might one day write something verging on average! Judging by what I’d
heard about Kibbler, this was endorsement of the highest kind.

I looked at Rafe, knowing that he was a pompous, competitive
wanker, and I knew how hard it had been for him to pass on Enid’s kind words. I
felt a moment of deep fondness for the guy. And, as a mark of respect for his
moment of selflessness, I chose
not
to ask him what Kibbler had to say
about
Hungry.

Instead, I said, “You have to wonder why a woman who hates
indies would buy a book designed to showcase indie ...” I cleared my
throat, “... talent.”

“Particularly one with the world’s ... biggest ... indie
on the cover.”

I remembered the book’s hideous cover and giggled. I saw a
new side to Rafe that lunch, and it was one that I liked. The problem with being
a self-published writer, is that you have to learn to self-promote. Writing a
novel is the easy part. Then you have to spend hours every week telling people
how great you are, and after hours upon hours doing that, it can be difficult
to switch off. Perhaps that’s all Rafe’s intolerable streak was — a man finding
it hard to take off his marketing manager hat.

What would Gareth think if he knew that Rafe Maddocks was finally
impressing me?

“My ex has taken the kitchen radio. The radio that
I
paid for! Can you believe that?” I cried.

“Huh? Where did that come from?”

“He said he needs it at Barry’s place. Can you believe that?”

“I might, if I knew who Barry was.”

“What does it matter? It’s
my
radio.”

“Dee, why are you suddenly talking about your ex?”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not having a go. It’s just you seem a bit ... perhaps ... Don’t
take this the wrong way, but do you think there’s a chance that you’re possibly,
a bit ... not
quite
over him?”

“Why would you say that?”

He sighed. “Just a hunch.”

I felt that strange sensation of fighting back tears
again
.
Why? I must definitely be about to menstruate.

“Did anybody comment on Enid’s review?” I deflected.

“We were talking about Gareth,” Rafe reminded me.

“He’s abominably lazy, Rafe. I don’t mean that he
occasionally forgets to wash up, or leaves his dirty socks for me to launder.
He hasn’t had a job in over a year. He hasn’t even tried to get a new job.”

“But he did have one when you got married?”

“Yes.”

 “Was he abominably lazy then?”

“No, not lazy at all.”

“Well, then maybe it’s just a phase.”

“Oh, don’t you take his side! Gareth hasn’t grown up. That’s
the problem. I didn’t mind him littering the living room with spliffs when we
were twenty-five, or getting cigarette burns in the old, second-hand sofa. I
didn’t mind him going out drinking every weekend — I used to go too — when we
were twenty-five! I didn’t mind him turning his underpants inside out when we
were
twenty-five
! Is it really too much to ask that my
thirty-two-year-old husband behaves like a thirty-two-year-old,
at
thirty-two
? How the hell are we ever supposed to move forward and start a
family, when he’s still behaving like a big kid? So don’t take his side!
Just
don’t
!”

Rafe was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “I was
taking
your
side, Dee.”

“It didn’t seem like it. It seemed like you were taking
Gareth’s.”

“Why can’t you be on
the same
side?”

Naughty little drops of water began to creep out of my tear
ducts. I blinked rapidly trying to disguise them as general eye moisture.

“I’m not trying to upset you, Dee. If I’m honest, I wish you’d
get the guy out of your life so that I could have a crack at you.”

I laughed, there was something reassuringly familiar about
seeing a touch of the usual Rafe.

“But it’s obvious that you still have a chance to work
things out with this guy.”

“I could waste another ten years of my life waiting for
Gareth to grow up, and what if he never does?”

“And what if he does?”

It was getting harder and harder not to flood with tears. “I’ve
made my decision, Rafe. It was the hardest decision I ever had to make, and I don’t
want to ever have to make that decision again. If I don’t let him go this time,
we could get stuck in a make-up-break-up loop for years.”

“Well, if that’s really what you want, then you’ve got to
stick to your guns.”

“Exactly. I need to delete his number, stop returning his
calls, and stop reading his texts.”

As if Gareth had read my mind, my phone bleeped. I
recognised the personalised text alert and knew it was from him without even
having to look at my phone. Of course, I couldn’t look at it, not now, after
everything I’d just said. But then, Rafe didn’t know that I already knew the
text was from Gareth. I could both keep my pride intact and briefly glimpse ...

“Holy spoons!” I cried.