Pompomberry House (5 page)

“Of course it was empty! I was wearing it.” Who goes around
with a trilby on their head, containing a folded note prophesying death?

“I would not worry, Dee,” said Danger, without a touch of
warmth. “The note could be meant for any one of us.”

Chapter 3

Dinner was an interesting affair. Dawn poured seven
different varieties of microwavable curries into a large pan and let them boil
into a thick stodge. It looked like dog food. She looked weird behind a stove —
even clumsier than usual. An elastic band collected her hair together on the
top of her head so that a fountain of frizz rained down over the lower, whiter
layers. She wore a flowery orange apron, which still had its Laura Ashley label
on it.

“My children love this dish!” she gushed.

I looked at the nasty chunks of flesh stewing in
miscellaneous juices and wondered if Dawn had a thyroid problem. Otherwise, how
could somebody who cooked such unappetising food become so enormous?

“I’ve left a little ‘sturry’ for you,” I heard her tell the
kitchen doorway. “That’s my little word for stewed curry.”

I looked around. Biff stood, leaning against the doorframe,
looking like a model for pale denim. I was beginning to find his sex appeal
unsettling. Being attracted to somebody other than my husband was not entirely
unfamiliar, but now that I could do something about it, the feeling was
downright frightening. If only Biff would put those upper arm things away —
what were they called? ‘Guns’ or were they ‘cobras’?

“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll be right through.”

“Oh no!” gasped Dawn. “You can’t eat with us!”

“Oh.”

“This is a dinner for writers.”

“Oh. All right then. I’ll just eat in here on my tod, shall
I?”

Although Dawn’s rudeness beggared belief, I was secretly
relieved that Biff wouldn’t be joining us for our evening meal. He was just too
distracting to be around. Unwanted fantasies kept popping into my mind (had I
ever had a fantasy involving watering cans before?) both making me blush and
serving as a painful reminder that my marriage was over.

I took one last sneaky glance at Biff and then made my way
into the dining room, which was imposing. The walls were papered with dark
maroon trefoils and the enormous table was made of dark mahogany. A pair of
antlers sprouted from the wall, next to a portrait of a stately heron. I
shuddered when I remembered my own recent encounter with a large feathered creature.

I tried not to think about the note in the hat. It was
clearly somebody’s idea of a sick joke. Anybody could have written it and then
slipped the felt-tip pen into their pocket. The important thing was to try to get
the most out of the weekend.

Montgomery sat at one end of the table, majestic like a
walrus king. Dawn took a seat at the other end, bursting over the edges of the
chair like the queen of pigs. They silently fought over which end was the head
of the table.

“So, what do we all make of Emily Whistlefoot!” asked
Montgomery, with a low chuckle.

The others laughed. I wondered what I was missing.

“Oh yes! Emily Whistlefoot!” echoed Dawn, knowingly.

 I wondered if I should go along with this and pretend that
I knew exactly who Emily Whistlefoot was, but I was just not that proud, at
least not in this company.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“She told Rafe that he’s got ‘a greet talent for language’,”
chuckled Dawn, wobbling with laughter, like Jabba the Hutt.

“A
greet
talent! Really!” laughed Annabel, as if she
were a human dictionary. I imaged what the Fleming dictionary would be like — probably
one of those bargain digest books, with a pink fluffy cover to try and sell ‘words’
to the reality-TV classes.

“She told me that my book was ‘
exiting
and hart-stopped.’
And she spelt ‘hart’ without an ‘e’!” thundered Montgomery, practically doubled
over with laughter.

“Is she a reviewer?” I asked.

“Reviewer stroke fan stroke lunatic stroke ...”
Montgomery then squealed the opening bar of the famous
Psycho
soundtrack, whilst making stabbing motions in the air with a table fork.
Screech,
screech, screech.

The others copied. All screeching at different pitches, and
attacking different parts of the room with their cutlery. This went on for some
time, before, finally, they dropped their weapons and looked a bit sheepish.

The wind whistled through the trees outside,
shwoo
 ...

“She’s got a big crush on Rafe!” cackled Dawn, checking him
out as she spoke.

“And
me
it seems,” laughed Montgomery. I regarded the
unsightly hair sprouting from his ears with wonder.

“
Has
she got a crush on me?” asked Rafe, with fake disbelief.
He straightened his spine and glanced around the room at empty spaces, all wide
eyed and vacant-looking.

“Yes!” chorused Dawn and Annabel. I felt sure I saw Annabel
lick her lips.

“Well, how ludicrous!” gasped Rafe. “I’m a writer, that’s
all. Never was a writer a heartthrob! I mean
me
? Little me? Well, how
embarrassing!” Then, he turned to me. “You must know Emily Whistlefoot, Dee;
she comments on the forum all of the time.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“What? You mean you haven’t seen the embarrassing compliments
she writes about me?
Awkward
!”

“I really don’t ...”

“She usually just comments on Rafe and Montgomery’s threads,”
explained Annabel. “Although, once she did say that she hadn’t been able to
look at her boss in the same way since reading
Falling for Flatley
. As
if
my book could have that much power over somebody! Honestly!” Her lips did
an involuntary march of glee but she managed to control them enough to continue
her speech. “Everything she says is over the top. Changing the way she looks at
her boss, indeed!” She managed to tilt her head down before the smile broke,
but I could just make out the corners of Annabel’s little, satisfied smirk. Feature
enhancing makeup and secret expressions don’t get along.

“What I want to know,” began Dawn, “is how she finds the
time to read so many books. She read my
whole
trilogy in four days.
There are
three
of them!”

“She once commented on my thread
twenty
times in the same
day,” replied Montgomery, sharply inhaling air through his chipped yellow
teeth.

“She once commented on my thread
thirty
times!”

“She really is over the top!”

“
Stalker!
”
Screech, screech, screech.

“I wonder what she looks like.”

“Ugly, I bet. You don’t read if you have a life.”

Wow, there’s an indie who knows how to promote.

“She must be enormous, if all she does is read.”

All twenty-five stone of Dawn chuckled nastily.

“Or, she could be old and too frail to leave the house.”

“Well, let’s hope so!”

“I hope she does not develop a crush on me,” yearned Danger.
To be honest, I’d forgotten he was in the room.

Everybody stared at the insipid little man, and said nothing.
It was a horrible, agonising silence and, even though I agreed with the
sentiments that were sealing other mouths, I couldn’t let this continue. Every
silent second that passed was like another slur catapulted at him from a giant
insult machine.

Finally, I thought of something to say. “Well, if she can
fancy this motley crew, I’m sure you’ll be fighting her off with a stick!”

Shwoo ...

Alas, my comment did not break the silence, but redirected
it. Now, everybody was staring at me. I smiled and forced a chuckle, to show
that my comment was meant in jest, but apparently you’re not supposed to
challenge the awe-factor of self-proclaimed admiration haters.

Eventually, Rafe’s deep voice broke the silence. “Well,
Danger, at least you would be able to fight her off, what with your line of
work.”

What? Danger worked a physical job? I looked down at his
twiggy limbs, wondering if it was possible that he weighed even less than I
did.

“What do you do?” asked Dawn.

“I am a bodyguard,” explained scrawny Danger, in his usual
drippy, dreary voice.

In my shock, I choked on a piece of unidentifiable, curried
meat. Apparently this was a big faux pas.

The staring began once again — disapproving glares coming
from every angle, like a laser beam security system. I tried to disguise my
shock as a general coughing fit, but I knew I was clutching at straws. Once I’d
cleared my throat a few times, I found that the others were still glaring at
me. I got up from my seat and doubled over, pretending to have the worst
coughing fit of my life. Anything to disguise the fact that I was surprised by
Danger’s macho job. I peered upward, and still their death stares attempted to
freeze me. Eventually, I sat back down and continued eating in silence.

Finally, Dawn spoke. “Still, at least it’s free proofreading.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Rafe, “Emily Whistlefoot is going to be
our proofreader?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“She can’t write!” he cried, aghast. “She doesn’t even
successfully proofread her own reviews.”

“Well, she offered to do it, and it can’t hurt, can it?”

“She might add mistakes!”

“Well, we won’t approve all of her suggestions.”

“I still don’t think you should be encouraging her. The
woman is clearly a few feathers short of a cuckoo!”

“Cuckoo!” trilled Annabel. Dawn copied and the group
descended into a flock of absurd bird noises.

* * *

As the evening went on, the sound of the weather became more
than just an ambient backing track. The windows were no longer gently rattling
but banging and crashing. The wind was no longer breezing through bushes, but
howling. I gazed out of the window, enjoying the last views of the sea before
the sunset stole them away. The white horses were no longer ponies playing
together, but giant stallions galloping across the bay. I shuddered with
delight — my God, these people were hard work, but the scenery was spectacular.
What a treat to get away from London.

Still, Pompomberry Island wouldn’t have a great deal to
offer at night after the darkness had drunk the views. Drained of its
geographical charm, it would simply become a bucket of people — infuriating
people. I felt my heart rate start to increase. Perhaps I should explore a
little more of Cornwall. My anxieties about being stuck in an overcrowded
bucket shielded me from the memories of my difficulty finding Pompomberry
Island. I felt sure that a quick excursion would be an apt way to settle my
nerves.

“I think I’ll go into town,” I told the others. “After I
finish my pudding,” I added, spooning down another mouthful of lumpy custard.
At least the pre-bought bread and butter pudding was pleasant.

“What town?” asked Rafe.

“Well, there must be a town around here somewhere, or a
village, at least somewhere with a pub.”

“But we’re here to write!” gasped Dawn. I didn’t like it
when she gasped, I could see the uvula at the back of her mouth, dripping and
flabby.

“Well, we did a little writing this afternoon, didn’t we?”

“But the anthology!” she cried. Her podgy lips inverted like
a pair of arched maggots.

I knew that she was right. It was supposed to be a retreat,
and we were supposed to be working on a book. However, looking around me as
Danger picked his nose with his spoon and Annabel gazed at hunky haughty Rafe, whilst
twisting her chestnut locks around a dangerously long fingernail, I wasn’t sure
that my nerves could stand it. I hadn’t clicked with any of them, nor could I
see myself clicking any time soon.

“It’s too dangerous to make the crossing!” Dawn said
quickly. “There’s a storm brewing. You could get stranded on the mainland,
unable to get back.”

God forbid.

“That’s if she makes it there at all!” added Montgomery,
shaking his square head.

“You mustn’t take chances with the weather,” Dawn explained.
“The owner was very clear about that.”

“The sea can be a perilous, churning cauldron of harm!”
exclaimed Rafe, clutching his fist against his chest.

“I’ll take my chances,” I insisted with a sigh. I walked
over to the tall, bay window that overlooked the crossing. How bad could it be?

I looked down, expecting to see crashing waves. Instead, the
twilight illuminated golden sand, with a light scattering of boulders and
shingle.

“The tide is out!”

“Is it?” asked Dawn, with what seemed feigned surprise. She
followed me to the window.

I began looking up the tide times on my phone.

“You never know when it might come in again!” she warned.

“Half past eight.”

“What?”

“That’s when it’ll start coming in again. Even once it
turns, I doubt the water will get too high to make the crossing for a couple of
hours.”

“
Hours?
”

Suddenly, Rafe appeared before me, and draped himself across
the window seat, facing me in a ‘come to bed’ pose. “What can we do to make you
stay?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

Well, you could start by never making that expression
ever again
.

There was something about Rafe that I found deeply
unattractive, despite all of his obvious outward charms. I couldn’t put my
finger on it. Perhaps he was just
too
good-looking. Few men can pull off
good-looking without conveying a hint of slime. Yes, that was it — Rafe
Maddocks was slimy. If you put a raw pea on his head, it would slowly slide
down the side of his face, onto his neck and then begin a slippery journey down
his chest, all the while encased in a slug of slimy adhesive. I found myself
subconsciously shrinking away from him.

Biff popped into my mind. I didn’t find Biff slimy. But then
again, Biff wasn’t lying on a windowsill stroking his hip (would I mind if he
did?).