He turned, and saw me gawping. I looked away, shyly. What did he see when he looked at me? Though by no means ugly, I was nobody’s idea of a fizzy drink model either. More suited to an advert for washing powder — the before picture. With my fondness for being out of doors and a proneness to accidents, my clothes never stayed clean for long. I tended to wear jeans, shorts, or even dungarees. They suited my slight, almost boyish figure and complemented my pixie haircut. Now, a couple of years into my thirties, my eyes wrinkled a little when I smiled. This man didn’t look a day over twenty-one.
It wasn’t long before I needed to take another look. Incredible — I’d never really liked abs before, but now I wanted nothing more than to reach out and feel this man’s buffed torso (I supposed that would be a faux pas ...)
“Can I help you?” he asked. He spoke with an English accent, but I detected a Scandinavian twang blended with Cockney tones.
“I’m here for the writers’ weekend.”
“Of course,” he said with a smile.
He grabbed a navy tank top, which happened to be lying on a nearby wall and tugged it on. He looked rather nautical, with the blue top and white jeans. My mind added a sailor’s hat. Yummy.
What was happening? This wasn’t like me — drooling over a workman! What was the matter with me? No doubt this was a knee jerk reaction to my recent romantic troubles.
“Where are the others?” I asked, planning an escape route.
“What others?”
Chapter 2
My heart stopped. Why were there no others? Why was I alone on a deserted island with an axe-wielding Swede? Was I living in a bad Stieg Larsson rip-off? Had this man placed the advert for the weekend himself? Had he pretended that there were half-a-dozen people coming, so that he could get me alone and axe me to death?
I trembled. Still, I stayed rooted to the spot. What manner of madness was this? Why would I rather take my chances with a crazy axe man, than go back around to the front of the house and face a feathery bird? Obviously the stress of the last few months was messing with my mind.
“You’re the first to get here,” he explained. “The rest are late.”
“Oh,” I said, with a long exhalation of thankful breath, which gave away a little more of my petrified mood than I’d perhaps intended. Why was I so jumpy?
“Relax,” he said. “This place may look like a house of horrors, but it’s lovely inside.”
I glanced at yet another boarded window, and wondered how that could possibly be true.
“Have you seen any ...” I began searching for the right words, “really big birds?”
“Seagulls!” he said. “They’re like monsters around here!” He laughed a little. Laughed? Had he seen the same birds that I had seen?
“Don’t look so worried,” he told me, putting a friendly arm around my shoulder. I flinched — no part of me had ever been touched by anyone this beautiful before. My lips felt jealous of my shoulder.
As I turned into his embrace, our mouths were just inches apart. I felt as though I was committing adultery simply by breathing the same air as this slab of manly perfection.
“Hello?” called somebody.
I was inclined to ignore the somebody, but chose not to only because the handyman would have thought me rude. I was surprised to find myself feeling mildly violent urges toward the owner of the intrusive, fluffy, high-pitched voice.
“Biff,” said the handyman. My thoughts exactly. “My name is Biff.”
“Oh, I see. Dee, Dee Whittaker.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Dee Whittaker,” he said. I noticed that even my own name sounded sexier when processed by him — his throat, his voice box, his tongue ...
“Hello?” called the voice again.
“All right!” I responded, scurrying around to the front of the house. I glanced back one more time, just in case this was the last time I ever saw the beauty that was Biff the handyman.
From a distance, Annabel Fleming looked like a sophisticated, elegant woman. She had tidy, dark hair, held back in a loose asymmetrical bun; a silk necktie; and a cream blouse that tapered down into a black pencil skirt. She looked a little like a 1960s secretary, and I could live with that.
Up close, however, she looked like an inflatable sex doll. I could see her red satin bra shining through the flimsy fabric of her blouse, and, when she turned to pick up her pink ‘Hello Kitty’ case, the excessively long split in her skirt made it clear that the bra was part of a matching set. She wore heavy makeup that detracted from her naturally pleasing facial structure. Her lips were painted a bright, glossy pink and her resting expression left them slightly parted, like a miniature letterbox waiting for a delivery.
“I’m Annabel,” she told me, outstretching a perfectly manicured hand. I mentally skimmed my virtual bookshelf. Had I read anything by an Annabel? I didn’t think so, unless she had a different pen name. “Are you Jan’s replacement?” she asked me. “Such a shame she’s not coming. I’m gutted that I won’t get to meet a top writer.”
“I’m Dee Whittaker,” I replied, trying not to seem put out.
“What have you written?” she asked. Her voice was high-pitched and fluffy, and I wondered whether I could detect a hint of a Welsh accent.
“The Red River.”
“No,” she said, sounding vacant.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Falling for Flatley.”
“I haven’t read that one yet,” I said politely. Actually, I hadn’t even heard of Falling for Flatley, but it seemed unkind to say so.
“Don’t you read much?” she asked abruptly.
“I read quite a lot. What sort of book is it?”
“It’s a romance.”
“Ah.” Now it was clear to me why I had never downloaded so much as a sample of Annabel’s book. I couldn’t stand romances, unless the hero ended up accidentally eating the heroine’s gerbil, or something similarly dark.
“It’s a number one best-seller!” she added, proudly.
“Really? Well done!”
“Yes, it got to the top of Welsh contemporary romantic suspense fiction priced at under two pounds for three hours!”
The wind blew Annabel’s flimsy blouse slightly further open, revealing that her dazzling bra had a rose print. I saw her look down, her eyes drinking in the risqué clothing situation, but she chose to do nothing about it.
“I’ve heard that Rafe Maddocks is coming. I can’t wait to meet him,” she sang.
Now there was a name that did ring a bell. In fact, at least one of his books was on my Kindle right now, waiting its turn to be read. “I haven’t read Disgracebook yet,” I told her, “But I’ve heard that it’s cracking.”
“Oh, neither have I, but I know he’s gorgeous.”
I looked at Annabel with her dark red nails, seamed stockings and kitten heels, wondering why she was here. This weekend was supposed to be about writing, about following dreams and expanding the mind, not drooling over some apparently tasty author. Were the dangling gold earrings for his benefit, or did she generally like to be a walking tangling hazard?
Feeling squeamish, I tapped my own lugholes. They weren’t even pierced. I had attached earlobes and I wanted them to stay that way. Still, what did I know? It was years since I’d pulled a new man. Perhaps these days you couldn’t get to second base without a cover story and splattering of cosmetics. Perhaps they didn’t even call it ‘second base’ any more.
An image of Biff handling an axe leapt into my mind and I felt slightly ashamed — damn my talent for identifying hypocrisy. I reminded myself that I hadn’t known that Biff would be here. Besides, I wasn’t actually planning to act on his hotness. He was out of my league, for sure. (Wasn’t he?) (Probably.) More importantly, I was a married woman! Perhaps in name alone, but even so there was moving on, and then there was moving on.
I would force myself to focus on my writing. After all, that’s what I was here for. Lustful, well-presented Annabel was an ir
ritating reminder that there was more to life, and I could do without that today, thank you very much.
“Perhaps you’ve seen my book,” said Annabel. “It has a photo of me on the cover.”
Of course it did. She probably wrote the book so that she had a guaranteed modelling job. Not that it would be hard for her to find work as a model, I reluctantly admitted. She was exceptionally good-looking, tarty topping aside. Why did somebody so obviously well-formed feel the need to put so much effort into surface detail?
“What happens in The Red River?” she asked.
“Well, it’s kind of a satirical piece, looking at Brits and our reaction to the recession, particularly some of Gordon Brown’s handiwork but focussing on the coalition too. It’s a comic whodunit on the surface, but really it’s about greed, entitlement and job satisfaction. It also has undercurrents of more interpersonal themes like honesty and commitment during the lads’ mag era.”
“Oh.”
“What happens in Falling for Flatley?”
“Well, it’s about this girl, and she falls for a man called Flatley.”
“Yes?”
There was a long, awkward pause.
“And ...?” I enquired.
“Well, that’s it. That’s the story.”
“Oh.”
She started to laugh. “No, I’m messing with you, there’s more to it than that.”
I smiled, relieved. Perhaps she was wittier than I had given her credit for.
“He’s her boss.”
“Okay.”
“That’s the twist. He’s her boss.”
“Oh.”
“Otherwise, it would be boring.”
God forbid.
The awkward silence that followed might well have gone on forever had it not been for the arrival of another guest. At first, when I heard substantial footsteps on the path, I considered the possibility that a giant was approaching. Fee-fi-fo-fum! However, rational Dee kicked in, and I ventured to take a look.
I immediately recoiled, shading my eyes. Before me stood a psychedelic blob. The giant bosom around its waist told me that this was a woman. She was wearing the most garish top I had ever seen. It was bright pink with a pattern of yellow concentric circles. I wished I’d brought sunglasses. Aside from the overwhelming brightness, something else disturbed me about the top. When my eyes recovered and were able to focus, I realised that the yellow circles reminded me of seagulls’ eyes.
“Don’t worry! I’m here!” she sang. She had a slow-paced, cuddly voice and I might have warmed to her a little, had her words not been laced with self-importance. “Isn’t this an inspiring place?” she continued. “Doesn’t it make your creative juices ooze from every pore in your body?”
I looked at her enormous figure and wondered exactly how many pores there were on a surface area so vast. I found myself wondering idly whether fat people have more pores, or just further-apart pores. I concluded it was the latter and decided it was best not to ask this woman for clarification.
“Is Rafe Maddocks here yet? I want to talk to him about the rumpy-pumpy at location 8002 — very saucy!”
What was the fascination with Rafe Maddocks? Sure, I’d heard of his book, but I had no idea that he was something of a sex icon. I tried to remember what his avatar was on the forum, feeling sure I would have noticed if he were abnormally delicious.
“He’s not here yet!” explained Annabel, as if it was something of a crime.
“You must be Annabel,” said the woman. “I recognise you from your avatar.”
“And book cover!” she squeaked.
“Of course,” smiled the woman. Then she turned to me, “Are you the cleaner?”
“I’m Dee Whittaker!”
“Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t know what you looked like! I don’t know much about you at all, actually, because you’re such a late comer to the project. I mean, it’s great that you could come at short notice. I bet Jan Harper will kick herself for missing this. Mother’s funeral, apparently.”
“Oh, goodness. Poor Jan. Was her mother very old?”
“I’m Dawn Mann,” she said, ignoring my question. Then she added, in a typically English accent, “Buenas tardes, Senorita!”
I recognised the name. Dawn was one of the forum moderators and also a rather successful indie writer. Although I’d never actually looked at one of her eBooks, I knew that they had done so well that she was in the process of setting up a print-on-demand paperback.
I’d had an image of Dawn in my mind; I imagined her as a slightly chubby maternal figure. When I say slightly chubby, I don’t mean morbidly obese, yet there she was before me, all twenty-five stone of her. My mind was barely capable of absorbing such proportions. Still, she was a very prolific writer. You’re bound to put on a few pounds when you spend all day with a word processor.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, with a smile.
“I’m one of the moderators,” she told me.
“I know.”
This seemed to please her. She beamed. “Gracias! Oh, you’ll have to forgive the Spanish. I’m off to la Costa del Sol next week for a month!” said Dawn. Then, she turned to Annabel. “I loved Falling for Flatley. What a great idea for a book! I just died when the boss confessed his love for her.”
This time, it was Annabel’s turn to glow. “Thanks,” she gushed, with a big, satisfied grin. “Most of my reviewers like that moment,” she said. Then her face contorted, demonstrating genuine agony. “At least, the satisfied ones do.”
“Oh, don’t worry about bad reviews, dahling. Some people don’t have a romantic bone in their body.”
“How do you deal with your bad reviews?” Annabel asked, innocently.
Dawn was noticeably annoyed. Then she put on a big, false, motherly smile. “When you write in a niche, like you and I do, you have to be prepared for mixed reviews.”
“What sort of books do you write?” I asked Dawn, feeling sure there was nothing niche about it.
“Crime thrillers,” she said.
Sigh.
Annabel plucked a makeup mirror out of thin air, and began fiddling with a pink lip liner.
Dawn adjusted her posture. When fully erect, she was at least five foot ten. For some reason, my mind projected an enormous fuchsia fascinator onto her head. And I don’t just mean the colour, there would be an entire plant on her head with live flowers trailing from it.
Her grey-brown hair may once have been cut into a neat bob, but currently hung down the side of her chubby cheeks in wavy clumps. The occasional wisp had broken free, spiralling away into the atmosphere.
I wondered how old she was — at least fifty — but then I became sucked into the more interesting task of wondering whether she could fit her nipple into her own belly button.
“Penny for them?” requested Dawn.
“Huh?”
“Penny for your thoughts.”
I decided that no matter how high on the agenda self-expression might be, asking one of the moderators about the malleability of her boobs might not be a good idea. “I was thinking about puppies,” I lied.
“Oh!” squeaked Annabel, clutching her delicate heart.
Suddenly, a Dalek-like voice interrupted. “Perhaps she should be thinking about going inside.”
When I looked around, I noticed a wiry little man with hunched shoulders and thinning mousy-grey hair. When had he arrived?
The wind caught a central chunk of his hair. Despite a cropped haircut, this section of hair had been kept long, presumably to simulate thickness. Perhaps in a vacuum it may have looked fetching, but in the breeze the chunk stood on end like the horn of a bizarre unicorn, accentuating the slightly receding corners of his hairline.
The man looked very small and timid, and not just because he was next to Dawn Mann. When I smiled at him, he looked away and blinked rapidly.
“Ah,” said Dawn, “Danger Smith. Buenas tardes!”
Danger?
“Hello, you must be Dawn. Unless you ar
e Dee ...”
“She’s Dawn!” I responded quickly.
“It is cold. Can we go inside?”
His voice was slow-paced, slightly nasal and flat. It could easily have been mistaken for a speech synthesiser. Talk about expressionless. Still, he was a writer not a radio presenter; it didn’t matter how monotonous his voice might be, as long as his books were interesting.
“What was your last book called?” I asked.
“There wasn’t one.”
“Oh.”
Dawn cut in. “Danger is here so that he can learn from the masters.”
“Is Rafe Maddocks here?” he asked. “He owes me a fiver.”
* * *
The atmosphere inside Pompomberry House was much like the atmosphere outside. Paint and wallpaper peeled from the walls. Ornaments were broken, dusty and dirty. The place was cluttered with furniture, but little of it looked usable. The best chairs rocked, the worst chairs collapsed. Bookshelves were rotten, riddled with woodworm and often warped. Books were bound with leather and heavy with dust.
The living room wasn’t quite as bad. Biff had taken the boards off the windows, allowing the sun to shine in. Light illuminated the dust and created peculiar patterns on the threadbare carpet. The windowpanes were cracked in three places and I felt as though a gust of wind might shatter them completely, showering us with mosaics of glass. Still, I was grateful for the view. After a few metres, the overgrown garden gave way to coast, and I could see the sea for miles around. A few white horses danced in the sunlight, but generally the water was flat. I found myself wondering what it would be like on Pompomberry Island during a storm — magical but terrifying!
Opposite the window was a large dusty blackboard, mostly obscured by Dawn Mann who seemed to be excited about something. She poured herself a generous glass of merlot and passed around the dregs of the bottle.
“Welcome to the forum’s first writers’ weekend,” she sounded, with open arms and a beaming grin. “Let the big, creative ejaculation begin!”
Pompomberry House Page 2