“But who else could have written it?” asked Rafe. “We’re the only ones here.”
“Are you sure the hat was empty when you lent it to us?” asked Dawn.
“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.”
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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?).
“I’m going for a drink,” I said, defiantly.
“We have sherry ...” tempted Dawn, holding up an almost empty bottle as I stomped out of the room. “It might even make your ideas flow a bit better.”
* * *
As much as I wanted to get away from Pompomberry House, and more importantly, the people in it, the prospect of getting lost in the country lanes, only to eventually drink alone, was not an enticing one.
I wondered if I should call him. It irked me that he was in Cornwall the same weekend as me. This was supposed to be about me getting away, about my freedom. At least I’d declined a lift from him. Car sharing with your ex is not a sign of independence, even if it does save on petrol and stop you having to fight over who gets the Lady Gaga CD.
Still, he’d apparently planned his visit to see his friend Jack before I booked my place on the writers’ weekend. It was just a coincidence. Nevertheless, it was one that made me greatly uncomfortable, particularly now, knowing how close I was to calling him.
No, I had to be strong. I had to get through the weekend without him, no matter how much I might fancy sitting with him in a pub, laughing about Rafe’s ego, Dawn and Montgomery’s secret rivalry, and Danger picking every possible orifice with anything that happened to be to hand.
I went up to my room to get my bag. The room was a peculiar affair, with a four-poster bed. Dusty purple drapes, too thick and heavy to open fully, blocked any light the room might have had.
Looking out the window, I wondered whether Biff was out there. I cursed the remaining sliver of a waning moon, which did nothing to light up the night. A dark cloud passed in front of the moon and I heard a thunder clap in the distance. Was it wise to go outside?
I’d only been here a few hours and already I had cabin fever. Perhaps I should persevere with these people. Had I really given them a fair chance?
Suddenly, the door opened. I looked around and saw a slim but curvy figure posed in the hallway, one knee slightly angled, like a catwalk model.<
br />
“Yes, Annabel?” I asked, abruptly.
“I know why you’re leaving,” she said. What was this? Perception? I wondered, for one crazy moment, if I’d gotten her all wrong.
“I’m not leaving, I’m going for a drink.”
“It’s because of me and Rafe, isn’t it?”
Well, you’re two-fifths of the way there. “Huh?”
“The sexual chemistry I mean, obviously.”
If, by ‘sexual chemistry’, she meant her gawking at him whenever she thought nobody was looking, then yes, I had noticed, but it was one of many things that annoyed me.
“You like him, don’t you?” she said softly, looking at me with pitying eyes.
No, he’s a slippery creep. “I hardly know him.”
“But you do like him.”
“Not especially, no. Not in the way that I think you think I like him.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I can assure you, Annabel, I have no romantic interest in Rafe Maddocks.”
“Fine,” she snapped, stamping her kitten heel against the wooden floor. Clack. “Have it your way.”
I turned to pick up my tortoiseshell cap, feeling it was time for a change in headwear.
“We could have been BFFs, you and I.”
“Huh?”
“Best friends forever!”
I grabbed my chunky yellow scarf.
“You’ve chosen your path — your lying path!” she snarled. Her lips shrivelled like discarded apple peel.
I tightened the laces on my purple Converse shoes and stood up again.
Suddenly, she raised her elbow, and pushed her forearm against my neck, in the manner that you might use if you planned to shove somebody up against a wall. However, she used no force whatsoever and so we just stood, face-to-face, in a rather peculiar position. I noticed that her perfume was synthetic and disgustingly sweet.
“Back off!” she cried.
“Off where? I’m not on. You can have him.”
Her big, brown eyes narrowed. “Aw!” she cooed, stepping back and putting her arms back by her side. She looked at me from beneath arched eyebrows, adopting an expression usually reserved for cats and babies. “You really mean that?”
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