Pompomberry House

by Trevithick, Rosen

  Just as I thought he was about to disappear into the hall of moving on, he turned back to face me. His emerald eyes drove into me. “Can I just ask why?” he pleaded.

  I stared back at him, saying nothing.

  “Lady bleeds?” he asked.

  “What? No!”

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  “No!”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s not why ...”

  His face changed to one of comfort and contentment. His big, self-satisfied grin screamed, ‘Say no more!’. He blew me a kiss and vanished.

  I waited until he had left the room before rolling my eyes as they’d never rolled before. I saw parts of my eye sockets that I never knew existed.

  Perhaps it was time to go to bed. Drunken Montgomery was like normal Montgomery, only more pronounced. Drunken Dawn was like normal Dawn, only more loud. Drunken Danger was like normal Danger, only more quiet. And it wouldn’t be long before I would hear Annabel squeal with delight as Rafe chased her little size-ten ankles up the stairs.

  As I neared the kitchen, I saw that the light was on. That was odd; I thought everybody was in the dining room. Then I remembered somebody else on the island — somebody whom I’d been trying my hardest to overlook.

  I crept closer, as if seeing him might somehow harm me. I could hear talking. With whom could he be speaking? There was nobody else in the kitchen.

  Feeling like a naughty child out of bed after lights-out, I peered through the inviting crack between the heavy door and the granite wall — a tiny window into the world of Biff. There he was, sipping a mug of something steamy, like a sexy, strapping actor plucked straight from a coffee advert.

  What was the matter with me? In the last ten years, I’d been intimate with only one man. Yet here I was, mentally inventing anatomically impossible sexual positions for a man so different from my usual type that they wouldn’t even be in the same episode of a wildlife show.

  Eventually, I realised that he wasn’t having a conversation, but watching something on a laptop.

  Then I heard a familiar voice croon, “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

  “Oh my God!” I cried, pushing open the door and barging into the kitchen. “You’re watching Arrested Development.”

  “I am. You know it?”

  “Know it? It’s my favourite!”

  “Pull up a stool!”

  “Is it safe?” I asked, wobbling on a broken stool, whilst secretly enjoying the metaphor for the perils of spending time with Biff.

  What was I so afraid of? My marriage was over. The decision had been made. The relevant party had been informed. Six whole days had passed. Watching television with a hottie was acceptable now, perhaps even something to be actively encouraged.

  He looked at me with penetrating steel blue eyes. In return I managed a weak, timid smile.

  “How come you’re still here?” I asked. “It’s really late.”

  “I stay the night sometimes, particularly when it’s rough.” His voice had a slight resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s — was it the rhythm, or the tone? Either way, it was working for me.

  “It’s not that rough out there.”

  “Well, I have to work here tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you not find it a bit ... spooky?”

  He chuckled quietly. “Enjoying the weekend are you?”

  “It’s all right,” I lied.

  “You feel a little disillusioned?”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” I lied, with a little smile.

  “I liked the inspirational exercise.”

  “Oh, you heard that.”

  “Journey. Gurney,” he said, draining all of the emotion from his voice, to match Danger’s.

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting Stephen Leather to turn up.”

  “What about Stephen Acrylic, or Stephen Polycotton?”

  “I’ve heard he’s coming tomorrow,” I laughed. “You seem to know a lot about it. Are you a writer?”

  “No, but I read.”

  “What sort of things do you read?”

  “I enjoyed The Red River.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “I loved the bits about lads’ mags.”

  He’s read my book. This gorgeous, Arrested Development-loving, hunk of a man has read my book.

  “It was a relief to read something a bit different, after trudging through Montgomery’s entire series.”

  “You read all four?”

  “Yeah,” he said, grimly.

  “I heard they’re well-written.”

  “They’re all the same, a vigilante tax lawyer goes around assassinating criminals in his firm’s client base.”

  “Why a tax lawyer? I mean surely a criminal lawyer would make more sense.”

  “I have no idea. Maybe it had never been done before.”

  “God forbid.”

  Our eyes met, and we both smiled, then I looked away quickly. We were close together now, and I felt if I got any nearer, his magnetic field would suck me in, and I’d stick to him. My back would be jammed against him whilst my limbs flailed around as I screamed, “Help! I’m not ready to move on!”

  I wasn’t ready to move on, was I? From my stool, a mere foot away from his, I could smell his scent — earthy, like pine soap. Mmm ... pine soap. What? When did I develop a liking for pine soap?

  We must have sat there for ages, watching episode upon episode, and chatting about the world. It was lovely to talk about silly, mindless things and not have to think about sabotaged tyres, vengeful road kill and the many other things that had occupied my headspace since I’d gotten to Cornwall.

  The next thing I knew, I looked at my watch and it was 3am. “I have to go to bed!”

  He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and forced a frown. He tilted his beautiful head to one side, and stuck out his bottom lip. It was a difficult face to say no to.

  “Really,” I said firmly. “I have a long day ahead of me.”

  “I understand,” he said. Then, he held me firmly, took off my cap, and kissed me gently on the forehead.

  It was perfect.

  My first kiss as a single woman. It sent a tingle sprinting down my spine like a tingle panther.

  I took Biff’s hand, squeezed it, and wished him good night. Then I hurried towards the door. The tingle panther darted all over my back, like being massaged by an unruly feather duster.

  “Dee?” he voiced.

  No! Let me go now. Don’t ruin this by adding anything further.

  “Yes?” I asked, without looking back.

  “Dee, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?” I asked, turning to face him.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” he told me. “Forget I said anything.”

  Chapter 4

  I awoke to the sound of a cackle. As I opened my eyes, I thought I heard clapping but I soon realised it was not hands, but wings beating together.

  Then, it landed — a plump, gigantic white bird with grey wings. Was it the seagull? I studied it, as it studied me. It didn’t look as if it had been in an accident. But that glare ... that glare was unmistakable.

  Yet here I was, sitting in bed, watching it. Quickly, I scrambled out of bed, holding the duvet around me. Why was I hiding to preserve my dignity? It was a bird! Then, I realised I wasn’t hiding — I was protecting. That beak looked as though it could slice through diamonds; my body would be tissue paper to its sharp bill.

  I leaped towards the heavy sash window and wrenched it shut. The bird cackled again. I could swear it was laughing at me. Angrily, I closed the heavy curtains.

  The events of the day before came flooding back, and suddenly hiding in my room with just a seagull for company didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I wondered if I should just leave — call a break down service, get my tyres fixed and go, go as far away from here as I possibly could.

  No! I couldn’t think like that. I was an author and that meant hard work. I needed to get up. I ne
eded to contribute to the anthology. A short story collection published by the forum could be read by hundreds of people. It was essential that I took part.

  Biff’s face was becoming a regular feature in my mind, like one of those adverts that’s on during every single commercial break. I remembered the kiss — almost innocent, but just intimate enough to arouse my excitement.

  I quickly got dressed, deciding to wear my tortoiseshell cap again. I pulled on some faded jeans and a white t-shirt. Then hurried out onto the landing.

  “Morning!” sang a fluffy, soprano voice. I looked around. Oh no! It was the sex doll. Her hair was loose and her naturally olive skin had a pinkish glow. I knew immediately that she’d had sex.

  “Morning Annabel,” I said.

  She stepped into my path. She held out her fine, size-ten arm like somebody trying to build a barricade with a twig. Today she was wearing a pink blouse with at least two buttons removed from the top. “No hard feelings,” she begged.

  “About what?”

  “Rafe,” she purred, with a grin from hooped earring to hooped earring. She quickly added, “I slept with him!”

  “Oh, did you?” I asked, with false surprise. I wondered if she wanted a merit mark.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “The best woman won,” I said, as a means to getting past her. I was exceptionally hungry and impatient to find out whether there really were croissants for breakfast. Mmm ... pain au chocolat ...

  “We’re still friends?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s changed since yesterday,” I replied, deliberately leaving my remark open to interpretation.

  “Oh good!” she beamed. Then she grabbed me, wrapped both arms around my waist, and gave me a bear hug. I felt a little baffled by it. All I wanted was my breakfast.

  I was happy to hear that it would be a working breakfast. After yesterday and all the faffing around, I was keen to get started on the book.

  When I entered, Montgomery was mid-rant. He was dressed in another old-fashioned suit paired with navy and red striped slippers. As he shouted, his head flailed around, sending locks of grey hair flapping. The other writers sat around watching.

  “Why would she say that? What skin is it off her nose if we write another book?”

  The room burned with anger, like fire in hell.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “It’s Enid Kibbler!” he cried. “She just posted about the anthology we’re writing!”

  “She did? Well, what did she say?”

  “That she was considering sprinting here, just so that she could stop us polluting the interweb with more of our lowbrow drivel.”

  “Where did she write that?”

  “On the forum!”

  “Our forum?”

  “Yes!”

  “What is Enid Kibbler doing on a forum for indie writers?”

  “Poisoning!”

  “How do you know she’s commented?”

  “I checked the forum on my phone.”

  Dawn stepped in. She was wearing a lemon top and a turquoise skirt that looked as though it might once have been a tent. By ‘lemon top’, I don’t mean that it was a tasteful pale-yellow colour; pictures of the fruit were actually printed onto the fabric, in garish tones of yellowy-lime. “Dee is quite right, Monty. This is supposed to be a retreat. Turn your phone off.”

  “Who does she think she is?” he bellowed.

  I began to stutter, “I just ...”

  “Not you, I mean Enid!”

  “Phone off, Monty!” demanded Dawn.

  “You’ve got a new review,” he told her, changing the subject.

  “I have?” she asked, suddenly alert.

  “Yeah, it’s a Jellie Monsta.”

  “Oh great,” she said, sarcastically. “Nobody takes any notice of her reviews. She doesn’t even know the difference between double and single quotes.”

  Rafe spoke up. I noticed that whilst Annabel looked transformed by their night of passion (glowing and giggly), Rafe looked the same as ever. “Jellie Monsta interviewed me once. She asked me if I had kept any of my childhood toys. I mean, what sort of thing is that to ask a writer? Damned interview. Didn’t help me sell a single book.”

  “We mustn’t let people who don’t understand our art get us down,” Dawn explained, in encouraging tones. I was amazed by how rapidly she had switched from demanding to nurturing. “I do relate to your frustration though, Rafe. My first review was by Jellie Monsta. I was gutted, because there wasn’t a single line I could quote from it. Every single sentence contained a grammatical error.”

  “But it was kind of her to write a review though, wasn’t it?” I asked.

  “Oh, bless you!” chuckled Dawn.

  Montgomery walked past me, to get to the door. I detected the odour of mothballs.

  “Where are you going?” demanded Dawn.

  “Taking my phone up to my room,” he replied.

  “Well don’t!” she snapped. “I haven’t read my new review yet.”

  Breakfast was a tasty-looking spread, which could only mean that Dawn had had nothing to do with it. There were three types of cereal, four types of pastry, toast, juices, yoghurts and some little dark brown-red blobs that I couldn’t identify.

  “Do you like my pirate’s hearts?” asked Dawn.

  “What are they?” I enquired, poking one tentatively with a spoon.

  “Scones soaked in pig’s blood.”

  “Oh.” I quickly retreated. Perhaps Dawn had had something to do with breakfast.

  I expected her to be offended, but instead she leapt up in the air and shouted, “Bingo!” When she landed, the whole house quivered. Thank goodness the walls were made of granite. “I’ve been trying to think of a different sort of heroine for my stories, and now I’ve got it!”

  We all made enquiring noises and looked at her with curiosity.

  “A pig!” she shouted. “My short story is going to be about a pig — a pig that falls off a cliff.”

  “Brilliant!” cried Montgomery. “That’s just what your writing needs, a fresh perspective.”

  “A pig’s a great idea,” said Rafe, punching her gently in the upper arm. Dawn’s face blazed with pleasure.

  Annabel immediately turned green. “I’ve got a new idea for a protagonist too!” she shrieked. Her gaze darted around the room, until it fell upon a broken garden ornament outside the window.

  “Oh do tell!” pleaded Montgomery, apparently in full sincerity.

  “Well isn’t this exciting?” chuckled Dawn. “Ideas flying in from all directions like rabid locusts of inspiration.”

  Um ...

  “My new protagonist is going to be ...” began Annabel, then she paused for effect. When she was satisfied that everybody was looking at her, she continued, “a garden gnome.”

  The room was silent. Nobody spoke. Nobody enthused. What was the matter with these people? In what way was a pig a good idea, but a gnome a bad one? Then, I realised that it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was a pause of awe. The others looked at her, with deep admiration, until finally Montgomery broke the silence, “Bravo!”

  “It’s going to be a romance!” she squealed, as if delivering surprising news. “A china doll falls in love with a garden gnome and they get married on a beach.”

  The others started cooing, as if there was nothing more charming than an expressionless doll falling for a cheeky bearded chap with a penchant for goldfish fishing.

  Dawn didn’t like Annabel being in the spotlight. “Of course,” she interrupted, “I’ll have to do some research into livestock. I don’t want to lose realism.”

  It’s a pig falling off a cliff? In what way is that even going to flirt with realism?

  “I’m so glad I suggested this place!” announced Dawn. “It’s inspiring everybody.”

  “I know what you mean,” agreed Rafe. “I have two ideas.”

  “Two ideas?” chorused at least three of the ot
hers.

  “Yes! This place is just so inspiring, that I can’t narrow it down to one.”

  “Well, we simply must hear them both!” begged Dawn.

  “All right,” began Rafe. He perched himself sideways on a chair, and poured himself a large coffee from a sparkling cafetière. He inhaled deeply, combing back his floppy dark hair with his lengthy fingers. “One is inspired by the storm, and a comment I made yesterday about cannibalism.”

  I frowned, remembering yesterday’s remarks and how disturbing they’d seemed at the time. However, now that it was daylight and the storm had largely subsided, I felt a little foolish for being so over-sensitive.

  “Yes! The more I think about it, the more I like it! Six stranded strangers ... Now obviously, a group of survivors having to eat one of their number has been done before, usually as a thriller. So, my story would be a comedy — black, obviously — to make it a bit different. They would bicker and fight. There would be romance, backstabbing and lots of carefully chosen idioms about food ... It’d take elements of well-known disaster movies, to make it almost a parody, but also, it could satirise consumerism in the twenty-first century ...”

  Surprisingly, I found myself a little impressed. Ideas for further development popped into my mind. Food idioms flooded my mind. This was an idea he could really sink his teeth into.

  “Or,” he continued, “there’s my other idea: a couple experiencing marital difficulties both hire the same private detective to investigate the other.”

  “Oh! I like that one!” enthused Annabel.

  “The second one sounds more up my alley too,” agreed Montgomery.

  “The first one’s a bit complicated, isn’t it?” mused Dawn. “I mean, for a short story.”

  “Some people might find the first one tasteless,” Danger pointed out.

  “That’s true,” granted Dawn. “We have to remember that this book could be read by anybody in the forum.”

  “And who doesn’t love a good romantic comedy?” added Annabel, using her love-struck face again.

  What was wrong with these people? The rom-com was boring, unoriginal and I could already guess the entire plot. The black comedy, on the other hand, had hoards of potential. And would cannibalism really offend people? We were all grown adults. It wasn’t as if anybody was likely to know somebody who’d been eaten by another human. This was twenty-first century England.