The thing is still for a clear thirteen minutes but that doesn’t mean I can relax. It wants me to relax. It’s waiting for me to let my guard down.
Making as little noise as I can, I drop the magazine, and put my hands on the arms of the chair. I push my weight up onto my arms and lean forward so that I’m squatting on the seat rather than sitting. Thing still in sight? Check.
I turn towards the sofa. What’s the best way to do this? Slow and stealthy or as fast as possible? Slow and stealthy has worked this far. Very carefully I stand up on my chair and start to move. I just need to edge along the sofa and then I can hop straight into the hallway. Freedom.
As I take the first step over the arm of the chair and onto the sofa, it moves straight towards me across the middle of the room. Slow and stealthy is out the window. I bounce across the sofa and leap through the open door. Forgetting the plan, I dash across the hallway and out the front door.
In the communal stairwell I stop, jamming my foot in the door so it doesn’t lock behind me. I breathe.
Situation review: Thing? Out of view. Must be assumed to have taken control of all territory inside the flat. Me? Standing on communal landing in shortie pyjamas and one shoe.
‘What are you doing?’
Voice behind me? Unfamiliar.
I turn round. The speaker is in his early, or maybe mid, twenties. He’s holding a dining chair, and, to his great credit, trying really hard not to stare at my boobs or legs. In fact, he’s looking very intently at a spot about three inches to the left of my ear. I notice that the door across the hall is propped open with a box.
‘Moving in?’ I ask brightly, deciding not to dwell on what I’m doing.
He nods, puts the dining chair down and holds out a hand. ‘I’m Adam.’
I shake the hand. ‘Hannah.’
‘Right.’ He pauses, allowing his eyes to skim across my clearly-not-leaving-the-house attire. ‘Well, I’ll let you get back inside.’
‘Good. Great.’ At this point I could still come out of this looking normal. I could simply have been checking the post or taking some rubbish out. That would not be totally insane. All I need to do is walk back inside and I’ll still look like a functioning grown-up.
I push the door open further and peer into the flat. I can’t see it. It’s not there. It must still be in the living room. Or not? There’s a cupboard in the hallway and a coat stand. It could be behind either of those. Waiting.
God! I wish Neil was here. No, I don’t. Neil’s gone. That’s good. He’s dealing with some other girl’s crises now. I don’t need him. In my mind I list all the things I’ve done on my own since he went: I got the car serviced and successfully argued about the price when they ramped it up to little-woman-who-doesn’t-know-cars levels; I tiled the bathroom; I made tea for my sister while she retiled the bathroom. But that’s fine because tiling ability is not a key indicator of independence.
I’m still not technically inside.
‘Seriously, are you OK?’
Same voice. Same guy.
‘I’m fine.’
He shoots an eyebrow upwards. ‘You don’t seem fine.’
I don’t answer.
‘OK. You’re the quiet type. Am I allowed to guess?’
I lean myself against the doorframe where I can look at him and still sneak glances back into the flat in case of sudden movement. It’s ridiculous, but so long as he’s guessing I don’t have to go back inside. I nod.
‘Right. You’re an assassin who’s been sent to take down the owner of this flat –’
‘Why would I be in pyjamas?’
‘Good point. You’re not an assassin. You’re a supermodel, shooting a nightwear campaign –’
‘So why aren’t I being photographed?’
‘You snuck out to find food, because your manager only lets you have one grape and a celery stick per week.’
I laugh, and then I remember that I’m not supposed to be enjoying myself with men because I’m sad about Neil. Then I remember that I’m not supposed to be enjoying myself at all until I’ve worked out how to regain possession of my flat. I stop laughing.
‘I’m not a supermodel.’
‘Shame.’ He grins. ‘So you actually live here?’
I nod.
‘And you’ve got a horribly misjudged one-night stand in there who’s refusing to leave?’
‘No.’
‘No one-night stand. Boyfriend then?’
I shake my head.
‘Husband?’
I shake my head.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘No.’
He sighs. ‘I could’ve helped with the one-night stand.’
‘How?’
‘By pretending to be your very jealous boyfriend.’
I’m not sure what to say to that. I scan my eyes back across the hallway: still no movement. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s in there somewhere.
‘You’re really not going to tell me?’
I shake my head. I’m dealing with it on my own.
‘But you do live here? I don’t need to call the police or anything?’
‘I live here.’
‘Right. Well, I’d better get back to unpacking.’
He heads back down the stairs. He must have a van outside. That gives me about a minute, probably, to be out of the stairwell before he comes back. Being caught like this once was OK. Twice was eccentric. Three times might burn bridges.
I push the door completely open and force myself to take a big step into the flat. Straightaway I see it. It runs from the living room right out into the hallway and stops about a metre in front of me. I’m genuinely stuck here now. My brain tells my feet to back out into the hallway. Then it tells them to move against the wall and edge past it. My feet overrule my brain.
‘Seriously, are you OK?’
He’s behind me again, in the doorway. I don’t turn around. I just lift one arm and point very slowly at the spider. I can feel his breath on my neck as he looks over my shoulder.
‘Don’t laugh.’
He laughs.
I try to keep my voice as low as possible, in case shouting might make it come at me. ‘It’s a phobia. It’s not weird.’
‘OK. What do you normally do?’
‘Neil deals with them.’
‘Neil?’
‘Doesn’t live here anymore.’
‘Right.’
I feel him step away. ‘Don’t go.’ I hiss the words.
He’s leaving me on my own.
A few seconds later he’s back. He moves slowly to stand alongside me. ‘Hold out your hands.’
I do as I’m told. He places a pint glass in one hand and a postcard in the other.
‘What am I supposed to do with these?’
‘Glass over the spider. Card underneath. Take the whole lot outside and let him go.’
‘It’s not a “him”. It’s an “it”.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘Sure, but what about next time?’
He’s right. I really hate him for it, but he’s right. ‘Neil used to kill them.’
‘Neil sounds like a jerk.’
‘You know nothing about him.’
‘Tell me something.’
I can only think of one thing. ‘He cheated.’
‘See. Jerk.’ He puts a hand on the small of my back. ‘Is that OK?’ His touch is warm and I realise it’s the first time I’ve felt something that isn’t anger or fear for a very long time. I nod. Very gently, he edges me forward. ‘Off you go.’
I step out of my remaining flip-flop. Bare feet will be quieter on the carpet. My steps are tiny, tentative, but the spider doesn’t budge. I’m about a foot away now. Close enough to lean over and drop the glass onto it. I hold my breath, lean as far forward as I dare and drop. The glass goes clean over the spider. I breathe again.
His hand moves away and a tiny round of applause breaks out behind me. ‘Keep going.’
<
br /> I kneel down next to the glass and peer at my hostage. Trapped under glass, it looks remarkably placid. I place the postcard on the floor next to the glass and start to slide. It goes under easily. I have the spider ready to be taken far far away.
‘Now pick it up.’
I’m less sure about this bit. I’ll actually have it in my hands. The thought makes me feel sick, but giving up isn’t an option. If I only learn to get this far, I’ll end up with a flat full of trapped spiders and nothing to drink from.
I slide my fingers under the edge of the card and grip the glass with the other hand. As soon as I’ve got it off the ground I run for the open kitchen window and hurl the whole lot outside. I hear it smash on the pavement below.
‘Oh my God!’
I lean out of the window. There’s no one around, just a lot of broken glass on the floor.
‘I’m really sorry.’
He’s laughing a big laugh that goes all the way from his mouth to his eyes. He swallows twice before he can speak. ‘It’s OK. You just got a bit carried away.’
‘I’d better clear that up.’
He nods. ‘Maybe put some clothes on first.’
‘Yeah.’ I’d sort of forgotten that I was wearing next to nothing all the time that his hand was on my back and his breath was on my neck.
‘I’d better get on.’
‘OK.’ My insides are all swirly, which I’m completely sure is from the excitement of overcoming my fear. I add that to list of things I’ve achieved without Neil. Life is actually going on. I’m managing. I’m independent, which, apparently, isn’t the same as on my own.
‘Adam?’
He stops. ‘Yeah?’
‘I’ll pay you for the glass.’
‘It’s just a glass.’
‘But –’ be brave ‘ –I could help you unpack or something. If you want.’
‘Cool.’ He smiles.
And I smile too.
Situation review: Improving.
The Eighth Promise
Jenny Harper
Jenny Harper
JENNY was born in Calcutta –hence her fascination with this buzzing city –but she now lives in Edinburgh, Scotland. She’s seen all sides of the publishing business as a commissioning editor, journalist and novelist.
Her published books include Face the Wind and Fly and Loving Susie, a children’s novel and a number of books on Scotland and Scottish themes. Her history of childbirth, With Child, Birth Through the Ages (written as Jenny Carter), is used as a reference by many historical novelists. It’s still available on Amazon!
Awards
Jenny was runner-up for the BBC Woman’s Hour/ Woman’s Weekly Romantic Novelist of the Year and winner of the RNA’s Elizabeth Goudge Award, as well as being awarded numerous awards for feature writing and magazine design.
RNA
Designed the RNA magazine Romance Matters
2006–2012, and Fabulous at Fifty, the RNA memoir
Oversaw the RNA rebranding
Novels
Face the wind and fly
Loving Susie http://www.jennyharperauthor.co.uk/ Or go to Twitter @harper_jenny or find her on Facebook http://novelpointsofview.blogspot.co.uk/
The Eighth Promise
Scorn is a double-edged knife. You can retreat, mortally wounded, from its thrust, or turn it aside by meeting steel with steel.
When Edward Massinger –smart as a whip in his new uniform –looked at me with his dark eyes and said, ‘I feel sorry for you,’ a fuse began to burn towards all the anger I held within me. Besides, it was the second time I had met him and the memory of the first encounter was still livid.
I sailed to India in the summer of 1939 with a rebellious heart and absolutely no intention whatsoever of looking for a husband. This was no ‘fishing trip’. I was twenty-two years old and bright as a silver button. No mere man was going to come between me and my ambition.
‘I work for Vogue,’ I repeated to everyone on the ship who was foolish enough to ask me about myself. ‘Yes, in the fashion department, naturellement. I look after the photographers. Yes, it’s so exciting I can hardly bear to leave it even for a short break.’
In truth, my job was a lowly one. I was a general assistant, a gofer, a dogsbody. I made tea, ran errands for the photographers and made sure that the demands of the models were accommodated. I didn’t divulge that, naturally, and in any case, it didn’t really matter because I was learning the trade. I was young, pretty, starry-eyed and happier than I could ever remember being.
The letter from my mother would have been rapturously welcomed at any other time in the preceding dozen or so years. Arriving, as it did, in the midst of the hectic run-up to Ascot, I read it with dismay.
Frank and Jean Arbuthnot
The Palm House
Ronaldshay Road,
Alipore
Calcutta
13th May, 1939
Darling Cecilia,
At last we have made provision for you to come and see us! Your father and I have waited so long for this day to come. We are now in Calcutta. Out in the sticks we felt so isolated it did not seem right to ask you to give up your life in the bright lights to join us, even for a short visit.
Father has been appointed headmaster of a very good school in this fine city. A house comes with the job –a big one at that –so you see, there is plenty of room for you.
Of course, we understand that you have obtained employment in London. However, my letter to your superiors has elicited the response we sought –you are to be given a three-month period of leave! Your ticket for the passage awaits you at the P&O offices in Cockspur Street and you will sail in June.
We are so excited about having you with us once more, even for the shortest of times.
Your ever-loving Mama
I had barely seen my parents since I was nine years old. Everyone knew that the intolerable heat of India, with all the inevitable disease it brought, made it a poor place to raise children, but even so, the shock I experienced at being sent to a boarding school in Perthshire was considerable.
The food there was appalling, the conditions spartan and the freezing winters well-nigh unbearable. I suffered chilblains on my toes and gained a lifelong aversion to rice pudding and outdoor games. I endured crippling homesickness for a year, and then spent my remaining eight years at school raging at my situation. By the time I was due to leave, I felt estranged from my parents –who had managed to visit me only twice –and I had no idea what I was going to do or where I would go.
It was Great Aunt Edie –my father’s aunt –who was my saviour.
‘I have found you a job, Cecilia,’ she wrote from London, just before I was due to leave St Margaret’s School for Girls in Crieff. ‘As an assistant at a magazine. You can stay with me in Cadogan Square.’
The thought of staying with Great Aunt Edie was daunting, to say the least. I had only met her once, years ago, and had a dim recollection of slenderness and elegance, of scent and the rustle of taffeta. I eyed my school blazer and despised green woollen skirt with embarrassment.
Cadogan Square, though, turned out to be a very smart address in central London and Great Aunt Edie a wise, funny and extremely well-connected woman. She was in her seventies and childless, and she was itching to spoil me. She bought me a whole collection of smart new clothes. She introduced me to the concept of elegance and modishness. And, joy of joys, the magazine where I was to work turned out to be Vogue, the grand arbiter of fashion.
My mother’s summons to Calcutta, just when I was settling in nicely was, therefore, far from welcome.
My friend Lottie was deeply envious. ‘Think of all the men you’ll meet, Ceci. That’s where every girl goes who wants to find a husband. Everyone knows that. They’re desperate for pretty girls out in India.’
‘But I don’t want a husband,’ I protested. ‘I want a career. And how can I achieve that if I’m shoved off to Calcutta?’
‘It’s only until September,’
Lottie said reasonably, her thick dark hair crimped and curled to within an inch of its life, her lips sweeping arcs of crimson. I thought Lottie the epitome of fashion and tried to copy her style, but I found that my own fine, blonde hair refused to hold a wave, and crimson against my fair skin looked like blood in the snow. Still, I was slimmer than Lottie, and I knew I was cleverer and I was happy to accept these trade-offs.
In the end, I had no choice and I suppose curiosity and the faint memories I still had of India and of my parents also acted as enticement. I sailed from Southampton at the end of June and it was impossible not to feel the excitement as the huge liner edged away from the quay to the cacophonous accompaniment of a dozen horns, a thousand ragged cheers and a cascade of coloured streamers.
I discovered a sport I did enjoy: flexing my charm muscles. By the time we sailed past Gibraltar, I had flirted with almost all of the men under thirty. By Malta, I had broken the hearts of those under forty. When we reached Port Said, I abandoned interest in all of them and became fascinated instead by the half dozen wealthy and darkly handsome Egyptian businessmen who came aboard with their retinues.
For some reason, I didn’t come across Edward Massinger until after we had sailed out of Colombo and were making our way up the east coast of the Indian sub-continent. I was at the captain’s cocktail reception in the imposing Grand Saloon. Great Aunt Edith had made me a parting present of an outrageously expensive gown, which I had donned for the occasion.
‘Balenciaga,’ I was declaiming to a circle of women who were clustered around me, admiring the dress, ‘is using soft blue this season. Chanel prefers coral. For myself, I’m more partial to the blue.’
There were appreciative murmurs, not just from the women but also from my usual group of hangers-on and hopefuls.
A voice came from the back of the crowd, deep, but dry as fine sherry. ‘I should have thought that khaki is more likely to be the colour next year.’
I craned my neck and spied a tall stranger with dark, slicked-back hair and fathomless eyes. Irritated at my flow being interrupted, I repeated, puzzled, ‘Khaki?’
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