The Single Girl’s Calendar

by Erin Green

  Within seconds, Esmé ran her fingers along the length of the lip edge trying to yank the plastic tray inside out. But the flat box would not give up the chocolate.

  Bloody manufacturers.

  Esmé peered inside the open edge to see that the inner sleeve, moulded to contain the chocolate slabs behind each door, was glued to the front facia of the calendar.

  Esmé stopped. It would be a shame to ruin the gift which had helped her so much these last two weeks, so she returned the calendar to the mantelpiece.

  I’ll leave it. Go without food tonight.

  Who was she kidding?

  Esmé took the calendar back to the bed and decided upon a plan.

  She began to peel open each door, remove the chocolate slab and attempt to close each door without looking at the revealed task.

  In ten minutes, the remaining sixteen doors were prised open, the chocolate slabs consumed and a guilt-ridden Esmé stared at her handiwork.

  Esmé flicked open a couple of the unread doors to view their tasks. Some of them seemed much easier than others.

  Plus, would it make sense if she chose her own order from now on?

  She ripped the sixteen future doors from their cardboard hinges and lined them up along her duvet. This was much better, it would give her far more control and she now had some notice and preparation time for certain tasks.

  Esmé felt a glow of positivity flow through her veins, she was in control despite what others may say. Greg may have stood her up, but tonight would end on a positive note. She pulled a plastic bag from beneath her bed: a child’s rucksack and a tube of brand new tennis balls. She opened the packaging on both items and eagerly filled the rucksack with the yellow balls before she heaved the tiny straps over her shoulders and attempted to lie on her back to road test her bright idea.

  Urgh, how uncomfortable was that?

  Marvellous, thought Esmé, a suitable solution to my irritating snoring habit. Ha, Asa would never embarrass her again by complaining about her lying on her back!

  Rap a tap tap.

  ‘Esmé?’

  ‘Yeah!’ she called, before clasping both hands over her mouth.

  Too late, I’ve blown it.

  ‘I’ve brought you a cuppa,’ said Asa, opening the door and bringing her mug into the darkened room. Esmé sat tall pretending she wasn’t wearing a child’s rucksack or been stood-up.

  ‘Thanks.’ Esmé scrutinised his expression, expecting to see a smirk, a grin or the slightest sign of smugness. Nothing, totally blank apart from his tattoo.

  ‘No worries,’ he said, heading straight out of her bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Day 17: Enjoy a relaxation and pampering session

  This was bliss.

  Esmé had the house to herself for an entire weekend. While the boys were away surfing in Newquay, this girl was planning to play, pamper, play. Esmé wrote her ‘Weekend To-do List’ as soon as she woke.

  Luxury bubble bath – full works, candles and wine

  Saturday night take away – delivered

  Bottle of Prosecco – purchased already

  Luxury manicure and pedicure appointments at Skin ‘n’ Tonic – booked for 4:30 p.m.

  Sunday morning breakfast and papers at the corner café

  Reading book – Marian Keyes

  First flute lesson from Grace

  Set up the sewing machine

  Watch an entire comedy box set

  Esmé had planned her perfect weekend. And now, she stood on the doorstep heartily waving goodbye to a camper van containing five males (housemates plus her brother) and enough beer to sink a battleship.

  ‘Bye, enjoy,’ she shouted as Russ turned over the engine of their hired vehicle. Jonah replied by signalling the VW hand gesture at the rear window, his tongue protruding down to his chin.

  ‘Just hurry up and go, please,’ muttered Esmé, eager to start her own weekend of pleasure. The vehicle shuddered, spluttered and then trundled off along Montague Road amidst a frenzy of waving hands and thumbs up.

  Esmé watched the cream and orange paintwork turn the far corner, she stepped gingerly along the pathway wearing only socks on her feet and peered down the street to ensure they had really gone.

  The road was empty. Esmé counted to ten in her head, then another ten just to be certain.

  The boys had gone.

  In utter delight, she ran back inside the house, dashed up the flights of stairs, grabbed her bottle of Prosecco from the carrier bag under her bed and flew back down to pop it inside the fridge door.

  She placed the take away delivery menu by the landline phone ready for this evening: king prawn chow mien, prawn toast and a small portion of BBQ ribs had her name written all over them.

  Esmé donned her rubber gloves and grabbed the cleaning products from under the sink to scrub her bathroom pristine so she could relax in peace in her bubble tub without the intrusion of male testosterone or floating chest hairs. On finishing the scrub, she placed her candle holders strategically along the window sill, the bath rollover top and the shelves – fetching the match box for use later.

  She lined up her bottles of frangipani lotion, bath bombs and moisturiser on the closed toilet seat in order of use. Her face pack and hair bobbles lay by the sink, alongside soft face cloths and her tweezers. Within thirty minutes of the men leaving Esmé was out of breath with her synchronised activity to ready the house for her own indulgence.

  And now, coffee.

  Esmé shunned her jar of instant, took the cafeteria instead and spooned in her favourite ground coffee while the kettle boiled.

  Nothing was going to ruin this weekend. Nothing.

  She plunged the cafeteria. Within five minutes, she was curled on the couch in the morning room with her creamy coffee and her new Marian Keyes novel. The spring sun streamed through the window, warming her face as she turned to page one. She brought the crisp fresh pages to her nose and inhaled deeply.

  Life didn’t get much better than this.

  Her manicure and pedicure were booked for four thirty but until then she could please herself. Esmé stretched out along the couch and spent an hour with her new book, while the dregs of her coffee cooled on the floor within reach of her right hand.

  Esmé dropped her hand over the side of the couch, felt for her coffee mug but snatched it back on feeling something strange.

  What the hell was that?

  She sat up, put down her book and peered over the cushion edge: nothing. Her coffee mug stood alone.

  Esmé returned to her reading, nothing was going to ruin her weekend.

  *

  Esmé wound her scarf around her lower chin and admired her beautiful nails crafted by Nina, whose healing hands had also worked wonders on Esmé’s aching feet. With a renewed spring in her step, she waved goodbye and left the salon. So far, she’d had the nicest of days, all by herself. Asa was so wrong. She was independent, she could plan and could choose to do exactly as she wished.

  Earlier she’d nipped next door to Grace for her first flute lesson. It was trickier than she’d expected; who’d have thought blowing across a flute head would be so difficult? But she’d created a squeak, eventually. After the lesson, she’d enjoyed a cosy cuppa with Grace and a giant piece of fruit cake.

  Now with sparkling new fingernails and pert fresh feet Esmé felt like dancing along Corporation Street. She hadn’t felt like this for such a long time…

  Maybe she and Andrew hadn’t been right for a while and she just hadn’t noticed. Obviously, he had. He’d made alternative arrangements.

  This is how life should feel, content and at peace with yourself.

  *

  Her bubble bath was sublime. Her wine chilled to perfection and the candle light allowed the worries of the past few weeks to melt away in a mellow glow. As her perfectly painted fingers and toes gently pickled beneath the bubbles Esmé lay back and enjoyed the silence of the house.

  Rarely was the house silent. With
Dam’s constant coming and going, Jonah with his loud and proud ego, Russ with his daddy duties. And Asa with his crazy shift work that meant he came and went at all hours. It made for a house that revolved with bodies, voices and the front door constantly slamming… it really was a busy household… but…

  What was that?

  Something caught her eye by the skirting board.

  Esmé sat up, leant over the bath’s roll top edge and stared around the floor: nothing.

  That’s twice today.

  She slid back beneath her bubbles, eyes fixed on the skirting board for several minutes.

  Stop being so stupid, it’s your imagination playing games.

  Within thirty minutes, Esmé had wrapped the fluffiest of towels around her wet body and secured her hair into a towelling turban. A swirl of hot moist air swarmed around her as she opened the bathroom door, her face smeared with an apricot potion and her digits pickled.

  Her flushed skin had calmed down, her wrinkled digits had regained their familiar smoothness and her messy eyebrows had been tamed.

  Another hour of relaxation, then she’d order her take-away and pop the cork on the chilled Prosecco.

  What a fabulous Saturday.

  Esmé patted her reddened brows with aloe vera gel, lay on her bed and covered her eyes with a warm lavender scented towel. Breathing deeply and slowly she attempted to meditate.

  The doorbell rang, disturbing her thoughts.

  ‘Go away!’ she muttered, from beneath her infused eye mask.

  The doorbell sounded again in a continuous ring as if the person’s finger was firmly attached to it.

  The urgent tone launched Esmé from her meditation and down the flights of stairs in all her glory, but for her fluffy towel clutched to her breast.

  ‘Yes!’ she yanked open the front door to find Rita, tear-stained and crumpled, with Toby hanging from her wrist. ‘Rita!’

  ‘I need a favour, please, please have him for the night, he’s already in his pyjamas, you know his routine and he’ll eat whatever you give him – I need someone to babysit. I’ll collect him tomorrow. Sorry. Bye.’

  On cue, Toby ran inside and headed straight for the lounge as Esmé’s mouth impersonated a goldfish.

  ‘Rita! Toby, stop! Rita come back! No! I Can’t! Please! Don’t!’

  Too late. Rita had dropped his overnight bag onto the doorstep and was backing along the pathway, mouthing ‘sorry’. Within seconds, she was gone.

  ‘Great! Bang goes my night on the Prosecco!’ muttered Esmé, slowly closing the front door. ‘Toby, do you want some orange squash?’

  Having made the child’s drink and settled him with a packet of custard creams, Esmé went back upstairs to comb her hair and get dressed.

  She returned within minutes to find the discarded sections of custard cream mashed into the couch cushions and the volume on the plasma tv at maximum, though Toby was delighted with his roomy couch.

  ‘Young man, you have one hour until your official bedtime, so what’s it to be? Old fashioned Bagpuss or Thunderbirds?’

  ‘Bagpuss, fat furry cat-puss,’ cried Toby, leaping from the sofa to the DVD collection.

  ‘Excellent choice, though I’d have preferred a comedy box set but hey, that’s how the cookie crumbles, given the state of our couch.’

  *

  It took hours to calm Toby after the glass of orange squash. He spent his time well. He raced around the lounge, trampled over the sofa cushions, gambolled around the kitchen, stripped from his pyjamas down to his socks twice and refused to wear his pyjama top on redressing, all before midnight. Eventually, Esmé carried the sleeping child upstairs, his head lolled softly with each step.

  My room or his father’s?

  Esmé nudged open her bedroom door. It felt wiser to have him sleep in her room. Toby murmured as she lowered him onto the crisp white sheet and threw the duvet across his little bare chest.

  Could she leave him to sleep alone while she read downstairs? Or did she now have to watch over him while he slept? This is why I’m not a parent, there are too many decisions to make about basic stuff.

  Esmé made a quick dash downstairs to fetch her book and was part way up the second staircase when she saw it. Hanging from the corner of the ceiling as blatant as a beacon on the Yorkshire moors. Its eight hairy legs stretched, lifted and lowered alternately while maintaining its fixed position.

  ‘The lying bastard!’ screamed Esmé, staring between the tarantula and the safe haven of her bedroom door.

  She couldn’t stand there all night… but how could any sane person walk beneath that and survive?

  Her heart began to palpitate. A hot sweaty gleam appeared on her brow. An itchy rash prickled at her neck and wrists, while her eyes remained fixed on the Chilean Rose.

  Esmé began to recite all the names she was going to call Jonah when she next saw him.

  Why hadn’t she insisted that Russ search his room as proof that Rose had gone? She knew he’d complained about not finding a buyer for her giant tank but still, she’d trusted his word when he said Rose had found a new home.

  She couldn’t stand there all night. But what could she do? The guys weren’t due back until four the next day – that would be sixteen hours frozen in terror while that critter stalked the landing.

  Esmé considered waking Toby to ask if he was frightened of spiders? Would he mind dealing with it at the age of three? But she didn’t have long to ponder. Suddenly Rose sprang from her corner location and landed on the carpet two feet away from Esmé’s bare toes.

  ‘Oh my life! She could go anywhere in sixteen hours and I wouldn’t have a clue,’ screamed Esmé, as she flew down the staircase.

  Would it be wrong to call Andrew?

  Esmé was instantly annoyed at her own thought process.

  There was only one sure way to secure the house from an attack by Rose. Esmé dived under the staircase cupboard, grabbed the upright Dyson, its extra strong powerful suction guaranteed.

  Within seconds she had clunked back upstairs, plugged in the life saving equipment and whipped out the extension hose – with a steady hand she aimed the long nozzle at Giant Rose.

  ‘One flick of the switch and we’ll be safe,’ shouted Esmé, her killer instinct surfacing. ‘I’ll be given a bravery award for this.’

  She flicked the switch and the powerful motor sprang to life, the spider was a blur of dusky pink lifted from the carpet which bumped along the corrugated tubing towards the powerful swirling jets.

  The vacuum made a funny noise, then continued in its usual powerful whir.

  Esmé calmly replaced the attachment, and the tubing and then cautiously peered inside the collection tub.

  No Rose.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Esmé, getting down on all fours to view the contents of fluff, dust and bent hair grips in the collection canister.

  Suddenly Esmé’s head filled with questions: what if she’s climbed back out of the tubing? What happens if I switch off the vacuum and the drop in suction power frees Giant Rose?

  Simple, leave it running.

  Esmé lengthened the electric cord and repositioned the vacuum further along the landing, so there was no fear of it falling downstairs and spilling open to free the beast within.

  She quickly stepped past the roaring vacuum and scurried into her room. She whipped back the covers to ensure that an army of miniature Roses hadn’t infiltrated her room. Toby stirred as the cold air goose pimpled his skin.

  She undressed sitting on the side of her bed, feet held high off the floor, her eyes scouring the carpet for any sign of Giant Rose’s ghost.

  She decided to leave the light on, too – it’d be best for Toby, though it might help her a little as well.

  Esmé lay on top of the duvet beside a sleeping Toby and listened to the crazy roar of the vacuum. She wanted to cry and couldn’t wait for the men to arrive home tomorrow.

  How’s that for a day of total pampering and relaxation?

  Ch
apter Twenty-nine

  ‘Esmé! You scared the life out of me. I thought you were upstairs when I heard the vacuum running. Have you had a good weekend?’

  Esmé burst out crying at the sight of Asa, who casually strolled into the lounge just after half four on Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Bubble bath, Toby… pyjama top and Bagpuss,’ she sobbed, her hands pointing in all directions as tears ran down her face.

  ‘Slow down, I don’t understand…’ soothed Asa, his bare skin slightly tanned from the weekend outdoors.

  ‘And Rita, she waved from the gate… and Toby, biscuits… crumbs everywhere… gambolling and tears and then… on the ceiling, she sat there looking at me – he lied, the bastard, he lied.’

  ‘Who lied? Toby?’

  ‘Jonah!’ screamed Esmé, her face crumpled again beneath huge tears. ‘Giant Rose at the top of the staircase and I… I… I…’

  ‘The tarantula… he kept it?’ asked Asa, his tone agitated and annoyed. ‘So, why’s the vacuum running?’

  ‘I zapped her!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes,’ sobbed Esmé, nodding frantically. ‘I daren’t turn it off.’

  ‘You seriously think it would survive the Dyson?’ asked Asa. ‘I’ll take a look, shall I?’

  ‘Please… before he comes in to find her, find me… find us.’

  Asa calmly entered the hallway as if nothing was wrong; the other guys were carrying their baggage and belongings from the camper.

  Esmé came from behind the lounge door, her tear-stained face greeting Russ, Dam and Kane.

  ‘Who’s left the vacuum running?’ called Jonah, barging through the front door laden with his bags.

  Esmé swallowed the urge to confess as Asa’s eyes flashed a warning.

  ‘Esmé’s trying to run up the leccy bill again?’ laughed Asa, as he ran up the staircase to sort out the vacuumed corpse.

  ‘I was just tidying the house ready for your return, home sweet home and all that,’ laughed Esmé, her arms waving around, vaguely suggesting polishing and dusting.