It Started at Sunset Cottage

by Bella Osborne

  She found herself in the deepest, darkest corner of the loft as she crouched down to feel a box tucked into the edge of the eaves. Still balancing on the joist like an amateur gymnast she lifted up the surprisingly heavy box and looked inside. The surprise that met her almost made her drop the box through the ceiling, with her following close behind. Sarah steadied herself and then warily peered inside again. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking at, but it was definitely furry and very dead, whatever it was.

  Sarah shuffled back to the precarious safety of the chipboard and the saucer of light from the tiny bare light bulb to have a closer look, whilst still being careful not to touch the offending item. She could now see that it was a stuffed otter. It was the fiercest-looking otter she’d ever seen and certainly no cuddly Tarka. With its teeth bared and eyes wide it had the look she’d seen on many a sales shopper in early January. It must have been stuffed a very long time ago, as its fur was bald in places and there was a lot of white dust all over the wooden plinth it was mounted on, suggesting that the stuffing inside was escaping.

  Sarah decided that it must have been left by the previous owners and no wonder it had been; it really was the stuff of nightmares. She wobbled as she swung the heavy box over to the rubbish pile and then had a pang of guilt. The poor thing did give up its life to be immortalised on a lump of mahogany, so she put it with the charity items.

  Sarah sat on the edge of the hatch with her feet dangling into space and listened to the phone ring out for the second time. It was now nine o’clock and she was seriously pissed off. There had been no sign of Shaun, who had clearly had no intention of getting Amy back for seven-thirty, as she had requested. She had now passed the adventurous stage, when at about a quarter-past eight she had thought she would lower herself down through the hatch and drop to the floor. However she had lost her nerve through fear of breaking something. It was either a limb or a large, blue pottery vase her mother had given her and she wasn’t sure which would give her the most suffering. She couldn’t risk breaking a leg and giving Shaun the excuse he was waiting for, which would allow him to have Amy move in with him. Sarah still wasn’t convinced that he really wanted Amy full time and was positive that he only said it to upset her, but it was a risk she could not take.

  At nine-thirty her despair and tearful stage was interrupted by the front-door bell.

  “Use your key, you twat,” she shouted through a watery sob. Pulling herself together, she realised having a go at Shaun from her current position probably wasn’t wise, so she relented and applied the traditional call used in these situations. “HELP!” she wailed. Sarah’s hollering was interrupted by a man’s voice.

  “Hello,” he said, tentatively, through the letterbox.

  “HELP!” Sarah repeated.

  “Sarah, it’s Andy. Are you okay?”

  “No,” she replied in resignation.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m stuck in the loft,” she called back.

  “Is Amy okay? Is she with you?”

  “No. Her wanker of a father had her this afternoon and he was meant to bring her home at seven-thirty, but he didn’t turn up, as per sodding usual.”

  “Right. So how did you get stuck in the loft?”

  “Well I was looking for…. Andy, does that really matter? You are talking through a letterbox, like a desperate Jehovah’s Witness. So can we stop the niceties and concentrate on you getting in the house and helping me down from here?” pleaded Sarah.

  “Sorry. Sure. Okay. Back in a mo,” he said and the letterbox sprung shut.

  The sound of breaking glass was not the next noise Sarah had expected to hear and it made her squeal with fright. It was followed by the sound of the Yale lock being turned and the door opening.

  “Hello!” called Andy rather too jovially, “I’m in.”

  “What the hell have you done to my front door?” screamed Sarah through the hatch as she leant through as far as she dared, to allow herself to see an upside-down Andy, who gave her a friendly wave in response.

  “You studying for Mastermind?” he asked, gesturing at the assortment of books littering the stairs and hallway.

  “Stop being a smart arse and help me down. First of all, you can take these,” she said, handing down the Santa with parachute and pink tinsel, “Not a word, seriously, not a word,” she instructed, as a huge grin spread across Andy’s face.

  When Andy had finally managed to coax Sarah out of the loft, having had to swear on Sebastian’s grave that he would catch her, he stood watching her dial Shaun’s number for the third time in succession. Her thin fingers turning white as she gripped the phone.

  “Do you think, perhaps, he’s not there?” Andy said gently.

  “Not helping,” pointed out Sarah. “If he’s not at home and he’s not here, then where the hell is he and, more importantly, where’s my daughter?”

  “There’s probably a simple explanation.”

  “Yeah, like he’s kidnapped her.” The words hung in the air. It was a flippant remark, but it suddenly wasn’t very funny as the sickening possibility of what she had said struck Sarah deep in her gut.

  Chapter 4

  Kate was in a world of her own when the doorbell rang. So was Marmalade, it would seem, as she was sound asleep on her lap and the intrusion caused her to sink her claws into Kate’s knees. She discharged Marmalade from her comfortable spot and hobbled across the hall to open the front door. Still bent over and trying to rub away the stinging sensation, Kate was met by a friendly, if slightly perplexed, face.

  “Don’t tell me, it’s a local version of the Haka, one that the elderly can master?” said the grey-haired, and marginally overweight, man in front of her.

  “Hilarious, Marcus. No, it’s claw wounds, thanks to her,” she pointed at the disappearing fluffy ginger tail as the cat made her escape through the open door.

  “Can I take your coat?” Kate offered as Marcus stepped into the hallway.

  “No, thanks,” replied Marcus wrapping it tightly around himself as he headed quickly into the living room and settled himself into an armchair.

  “Are you keeping well?” he enquired. Kate thought for a moment as she sat down on the sofa opposite him and absentmindedly straightened a cushion.

  “Yes, I am, thank you, Marcus. I’m fine. How are you and Niamh?”

  “Niamh is wonderful, as always, but I need your help, Kate,” he looked serious and Kate moved forward in her seat.

  “Of course, Marcus, what can I do?”

  “I need you to help me write a script.”

  “A film script?” Marcus nodded, “Sorry, Marcus, I’m the wrong person, I’m afraid. I just do books.”

  “That’s a real shame because I thought you’d have a head start, this being the film script for Love.com.” He watched her expression change.

  “Marcus! Is it really happening?”

  Marcus nodded and produced a bottle of champagne he had kept well hidden under his coat. He and Niamh didn’t have any children and, since James had died, Kate had rather become a little project for Marcus. She had been a vibrant young woman when he’d first met her at an agency luncheon and he was keen to see that side of Kate re-emerge. Marcus didn’t need Kate’s help for the screenplay – the author was rarely consulted usually – but he hoped this would be the distraction that Kate needed.

  “There is more news…” Marcus left what he hoped was a dramatic pause, “you have a leading man, nothing signed as yet, but I’d tear his ears off if he backed out now.”

  “Who?” Kate felt like a child at Christmas; that moment just before the wrapping paper reveals the best toy ever.

  “Timothy Calder!”

  “Noooooo!” squealed Kate in delight, “He’s a huge star! Who else?”

  “No one, as yet. The casting director’s sending out begging letters as we speak. They want this out there quickly. So we start the script now and we film in early summer,” and with that the cork left the champagne bo
ttle with a well-timed pop.

  Sarah looked awful. Her mascara had run in all directions across her cheeks and her eyes were puffy and red. She held Amy’s pineapple in her hands and tumbled it over and over, like the thoughts in her head. She stared at the mobile phone and house phone placed on the table in front of her, willing one of them to ring. Both reminded her that it was now 10:44pm.

  “Should I call the police?” she asked Andy.

  “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “As far as they are concerned, Amy is with her father, who has permission to have her.”

  “But what if he has taken her? Oh Andy I’ll, I’ll…”

  “Shhh, it’s okay,” soothed Andy.

  “It’s far from okay! I’ll kill the bastard!” Sarah forced out through her tears. Andy was in a state of abject confusion. He didn’t, for a moment, want to believe that Shaun was capable of kidnapping Amy. There had to be a reasonable explanation, but it was becoming increasingly hard to imagine what that could be.

  “Shall I call Kate?” suggested Sarah, blowing her nose.

  “I wouldn’t. She would have called if he’d turned up there with Amy. If you call, you’ll only worry her.”

  “But I’m worried,” blurted out Sarah.

  “I know.”

  “Let’s drive around and see if we can see them, or we could go over to his place.”

  “Sarah, they could be anywhere. It’s most likely that he will be in touch soon and if he does, it will be with you here. So here is where we should stay,” Andy said.

  “I need to be doing something. I can’t just sit here and wait for him to get in touch. The next communication might be a ransom note!”

  “Let’s not get… you know,” said Andy gesturing a calm-down sign with his hands. As Sarah made more failed attempts to track down Shaun, Andy made an excuse to leave the room. He sat on the stairs and sent a text message to Shaun’s mobile, asking if he wanted to meet up for a pint. Within moments a reply came through. ALREADY HERE COME + JOIN ME. Andy stared at the screen and dialled Shaun’s number as he walked back into the kitchen and handed his phone to Sarah.

  “'Hiya, mate,” answered Shaun, recognising the number that flashed up as Andy’s.

  “Where’s Amy?” demanded Sarah.

  “Shit! That’s a cheap trick, using Andy’s phone.”

  “Cheap trick! That’s rich coming from you. Where’s my daughter?”

  “Our daughter,” he emphasised “is with her Nanny and Granddad.”

  “What?”

  “She asked if she could see them,” Shaun said in slow, bored tones. “We went over there and she fell asleep. I didn’t like to wake her, so they said they would bring her over to yours later. Have you just got in?”

  “No” said Sarah completely deflated, “I’ve been home for hours.”

  Andy and Sarah sat on the sofa waiting for the car to pull up and return Amy. Sarah hated herself for turning it into a drama in front of Andy. The sound of something as agile as a refuse truck echoed down the quiet street and Sarah jumped to her feet. Andy looked slightly alarmed at the sound of tyres against curb and followed Sarah to the window. Outside sat a large, white transit van and from it emerged a tall, thin woman with hair the same orange as Heinz baked beans and a small, sleepy child in her arms.

  “Amy!” exclaimed Sarah running to the front door and out into the street. “Are you okay?” Sarah asked her daughter, as she took her from the woman’s arms.

  “Of course she’s bleedin’ well okay. She’s been wiv us, ain’t she?” came the barked response from the orange-haired woman.

  “Andy, this is Irene, Shaun’s mother,” said Sarah, by way of both introduction and apology, before whisking Amy upstairs to her bed. Irene was what Sarah’s grandmother aptly described as “the fishwife”. She was loud, brash and generally vile. A family trait, it would appear, she had passed onto her son in abundance.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Andy automatically offering his hand for Irene to shake. Irene stared at him, sniffed and nodded. The silence was crippling, but the occasional shrug and forced smile was all Andy could muster during the next couple of deathly silent minutes as they stood in Sarah’s hall. He could not think of a single thing to say to the woman. As it was the evening, he felt he couldn’t even resort to his staple favourite in these situations and discuss the weather. Just as he was about to die of awkwardness, Irene spoke.

  “You ’er latest are ya?” said Irene, in a broad Mockney accent.

  “Sorry?” faltered Andy, taken aback by both the harsh voice and its volume.

  “You and Sarah, shacked up togevver, are ya?”

  “Oh no. No not all. We’re just good friends.” Irene’s eyebrows danced at his response, “Well… I say friends, we don’t see that much of each other, really. It’s just that we have a mutual friend, a shared friend,” Irene’s eyebrows continued to tango as Andy searched in vain for the right words. “Kate is a mutual friend,” Irene showed no recognition “Kate was Shaun and Sarah’s bridesmaid.”

  “Oh ’er. Stuck up cow, she was. Wouldn’t play any of the games at the wedding do.” Andy’s mouth opened to defend Kate just as Sarah walked back in.

  “Andy is Kate’s fiancé’s brother, Irene. Kate didn’t play any of the games at the wedding reception because they were drinking games involving drinking copious amounts of absinthe and cheap Blue Curacao or, as we discovered in Accident and Emergency later that evening, anti-freeze.”

  “Shauny didn’t know they was playing a joke, did he? The Twerton side of the family are a righ’ scream. Nobody meant any ‘arm, I mean…”

  “Irene, can I stop you there, lovely though it is to reminisce,” winced Sarah. “Thank you for bringing Amy home.”

  “Tha’ it?”

  “Oh, did you want money for petrol?” said Sarah with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Nah… well if ya offerin’, a fiver would see us clear. Ya can’t just dump the kid on our Shauny when e’s gotta go to work, ya know. It ain’t on, luv. He had no choice but to drop ’er into ours. In a right fluster ’e was an all, poor fing.”

  “What?” said Sarah. Andy moved closer to her as an almost imperceptible shaking was visible in Sarah’s hands, as she stopped searching her purse for notes.

  “What d’ya mean ‘what’?” mimicked Irene cruelly. “It’s not right calling up all hours of the day and night and dropping tha’ poor little scrap on him. You can’t cope, so why don’t you hand ’er over to Shauny before the Social take ’er away?” With one quick movement Andy stepped in front of Sarah and held a £10 note under Irene’s red-veined nose, which grabbed her attention as intended.

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere along the line, but no harm done and Sarah is very grateful to you for taking the trouble to bring Amy home,” he said, hurriedly ushering Irene out of the hall and to the front door.

  “Ain’t no mis…”

  “Thank you,” said Andy loud enough to drown out Irene, as he propelled the monstrous woman out of the front door. Putting his back to the door he sighed in relief as it clicked shut. His relief was short-lived as he felt something sharp dig into his back and he lurched away from the door. A pointed fingernail attached to a bony finger receded and Irene’s orange-trimmed face appeared in the shattered door panel.

  “She’s mental. Ain’t fit ta be a muvver. You wanna leave ’er, but I expect you will, like all the ovvers av.” This was followed by a laugh so evil it would have rivalled Cruella de Vil, but it thankfully ebbed away as she stomped back to her van. With the van revving wildly in the background, Andy returned to Sarah, who had passed the “too angry to speak” stage and was now, once more, in a crumpled heap of tears on the bottom step of the stairs.

  Marcus emptied the last drop of champagne into Kate’s glass, getting there a fraction quicker than her hand, which was intended to stop him.

  “No more for me, thanks,” she said, too late.

  “You can’t le
ave this stuff, it just goes flat. None of those little gadgets for keeping it fizzy ever work, you know.”

  “Tried them all, have you?”

  “It’s my line of work, you see. Champagne is almost an occupational hazard. Book launches, charity events, film premieres. The list is tiresome, really,” he nodded gravely.

  “It sounds terrible,” said Kate, as she tucked her feet underneath her on the sofa and took another swig from her newly refilled champagne glass.

  “You, too, could be a part of all that, you know.”

  “Not really my sort of thing.” Kate screwed up her nose a little. “James and I went to one or two when the first couple of books were published. We did a few charity things, too, which were quite good fun, and my first book launch in Harrods’s Food Hall was a laugh, with that celebrity chef what’s-his-name?” Kate laughed at the memory. After a pause, she said, “Truth is, I don’t really fancy it on my own”.

  “But you wouldn’t be on your own,” emphasised Marcus. “I would be there, Niamh would be there Tom, Chris, Percival, Sheila and lots of other people that you know, plus your friends and family.”

  Kate sighed. She knew Marcus was right, but London and these glittering social occasions just didn’t interest her and, more than that, they made her anxious. She had lost the feeling of excitement and it had been replaced by trepidation. She used to worry that no one would talk to her or that they would check the guest list and realise it was a big mistake and throw her out. Now she was happy if people ignored her and, generally, she just felt tired at the thought of it all. James had loved those sorts of events and Kate had gone along for his sake. With him by her side everything was fine and she was relaxed. She also still didn’t feel up to explaining why James wasn’t with her. Marcus’s voice cut into her thoughts.