I do recall what I'd loved so much about this flat when I first moved in. My father had just passed away, and for the first time in my life I'd found myself totally alone – family-wise that is, as Tammy has always been by my side when needed. The flat, the whole area, had seemed so alive. I found it comforting that there were people milling about at all hours of the day and night, though the word I’d probably use now is lurking. Though I didn't know those people in the street below, it somehow reassured me that they were there. I used to fall asleep with my head up against the bedroom windowsill, in the comfortable knowledge that there were people close at hand that could hear me if I shouted for them. They would probably have totally ignored me, but that’s beside the point.
As I stood on the crap-covered balcony, a police car screeched past, followed by another one, and another one and a further two, and then an ambulance, followed by two huge law enforcement vans. The street was a continuous string of flashing blue lights and screaming sirens.
I appreciate that most would think, considering some recent and not-so-recent terrorist attacks on the city, and the yobs out on the streets causing havoc, that it was best to be cautious. But those blues & twos passed more frequently than I changed my socks.
It was an impossibility to get to sleep that night, lying in my rickety old bed in the half-light, as the street lamps reflected an eerie glow through the drawn curtains. Moreover, I felt that if I slept I would wake and find that the whole American adventure had just been a sweet dream, and that the reality was that I was an hour late for work down at the café.
The only thing I had that proved otherwise was the letter Lionel had left me the day of the cast party – and, of course, Freddy G's international bank transfer that was now ready and waiting in my account. This I planned to put to good use the following day, for I intended to drive (well, at least, endeavour to drive in my clapped-out Mini) down to Kent and negotiate the purchase of the country cottage, which Ray had told me was still on the market.
At some point during the night I must have fallen into a profound sleep. I had one of those erotic dreams where I was running through fields of dandelions, butt-naked, with both Lionel and Robbie running after me…
I awoke with a start – and a gasp – and put the memories of the dream straight out of my mind as I threw off the covers and glanced at my watch. 6.45 am. I didn't know if it was the jet lag or if Gabby had successfully made it into my subconscious, but finding myself wide awake, there was nothing to do but go for my daily run.
It was towards the end of summer, early September already, but it was already light at that early hour. I'd never gone for a run along the streets of London, so it was quite an experience, though not one I’d be keen to repeat too often. The concrete pavements were hard on the feet, not like the sandy beaches I'd been used to.
I passed a homeless person slumped in a shop doorway. A tatty-looking mongrel, snuggled up with the sleeping figure, looked at me through sad brown eyes. I flitted by several businessmen on their way to the office; sleep still lined their cheerless faces. I took a short cut that headed down to Tooting Bec Common, which was just a mile from my flat; at least there I could get some soft grass underfoot. But overall it was a thoroughly intimidating experience, what with the cars that slowed down and men that yelled out vulgar comments as I jogged along, together with the underlying sense that someone would pounce on me from the bushes. I made it around the common in a flash, desperate to get back into my flat without any mishaps.
All in all, it had been a truly dismal and daunting start to the day.
I had a quick shower and dressed with added care, as before I drove down to Kent I had one little score to settle. In a white halter-neck top, cut very low, showing off some cleavage and emphasising my bronzed skin, together with a flowing, turquoise skirt that fell just below my knees, I set off down the road.
I was aware of the amount of looks that came my way. "I didn't realise angels existed," one man called out. I was conscious of several wolf-whistles, too. It did wonders for my confidence, although I wasn't sure that what I'd set out on was the most grown-up idea I'd ever had.
I paused just outside Café Cappuccino where I used to work. The little old lady was there patiently waiting for her breakfast, and I was so relieved to see she was well. I'd been haunted by images of her choking to death on her muffin the day I'd had my little outburst with my then boss. I pushed open the café door and stepped inside. Even from here, at the entrance to the coffee shop, I could quite clearly hear my ex-boss yelling obscenities at whoever had made the mistake of offering to work under his slave-labour conditions. I turned to the little old lady and gave her a conspiratorial wink (though I didn't think she recognised me), and patiently waited for someone to appear from the kitchen. Some time elapsed before the boss appeared, red-faced as always. He looked at me trying to place me. When at last he did, he let out a sarcastic snigger.
"My, my, look what the cat's brought in. Come grovelling back for your job, sweetheart?"
I nearly gasped in disbelief. Was he really that dim-witted? Did he really think I'd walk in, dressed to the nines, to ask for that crappy job back? I guess there are no limits to personal delusion.
"Please," I drooled out slowly in my most exasperated tone. "Do I look like I need a job?"
His jaw just dropped as he took me in, top to bottom, for the first time. And that alone made the revenge visit – petty and small though it was – well worth it.
"I just came to pay for Mrs Harrison's breakfast."
It was the least I could offer the old darling after having her choke on her false teeth and muffin the day I left. With that, I put a fiver down and turned to leave. As I reached the door I turned to Mrs Harrison as she called to me, "Chantelle my dear, you look just sparkling."
"So do you, Mrs Harrison. Enjoy your breakfast." And with that I pulled open the café door and with a swish of my hips, I walked out into the sunny street.
Chapter Thirteen
The drive down to Kent took me somewhat longer than I expected. Driving my battered Mini down the motorway wasn’t quite the same as Tammy's speedy Jag. I even got overtaken by a double-decker bus whilst trying to fight my way out of the city. No out-sprinting macho men at the lights this time around; I was lucky if I could drive off without choking the engine.
I drove straight to the country cottage. The big For Sale sign was still up, and I was half tempted to hack it down, but there was no chainsaw handy. Which was hardly surprising, really; unlike a lucky penny, it's not something you tend to find lying around, and just as well. The possible damage in the wrong hands (because my hands were perfectly safe, of course) could be vast. I parked my car as close to the driveway as possible and made my way around to the front gate. But however hard I pushed on the rusty iron, it wouldn’t budge. Obviously no one had visited the house for quite a while, but then I realised that this was actually to my advantage as it meant I was probably the only one interested in buying it.
Hitching my skirt into my knickers, I climbed over the gate and jumped down into the garden, seriously excited at the prospect of owning the cottage at last. But to my dismay, what I saw as I glanced around had no resemblance to the picture I'd held in my mind throughout the past few months. The garden, which not so long ago had looked so dainty, now looked more like bushland. The grass was almost knee-high, and all the beautiful flowers were strangled by weeds. I could hear frogs croaking, I was aware it wasn't frog breeding season. I'd actually been quite good at biology during A-levels. I'd paid acute attention to the mating habits and seasons for all species, or rather I'd paid acute attention to the rather good-looking biology teacher I'd had. Still, I'd got an A, and the stimulus used is irrelevant. With this mild weather, the frogs were probably popping their heads up to practise their croak, and I wondered if the river had flooded the back garden and turned it into a vast pond.
There was a sudden movement in the tall grass around me. I tried unsuccessfully to stifle a shri
ek as I scampered up the steps by the main door in an attempt to escape the grass snake, or rat, or whatever creepy-crawly it was.
"My, we'll make a fine country lass, won't we Chantelle?" called a voice shaking with mirth. I didn't have to turn round to know it was Robbie, and I swore under my breath. Why was it that attractive men always caught me off-guard when I found myself in stupid situations?
Apart from my un-cool scamper through the grass in an attempt to escape what was probably just a harmless bug, I was also aware that my skirt was still hitched into my very slight and rather flimsy panties. So now, instead of openly flashing my behind for the world to see, which was actually becoming my speciality, the skirt I wore puffed out all around making it look like I was wearing a huge nappy.
I tugged at the turquoise fabric, untangling the skirt from my silk knickers, as I turned to face Robbie. I moved slowly in an attempt to remain serene. I couldn't afford to let my emotions run away with me again. I didn't think my heart could handle much more disarray.
I remained silent for a while just staring at Robbie. The hair, the chiselled jaw- line, the slight cow's lick on the right-side of the high, proud, forehead. The height, the powerfully-built shoulders, the well-muscled, hair-free torso. It was uncanny how much he resembled Lionel. How on earth am I going to get by without mixing their names up?
"You look like you've just seen a ghost," Robbie called out, as I remained motionless on the doorstep.
"Have you ever been told you look like Lionel King?"
"All the time," Robbie answered flippantly. "I've even signed an autograph or two on his behalf." Changing the subject, he then asked, "How did you get in? Obviously not through the gate. Nobody's opened it in ages."
I nodded with my head to the top part of the gate.
"Ah, so you climbed over," he said. "Trespassing, are we, then?"
"You can’t trespass on your own land," I said acidly. It was only half a lie. And, anyway, who was he to dictate behaviour to me?
"I hope you've come prepared to do some work, then," he replied quickly, a slight smirk on his lips.
"What do you mean by that?" I shot back. For some reason it didn't feel like our re-encounter was going very well for either of us. I knew I was sounding all defensive, and Robbie seemed set on making me apprehensive about staying.
"You'll soon find out for yourself." With that he turned on his heel and left me stumped on the doorstep. Trying not to give his words much importance, I concentrated on making my way around the house to the back garden. As I caught my foot in a bramble bush that seemed to have sprouted out of nowhere, I could hear the roar of a motorbike down the country lane, and assumed Robbie had left me to carry on alone. He must have had his bike well hidden, because I hadn't seen it on my arrival. Nor had I heard him approach as I was scampering around the undergrowth.
I finally managed to fight my way past the brambles and stumbled into the back garden of my future ideal home. The grass back there wasn't just knee-high, it was almost head-high, and I could hardly make out where the garden actually ended. I realised that at the very least I would have to add a lawn mower to my shopping list. And maybe several goats and donkeys to bring this grass maze under control. It's got potential, I said to myself, desperately trying to believe it.
I decided against venturing any further down the overrun garden path. Instead, I approached the back door to the cottage and peered in. Through the spiders' webs and the dust I could just make out a large kitchen area. Sheets were draped over all the furniture, and I was starting to give credence to Robbie's words that I would have my work cut out. But I relished the challenge.
First thing the following morning I was going to the Estate Agents.
***
I planned to spend several nights in the same Rural Inn where I'd stayed the first time I'd visited with Tammy, though I hadn't booked in advance. As I walked into the reception area I was received by the same girl who’d attended Tammy and me on that previous occasion. But gone was her cheery face; to be honest she was downright rude. She huffed and puffed over the fact that I hadn't pre-booked, and practically chucked my room key at me. I put it down to a severe case of PMT, and promptly filled out the guest card, picked up the key and made a nippy escape to my room out of her firing range. I was still feeling jet-lagged, and was fast asleep by 7.30 in the evening, despite having EastEnders blaring out on the TV. Thankfully I'd figured out how to activate the automatic timer to turn the TV off before sleeping, otherwise I'd have probably scared myself silly if I'd woken to some dodgy late-night film.
I awakened with a start nonetheless. I looked around the room with its orange wallpaper and dragonfly curtains, and, for an awful moment, worried that maybe I was responsible for the appalling decoration. Then I realised where I was, and that the room was not some multi-coloured hallucination. My stomach rumbled. I hadn't ever felt so hungry, not even under Gabby's carrot diet. Quickly I got dressed and headed down into the dining area. The Inn was still and spooky as I trod along the soft carpet and made my way down the stairs. I could hear a grandfather clock chime somewhere towards the back of the little hotel. Subconsciously I counted with each chime. 1... 2… 3… 4… 5... as I continued down the stairs. Five, I echoed in my head. 5 am! No wonder it was so spookily silent. And where in hell’s name was I going to find food at this godforsaken hour?
Without giving it a second thought I made my way to the kitchen. Feeling rather guilty about what I proposed to do, but not letting it affect my conscience too much, I slipped into the food larder as silently as a fox in a chicken run – and with the same intention.
There was so much to choose from I didn't know where to pounce first. There were slabs of York ham, mutton, cheeses, pork pie, veggie quiche. I zoned in on a huge wedge of apple pie, stuffed it into my mouth and wolfed it down. Okay, from a sneaky fox I'd become a hungry wolf. I then turned to creep back to my room, but suddenly, with a rare feeling of guilt, dug out four quid from my jeans pocket and placed it on the then empty apple pie plate. Leaving a trail of crumbs behind me, I hastened back the way I’d come.
I paused by the stairway. There was a noise coming from one of the upper landings.
Someone was moving around above me. The wooden floorboards squeaked, and whoever was lurking around swore faintly under their breath. The tone was masculine, and I wondered if a burglar had broken in. Not that there was much to steal up there; the food larder was by far the best bet. Trying not to let my imagination run away with me I tried to convince myself that it must be another of the guests, suffering from insomnia or sleepwalking. Or, like me, hungry.
I remained rooted to the spot attempting to decide on the best course of action. There were several options. One: confront whoever it was – though this option didn't quite appeal to me. Two: try to leg it to my room without being seen. This option was highly unlikely to succeed, as my room was right in the line of vision of where the noises were coming from. Three: dash outside and try to fetch help, though I doubted I'd find anyone around at this unearthly hour. A final option was to phone the police. But if it turned out to be just the Inn owner – perhaps he had heard ME and was investigating – I would risk causing a hubbub over nothing and come across as a complete and utter loony. Not to mention a sneak thief and larder lout.
I was still trying to work it all out when a horrified scream came from above, followed by a crash and scattering of broken glass. There was a scamper of feet and then a masked figure appeared at the top of the stairs and slid down the banisters in full flight – straight towards me. Terrified, I glanced around. The only thing that was handy that I could use to protect myself was a rather hefty umbrella stand. I struggled to lift it and then sent it hurtling through the air. I was actually quite chuffed with my effort as it whammed right into the intruder and sent him sprawling to the floor. He lay absolutely motionless, and I wondered, for a dreadful moment, if I’d actually done him in.
The owner of the Inn, kitted-out in a Spiderman onesie despi
te being well over fifty, clumped down the stairs and imperiously sat on the burglar.
"Mary, call the Constable will you?" he called up the stairs, then turned to me with a wide grin. "Not bad for a City lass!"
The police arrived shortly afterwards, and the crook was unmasked, handcuffed and taken away. I didn't recognise his face, but then that wasn't surprising considering I wasn't from those parts. But the owner and his wife, judging from the string of abuse they hurled at him as he was hauled away, were obviously already acquainted with him.
The mystery was, how on earth had the burglar entered the Inn when the door had been locked and there were no signs of a forced entry anywhere?
"George, we'll just have to look at the security cameras to see what actually happened," Mary said to her husband as they climbed back up the stairs. I, who was a step behind them, asked as casually as possible, "Do you have cameras in the kitchen area?"
"In the kitchen, larder, garden, hallway…"
I didn't pay attention to the other zones mentioned. Shit, shit, shit! I'm going to get caught red-handed too!
I scuttled to my room and tidied everything up expecting to get chucked out the moment they saw the images of me lurking around the food larder. I ventured out of my room again the moment I'd plucked up enough courage to admit that I'd also stolen from them during the early hours, and headed to the reception area to ease my conscience.
Both Mary and George were intently watching the images recorded by the cameras. I peered over Mary's shoulder just in time to see images of me zipping through to the larder and rummaging around. The image of me ramming the apple wedge into my mouth didn't come across well at all – professionally speaking as an actress, that is – but, at least my four quid gesture was also in shot. All the same, I cringed in shame and couldn't even stutter out a "sorry" when both Mary and George turned to stare at me.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 12