To which Lionel shot back down the line and into my dazed head, "Who the fuck's Robbie?"
Everything from there on seemed rather fuzzy, so I assumed I must have dreamt the whole phone call scenario. The only way to verify was to check my mobile's log of received calls. To my horror a call from the States had indeed come through at 1 am, and, what was more amazing, I'd had a forty-minute conversation with Lionel. I'd obviously come up with a jolly good excuse for calling him Robbie for him not to have slammed his end of the line down. I hoped I hadn't been stupid enough to tell him that I'd discovered he had a twin brother over in rural England. He probably wouldn't have believed me in any case. He must have been aware that I was sloshed and would have doubtlessly found it quite amusing to listen to me rabbit on in an uncontrollable slur.
Trying not to make any sudden movements that would worsen my hammering head, I tiptoed into the bathroom, stepped under the power shower, and doused myself with cold water until my thumping skull began to ease. Not bothering to dry my hair, I quickly dressed and made my way to the dining room, pen and paper in hand, and ordered a pot of steaming coffee and a full English breakfast.
Feeling refreshed and somewhat human again, I started my list to Robbie of where to begin the work on the cottage.
Dear Robbie,
As you're aware I shall be in London for the next three days. Meanwhile I would be very grateful if you could start work on the house, concentrating on the following:
Mow the grass (front and back garden, that is if you can find a mower tough enough to chomp through the bush land. If not, just plough a tractor through there!)
Sell all the hay in the garage. (Actually, if you can use it for your horse, it’s yours.)
Fix the garage roof and bedroom window. (I promise not to run through any more escape routes.)
Burn all detachable furniture. (Beds, mattresses… etc etc)
Fumigate the whole house.
I'm sure this will keep you busy. As soon as I get back I'll help you out. If you feel it's necessary, get some hired help in, though I'll leave that decision in your capable hands. We’ll fix the bills when I get back.
See you very soon.
Yours,
Chantelle.
P.S. Thanks for escorting me home last night. I hope I didn't say anything offensive to anyone along the way!
I re-read the letter/work plan. It sounded rather aloof, but I was pretending that I couldn't remember he'd kissed me. I thought it was the best course of action as I didn't want the scene to be repeated, and ahead of us we had several weeks of working together. I was determined to get the house fully fixed in the following six weeks, before I went back to the States.
Then I would just take things step by step.
If I felt that Lionel was just bent on using me and breaking my heart, I'd simply return and become a hermit. Not that anyone was going to believe that, of course, but I was firmly trying to convince myself that it was true.
Breakfast over, I hastily dumped all my gear in the boot of my soon-to-be-retired Mini, left the note for Robbie in Reception, and trailed back to London as fast as my little Chitty Chitty Bang Bang could take me. Stored in the glove compartment was the menacing letter I'd found the previous day. I had no intention of reading it again, but I thought it best to safeguard in case I had to take matters further. I'd decided not to mention the incident to anyone, for various reasons. If I told Tammy, she would waste all her time fretting over me. I couldn't tell Robbie, or anyone else from the hamlet, because I had my suspicions, but I couldn't be sure. If I were to receive another menacing note then I would investigate it myself, if I could (and had the guts), or tell the local boys in blue. I imagined that the girl Catty, who'd been the receptionist at the Inn, was behind it. It made sense considering I'd half-killed her boyfriend. I wasn't sure how she knew I had flown in from Hollywood, but the way gossip flew around the town, it was definitely possible.
I drove round to Tammy's that evening, having really missed our girly chats whilst I'd been away in the States. I was relishing the detailed gossip on how things were going with Ray. Tammy, however, looked stricken as she greeted me. She was ashy pale.
"Tammy babe," I said as I gave her a quick, strong hug. "Are you alright?"
Tammy nodded her head but I could see tears well up in her big blue eyes.
"It's Lionel King."
"Lionel King?" I repeated, perplexed.
"You can't kid me," Tammy persisted, and without further explanation she handed me her latest issue of Glamour. There, splashed across the cover, were the words:
"Lionel King and Vivien Francis together again!"
I let the magazine slip to the floor. Tammy had been right, I couldn't kid her. Though I would've liked to be able to kid myself – and to kick Mr King in the balls! The inevitable had happened. I hadn't even been away for a week before Vivien had successfully pounced. Fuck, she's a sly cow… I then went ahead and tortured myself by picking up the magazine and turning to the article. There was the hard evidence: pictures of Vivien and Lionel leaving the hospital together, Lionel with his arm protectively around Vivien's shoulders as he guided her towards his car.
"She sure didn't waste time faffing around, did she?" I spat under my breath.
And Lionel? Well, he surpassed Oscar-winning acting by far, the bastard! He sure had me fooled into believing I was something special to him.
Tammy, meanwhile, said in unexpected surprise, "Gosh, come to think of it, doesn’t Robbie look awfully like Lionel King!”
Chapter Sixteen
The following day, after a really restless night, I found myself prancing around my miniscule living room to Tina Shore's Salsacise exercise video. It's sexy salsa dance and aerobics rolled into one. I'd found it covered in dust on my living room bookshelf. I'd been given it a few years back by an ex of mine who was a complete fitness freak, and I’d forgotten all about it.
So there I was, at 6.30 in the morning – bored to tears, unable to stop my head spinning around in circles, Lionel at the forefront of my thoughts. I tried desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt, to believe that the images of him and Vivien looking so lovey-dovey together were just a bogus piece of paparazzi work. But I had a horrid, underlying feeling that it probably wasn’t. In which case, what on earth had the forty-minute conversation I'd held with Lionel actually been about?
It was because of all these doubts and worries causing mayhem in my tired mind that I'd found myself out of bed and aimlessly wandering around my flat. That’s when I'd stumbled across that long-forgotten exercise DVD. There had been another one alongside: Learning to Line Dance. I don't have a clue how that got onto my book shelf, what with its Electric Slide and Boot-Scootin' Boogie. I thought it much too severe to try to get to grips with at such an early hour, and, anyway, I didn't want the neighbours calling the police with a complaint about noise as a result of my Achey Breaky Heart.
After a rather dicey start, I soon got into the swing of dodging my bedsitting room furniture as I Cha-Cha-Cha'd around. Midway through the salsacise session I was startled by my mobile phone's piercing tone. It's not actually a ring; it’s a donkey EEH-HAA bray. I work on the theory that no one in their right mind would use a donkey tone, thus I always know when it's my phone sounding, avoiding those rather embarrassing moments on public transport of rummaging around one's handbag in a mad attempt to answer the phone as everyone else does the same. Of course, I do get some odd looks, but so what?
On hearing the donkey braying out in true Old MacDonald style, I halted in mid-shimmy, just as I was sussing out the Mambo arm-leg coordination, and searched for my mobile.
"Don't hang up," I called out, blindly convinced that at that early hour the only person who would phone would be Lionel.
"Hello," I answered, breathless from the aerobics and added exertion of whooshing around the flat hunting for my phone despite the ear-shattering donkey call. The caller ID came up as “unknown number,” but that was normal; Lionel w
as a huge star and his personal number was probably permanently hidden, and he'd just forgotten to undo the option on calling me.
"Hello…" I called out again. The line was silent but not dead. Whoever was at the other end hadn't hung up, though apparently couldn't hear me.
"Lionel, is that you?" I said, my heart in my mouth at the thought that it had to be him. I was convinced that he would declare his love for me. He couldn't possibly love Vivien; she was so bloody hysterical.
"Hellooo… Lionel, can you hear me?" I attempted a further time, straining my ears in the hope of hearing something at the other end. The straining worked. I was suddenly aware of someone breathing down the line. It wasn't an exaggerated "huff" and "puff" but there was definitely someone gasping down the line. For an instant I thought it was my own wheezing I could hear echoing back, but suddenly the line went dead and I was left in total silence.
I slumped to the sofa, attempting to not to go overboard with the notion that it had been the nutty letter-cutter-outer that had made the call. If it had been, then I'd have to admit that Catty couldn't possibly be behind the intimidating note, as she had no idea of my number. Then again, I quickly realised, I'd written my number on the guest card I'd filled out the first night of my stay at the hotel. Who’s to say, maybe she had a good memory. The idea that Catty could be the one behind the call was actually a relief for me. For some reason, she didn't seem such a menace, and it also made sense, as I had, after all, thwarted her boyfriend's plans. In any case, I tried to reassure myself, the dodgy call had probably just been nothing more than pure coincidence.
***
Later that same morning, still buzzing from the salsa caper, I zipped in and out of Barclays Bank to cash part of Freddy G's bank transfer. I'd also been given a large sum in US Dollars, which I changed into Sterling. Hard currency in hand, strapped to me in a bum bag which I'd hidden under my summer blouse, I actually looked about six months pregnant. Either that, or that I'd really pigged out on ice cream all summer.
I headed off to the car dealers. I was half-tempted to pop into the Mercedes showroom and get myself decked out with a real flashy coupé. However, as I was still in semi-control of my wits, I bypassed this idea and walked into a Renault garage.
As soon as I was through the sliding glass doors at the Renault showroom my eyes homed in on a sleek metallic grey van. Perfect, I thought, as I made a beeline towards it. I was intercepted by a toffee-nosed trainee – obviously the son of the branch manager, as he was way too stuck-up to be an average employee.
"Can I help you?" he asked, voice flat, showing total indifference as to what I might say.
"I'm interested in the new Renault Trafic."
The information seemed to fly over his head. Son of the boss or not, he'd obviously not done his homework. He just stared at me.
"The grey van over there!" I politely simplified for his benefit. He smiled at me in a thin sour way. I'd evidently offended him. I also towered over him, which I don't think thrilled him either. And so our personal battle began.
"Don't you think you would be better off with something a little smaller?" he smirked, looking me up and down, head slightly cocked to one side.
Supercilious git!
"If I'd wanted something smaller, I would have asked for something smaller."
He'd already started to get on my nerves, and in my mental state, what with jet lag, dodgy phone calls, menacing letters, and lover-boy Lionel back with Vivien, I felt at the end of a very short and very explosive fuse. In other words, this bum, who was just too superior to do his job properly, was approaching ground zero.
"So you think you could drive this van?"
It was obviously beyond him that I could be capable of co-ordinating a large vehicle through city traffic, when, in fact, my dexterity was pretty slick. I'd proved this to myself that very morning as I'd sashayed around my tiny flat, successfully dodging furniture whilst synchronizing leg and arm movements to the Salsa beat.
"Whether or not I'm capable of driving the van is my problem, not yours. Now if you don't want to sell it to me, and don't want to earn your commission, that's fine. I'm sure another garage will be willing to serve me. Despite being female." And with that, I turned on my heel to leave.
The manager came rushing towards me as I made my way towards the exit.
"Please excuse my son," he pleaded, just as I had my head out of the main door. (So I was right!) "He's new. Now I believe you are interested in the new Renault Trafic?"
I nodded in agreement.
"May I say what a wonderful choice that is, the automatic direction makes manoeuvring extraordinarily easy…"
"Please," I interrupted. I didn't know what was worse, the son's blasé attitude or the dad's total sucking up. "You don't have to give me all the sales patter. I just want to buy the van."
It was such a simple operation, which for some reason or another was turning out to be a long, drawn-out and somewhat painful undertaking. Following my hint, the manager shut up, all the paperwork was done and dusted, and an hour later I was sitting, very high-up I might add, in my sparkling new van and zipping around outer London. I drove through Fulham, into Putney across Putney Bridge and then all around Richmond Park. I almost ran down a deer, but the brakes worked spot-on, thank goodness.
It was a totally different perspective riding in the van; it felt so much more secure. Driving the Mini had always been quite daunting, not just because I was never sure if I would make it down the street without stalling, but being such a small car, I always felt I was driving around in a tin can, constantly being bullied by the surrounding vehicles. In my spacious new van, however, I noticed that the other drivers kept a respectable distance. They were obviously aware that a collision with my giant motor would probably mean just a little dent for me and a whole new bonnet for them. Reverse parking and three-point-turns, I decided, were a bit too ambitious for my first day. I resolved to leave these manoeuvres for the quiet country lanes.
By early evening I was pretty shattered. I had one more errand to do: load my spacious van with IKEA furniture, but I decided to leave that to the following day before I headed back down to Kent.
Suddenly the desire to speak to Lionel overwhelmed me, so I fished out my mobile and dialled his number. I calculated that it must have been around nine in the morning his time; not too early to ring. The tone "burred" in that funny American way several times before the call was answered. I had no idea what I planned to say, I simply just wanted to hear his voice. The voice that came down the line, however, was the exact opposite of Lionel's deep robust tone. It was Vivien’s unmistakeable screechy squawk.
I was so startled to hear it down Lionel's personal phone line that I almost flung my mobile phone out the window in a sudden panic attack. Luckily for the pedestrians below, I simply hung up. I started to shake and I wondered if Vivien's hysterical behaviour was actually contagious. Lionel was evidently the link. The more time spent in his company, the more liable to hysteria one became.
I predicted that I was in for another restless night, as I settled on my single bed mattress. And indeed I was. I was up at 4 am. Not giving a toss what the neighbours thought, promptly got the line-dancing DVD on. I found it quite easy, and did the beginners tape from start to finish. I ran through it three times before I actually felt exhausted enough to sleep again, and thankfully I did fall into a deep, dreamless doze that took me right through to 11 am.
***
My next stop was IKEA. IKEA is always a fun experience. There's so much to contemplate that other mental torments and worries are always momentarily blocked out.
I zoomed in on the Opportunities section and stamped my name on a dining- room table that had been reduced to half its selling price due to a tiny dent in one corner. I also earmarked a round kitchen table that had a fine, almost invisible, scratch on one of the wooden legs, together with two tall, slightly lop-sided lamp stands. These would go wonderfully well in the sitting room.
Considering
the money I'd earned – and deservedly, too! – selling my naked butt, I could have probably kitted out my entire cottage at Harrods. So why was I buying slightly marked/damaged in transit stuff in IKEA? Always look for a bargain… A thrifty girl is a treasure indeed… my mum had taught me. And despite my Hollywood tan – which I still had, though it was fading fast in grimy London – I was still my mum's obedient, careful little girl. Well, almost…
Feeling chuffed with my purchases so far, I was all enthusiastic as I set off to the first floor to continue my furniture-buying spree.
Just as the doors of the lift were closing, a fellow in his mid-forties hurriedly stepped in with me. He didn't say anything to me, just stared. I wondered if I had bird crap or something in my hair, and he, being a polite Brit, was just going to keep quiet instead of speaking up.
As I stepped out of the lift on the first floor I pushed the matter to one side as I started to ply through the different departments. I'd made a mental note of my priorities and so whooshed through to the bedroom department and purchased an exquisitely designed king-sized bed with matching headrest carved out of oak wood. I then bought two much more simple single beds with iron headrests and legs, plus corresponding mattresses, bed linen and pillows.
I paused in front of a mirror as I skittled around just to double check I had no dubious "thing" sticking out of my hair. To my relief my tresses were all in order, though slightly frizzy now; the professional straightening was slowly losing its magic as the days passed. Nonetheless, there, reflected in the mirror, was the same guy who'd started my paranoia in the lift. He was half-turned away from me, intently peering at a picture frame as if it contained an original Van Gogh. Trying not to let my imagination run riot, I pushed my trolley along, having got a friendly-looking staff member to take the chunkier items I'd bought down to the purchase section.
What with the tables and matching chairs that I'd also stumbled across, beds and mattresses, my van was going to have its work cut out on just its second day. Confident that there would still be a little room left over, I bought a lovely wooden TV cupboard with petite drawers and swinging doors, plus several brightly-coloured curtains, fluffy peach towels, and all sorts of kitchen utensils.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 14