Both feet finally on Robbie's shoulders, I braced myself against the stone wall of the cottage and stretched upwards. I could just about reach the window ledge. To my immense relief, the window swung inwards as I pushed. I'd made it to half-time one goal up, but I still had to haul myself up and climb through the gap. This was going to be a totally different and much more challenging exercise.
Without any compunction I stood on Robbie's' head; I don't know how his neck didn't snap. I was conscious that as I’d taken my trainers off he was probably getting a good whiff of my cheesy feet. I finally got my arm inside the window and gripped hard on the under-ledge. I then pressed down on Robbie's head a couple of times to use it as a springboard and vault myself all the way through and into the bathroom. After a couple more test bounces I took off and scrambled through the window. I was aware of a clatter below me and I sensed, rather than saw, Robbie fall to the ground as the bench and Ray gave way as I took wing. There was an acute tearing sound, but I didn't give it much thought as I quickly clambered to my feet and stuck my head out of the window. Robbie was half-hidden under the broken bench, but moving, and I have to admit I was relieved. I didn't fancy having half the town turn on me in revenge at having knocked off their favourite handyman.
It was still pelting down with rain so I ran down the stairs to let the others in. I somehow managed to trip on the second to last step, slammed into the bathroom door at the base of the stairs and shuddered to a halt in agony, convinced that I'd dislocated my shoulder.
Body parts in place, but bruised and sore all over, I hobbled to the kitchen door, which was the door nearest to the back garden where the others still stood, and let them in. They were all soaked to the bone. Obviously the best solution was to try to get the living room fire going. As if reading my thoughts, Robbie left and returned, his arms piled with wooden logs that he'd fetched from the garage. Before I knew what was happening, he had a true Boy Scout fire blazing. It was just as well I hadn't done him any permanent damage, as I didn't think my Girl Guide attempts to start a fire would have been such a success. But I put that down to being kicked out of the Girl Guides at the tender age of thirteen, when, in all truth, making camp fires hadn't yet been covered in depth. Don't ask me why I was thrown out. I didn't think it was such a crime to pass around my whiskey-filled billy-can during campfire song time…
It was not until after the fire was blazing away that I was aware Tammy had positioned herself right up behind me and was trying to shift me out of the room.
"What are you doing?" I hissed as she nudged me forwards.
"You've got a huge rip in your jeans,” she hissed, as she continued to shuffle me out of the living room, “and all that’s covering your behind is your virtually non-existent g-string.” Which probably explained why my bum cheeks felt so hot. I'd obviously roasted them as I'd stood with my back to the flames.
With the relentless downpour outside, there was little or no chance of escaping to the Rural Inn to get another pair of jeans. Tammy, thankfully, had a suitcase full of clothes with her, despite being here only for a couple of days. And everything she owned was dead stylish, even her hankies. So, though I fished out only some tracksuit bottoms to slip into, they were from the trendy Adidas range and exceedingly comfy. Before joining the others down by the fire I dug out the envelope I'd put in the front pocket of my now-ruined jeans earlier that morning. I felt remarkably calm as I tore it open to read the contents. In the customary, bold, cut-out newspaper letters it read:
ROSES ARE RED
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
LIFE'S A BITCH
AND SO ARE YOU!
Well, at least it rhymes.
For some reason I didn't fell as threatened by this latest letter. There was something quite childish about the adapted verse. Indeed, I concluded, perhaps the menace wouldn't go further than the letters, and that at the end of the day, I wasn't under any major threat after all. That's optimism for you on a rainy afternoon! This surge of buoyancy was doubtless due to the fact that I had my house full of people, even if one of them was my number one suspect. I wasn't too sure if I'd have felt as light-hearted about the matter in the dead of night, with only my ice-pick for company.
As I skipped down the stairs to join the others, I realised there was something strange about the cottage that I hadn't noticed when Tammy and I went shopping. There was furniture dotted about that I hadn't seen before, and which I certainly hadn't bought. Was the climbing up walls, through windows and the pain of slamming into doors giving me hallucinations? There were two low wooden rocking chairs, a stool and a sweet little patchwork sofa, and I hadn't a clue where they'd come from.
Tammy, Ray and Robbie were all enthusiastically toasting marshmallows around the fire as I entered the living room. Robbie looked at me as I approached and noticed my confusion.
"Oh, the furniture. I hope you aren't offended. My mum had it all locked in a storeroom we have. She planned to give it the chuck, but I thought it would come in handy here."
"Oh!" I replied weakly. "Thanks, Robbie." This got me truly befuddled. Somehow, making gifts of furniture didn't connect with threatening letters… Or did it?
And whose bloody cottage was it, anyway?
Chapter Nineteen
The fondue was fun. Before long we were all considerably pissed, doubtless due to the charitable helpings of wine we’d drunk together with the generous amount I'd also dowsed into the melted cheese. Though the alcohol poured into the fondue had probably evaporated with the heat, I’m sure the fumes helped in getting us tipsy.
Ray kept on dropping his bread in the fondue pot and consequently suffered most of the forfeits we'd thought up. By the time we were barely halfway through the feast he had done a handstand – remarkably well, considering he's a burly fellow and that he'd lost touch with sobriety and body co-ordination at some much earlier point in the evening. He also had Tammy's pink lipstick on, and I've got to say his lips are more pleasantly shaped and sensual than a lot of girls’, although it didn't seem to affect his masculinity. He'd also removed two items of his clothing (his leather belt and left shoe), but was still thankfully a long way off sitting in the nude.
My forfeit had been to kiss the person on my right, which happened to be Robbie – and which I felt was fairly embarrassing. I'd have much preferred the handstand stunt. Tammy sat with her bra over her woollen jumper. Robbie had had to attempt the splits. From the fleeting look of pain that flashed across his face, however, as he'd tried to straddle with as much ballerina grace as possible, it appeared that the only thing achieved was a rather severe pull in his hamstring.
Just as we were running out of melted cheese and toasted bread squares I became aware of a loud banging on the front door. Initially I thought I must've been imagining things, due to the generous amounts of wine I'd consumed. I simply couldn't conceive that anyone in command of his or her senses would be out and about in the driving rain, which hadn't ceased all day. But there was no doubt about it, someone was hammering on the door, someone who was doubtlessly sopping wet; in all probability someone who'd lost their way, or indeed, had mistaken the cottage for the Rural Inn as Tammy and I had on that first visit.
The others remained intent on scraping out what was left in the fondue pot as I unsteadily walked over to the front door to let whoever it was in from the downpour. It was the least I could do on such a miserable wet evening. I put the door chain on first, however, just in case. As I opened the door and peeked outside, I almost bowled over from shock. The wine was obviously playing tricks with my mind. I would have gladly suffered the world's mightiest hangover if it had been the wine causing delusions. But no, there standing on my doorstep, beside a titanic-sized suitcase, was the last person I could possibly imagine would want to visit me. I would have been less surprised, and definitely more thrilled, to see ET.
I unfastened the door chain so that I could get a better look. That was when the semi-drowned figure spoke.
"Hi Chantelle."
&nb
sp; And there was no mistaking that screech.
***
I pulled the door open and Vivien Francis, silicone implants and all, stepped through.
As she moved into the brightly-lit living room I heard Tammy gasp in disbelief. I think she was almost more flabbergasted than I was to see the Hollywood celebrity appear in the cottage.
"Vivien," I said, trying to remain as unruffled as possible, "let me introduce you. This is Tammy, her boyfriend Ray, and that's Robbie."
As Vivien turned to Robbie, I don't know if it was from the strain of having been out in the bucketing rain together with the long journey over from the States, or if she thought she was seeing a vision of Lionel, either way, the moment her eyes travelled across to Robbie, she fainted flat on her face. (Though I do believe her boobs hit the floor first and cushioned the landing, as it was quite a muffled thud. And she seemed to bounce a little, too).
Somehow we managed to get her up the stairs and on to one of the beds. I was left in charge of removing her waterlogged clothes. I didn't fancy having to do that one bit; I had no desire to view her 40DD breasts. And why did I have the underlying sense that Vivien was the cross that I was going to have to bear for ever in my quest for peace and happiness?
"What the hell are you doing here?" I hooted out loud to her unconscious body. I checked her pulse, which beat steady and strong. Her breathing was regular, too, which was a relief. I didn't fancy her fading on me. Considering her latest suicidal history, however, I wouldn't have put anything past her.
Just as I was deliberating whether or not I should call for an ambulance, she stirred and clasped my hand in her soft palm.
"I love you, Chantelle," she said. Considering that her previous words had been something along the lines of Those diamonds are mine, you bitch, this startled me, to say the least. I wondered if it was all just part of an intense therapy programme. In any case, despite being able to detect an improvement in attitude, I speculated on what was genuinely going through her mind. I also wondered how long she planned to stay.
I slept in the single bed opposite Vivien's. At least, I attempted to sleep, but kept on waking and straining in the dark silence to catch Vivien's shallow breathing.
Tammy and Ray slept in the double bed, though by the sound of it they did a lot more than just sleep.
Robbie remained below on the sofa.
***
The sun shone brightly the following day and I took it as a good omen. I was desperate for a good omen, I’d jolly well earned myself a good omen. I tiptoed down the stairs, not wanting to wake the others. There was no sleeping figure on the sofa. So Robbie was an early bird too, I observed, as I moved through to the kitchen.
There on the kitchen table, held down by a flower vase, was a white strip of paper. I almost swiped the vase to the floor in rage thinking that the paper was yet another poison pen note, but I halted in my tracks as I became aware that it was Tammy's writing squiggled on the sheet. She has big bubbly-girly writing that you could spot a mile off. I'd always envied her calligraphy. Mine was such a messy scrawl that at time even I struggled to decipher it. I often recalled the fact that intellectual doctors' writings are always a complete illegible scribble. But it didn't really help, because, let's be frank, there's no doctor's intellect in me whatsoever. My A in A-Level biology had been my academic peak.
I opened Tammy's note and read.
Gone on the promised kitchen appliances shopping spree. Get Vivien to leave me an autograph for Jonathan, he's a real fan of hers.
C U later sleeping beauty.
Txxx
Jonathan was Tammy's eighteen-year-old cousin. I hoped it hadn't occurred to her to call him and inform him that I had Vivien Francis over as a houseguest, as this risked having the entire adolescent male population of South London rushing to my front doorstep.
The "promised kitchen appliances shopping spree" referred to the fact that, lacking all kitchen gadgets, I'd asked Tammy if she wouldn't mind kitting out the kitchen for me that day whilst I'd planned to spend my time varnishing. That was, of course, before my unexpected houseguest had rolled up out of the blue. Or rather, out of the dark and stormy night.
It wasn't until 12.30 midday that I heard Vivien stir in the bedroom above. I was immensely curious to find out what had possessed her to fly over from the States. One thing was for sure, it wasn't for the weather. Furthermore, how on earth had she managed to locate me? The UK is small in comparison to the huge US landmass, but it's not that tiny.
In my state of paranoia and mystification, with the combination of menacing letters and Vivien’s sudden appearance, I wondered if I'd been implanted with a GPS chip and had a satellite dish transmitting my whereabouts. I was also more than a little curious to know what Vivien's intentions were. I somehow doubted that her arrival was just a fleeting visit. Her case must have weighed at least 40 kilos; 40 kilos of make-up and clothes was a hell of a lot powder puff and skimpy slips to bring on a weekend break. She must have paid a fortune for excess baggage. Then again, Vivien, being who she is, had probably been given exclusive treatment the whole flight over. Moreover, I doubted she'd been body-searched the way I had suffered. There I was again, bitching behind Vivien's back like a real jealous rival.
Just as I reprimanded myself for being so spiteful, her long legs that positively went on forever appeared as she descended the stairs.
"You have a really cute house," she cooed as soon as she saw me. That left me momentarily stunned. I'd just about learned to deal with her cattiness, so her unexpected courtesy threw me somewhat.
In all truth I thought we made quite a convincing Tom and Jerry team – me being Jerry, of course. This new Tom in her, consequently, left me wary as hell. She would probably pull a gun or something on me the moment my back was turned. As she approached, I found myself wondering where my ice-pick was.
Vivien pulled up a chair by the kitchen table and sat down directly opposite me. For a moment we just stared at each other in awkward silence. Accustomed as we were to out-and-out slanging matches, getting a civilised conversation going was quite a challenge. I sat silent, thinking that I'd let her start the ball rolling, and depending on what she said I would decide whether to throttle her or not.
What I didn't expect was for her to turn her baby-blue eyes on me. I noticed they were brimming with unshed tears, and though she attempted to keep them at bay, it was with little success. Her chin started wobbling and her cheeks glowed from rosy pink to deep crimson. Soon the wobbling of her chin spread and her shoulders commenced to tremble.
I sat there petrified. She was obviously on the verge of some sort of spasm attack. I hadn't a clue where she kept her medication, or if she had any to start with. A Valium would come in handy. I couldn't dial 999 either, as my mobile battery, which had a life span of three hours or less, needed to be charged. My charger was in the van, and the van had been taken by Tammy to load with kitchen devices.
And, shit, I’d forgotten to phone Lionel.
My mind was in a whirl, and now I was getting as jumpy and apprehensive as she was. If I didn't soothe myself pronto, I would be in grave danger of going to pieces. And Vivien, in her disarray, was going to be no help to me.
I took a deep breath to try and control myself as I continued to witness Vivien's chronic decline. Her bright crimson cheeks had started to go blotchy and her whole body had started to judder. She'd closed her eyes momentarily. I don't want to be bitchy, but she looked truly bloodcurdling, like she was possessed or something. She looked like the girl out of The Exorcist – the original version – the one I've always had nightmares about.
So there was Vivien, my living nightmare, and I waited in hushed trepidation for her head to turn through 360º.
I wondered if there was a wooden cross somewhere in the house I could hold up in front of her whilst I mumbled the Our Father and at least six Hail Marys in an attempt to save myself from the crazed fiend before me. But in truth, considering I hadn't been to church in years, let al
one confession, there wasn't really much hope that my lapsed Catholic faith would save me.
Vivien suddenly opened her eyes, and it was like opening a sluice gate. Tears just flooded out in non-stop waves. She was leaning against the table and even this started to vibrate alongside her quivering body. I didn't know what to say to attempt to lessen her anguish. I'm always so tongue-tied in these circumstances. Eventually, in desperation, I blundered ahead and said, rather ineptly, "Is there anything wrong?"
At the rate she was going, she would surpass the previous day's rain! On hearing my words Vivien started to shake her head vigorously from side to side.
Is that a NO? I was puzzled, because I would have said that there was something very seriously wrong. My abhorrence of her started to melt away. I moved over to her side of the table and put my right arm over her shoulders protectively, as if comforting a three-year-old.
"Considering that you've just flown all the way over the Atlantic and searched me out, though God knows how, you may as well tell me what's wrong," I pressed, as I also twigged that she'd gone further out of her way to seek me out than any ex of mine ever had. This somewhat disconcerting concept was one I decided to leave to one side for the moment and think about later.
By now snot had started to dribble down from her nose. Believe me, she was not a pretty sight. She mumbled something, but between her snivelling and the hiccups which now shook her body, it was impossible to decipher what the hell she was saying.
"What was that?" I prompted as I become conscious, and considerably repulsed, that I had a slobber of phlegm rolling down my shoulder. I almost retched at the vista of the green bogie slithering down my arm. I wiped it off using the only thing I had handy: Vivien's long blonde hair.
"Freddy G," she croaked out between snivel and hiccup. She really threw me then. What did Freddy G have to do with any of this? Surely she wasn't moping over him. Saying that, small and dumpy though he was, he did have a bit of a reputation as a Don Juan.
A Little of Chantelle Rose Page 17