Famous (27 page)

I hurried back into my warm clothes and set about locating the hot-water switch. Eventually I found it under the kitchen sink, but there would be no chance of a shower tonight. So, with teeth chattering I dipped my head into a sink-full of arctic water and rinsed out the dye as quickly as I could.

Then, after a lengthy session with the hairdryer in an attempt to return my body temperature to normal, I decided to pull out my laptop and check my emails.

Thank God for mobile internet connection, I thought.

But it seemed my thanks were a little too hasty. It appeared that Swoosh coverage did not yet stretch to the arse-end of the earth.

Bloody hell! I wailed. No phone
and
no internet! What was I going to do?

I settled on rummaging through the enormous box of food supplies that Vicky had packed for me. Aside from fruit, bread and cereal, it largely consisted of numerous packets of instant pasta and noodle thingies. The just-add-water variety. I knew I couldn’t cook, but did she have to make it quite so obvious? And to top it off they all said things like
just for one
and
en solo
on the front of the packets. Like it wasn’t bad enough you were eating dinner out of a packet, and by yourself, they had to rub it in your face.

My eyes fixed on a jar of olives, which I decided to open instead, along with a bottle of red wine. I opened the kitchen drawers, searching for the bottle opener. Twenty minutes later I was still searching.

There. Must. Be. One. Here. I kept telling myself, rummaging through the same drawers for the sixth time. There simply must!

Having searched the kitchen dry, several times over, I was stumped. But I wasn’t giving up. Not now. My glimmer of hope was that I found it very hard to believe any relative of Mands was a teetotaler. It just didn’t make sense. In a fit of better judgement I headed towards the fireplace and there, sitting on top of the mantel, was a little chipped bowl. And inside that bowl was none other than a Swiss Army knife.

Hallelujah! I cried, prizing out the corkscrew.

Mission accomplished I dragged my duvet, the olives, and the bottle of wine to the lumpy couch and flicked through the stacks of magazines the girls had brought me. I suddenly realised it was a Saturday night, which made me feel even more depressed. The contrast between the pages of
Vanity Fair
and the walls of this dusty shed I now found myself residing in were extreme, to say the least. It was rustic charm all right, but without the charm part. I soon realised how cold I was, largely due to the many holes and gaps in the wooden floorboards, and vainly searched about for some sort of heating device. I didn’t have to worry about heating devices in my apartment, whenever I was hot it was cool and whenever I was cold it was warm. Just the way it should be.

Central heating had a lot to be proud of, I thought to myself, rummaging through the rooms.

My search turned up what could only be described as The Oldest Electric Heater Known to Man. I brought it into the front room, wiped the cobwebs from it and plugged it in. It looked like the type of heater that would willingly burn your house down if you left it alone for thirty seconds. In other words, it looked dangerous.

Upon turning it on it immediately lived up to its reputation by firstly smoking profusely, and then making a frightening sizzling sound. Then it died.

Just great, I sighed, pulling out the plug and giving it a kick.

After a forlorn gaze at the empty fireplace, and then remembering I had absolutely no idea how to light a fire, I resigned myself to crawling back under the duvet and being cold. I suddenly wished I had paid more attention to my father’s efforts to make a Boy Scout out of me.

I flicked through a couple more magazines, devoured the rest of the olives (and wine) and then I took my cold and dejected self off to bed. I stood staring at the tiny double bed, willing it not to be as pitted and lumpy as it appeared. Tentatively I pulled back the duvet and climbed in, only to be immediately sucked into its very core. The bed appeared to have eaten me. I found myself lying in a dip so enormous I was sure I’d need a pair of crampons and winching out come morning. Ten packets of frozen peas could have been put under the mattress and I wouldn’t have felt them.

I tossed and turned in the crevice, unable to get to sleep. There was something missing, but I just couldn’t figure out what it was.

Noise! I suddenly realised. There’s no noise! No traffic. No drunken domestic disputes on the footpath outside. And no car alarms. It was eerily and unnervingly quiet. I could even hear myself breathing.

It was completely disturbing just how loud silence was, I thought to myself a long time later. Deafening in fact. It was making my ears buzz. I put a pillow over my head in an attempt to block it out. And that is how I spent my first night in rural asylum - sleeping with a pillow over my head, trying my hardest to block out the silence.

9

The next morning was an entirely different story altogether. I was woken far too high on the Early Scale by a God-awful racket outside the bedroom window. Birds. Lots of them. Chirping, loudly. This was not a sound I was accustomed to in the city. I was usually lulled back to sleep by the soothing drone of traffic and rubbish collectors. Nice, constant, reliable sounds.

How could anyone possibly like the sound of birds? I wondered to myself, putting the pillow back over my head. It was piercing. They were all randomly singing their own songs, completely out of tune. I would almost have rather listened to Celine Dion. I said almost.

Half an hour later I’d finally had enough of them and dragged myself out of bed. My neck and back ached from having lain all night in a lumpy, saggy hole. I walked into the bathroom and jumped back as I passed the mirror. There was someone else in the bathroom with me. But then I got a grip and realized it was just me and my new red hair.

I stood in front of the mirror and let out a long sigh. Unfortunately it didn’t look any better today.

Hopefully I’ll grow into it, I placated myself. But myself strongly doubted it.

But at least there is now hot water, I thought, dragging myself away from the mirror and into the bath meets shower. But someone had beaten me to it.

A massive gangly daddylonglegs was currently inching its way down the shower curtain.

Oh no! Get out! I urged, attempting to windmill it away.

But it was having none of it, clearly glad for the company after all these years of solitude. It was by far the quickest shower of my life as I exfoliated and cleansed my heart out, all the while keeping my gaze firmly locked on the insect. Not the most relaxing morning shower I’d ever had.

Having exorcised myself of dust and mustiness, I got dressed and opened the front door, stepping out onto the tiny wooden porch. I looked around at my surroundings in the bright morning sunlight. There was absolutely nothing to see. Not another house, let alone a bean. Just a patch of dried out grass at the front, a dirt driveway, and bush. Lots of bush. I was surrounded by it on all sides. I walked around to the back of the cabin and there it was again. More bush.

I decided to drive into the village and buy a phone, putting on my disguise - jeans, T-shirt, gym shoes, sans make-up, and of course my new red hair, tied back in a ponytail and topped off with a cap. I was practically unrecognisable. There was no need for the enormous glasses, although Mands had packed an extra pair for me, just in case. It felt strange hopping into my car and driving away without being chased by a fleet of paparazzi.

Twenty minutes and only one wrong turn later I was standing in the tiny main street, outside the post-office-slash-bank-slash-stationery shop, which I deduced was my best (and only) phone-buying option. I had parked right outside the front door, in one of the many vacant spaces. At least it looked like parking wasn’t going to be a problem around here, I noted, looking around for the meter. There wasn’t one to be seen.

Free parking, I thought to myself, what an odd concept. I’d no idea it still existed.

It was eerily quiet with only a handful of vehicles and other people about. I could have sworn I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a couple of tumbleweeds racing each other down the pavement. The post-office-slash-bank-slash-stationery shop was right next door to the solitary café.

Might as well grab a coffee first, I decided, for want of any other pressing engagements.

The outside of the café looked like a relic from the 1950s with its black-and-white-checkered tiles and lacey curtains framing the front windows.

I looked through the white lace and contemplated the odds of getting a real coffee. Around twenty per cent, I decided.

I stared up and down the street, vainly hoping I had missed another café on my drive-by, and that a well-known coffee sign was going to leap out and dance merrily before my eyes. But no, there wasn’t another café to be seen.

Oh well, I resigned myself. You can’t stand outside forever.

I stepped through the doorway. It was a sad, sad sight to behold. Red checked tablecloths on white plastic tables, with white plastic chairs to match. I visibly cringed. Any delusions I had of the 1950s exterior masking an Italian bean roastery, filled with the mouth-watering aroma of various strands of freshly ground coffee were violently shattered. It reeked of lavender and weak tea.

‘Hello love,’ greeted the peppery-haired lady stacking scones into the basket on the counter.

Any further delusions of getting a decent coffee flew out the lacey window at the sight of her.

She was wearing the brightest shirt I had ever seen. Lime green with white flowers and, oh yes, she had the skirt to match. Thankfully I still had my sunglasses on.

‘Hi,’ I replied. I was standing just inside the doorway, right on the buzzer it appeared.

I stepped forward. It was too late to turn and run now. I was committed to buying something from this time warp of an establishment.

‘What can I get you, luvie?’ asked the woman.

‘Um…a coffee?’ I ventured, apprehension echoing in my voice.

‘Ooh…a coffee?’ she repeated. This was not a good sign. Not at all.

‘Okay-dokay love, I’ll just pop it on now. Anything else?’

‘Yes…and a scone please,’ I said, looking at the basket on the counter top.

‘Date or cheese?’

‘Date please.’

‘Good choice love, those’re fresh out of the oven, they are.’

I hadn’t eaten a date scone since my sisters and I had been to stay with Grandma Atkins when I was ten. It appeared they hadn’t changed much. I took my wallet out of my handbag.

‘That’s okay love, you can pay on your way out. Have a seat and make yourself comfy. A watched pot never boils after all.’

A what? What was she on about pots for? And pay on my way out? What a foreign concept. The only place that let you pay on your way out these days was a supermarket, not a place I frequented often. Although I presumed the lady was confident I wasn’t going to do a runner, being the only person in the place. And that the town was the size of a pea of course. The local constable would have me pinned in no time at all.

I grabbed a magazine - there were no newspapers thank goodness - and sat down.

Heart & Home
was a tragic piece of literature for those women who aspired to make a career out of being a housewife. My sister Vicky was no doubt a regular subscriber. I opened it on a page with the heading
101 Ways to Pickle.

Dear God, I wondered, as I flicked through the millions of pickle recipes. Where in the hell have I ended up?

I smelt the coffee being carried towards me before I saw it. It smelt like filter. I was afraid to look.

‘Here we go then, love,’ said the woman, putting the filter coffee and date scone down in front of me. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, choking back the urge to cry.

I steadied myself and slowly brought the small white ceramic cup to my lips, while simultaneously trying not to inhale its contents. The Fluro Woman was standing back on the other side of the counter, sneaking the odd glance at me. I tried not to grimace as I swallowed the foul concoction. It tasted like black tar mixed with more black tar. I tipped half the sugar bowl into the cup in an attempt to make it drinkable and persevered. The coffee was nothing short of hideous but I had to admit that the scone was delicious, especially as it was still warm and the butter melted right in. I generally avoided butter like the plague, but I was in desperate need of something comforting.

‘Thank you. That was lovely,’ I said, standing at the cash register.

‘You’re welcome luvie. Just passing through are you?’

‘No. I’m staying here for a little while.’

If passing through was an option, there is no way in hell I would have stopped. Surely people didn’t stop in this place of their own free will? If their cars broke down maybe.

‘Are you really? Well isn’t that lovely. My name is Elsie.’

‘Jane,’ I replied, shaking her hand.

I might have been stuck in the wops, but I wasn’t stupid. Jane was my middle name and now also doubling as my Floodgate pseudonym.

‘Have you been busy?’ I asked, attempting to make conversation.

‘Had the morning rush a little earlier on but no, fairly quiet this time of year. Busier round Christmas time.’

Christmas time? That was months away! And the morning rush? In this town? She’d hardly be lynched by the mob. Perhaps more than one customer in your shop constituted a rush in these parts?

‘However,’ continued Elsie. ‘To get eggs there must be some cackling.’

I had absolutely no idea what the hell she was talking about, so I just smiled back.

‘Nice to meet you, love. You have a good day.’

‘You too,’ I replied, walking out and stepping on the buzzer, for old times’ sake.

I had no idea at all what I was going to do for the rest of the day.

I walked next door into the post-office-slash-bank-slash-stationery-shop and managed to find one solitary phone on the shelves. They always kept one on hand for emergencies, according to the man behind the counter. Apparently it was my lucky day.