Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) (5 page)

I turned the
handle of the door and entered.

The glow wasn't
coming from the table lamp, but from a collection of candles on the
coffee table. I froze. I would never risk burning down my new house
by leaving lit candles unattended - not as if I'd lit them in the
first place.

I tensed at the
sound of creaking upholstery. A man's head poked up from the sofa.
‘Hello Rachel,’ he said. ‘Had a nice time?’

I screamed.

Fear, anger and
panic inside of me all at once, scrambling my ability to think
straight. I turned left and right and left again like a trapped
wild animal, searching for something - anything - I could use as a
weapon. I grabbed the tiffany lamp from the phone table next to the
radiator and held it to my chest - a barrier between me and
him.

‘Whatever's the
matter?’ He got up from the sofa and approached me.

My heart
racing, my breath panting; I backed off and bumped up against the
lounge door I'd just closed behind me. The cord of the lamp snagged
tight at the socket. I was ready to yank it free from the plug and
beat him to death with it if I had to. ‘Who are you?’

‘It's me.’

He took another
step. I flinched.

‘It's
Darren.’

Whirls of
confusion made me dizzy. ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘No, no, no, no,
no, no.’

‘Are you all
right, darling?’

‘You're not
real.’ I said it more to convince myself.

‘Rachel, what
are you talking about?’ He smiled - an amused smile. ‘Of course I'm
real - look at me.’

He stood with
his arms out wide. He was handsome and slim with a full head of
black hair swept across his forehead and a toned body beneath his
clothes. He was tall enough to be manly - almost six foot - but not
too tall as to dominate me. He was the type of man my fantasy
Darren might be - if he were real.

‘How did you
get in here?’

‘I live here,’
he said.

‘No. This is my
house. I paid for it. My name's on the deeds.’

‘Rachel
darling, it's our house. We bought it, remember? Are you feeling
all right?’

He moved as if
to get closer, but I lifted the lamp higher, ready to take a swing
at him. It tugged at the flex again.

‘Rachel--’

‘Stay
there.’

Stuck between
the need to protect myself and my instinct to run, I tried to
think. He'd got into my house somehow, he knew my name and knew
about Darren somehow. No ordinary burglar could do that - surely? A
conman could go through my rubbish and find out stuff about me, but
only a few people knew about Darren.

It was a wind
up. It had to be a wind up. God, let him be a wind up, and not some
mad psycho rapist.

‘Did someone
put you up to this?’ I said.

‘Rachel, what
are you talking about?’

He wasn't going
to admit to it. Fine. But this prank had gone beyond the point
where it was funny; not that it had been funny in the first
place.

‘Don't move.’ I
threatened him with the tiffany lamp again.

He obeyed.

Keeping the
lamp in one hand, I used the other to delve into my handbag. I
rifled past hairbrush, purse, petrol receipts, half-used tissues,
until I found my phone. With hands shaking and heart pumping - not
taking my eye off the stranger for a moment - I called Sheila.

It rang. Good,
her mobile was still on. It kept ringing. I willed her to pick it
up.

At last she
answered. ‘Yeah?’ A sleepy voice down the phone line.

‘Sheila? It's
Rachel.’ My voice trembling. ‘I don't know how you did it - ha ha,
very funny - but you can tell him to leave now.’

‘Wwwhat?’ she
slurred. ‘Rachel? What're you talking about?’

‘The man you
snuck in pretending to be Darren.’

‘What? Rach,
Darren's not real.’ A heavy sigh. ‘I'm tired, hon. We'll talk about
it tomorrow.’

‘Sheila,
don't--’ I shouted.

--hang up.

The line went
dead. I hit re-dial. It went straight to voicemail.

Bugger.

The Darren-man
was still looking at me. Like a dog looks at his master when it
can't understand why the human is behaving strangely. ‘Why don't
you come and sit on the sofa,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I can
pour you a glass of wine and then we can make love.’

‘No!’ I
screamed, loud enough to wake the neighbours.

He was larger
than me, stronger than me. If he attacked me, I could fight back,
but he would win. I started to wheeze. I put my hand out to the
doorframe, leaned against it, trying to slow my breath. It brought
back playground memories of childhood asthma. I hadn't had an
episode for years and I wasn't going to be flawed by it as an
adult. I willed my breathing to slow.

I told myself
he wasn't going to attack me because it was just a joke. Some male
escort Sheila had booked while we were at the pub and given my
spare key to during one of her many supposed trips to the
toilet.

‘Look,’ I said,
gathering myself together. ‘I know you've gone to a lot of trouble,
and you're really impressive, but I haven't got time for this now.
You can tell Sheila you got me and we can have a laugh about it
down the pub another time. But right now, I'm tired and I need some
sleep because I'm starting a new job tomorrow. So, if you don't
mind, I'm going to go to bed now and you're going to leave.’

I left the
sanctity of the doorframe and placed the lamp back on the phone
table, keeping my eye on him all the time. Without my weapon, I was
even more vulnerable, but he didn't make a move. If he'd been a
burglar or a rapist, he would have taken his opportunity there and
then. With relief, I knew at that moment, he was part of a
practical joke. The man - whoever he really was - was a damn good
actor, and that's all.

With added
confidence, I walked right by him like I owned the place.

Damn it - I did
own the place. Minus a £100,000 debt to the bank.

I caught a
whiff of his cologne as I went past, mixed with his manly
scent.

Tasty.

If I hadn't
needed a decent night's sleep, I might've taken advantage of the
practical joker to see how far he was prepared to take his little
act. I kept on walking, through to the kitchen, where I ran myself
a cool refreshing glass of water. When I returned moments later, I
found him gone. Thank goodness. Boy was I going to have words with
Sheila when I next saw her.

In some ways,
though, it was too bad. It was about time I gave my libido a
workout. But - hey! - easy come, easy go.

I went upstairs
to bed.

Of all the
things in the world that should never have been invented, alarm
clocks top the list.

With the
exception, possibly, of nuclear weapons.

And
terrorism.

And
antibiotic-resistant bacteria.

Okay, so not
top. But if there were a list of all the bad things in the world,
then alarm clocks would definitely be on it.

My alarm clock
bleeped at me with an incessant electronic trill. It woke me up -
which was what I wanted - but it didn't do it very nicely.

I whacked the
snooze button. My sleepy hand knocked the thing onto the floor, the
battery sprung out of the back compartment and the digital display
winked out of existence.

Arse.

It had to be
7am. That's the time I set it for. I sat up and felt that groggy
feeling which meant going out on Sunday night had been a bad
idea.

Beside me, I
heard a low gravelly moan.

I swivelled. In
the bed next to me was a naked man.

I yelped and
scrambled out of bed.

Two blue eyes
peeked out from under a matt of black hair. ‘Would you like me to
make you breakfast before work?’

It was the
Darren-man!

I stood. I
stared. Transfixed. Confused.

Until I
realised I was naked too. My hands flew to my breasts.

Leaving me
exposed down below. I clasped one arm over both nipples and put the
other hand over my bush.

‘Rachel, what's
up?’ said the man.

‘You... you...’
I stuttered. ‘You
left!’

His forehead
wrinkled in a confused expression. ‘You said you were going to bed,
so I came up first and brushed my teeth. You were sound asleep by
the time I got in.’

‘
What?!’
I grabbed a pillow to cover my modesty. Mind whirling. Half
wondering if I was dreaming, half remembering what had happened the
night before; half thinking someone had spiked my drink.

‘I tell you
what,’ he said. ‘I'll go squeeze you some fresh orange juice.
You'll feel better after that.’ He threw the duvet off himself and
got out of bed with his man bits dangling between his toned
thighs.

I cowered by
the bedside table, clutching the pillow to my nakedness and watched
his pert bottom saunter out of the bedroom.

Fuck.

(to be
continued…)

*

To find out what
happens next, seek out
If Wishes Were Husbands
by Elizabeth
Kyne

at your favourite
online store as an ebook (ISBN: 978-1-908340-02-3)

or paperback (ISBN:
978-1-908340-01-6)