Pompomberry House (2 page)

No doubt they would all be indie writers like me. Perhaps
even some who’d sold more than a few hundred copies. I’d read some truly stonking
self-published books in my time — the others were bound to be talented,
inspiring individuals. I wondered if that bloke who wrote genealogy mysteries
would be here. I was longing to find out whom the red case on his new cover
belonged to.

Finally, I reached the bottom step. A few rickety planks
poked out above the water. Could this be the pontoon described in the email?

The gully between the mainland and the island was only about
fifteen metres wide, but shelved far too steeply to safely wade, especially
during a high spring tide. From beside the pontoon, I could make out the
remains of a bridge. I wondered how long ago the sea had claimed that.

Today the waves were small. They playfully splashed a white
rowing boat, which was tied to the pontoon and attached to two wires which
spanned the crossing. I knew from the email that these wires were a pulley
system so that the boat could be sent back for the next guest.

I wondered who had sent it back for me. Who else might have
just arrived? Could it be that guy who writes about a relationship assassin? Was
he here? I really wanted to ask him when the sequel would be out.

As I bundled my case into the boat, I thought of all the
interesting writers that I’d chatted to on the forum since getting my Kindle —
so many brilliant artists, so many imaginative minds — I was bound to learn
great things from the other guests, and come away from the weekend a better
writer, possibly even a better person.

It was a long time since I’d rowed a boat. I hadn’t been on
water since that trip to Ally Pally three years ago. Still, it came back to me
readily, like riding a bicycle or milking a sheep.

I looked at the craggy granite cliffs, with the little stone
steps eating away into the cliff face. I felt like one of the Famous Five. Might
Enid Blyton have been inspired by Pompomberry House?

A loud crack told me that my boating journey was over. The
bow had smacked into the island. I cast around, checking if anybody had witnessed
my humiliating moment, but I couldn’t see anybody on the island at all. Perhaps
they were all inside. Where else would they be in February?

I climbed out onto the sandy shore — another surface unkind
to wheeled items. Still, stumbling around was all part of the fun — all part of
invoking the isolated, Gothic ambience that would fuel our creativity. I sent
the boat back for the next guest. Much harder to do than I’d expected.
Could
do with a good oiling.

At last my case wheels found the winding path that led up to
the front door. I adjusted my purple, crushed velvet trilby, making sure that
the tips of my blonde, cropped hair protruded slightly from beneath the brim. I
tipped my hat to one side, adding a stylish quality.

Should I ring the doorbell? It wasn’t clear. I was a guest,
but weren’t we all guests? We’d hired the whole house, after all.

Eventually, I decided that ringing the doorbell could do no
harm, since bursting in unannounced was fraught with potential problems. Being
a writer, I could envisage immediately at least three potential problems: walking
in on two people having sex; walking in on three people having sex; and walking
in on two people trying to cover up a murder. I smiled to myself; already the
spooky, dramatic setting was encouraging my imagination to run wild. Of course
nobody was going to be covering up a murder. Judging by how draughty it looked,
I doubted anybody would be having sex either.

Nobody came to the door. I rang the bell again, deciding to
give them ten more seconds before barging in.

Five presses later, I tried the door.
That’s odd. It’s
locked.
I pushed a little harder and felt in my pocket for the directions.
Was I in the wrong place? Was I at some other Gothic retreat? I didn’t know
Cornwall well, but I was pretty sure that single-house islands connected by a
boat on a pulley were rare, even in the West Country.

I looked around me, taking in the surroundings. Broken
garden ornaments lined the path, including three concrete gnomes, which had
presumably once enjoyed a covering of glossy paint, and a squirrel without a
tail. A pile of half-chopped wood was stacked next to the door.
Ooh! I hope
there’s a log fire!

Intrigued, I ventured closer to the wood. I steadied myself
when I saw what I saw — a jagged cliff, towering over the sea. I hadn’t realised
that the zigzagging path had climbed so high. But looking downward, I was a
good thirty feet above the waves. They swashed around sharp rocks like a
teasing caress, hiding the jagged peaks and then revealing them again like an
oceanic game of peek-a-boo.

Suddenly, I heard a loud, piercing cry overhead.
Instinctively, I ducked. I heard something clattering above my shoulder, like a
pair of dustbin lids being taken by a gust of wind. I opened my eyes and slowly
raised my head. A giant white bird, identical to the one in the lane, sat on
the woodpile. I averted my gaze, avoiding having to see that disturbing,
orange-rimmed glare again.

I had another go at the front door. It was definitely
locked. Simply to get away from the bird, I dropped my case and ran around to
the back of the house.

Oh wowsers!

Drinking straight from the can, like a model plucked from a Diet
Coke advert, was the handyman of dreams. He was shirtless, a little odd even in
this mild February, but who was I to complain? His shaggy just-out-of-bed,
blond hair hung around his face like golden stalactites. His cheekbones looked
as though they’d been sculpted with a chisel. His chin was covered in fair
prickles, giving him a rugged edge. He chopped back brambles with an axe.

He turned, and saw me gawping. I looked away, shyly. What did
he see when he looked at me? Though by no means ugly, I was nobody’s idea of a
fizzy drink model either. More suited to an advert for washing powder — the
before
picture. With my fondness for being out of doors and a proneness to accidents,
my clothes never stayed clean for long. I tended to wear jeans, shorts, or even
dungarees. They suited my slight, almost boyish figure and complemented my pixie
haircut. Now, a couple of years into my thirties, my eyes wrinkled a little
when I smiled. This man didn’t look a day over twenty-one.

It wasn’t long before I needed to take another look.
Incredible — I’d never really liked abs before, but now I wanted nothing more
than to reach out and feel this man’s buffed torso (I supposed that would be a
faux pas ...)

“Can I help you?” he asked. He spoke with an English accent,
but I detected a Scandinavian twang blended with Cockney tones.

“I’m here for the writers’ weekend.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile.

He grabbed a navy tank top, which happened to be lying on a
nearby wall and tugged it on. He looked rather nautical, with the blue top and
white jeans. My mind added a sailor’s hat.
Yummy.

What was happening? This wasn’t like me — drooling over a
workman! What was the matter with me? No doubt this was a knee jerk reaction to
my recent romantic troubles.

“Where are the others?” I asked, planning an escape route.

“What others?”

Chapter 2

My heart stopped. Why were there no others? Why was I alone
on a deserted island with an axe-wielding Swede? Was I living in a bad Stieg
Larsson rip-off? Had this man placed the advert for the weekend himself? Had he
pretended that there were half-a-dozen people coming, so that he could get me
alone and axe me to death?

I trembled. Still, I stayed rooted to the spot. What manner
of madness was this? Why would I rather take my chances with a crazy axe man,
than go back around to the front of the house and face a feathery bird?
Obviously the stress of the last few months was messing with my mind.

“You’re the first to get here,” he explained. “The rest are
late.”

“Oh,” I said, with a long exhalation of thankful breath,
which gave away a little more of my petrified mood than I’d perhaps intended.
Why was I so jumpy?

“Relax,” he said. “This place may look like a house of
horrors, but it’s lovely inside.”

I glanced at yet another boarded window, and wondered how
that could possibly be true.

“Have you seen any ...” I began searching for the right
words, “really big birds?”

“Seagulls!” he said. “They’re like monsters around here!” He
laughed a little.
Laughed?
Had he seen the same birds that I had seen?

“Don’t look so worried,” he told me, putting a friendly arm
around my shoulder. I flinched — no part of me had ever been touched by anyone this
beautiful before. My lips felt jealous of my shoulder.

As I turned into his embrace, our mouths were just inches
apart. I felt as though I was committing adultery simply by breathing the same
air as this slab of manly perfection.

“Hello?” called somebody.

I was inclined to ignore the somebody, but chose not to only
because the handyman would have thought me rude. I was surprised to find myself
feeling mildly violent urges toward the owner of the intrusive, fluffy,
high-pitched voice.

“Biff,” said the handyman.
My thoughts exactly.
“My
name is Biff.”

“Oh,
I see
.
Dee, Dee Whittaker.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Dee Whittaker,” he said. I
noticed that even my own name sounded sexier when processed by him — his
throat, his voice box, his tongue ...

“Hello?” called the voice again.

“All right!” I responded, scurrying around to the front of
the house. I glanced back one more time, just in case this was the last time I
ever saw the beauty that was Biff the handyman.

From a distance, Annabel Fleming looked like a
sophisticated, elegant woman. She had tidy, dark hair, held back in a loose
asymmetrical bun; a silk necktie; and a cream blouse that tapered down into a
black pencil skirt. She looked a little like a 1960s secretary, and I could
live with that.

Up close, however, she looked like an inflatable sex doll. I
could see her red satin bra shining through the flimsy fabric of her blouse,
and, when she turned to pick up her pink ‘Hello Kitty’ case, the excessively
long split in her skirt made it clear that the bra was part of a matching set.
She wore heavy makeup that detracted from her naturally pleasing facial
structure. Her lips were painted a bright, glossy pink and her resting
expression left them slightly parted, like a miniature letterbox waiting for a
delivery.

“I’m Annabel,” she told me, outstretching a perfectly
manicured hand. I mentally skimmed my virtual bookshelf. Had I read anything by
an Annabel? I didn’t think so, unless she had a different pen name. “Are you
Jan’s replacement?” she asked me. “Such a shame she’s not coming. I’m gutted
that I won’t get to meet a top writer.”

“I’m Dee Whittaker,” I replied, trying not to seem put out.

“What have you written?” she asked. Her voice
was
high-pitched and fluffy, and I wondered whether I could detect a hint of a
Welsh accent.

“
The Red River
.”

“No,” she said, sounding vacant.

“What about you?” I asked.

“
Falling for Flatley
.”

“I haven’t read that one yet,” I said politely. Actually, I
hadn’t even heard of
Falling for Flatley
, but it seemed unkind to say
so.

“Don’t you read much?” she asked abruptly.

“I read quite a lot. What sort of book is it?”

“It’s a romance.”

“Ah.” Now it was clear to me why I had never downloaded so much
as a sample of Annabel’s book. I couldn’t stand romances, unless the hero ended
up accidentally eating the heroine’s gerbil, or something similarly dark.

“It’s a number one best-seller!” she added, proudly.

“Really? Well done!”

“Yes, it got to the top of Welsh contemporary romantic
suspense fiction priced at under two pounds for
three hours
!”

The wind blew Annabel’s flimsy blouse slightly further open,
revealing that her dazzling bra had a rose print. I saw her look down, her eyes
drinking in the risqué clothing situation, but she chose to do nothing about it.

“I’ve heard that Rafe Maddocks is coming. I can’t wait to meet
him,” she sang.

Now there was a name that did ring a bell. In fact, at least
one of his books was on my Kindle right now, waiting its turn to be read. “I
haven’t read
Disgracebook
yet,” I told her, “But I’ve heard that it’s
cracking.”

“Oh, neither have I, but I know he’s
gorgeous
.”

I looked at Annabel with her dark red nails, seamed
stockings and kitten heels, wondering why she was here. This weekend was
supposed to be about writing, about following dreams and expanding the mind,
not drooling over some apparently tasty author. Were the dangling gold earrings
for his benefit, or did she generally like to be a walking tangling hazard?

Feeling squeamish, I tapped my own lugholes. They weren’t
even pierced. I had attached earlobes and I wanted them to stay that way.
Still, what did I know? It was years since I’d pulled a new man. Perhaps these
days you couldn’t get to second base without a cover story and splattering of
cosmetics. Perhaps they didn’t even call it ‘second base’ any more.

An image of Biff handling an axe leapt into my mind and I
felt slightly ashamed — damn my talent for identifying hypocrisy. I reminded
myself that I hadn’t known that Biff would be here. Besides, I wasn’t actually
planning to act on his hotness. He was out of my league, for sure. (Wasn’t he?)
(Probably.) More importantly, I was a married woman! Perhaps in name alone, but
even so there was moving on, and then there was moving
on.

I would force myself to focus on my writing. After all, that’s
what I was here for. Lustful, well-presented Annabel was an irritating reminder
that there was more to life, and I could do without that today, thank you very
much.