Pompomberry House (22 page)

“What?”

“I’ve got to go.”

Chapter 12

Once again, Gareth’s great mind had come up with a brilliant
idea. To get Netta’s attention, I needed to offer her the one thing she craved
more than anything else — not safety, but fame. I had to pretend to be a TV
producer.

I hurried home. I could have emailed her there and then using
my phone, but I told myself I needed peace and quiet to draft the perfect message.
In actual fact, I wanted some space to ponder the meaning of Gareth texting me.

He had said he had places to be and people to see, yet he’d
still texted me. That meant that wherever he was, whoever he was with, he was
thinking of me.

I smiled to myself as I drafted an email to a girl who might
very soon be dead. This was one of the most important, serious emails of my
life, yet I found myself humming — further evidence of mood swings.

Then I realised that if Gareth had wanted to, he could have
phoned. Instead, he’d sent a measly text. Who was he with to prevent him from
calling me? My stomach lurched. Something was definitely wrong with my brain
chemistry.

Focus Dee, focus.
Eventually, I arrived at a draft I
was happy with.

Dear Netta,

OK, I admit it, I don’t really think your life’s in
danger. I’m a TV producer and I wanted a chance to meet you before offering you
the gig. We’re really interested in having you on our live chat show. I don’t
suppose you’ve heard of Leonardo DiCaprio? He’ll be on, but we really need a
headliner.

Dee

Then, I nipped to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I
wondered if Gareth was regretting not staying for a cuppa this morning. Perhaps
I should call him to let him know that I’d emailed Netta.

By the time I returned to my computer, with a cup of Earl Grey
and a jam sandwich cream, there was a response waiting for me.

Hi Dee!

I’d love to be on your show. Where and when?

Netta

I was alarmed by how easily tricked she was. A cold-blooded
monster would without doubt find her exceptionally easy to kill. I had to get
to her and I had to get to her fast.

* * *

We met in St James’s Park. I was feeling a little bored of
coffee shops and bars. I wanted to stretch my legs, get a bit of air. I also
felt that if we kept walking there’d be less chance of anybody listening in.
Still, it would be getting dark soon, so I hoped that Netta wouldn’t be too
late. Judging by the tone of her email, I doubted that she would. Fortunately,
I had my favourite blue woolly hat on, to keep me warm.

Telling somebody that a nutter wants to kill her was not a
skill covered at my school. Nor was it addressed on WikiHow, eHow or
answers.com. Believe me, I checked. What was I going to say? How could I tell
Netta that somebody wanted to throw her over Waterloo Bridge?

As I walked along, I was so distracted that I didn’t notice the
pigeon until I almost trod on it. Frantically, it flapped. I was alarmed for a
brief moment, but as it flew away, I realised a pigeon was but a Saltopus to
the seagull’s T-Rex. After what I’d seen at Pompomberry House, no mere city
bird could derail me.

I knew Netta Lewis had entered long before I recognised her,
because a sea of heads turned as she trotted down the path. I was surprised —
she was well-known, but I’d hardly thought her an A-list celebrity.

Then, I recognised the reason that people were staring — not
only was she an astonishing beauty, but almost all of that beauty was on
display.

She was almost six foot tall and no stick insect. She had
weight — oh yes — but the pounds were gathered in flattering places. Her
breasts and bum protruded in opposite directions and her hips met at her waist
to create beautiful, majestic curves. She had the figure teenage girls starve
to avoid, one that fashion magazines condemn and catwalk models mock, and she
was absolutely stunning. Her effect on both men and women was undeniable. Half
of the onlookers had tongues hanging out, drool pouring down their chins (some readjusted
their trousers); the other half tutted, scowled and glared at her with eyes of envy
and hatred.

I willed myself to sit on the fence. My motivation was to
save her life, not compare my modest breasts to her gigantic pleasure melons. I
wasn’t here so that I could wish my short, blonde hair was longer and fuller, or
wonder whether Gareth would rather do it with her, than me.
Focus!

Netta was about to walk straight past me when I sprang into
her path, “Afternoon, Netta!”

“Hi!” she beamed, speaking in a loud, fruity voice that I
recognised from YouTube. It was one of those voices with a chuckle in it. She
looked at me through her sparkling blue eyes. Then, she carried on as if she
hadn’t seen me.

“Hey, Netta!”

“Sorry, I’m meeting somebody.”

“Yes! Me.”

“Where are the TV crews?”

I thought about lying to her, telling her that I didn’t
bring my camera crew everywhere with me, and I saw this afternoon as a
preliminary meeting rather than a shoot. However, I wondered why I would bother
creating such an elaborate back-story when I already knew that I couldn’t continue
the façade.

“Okay Netta, listen: somebody is going to try to kill you.”

The colour drained from her face. “You’re not a TV producer?”

“I needed to get you to talk to me; it’s a matter of life or
death.”

“Are you Dee Whittaker?”

“Yes.”

“This is harassment. I could call the police you know?”

“I already called them.”

“You did?” For the first time, I detected a note of fear.

“Can we sit down?” I asked.

“No! The voting is going to close in 24 hours — I need to be
campaigning.”

“Please, just five minutes. If you don’t like what I have to
say, you can leave.”

She looked at me, and then at her Calvin Klein watch. She
sighed deeply. “All right, five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“Shall we sit down?”

“I think it’ll be safer if we keep moving.”

There was that look of fear again. “Why would somebody want
to kill me?”

“Okay, you’re going to find this ...”
hard to
believe
“... weird, at first, but please bear with me.”

“What’s weird?”

“A few weeks ago, I went to a house, a creepy Gothic sort of
place on Pompomberry ...”

“Get to the point.”

“I’m getting there. I wrote a story for a book ...”

“Are you trying to sell me a book?”

“No!”

“Getting me to promote it then?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“Listen!”

She frowned, and nodded at me to continue. I imagined that a
woman who could babble like Netta Lewis was familiar with people shouting at
her to listen.

“I wrote a story for a book. There are six stories in it,
and so far, a major plot point from
three
of them, has come true.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stories don’t come true Dee.”

“That’s what I thought, but these ones have.”

“You’re talking about make-believe.”

“No, I think there is some person making it happen.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Probably to hurt the book ... but
possibly to promote it.”

“What’s this got to do with me?”

“You’re in one of the stories, Netta — you’re in
my
story.”

Boom! Like a magnet, the woman’s chest attracted her hand
and she clutched her heart, beaming. Her big blue eyes were like delighted marbles.
“You wrote a story about me?”

I thought about it. I thought about Delilah and her
outrageous prejudices and shallow nature. I thought about the way I’d mocked
the charity reps to death — literally. It was hardly a flattering portrayal. “Mmm,”
I squeaked, head bowing like a nodding dog.

“Can I read it?”

“Um ...”

“What’s it called?”

“Um ...”

“
What’s it called?
”

“Well, I didn’t actually choose the title ...”

“
What’s it called?
”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Tell me what it was called!”

I lowered my voice. “‘Busty and Giving’.” Perhaps she wouldn’t
hate the title as much as I did. Judging by the cut of her pink, satin blouse,
she saw ‘busty’ as a good thing. Her overly-plucked eyebrows tickled her nose.
Perhaps not.

“I’m in a story called ‘Busty and Giving’?” she spat.

“Well it’s not you as such. There’s a character — a
gorgeous-looking character — who’s winning a competition, just like the one you’re
in.”

“Is she the heroine?”

“Yes! Of sorts ...”

“Of sorts?”

I felt her eyes on me as I looked at the floor.

“What sort of book is it?”

“Um ... It’s kind of ... political.”

“It’s a satire isn’t it? You’re mocking me.”

“No! Goodness no! Why would you think that?” Damn, why did
she have to be more clever than I’d given her credit for?

“Let me read a copy.”

“I don’t actually have a copy on me — it’s a Kindle book.”

“No problem,” she said, reaching into her Armani snakeskin
bag. What? Netta Lewis had a Kindle —
she could read
? I watched in
horror, as she brought out a Kindle 3G. How could I get out of this one?

“Right,” she said, beginning to type, ‘Busty and Giving’.

Bingo! She didn’t know the name of the anthology, only my
short. She wouldn’t be able to find it.

“Hmm, I can’t seem to find it. Maybe if I try ‘Dee Whittaker’...”

“No!” I shouted.

Her eyebrows jumped into arches.

“I mean, I use a pen name.”

“That’s funny, because when I type your name I get two books
—
The Red River
and
The Book of Most Quality Writers
.”

Was this really happening? Was I to be outsmarted by the nation’s
stupidest woman? The woman who thought that David Cameron was married to
Michelle Obama.

It was like watching a train crash in slow motion — knowing
the cow was on the track, but being unable to rush onto the rails in time to
save it. (And even if I could, how do you move a cow?). Any moment now —
splat!

“I get thrown over Waterloo Bridge?” she exclaimed. Wow, she
was a fast reader. I started to wonder whether she was not stupid, but an evil
genius. A YouTube clip of a dizzy blonde messing up is much more likely to go
viral than a smart girl being articulate.

I waited for it. Sooner or later, she’d notice the
references to vanity, prejudice and hypocrisy. Perhaps I should grab her Kindle
and throw it into the lake. Sure, she’d be angry, but possibly less angry than
if she were allowed to read any more of my depiction of Delilah.

Finally, she squeaked at high pitch, “You think I’m prettier
than the packaging of a Christian Dior dress?”

As I studied her, I compared her to Annabel. Both were
beautiful, vain, and with dramatically warped priorities. However, whilst
Annabel was a stupid girl trying to look intellectual, I wondered if Netta was
an intelligent girl trying to look clueless.

“Do I win the competition?” she asked.

“Delilah gets thrown over a bridge!”

“But does she win?”

“Well, yes, but she’s dead.”

“And she still wins?”

“Yes, the girl in second place kills her, to try and win,
but Delilah’s death only makes her even more popular, and her lead gets even
greater.”

“So, that’s what I need to do!”

I was alarmed, to say the least. “Surely you’re not talking
about suicide?”

“No, just letting people think I’m dead.”

“Netta, if you don’t listen to what I’m trying to tell you,
you
will
be dead.”

“Do you think Mandy is going to kill me?” she asked, playing
shocked and raising her pink nails to her pink mouth.

“Well, I don’t know. If reality is true to the book then
yes, Amanda Kenwood will be the killer. However, if the reality is that it’s
the same individual copying all of the plots — which I think it is — then it
probably won’t be Amanda.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know. I have a few suspects.”

“Like who?”

“Maybe somebody who hates self-published authors? For a
while I even thought it might be one of the writers trying to sell our book.”

“Why would somebody kill to sell a book?”

“Why would somebody pretend to be dead to win a competition?”

“You’re right, what was I thinking?”

“But don’t you think going away for a while might not be a
bad idea? Do you have any friends you could go and stay with?”

“I can’t go away!”

“Why not!”

“There are only twenty four hours left of the competition. I
need to campaign!”

“But you’re already in the lead!”

“And I need to keep it that way! What if Mandy gets killed
or something?”

“Why would Amanda get killed?”

“Well, you said yourself, the character
isn’t
me. It’s
just a charity worker in a similar competition. It could easily be Amanda, or
that other woman, or some other contest altogether .”

“It has to be the winning candidate, Netta, and it
is
this contest — I’m sure of it. Porker and Millface is based on Porter and
Miller.”

“Well even so, I’ve got things to do.”

“You need to stay safe, Netta!”

“I’ll look where I’m going,” she said dismissively. Then she
put her Kindle back in her bag and tossed her head, sending a shimmering cloud
of blonde afloat. “Thanks for the tip, Dee. I
will
take care. Now if you
don’t mind, I need to head back to my flat and get ready for tonight.”

“Netta! Whatever your plans are, modify them. You need to be
one step ahead of the killer.”

 “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said. Then she grabbed me,
gave me a quick hug, which involved squeezing my arms and bumping me with her
enormous rack, and trotted away. She walked on stilettos with elegance, as if
born to balance on two needles.