Pompomberry House (7 page)

“She said that Monty’s debut,
I Shot a Man
, was the
most puerile cesspit of hammed-up nonsense she’d ever seen,” explained Dawn.

“And she said that Dawn’s debut novel made her want to rip
out her own eyes, torch her ear drums and sand off the tips of her fingers, to
make sure that neither of the sequels had a way into her mind.”

Dawn, who was getting noticeably irked, chuckled and added, “She
also said that she felt sorry for Monty’s characters, having never been given
personalities.”

“And,” laughed Montgomery, falsely, “she said that she hoped
Dawn’s fingers would get badly mangled during an unfortunate typewriter
accident, stopping her from polluting the world of literature ever again.”

“Then ...” began Dawn. The two writers had become so
enraged that they were each the colour of beetroot. Yet, they tried to make out
that it was all good fun, with giant, toothy grins and wobbling heads.

I decided to intervene. “Have you all heard of Enid ... what
was it ... Kipper?”

“Kibbler,” the five of them chorused.

“I’m amazed that you haven’t,” remarked Rafe.

“She can’t have read your book,” added Annabel.

“She is the thing I fear most about finishing mine,”
explained Danger.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Dawn. “If you get an Enid, I’ll
happily write you a counter review.”

“Is that not a bit immoral?” asked Danger. “I mean, since
you know me.”

“Oh, so Enid’s opinion is valid and mine isn’t?” she asked,
sounding affronted.

“Doesn’t she like any books?” I asked, trying to change the
subject a little.

“She doesn’t like indies,” explained Dawn. “She hates us.”

“But why? Mark Twain self-published.”

“A point I’ve raised many times,” said Dawn, grimly.

“What, you reply to her reviews?”

Dawn nodded.

“Does that help?”

“Her comments couldn’t get any
worse
.”

“She’s never liked a single indie book,” explained Rafe.

“She didn’t even like
Falling for Flatley,
” wailed
Annabel, as if it were the most inexplicable thing ever.

“Why does she keep reading them then?” I wondered.

“One can only imagine that she enjoys destroying us,”
offered Rafe.

“Could she do any better? Is she a published author?”

“Nope.”

“Does she work for a newspaper or magazine?”

“Nope.”

“But she reviews all your books anyway?”

“Yep.”

“Charming woman.”

“Quite.”

“You’ll get ‘an Enid’ eventually. It happens to us all.”

“At least she gives our books a try,” said Rafe. “Not like
that dreadful Peter Pearson.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the managing director of one of the big publishing
houses.”

“Which one?”

“I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s always on the news
complaining about indie writers.”

“That’s when he’s not complaining about eReaders,” said
Montgomery.

“Or Amazon in general,” added Dawn.

“And it doesn’t sound as though he’s ever actually read an
indie book in his life,” said Annabel.

“Not very dignified, is it? Belittling the competition.” I
observed.

“Not at all,” they all agreed.

I saw a humble side to the writers that night. Beneath their
arrogant, foolishly competitive and enormously off-putting postures, they were
vulnerable, hopeful people, trying to make a living, just as I was.

* * *

The wind wailed, the surf smashed. I longed to fling open
the French doors, throw caution to the wind and rush outside. I craved the feeling
of rain beating against my arms. I loved a good midnight storm. However, I had
to consider that there were ferocious, assassin seagulls, deathly prophecies
stowed in hats, silent but frightful goblins moving through the night, and tyres
still bleeding from open wounds.

So instead, I stood alone in the living room, gazing out,
wondering what it might be like to sail on the seas on such a night as this. I
fingered my pencil case. If the writing career didn’t work out, becoming a pirate
was my second choice. A pirate would take no nonsense from our feathered
friends. (I suddenly had a new idea for a children’s book —
Parrot versus
Seagull
.)

Abruptly, a shadow was cast over me, but not before I’d
caught a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with pure arrogance. “Rafe.”

“You recognise me by scent alone!” he said with glee. He
slid his way between the French doors and me. I stepped backwards, to be
absolutely sure that there would be no inadvertent physical contact. I couldn’t
chance accidentally swaying into him, allowing my nose, or worse still, a
nipple (clothed, but still in danger), to brush across the lapel of his
stupidly luxurious suit. Not for the first time in my life, I relished being a
B cup.

“I thought you were with the others, finishing off the wine,”
I said, pointedly.

“I was, but then I realised that I have something to tell
you,” he smirked. He had that irksome Buzz Lightyear look about him; I’d
noticed it happen to smug men before — their self-satisfied smiles climb so
high up their faces that their chins looks artificially chunky. He lifted an
eyebrow, completing the look. “Want to know what I have to tell you?”

I grunted, deliberately failing to show the level of
excitement that he was no doubt expecting to hear.

“Dee, with your boyish looks and your bolshie charm, you
have excited a curiosity within my soul,” he said, with forced Shakespearian
tones, beating his heart with a closed fist.

“
What?
” I clutched my pencil case, for comfort.

“It’s your eyes. They are titillating, turquoise tunnels
into a scintillating mind.”

“Trying to woo me with alliteration, huh?” I scoffed, making
a mental note to wear sunglasses from now on.

“Oh, there’s that exhilarating obstinacy again!”

“Is there something that you want, Rafe?”

“Oh Dee, satisfy this deep yearning curiosity,” he cried, now
beating both of his fists against his ribcage.

I laughed, there was nothing else I could do.

“What can I do to make you look at me with kinder eyes? Your
turquoise tunnels torment me!” He fluttered his long eyelashes, in a rather
disturbing fashion.

“Well, you could stop talking like a pretentious buffoon for
a start. You’re not writing now.”

“I love it! Feisty! Grr!” He made claws with his fingers and
mauled the air.

“What is it that you want, Rafe?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m trying to tempt you to invite me into
your garden of ... I’m trying to fuck you.”

Oh God.
What had I done to deserve this? Why had he
picked the one person on this island who did not want to sleep with him? Then
it dawned on me — he hadn’t. “I’m surprised that Annabel turned you down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You did hit on her first?”

“No!”

“Oh come on, Rafe! I’m not going to sleep with you either
way, so you may as well be honest.”

“You’re not?” he asked, sounding truly shocked. Confused, he
patted his chocolate-coloured tresses, knowing full well that he’d used too
much putty for a single hair to be out of place. Then, he stroked his chin and
nodded to himself. He was clearly satisfied that he looked his best, making my
refusal incomprehensible to him. He looked at me with total bewilderment. “You’re
not going to let me seduce you?”

I shook my head.

“I came straight here. You were my first choice!”

“And will you go straight to bed now?”

He paused, just for a fleeting second, but it was long
enough. “Yes,” he said. But it was too late — that second was like a giant
banner declaring his intentions toward Annabel.

“Go get her, Rafe!”

He looked at me for a few seconds and then I saw him give
up. The flirtatious posture turned into a sloppy slump and I think I heard him
let off a little wind. A few seconds later, he leaned a little closer. “Do you
think she likes me?”

“Oh get stuffed, Rafe, you know she does!” False modesty was
wasted on me. “Probably best if you cut the poetry too ... Actually,
scratch that, I think she’ll love it.”

He squatted slightly, and gave me a warm peck on the cheek. “Thanks,
Dee.” Then, he grabbed my pencil case, dug out a black felt-tip pen, and began
scribbling.

“Hey, what are you doing? That’s permanent!”

“Good, because it’s my permanent phone number.”

I watched him walk away, swaggering once again. I fumed
about the mindless vandalism. I’d had that pencil case for five years —
five!
It helped me feel like a writer, in ways that having sold eight hundred Kindle
books never could. Now it was tainted with Rafe Maddocks-ness.

 Just as I thought he was about to disappear into the hall
of moving on, he turned back to face me. His emerald eyes drove into me. “Can I
just ask why?” he pleaded.

I stared back at him, saying nothing.

“Lady bleeds?” he asked.

“What? No!”

“Are you a lesbian?”

“No!”

“Are you married?”

“No. Well, yes, but that’s not why ...”

His face changed to one of comfort and contentment. His big,
self-satisfied grin screamed, ‘Say no more!’. He blew me a kiss and vanished.

I waited until he had left the room before rolling my eyes as
they’d never rolled before. I saw parts of my eye sockets that I never knew
existed.

Perhaps it was time to go to bed. Drunken Montgomery was
like normal Montgomery, only more pronounced. Drunken Dawn was like normal Dawn,
only more loud. Drunken Danger was like normal Danger, only more quiet. And it
wouldn’t be long before I would hear Annabel squeal with delight as Rafe chased
her little size-ten ankles up the stairs.

As I neared the kitchen, I saw that the light was on. That
was odd; I thought everybody was in the dining room. Then I remembered somebody
else on the island — somebody whom I’d been trying my hardest to overlook.

I crept closer, as if seeing him might somehow harm me. I
could hear talking. With whom could he be speaking? There was nobody else in
the kitchen.

Feeling like a naughty child out of bed after lights-out, I
peered through the inviting crack between the heavy door and the granite wall —
a tiny window into the world of Biff. There he was, sipping a mug of something
steamy, like a sexy, strapping actor plucked straight from a coffee advert.

What was the matter with me? In the last ten years, I’d been
intimate with only one man. Yet here I was, mentally inventing anatomically
impossible sexual positions for a man so different from my usual type that they
wouldn’t even be in the same episode of a wildlife show.

Eventually, I realised that he wasn’t having a conversation,
but watching something on a laptop.

Then I heard a familiar voice croon, “I’ve made a huge
mistake.”

“Oh my God!” I cried, pushing open the door and barging into
the kitchen. “You’re watching
Arrested Development
.”

“I am. You know it?”

“Know it? It’s my favourite!”

“Pull up a stool!”

“Is it safe?” I asked, wobbling on a broken stool, whilst
secretly enjoying the metaphor for the perils of spending time with Biff.

What was I so afraid of? My marriage was over. The decision
had been made. The relevant party had been informed. Six whole days had passed.
Watching television with a hottie was acceptable now, perhaps even something to
be actively encouraged.

He looked at me with penetrating steel blue eyes. In return
I managed a weak, timid smile.

“How come you’re still here?” I asked. “It’s really late.”

“I stay the night sometimes, particularly when it’s rough.”
His voice had a slight resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s — was it the
rhythm, or the tone? Either way, it was working for me.

“It’s not that rough out there.”

“Well, I have to work here tomorrow morning.”

“Do you not find it a bit ... spooky?”

He chuckled quietly. “Enjoying the weekend are you?”

“It’s all right,” I lied.

“You feel a little disillusioned?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” I lied, with a little smile.

“I liked the inspirational exercise.”

“Oh, you heard that.”

“Journey. Gurney,” he said, draining all of the emotion from
his voice, to match Danger’s.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting Stephen Leather to turn
up.”

“What about Stephen Acrylic, or Stephen Polycotton?”

“I’ve heard he’s coming tomorrow,” I laughed. “You seem to
know a lot about it. Are you a writer?”

“No, but I read.”

“What sort of things do you read?”

“I enjoyed
The Red River
.”

Oh. My. God.

“I loved the bits about lads’ mags.”

He’s read my book. This gorgeous, Arrested Development-loving,
hunk of a man has read my book.

“It was a relief to read something a bit different, after trudging
through Montgomery’s entire series.”

“You read all four?”

“Yeah,” he said, grimly.

“I heard they’re well-written.”

“They’re all the same, a vigilante tax lawyer goes around
assassinating criminals in his firm’s client base.”

“Why a tax lawyer? I mean surely a criminal lawyer would
make more sense.”

“I have no idea. Maybe it had never been done before.”

“God forbid.”

Our eyes met, and we both smiled, then I looked away
quickly. We were close together now, and I felt if I got any nearer, his
magnetic field would suck me in, and I’d stick to him. My back would be jammed
against him whilst my limbs flailed around as I screamed, “Help! I’m not ready
to move on!”

I wasn’t ready to move on, was I? From my stool, a mere foot
away from his, I could smell his scent — earthy, like pine soap. Mmm ... pine
soap.
What? When did I develop a liking for pine soap?