Pompomberry House (8 page)

We must have sat there for ages, watching episode upon episode,
and chatting about the world. It was lovely to talk about silly, mindless
things and not have to think about sabotaged tyres, vengeful road kill and the
many other things that had occupied my headspace since I’d gotten to Cornwall.

The next thing I knew, I looked at my watch and it was 3am. “I
have to go to bed!”

He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and forced a frown. He
tilted his beautiful head to one side, and stuck out his bottom lip. It was a
difficult face to say no to.

“Really,” I said firmly. “I have a long day ahead of me.”

“I understand,” he said. Then, he held me firmly, took off
my cap, and kissed me gently on the forehead.

It was perfect.

My first kiss as a single woman. It sent a tingle sprinting
down my spine like a tingle panther.

I took Biff’s hand, squeezed it, and wished him good night. Then
I hurried towards the door. The tingle panther darted all over my back, like
being massaged by an unruly feather duster.

“Dee?” he voiced.

No! Let me go now. Don’t ruin this by adding anything
further.

“Yes?” I asked, without looking back.

“Dee, I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” I asked, turning to face him.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he told me. “Forget I said anything.”

Chapter 4

I awoke to the sound of a cackle. As I opened my eyes, I
thought I heard clapping but I soon realised it was not hands, but wings
beating together.

Then, it landed — a plump, gigantic white bird with grey
wings. Was it
the
seagull? I studied it, as it studied me. It didn’t
look as if it had been in an accident. But that glare ... that glare
was unmistakable.

Yet here I was, sitting in bed,
watching
it. Quickly,
I scrambled out of bed, holding the duvet around me. Why was I hiding to
preserve my dignity? It was a bird! Then, I realised I wasn’t hiding — I was
protecting. That beak looked as though it could slice through diamonds; my body
would be tissue paper to its sharp bill.

I leaped towards the heavy sash window and wrenched it shut.
The bird cackled again. I could swear it was laughing at me. Angrily, I closed
the heavy curtains.

The events of the day before came flooding back, and
suddenly hiding in my room with just a seagull for company didn’t seem like
such a bad idea. I wondered if I should just leave — call a break down service,
get my tyres fixed and go, go as far away from here as I possibly could.

No! I couldn’t think like that. I was an author and that
meant hard work. I needed to get up. I needed to contribute to the anthology. A
short story collection published by the forum could be read by hundreds of people.
It was essential that I took part.

Biff’s face was becoming a regular feature in my mind, like
one of those adverts that’s on during every single commercial break. I
remembered the kiss — almost innocent, but just intimate enough to arouse my
excitement.

I quickly got dressed, deciding to wear my tortoiseshell cap
again. I pulled on some faded jeans and a white t-shirt. Then hurried out onto
the landing.

“Morning!” sang a fluffy, soprano voice. I looked around. Oh
no! It was the sex doll. Her hair was loose and her naturally olive skin had a
pinkish glow. I knew immediately that she’d had sex.

“Morning Annabel,” I said.

She stepped into my path. She held out her fine, size-ten
arm like somebody trying to build a barricade with a twig. Today she was
wearing a pink blouse with at least two buttons removed from the top. “No hard
feelings,” she begged.

“About what?”

“Rafe,” she purred, with a grin from hooped earring to
hooped earring. She quickly added, “I slept with him!”

“Oh, did you?” I asked, with false surprise. I wondered if
she wanted a merit mark.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“The best woman won,” I said, as a means to getting past
her. I was exceptionally hungry and impatient to find out whether there really
were croissants for breakfast.
Mmm ... pain au chocolat ...

“We’re still friends?” she asked.

“Nothing’s changed since yesterday,” I replied, deliberately
leaving my remark open to interpretation.

“Oh good!” she beamed. Then she grabbed me, wrapped both
arms around my waist, and gave me a bear hug. I felt a little baffled by it.
All I wanted was my breakfast.

I was happy to hear that it would be a working breakfast.
After yesterday and all the faffing around, I was keen to get started on the
book.

When I entered, Montgomery was mid-rant. He was dressed in
another old-fashioned suit paired with navy and red striped slippers. As he
shouted, his head flailed around, sending locks of grey hair flapping. The
other writers sat around watching.

“Why would she say that? What skin is it off her nose if we
write another book?”

The room burned with anger, like fire in hell.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s Enid Kibbler!” he cried. “She just posted about the
anthology we’re writing!”

“She did? Well, what did she say?”

“That she was considering sprinting here, just so that she
could stop us polluting the interweb with more of our lowbrow drivel.”

“Where did she write that?”

“On the forum!”

“Our forum?”

“Yes!”

“What is Enid Kibbler doing on a forum for indie writers?”

“Poisoning!”

“How do you know she’s commented?”

“I checked the forum on my phone.”

Dawn stepped in. She was wearing a lemon top and a turquoise
skirt that looked as though it might once have been a tent. By ‘lemon top’, I
don’t mean that it was a tasteful pale-yellow colour; pictures of the fruit
were actually printed onto the fabric, in garish tones of yellowy-lime. “Dee is
quite right, Monty. This is supposed to be a retreat. Turn your phone off.”

“Who does she think she is?” he bellowed.

I began to stutter, “I just ...”

“Not you, I mean Enid!”

“Phone
off,
Monty!” demanded Dawn.

“You’ve got a new review,” he told her, changing the
subject.

“I have?” she asked, suddenly alert.

“Yeah, it’s a Jellie Monsta.”

“Oh great,” she said, sarcastically. “Nobody takes any
notice of her reviews. She doesn’t even know the difference between double and single
quotes.”

Rafe spoke up. I noticed that whilst Annabel looked transformed
by their night of passion (glowing and giggly), Rafe looked the same as ever. “Jellie
Monsta interviewed me once. She asked me if I had kept any of my childhood toys.
I mean, what sort of thing is that to ask a
writer
? Damned interview.
Didn’t help me sell a single book.”

“We mustn’t let people who don’t understand our art get us
down,” Dawn explained, in encouraging tones. I was amazed by how rapidly she
had switched from demanding to nurturing. “I do relate to your frustration
though, Rafe. My first review was by Jellie Monsta. I was gutted, because there
wasn’t a single line I could quote from it. Every single sentence contained a
grammatical error.”

“But it was kind of her to write a review though, wasn’t it?”
I asked.

“Oh, bless you!” chuckled Dawn.

Montgomery walked past me, to get to the door. I detected
the odour of mothballs.

“Where are you going?” demanded Dawn.

“Taking my phone up to my room,” he replied.

“Well don’t!” she snapped. “I haven’t read my new review
yet.”

Breakfast was a tasty-looking spread, which could only mean
that Dawn had had nothing to do with it. There were three types of cereal, four
types of pastry, toast, juices, yoghurts and some little dark brown-red blobs
that I couldn’t identify.

“Do you like my pirate’s hearts?” asked Dawn.

“What are they?” I enquired, poking one tentatively with a
spoon.

“Scones soaked in pig’s blood.”

“Oh.” I quickly retreated. Perhaps Dawn
had
had
something to do with breakfast.

I expected her to be offended, but instead she leapt up in
the air and shouted, “Bingo!” When she landed, the whole house quivered. Thank
goodness the walls were made of granite. “I’ve been trying to think of a
different sort of heroine for my stories, and now I’ve got it!”

We all made enquiring noises and looked at her with curiosity.

“A pig!” she shouted. “My short story is going to be about a
pig — a pig that falls off a cliff.”

“Brilliant!” cried Montgomery. “That’s just what your
writing needs, a fresh perspective.”

“A pig’s a great idea,” said Rafe, punching her gently in
the upper arm. Dawn’s face blazed with pleasure.

Annabel immediately turned green. “I’ve got a new idea for a
protagonist too!” she shrieked. Her gaze darted around the room, until it fell
upon a broken garden ornament outside the window.

“Oh do tell!” pleaded Montgomery, apparently in full
sincerity.

“Well isn’t this exciting?” chuckled Dawn. “Ideas flying in
from all directions like rabid locusts of inspiration.”

Um ...

“My new protagonist is going to be ...” began Annabel,
then she paused for effect. When she was satisfied that everybody was looking
at her, she continued, “a garden gnome.”

The room was silent. Nobody spoke. Nobody enthused. What was
the matter with these people? In what way was a pig a good idea, but a gnome a
bad one? Then, I realised that it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was a pause of
awe. The others looked at her, with deep admiration, until finally Montgomery
broke the silence, “Bravo!”

“It’s going to be a romance!” she squealed, as if delivering
surprising news. “A china doll falls in love with a garden gnome and they get
married on a beach.”

The others started cooing, as if there was nothing more
charming than an expressionless doll falling for a cheeky bearded chap with a
penchant for goldfish fishing.

Dawn didn’t like Annabel being in the spotlight. “Of course,”
she interrupted, “I’ll have to do some research into livestock. I don’t want to
lose realism.”

It’s a pig falling off a cliff? In what way is that even
going to
flirt
with realism?

“I’m so glad I suggested this place!” announced Dawn. “It’s
inspiring everybody.”

“I know what you mean,” agreed Rafe. “I have
two
ideas.”

“Two ideas?” chorused at least three of the others.

“Yes! This place is just so inspiring, that I can’t narrow
it down to one.”

“Well, we simply must hear them both!” begged Dawn.

“All right,” began Rafe. He perched himself sideways on a
chair, and poured himself a large coffee from a sparkling cafetière. He inhaled
deeply, combing back his floppy dark hair with his lengthy fingers. “One is
inspired by the storm, and a comment I made yesterday about cannibalism.”

I frowned, remembering yesterday’s remarks and how
disturbing they’d seemed at the time. However, now that it was daylight and the
storm had largely subsided, I felt a little foolish for being so over-sensitive.

“Yes! The more I think about it, the more I like it! Six
stranded strangers ... Now obviously, a group of survivors having to
eat one of their number has been done before, usually as a thriller. So, my
story would be a comedy — black, obviously — to make it a bit different. They
would bicker and fight. There would be romance, backstabbing and lots of
carefully chosen idioms about food ... It’d take elements of
well-known disaster movies, to make it almost a parody, but also, it could
satirise consumerism in the twenty-first century ...”

Surprisingly, I found myself a little impressed. Ideas for further
development popped into my mind. Food idioms flooded my mind. This was an idea
he could really sink his teeth into.

“Or,” he continued, “there’s my other idea: a couple
experiencing marital difficulties both hire the same private detective to
investigate the other.”

“Oh! I like that one!” enthused Annabel.

“The second one sounds more up my alley too,” agreed
Montgomery.

“The first one’s a bit complicated, isn’t it?” mused Dawn. “I
mean, for a short story.”

“Some people might find the first one tasteless,” Danger
pointed out.

“That’s true,” granted Dawn. “We have to remember that this
book could be read by
anybody
in the forum.”

“And who doesn’t love a good romantic comedy?” added Annabel,
using her love-struck face again.

What was wrong with these people? The rom-com was boring,
unoriginal and I could already guess the entire plot. The black comedy, on the
other hand, had hoards of potential. And would cannibalism really offend
people? We were all grown adults. It wasn’t as if anybody was likely to know
somebody who’d been eaten by another human. This was twenty-first century England.

I wondered if I should say something. My experiences so far
suggested that these were not people who liked to be disagreed with,
particularly on matters of literature.

Then again, I wanted this anthology to be good. I wanted it
to sell thousands of copies, because then thousands of people would see
my
story. Some of them would read it. Some of them would enjoy it. Some of them might
go on to read
The Red River.

“I disagree!”

The Sahara Desert sprang to mind — a vast, empty wilderness
where the only sound was the sound of the wind.

“I think the first idea is better,” I continued.

“Well, it isn’t!” harped Dawn.

“In my opinion,
it is
.”

“Well, you’ve already been outvoted, so let’s move on.”

Rafe lifted his arm and showed Dawn his plate-sized palm,
then he showed it around, to make sure that everybody had noticed his
objection. “I want to hear what Dee has to say.”

This was followed by some miffed murmuring, which I took as my
cue to interrupt. “I just think it has more depth, and greater potential for
humour. How far can you go with a couple and a detective, really? The black
comedy idea gives rise to an ensemble of characters ...”