Pompomberry House (3 page)

“Perhaps you’ve seen my book,” said Annabel. “It has a photo
of me on the cover.”

Of course it did. She probably wrote the book so that she
had a guaranteed modelling job. Not that it would be hard for her to find work
as a model, I reluctantly admitted. She was exceptionally good-looking, tarty
topping aside. Why did somebody so obviously well-formed feel the need to put
so much effort into surface detail?

“What happens in
The Red River
?” she asked.

“Well, it’s kind of a satirical piece, looking at Brits and
our reaction to the recession, particularly some of Gordon Brown’s handiwork
but focussing on the coalition too. It’s a comic whodunit on the surface, but
really it’s about greed, entitlement and job satisfaction. It also has undercurrents
of more interpersonal themes like honesty and commitment during the lads’ mag era.”

“Oh.”

“What happens in
Falling for Flatley
?”

“Well, it’s about this girl, and she falls for a man called
Flatley.”

“Yes?”

There was a long, awkward pause.

“And ...?” I enquired.

“Well, that’s it. That’s the story.”

“Oh.”

She started to laugh. “No, I’m messing with you, there’s
more to it than that.”

I smiled, relieved. Perhaps she was wittier than I had given
her credit for.

“He’s her boss.”

“Okay.”

“That’s the twist. He’s her boss.”

“Oh.”

“Otherwise, it would be boring.”

God forbid
.

The awkward silence that followed might well have gone on
forever had it not been for the arrival of another guest. At first, when I
heard substantial footsteps on the path, I considered the possibility that a
giant was approaching.
Fee-fi-fo-fum!
However, rational Dee kicked in,
and I ventured to take a look.

I immediately recoiled, shading my eyes. Before me stood a
psychedelic blob. The giant bosom around its waist told me that this was a
woman. She was wearing the most garish top I had ever seen. It was bright pink
with a pattern of yellow concentric circles. I wished I’d brought sunglasses.
Aside from the overwhelming brightness, something else disturbed me about the
top. When my eyes recovered and were able to focus, I realised that the yellow
circles reminded me of seagulls’ eyes.

“Don’t worry! I’m here!” she sang. She had a slow-paced,
cuddly voice and I might have warmed to her a little, had her words not been laced
with self-importance. “Isn’t this an inspiring place?” she continued. “Doesn’t
it make your creative juices ooze from every pore in your body?”

I looked at her enormous figure and wondered exactly how
many pores there were on a surface area so vast. I found myself wondering idly whether
fat people have more pores, or just further-apart pores. I concluded it was the
latter and decided it was best not to ask this woman for clarification.

“Is Rafe Maddocks here yet? I want to talk to him about the
rumpy-pumpy at location 8002 — very saucy!”

What was the fascination with Rafe Maddocks? Sure, I’d heard
of his book, but I had no idea that he was something of a sex icon. I tried to
remember what his avatar was on the forum, feeling sure I would have noticed if
he were abnormally delicious.

“He’s not here yet!” explained Annabel, as if it was
something of a crime.

“You must be Annabel,” said the woman. “I recognise you from
your avatar.”

“And book cover!” she squeaked.

“Of course,” smiled the woman. Then she turned to me, “Are
you the cleaner?”

“I’m Dee Whittaker!”

“Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t know what you looked like! I don’t
know much about you at all, actually, because you’re such a late comer to the
project. I mean, it’s great that you could come at short notice. I bet Jan
Harper will kick herself for missing this. Mother’s funeral, apparently.”

“Oh, goodness. Poor Jan. Was her mother very old?”

 “I’m Dawn Mann,” she said, ignoring my question. Then she
added, in a typically English accent, “Buenas tardes, Senorita!”

I recognised the name. Dawn was one of the forum moderators
and also a rather successful indie writer. Although I’d never actually looked
at one of her eBooks, I knew that they had done so well that she was in the
process of setting up a print-on-demand paperback.

I’d had an image of Dawn in my mind; I imagined her as a
slightly chubby maternal figure. When I say slightly chubby, I don’t mean
morbidly obese, yet there she was before me, all twenty-five stone of her. My
mind was barely capable of absorbing such proportions. Still, she was a very
prolific writer. You’re bound to put on a few pounds when you spend all day
with a word processor.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, with a smile.

“I’m one of the moderators,” she told me.

“I know.”

This seemed to please her. She beamed. “Gracias! Oh, you’ll
have to forgive the Spanish. I’m off to la Costa del Sol next week
for a
month
!” said Dawn. Then, she turned to Annabel. “I loved
Falling for
Flatley
. What a great idea for a book! I just died when the boss confessed
his love for her.”

This time, it was Annabel’s turn to glow. “Thanks,” she
gushed, with a big, satisfied grin. “Most of my reviewers like that moment,”
she said. Then her face contorted, demonstrating genuine agony. “At least, the
satisfied ones do.”

“Oh, don’t worry about bad reviews, dahling. Some people don’t
have a romantic bone in their body.”

“How do you deal with your bad reviews?” Annabel asked,
innocently.

Dawn was noticeably annoyed. Then she put on a big, false,
motherly smile. “When you write in a niche, like you and I do, you have to be
prepared for mixed reviews.”

“What sort of books do you write?” I asked Dawn, feeling
sure there was nothing niche about it.

“Crime thrillers,” she said.

Sigh.

Annabel plucked a makeup mirror out of thin air, and began
fiddling with a pink lip liner.

Dawn adjusted her posture. When fully erect, she was at
least five foot ten. For some reason, my mind projected an enormous fuchsia
fascinator onto her head. And I don’t just mean the colour, there would be an
entire plant on her head with live flowers trailing from it.

Her grey-brown hair may once have been cut into a neat bob,
but currently hung down the side of her chubby cheeks in wavy clumps. The
occasional wisp had broken free, spiralling away into the atmosphere.

I wondered how old she was — at least fifty — but then I
became sucked into the more interesting task of wondering whether she could fit
her nipple into her own belly button.

“Penny for them?” requested Dawn.

“Huh?”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

I decided that no matter how high on the agenda
self-expression might be, asking one of the moderators about the malleability
of her boobs might not be a good idea. “I was thinking about puppies,” I lied.

“Oh!” squeaked Annabel, clutching her delicate heart.

Suddenly, a Dalek-like voice interrupted. “Perhaps she should
be thinking about going inside.”

When I looked around, I noticed a wiry little man with
hunched shoulders and thinning mousy-grey hair. When had he arrived?

The wind caught a central chunk of his hair. Despite a
cropped haircut, this section of hair had been kept long, presumably to
simulate thickness. Perhaps in a vacuum it may have looked fetching, but in the
breeze the chunk stood on end like the horn of a bizarre unicorn, accentuating
the slightly receding corners of his hairline.

The man looked very small and timid, and not just because he
was next to Dawn Mann. When I smiled at him, he looked away and blinked
rapidly.

“Ah,” said Dawn, “Danger Smith. Buenas tardes!”

Danger?

“Hello, you must be Dawn. Unless you are Dee ...”

“She’s Dawn!” I responded quickly.

“It is cold. Can we go inside?”

His voice was slow-paced, slightly nasal and flat. It could
easily have been mistaken for a speech synthesiser. Talk about expressionless.
Still, he was a writer not a radio presenter; it didn’t matter how monotonous
his voice might be, as long as his books were interesting.

“What was your last book called?” I asked.

“There wasn’t one.”

“Oh.”

Dawn cut in. “Danger is here so that he can learn from the
masters.”

“Is Rafe Maddocks here?” he asked. “He owes me a fiver.”

* * *

The atmosphere inside Pompomberry House was much like the
atmosphere outside. Paint and wallpaper peeled from the walls. Ornaments were
broken, dusty and dirty. The place was cluttered with furniture, but little of
it looked usable. The best chairs rocked, the worst chairs collapsed. Bookshelves
were rotten, riddled with woodworm and often warped. Books were bound with
leather and heavy with dust.

The living room wasn’t quite as bad. Biff had taken the
boards off the windows, allowing the sun to shine in. Light illuminated the
dust and created peculiar patterns on the threadbare carpet. The windowpanes
were cracked in three places and I felt as though a gust of wind might shatter them
completely, showering us with mosaics of glass. Still, I was grateful for the
view. After a few metres, the overgrown garden gave way to coast, and I could
see the sea for miles around. A few white horses danced in the sunlight, but
generally the water was flat. I found myself wondering what it would be like on
Pompomberry Island during a storm — magical but terrifying!

Opposite the window was a large dusty blackboard, mostly obscured
by Dawn Mann who seemed to be excited about something. She poured herself a generous
glass of merlot and passed around the dregs of the bottle.

“Welcome to the forum’s first writers’ weekend,” she sounded,
with open arms and a beaming grin. “Let the big, creative ejaculation begin!”

I felt slightly nauseous.

“Is this everybody?” asked Annabel, looking at Danger with a
concerned expression.

“We need to get started!” explained Dawn. “We’re only here
for three days and we’ve got a whole anthology to write.”

Annabel nodded, earrings jangling.

“Welcome to the forum’s first writers’ weekend,” she
repeated.

“How long is the book going to be?” asked Danger.

“Book length,” said Dawn with a nervous smile, telling me
that she didn’t actually know.

“How many of us are coming?” asked Annabel, her big marble
eyes looking hopefully at the empty seats.

“Two more,” Dawn replied.

So that would make six writers. We should be able to write a
short book in a long weekend. I had already drafted a couple of ideas in
preparation.

“Buenas tardes, folks! I’m going to say a few words about being
an indie,” Dawn announced, in a voice that suggested we were children. “Over
the last few years, I have sold almost four thousand books.”

“How many?” droned Danger.

“Pardon?”

“How many exactly?”

“Almost four thousand.”

“You must know your own figures.”

“Can we move on?”

“I mean, to how many significant figures is that?”

“Can we move on?”

Danger nodded, and began fiddling with his ‘Transformers’
pencil case.

“Over the last few years, I have sold ... 
many
books. And have I had help from an agent or a publisher? No. I’ve done it all
myself. I would just like to say, how proud I am to be an indie.”

“To indie pride!” cried Annabel, raising her glass.

“To indie pride!” we all echoed.

“People look down on us,” continued Dawn, speaking with
Churchill-like intonations. “People assume our work is poorly-written, full of
mistakes and not worthy of the e-Ink it’s written in. But everybody in this
room knows differently. I am proud to belong to a group that contains some of
the most talented, inspired and creative writers in Britain.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Danger, at last showing some volume,
if not expression.

“Publishing is changing,” continued Dawn. “A main-stream
publisher used to be a necessity. Now, agents, publishers and editors are
practically baggage!”

“Hear, hear!” chanted Annabel.

“Right!” cried Dawn. “Let’s get started. Where shall we
begin?”

Annabel spoke first. “Well, I was wondering if, perhaps,
while we’re waiting for the others, you could offer me some feedback on this
letter I’ve written?”

“Certainly!” chuckled Dawn, clearly so flattered to be
considered an authority on letter writing that she forgot all about her vows to
get on with writing our book. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a template letter for prospective publishers.”

“Oh perfect!” said Dawn. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

Oh dear.

I twiddled my thumbs, wondering if I was the only person in
the room to be genuinely proud of being my own publisher. I saw self-publishing
as a challenge that made me sharpen many skills. Certainly, I found
self-promotion and accountancy tedious, but my one-man show made every sale
that little bit more satisfying.

Dawn was quite right; there were some very talented, inspired
and creative indie writers in the world. However, watching Danger pick his teeth
with the sharp end of a compass while Dawn advised Annabel on the wisdom of
smileys in modern literature, I had to wonder whether any of those great minds
were going to be on this trip.

Abruptly, the heavy oak door flew open and there stood the
next guest. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman with thick, messy grey
hair. He was dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, which he’d adapted to look
casual — his top button was unfastened and his maroon braces dangled by his
sides. He was built like a brick.

“Ah, you’re already getting started!” he hollered, with a
beaming smile. His lips were thick and rubbery with a cracked surface. “You
didn’t consider it important to wait for the man with a
film deal
?” He
forced laughter, trying to make light of his blatant arrogance. Then he added,
with growing concern, “I am a mod you know!”