Pompomberry House (4 page)

“One of two!” sang Dawn. “Buenas tardes, señor!”

“No, we haven’t started. Dawn is just helping me with a
letter,” explained Annabel, eyelids aflutter. Surely this ageing lump wasn’t
the infamous Rafe Maddocks?

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he roared. He had a gravelly,
orotund voice with a faux-plummy accent. I suspected he had a secret top hat at
home, which he wore around the house to make himself feel important. “Let’s get
stuck into an inspirational exercise!”

Dawn leapt up, and scribbled ‘Inspıratıonal
exercıse’ on the blackboard. She put her chalk down, only to pick it up
again and dot the i’s with hearts.

“I’ll say a word,” he explained, “and then you all write
something inspired by the word.” He held his head at a self-important angle.
Combined with his broad shoulders and expensive suit, his posture gave him an
air of authority that Dawn lacked.

“I was just about to do that,” said Dawn, reddening.

“I’m Montgomery by the way,” he told us. So, not Rafe. I
recognised the name once he said it. He was a moderator and popular crime
writer. He even had one of his books in print as well as eBook. In fact, he was
doing so well that, as he’d swiftly reminded us, one of his books was being
made into a film. I’d downloaded the book because I knew I’d eventually watch
the film and I make a point of never watching a film adaptation before reading
the book it’s based on. I enjoy reading crime novels but I can’t say that
Montgomery’s protagonist, an ageing tax lawyer, particularly inspired me.

“But there’ll be time for introductions later,” he
continued. “Let’s light the fuse of our artistic bomb!”
Where are they
getting these phrases?
He walked towards the blackboard and attempted to
take the chalk from Dawn’s sausage fingers. She held it tight. In the end, he
continued without the chalk. “Journey,” he drawled. “That’s your word. Now let’s
be inspired!”

Dawn nodded enthusiastically, as if ‘journey’ had been on
the tip of her tongue. Her wattle wobbled as she came out of the nod. She
scribbled it on the blackboard, stretching as high as she could to overshadow
Montgomery. She was a towering woman, but Montgomery was no dwarf. He
straightened his spine, recovering the height advantage.

I got out my spiral bound notebook and turned to the first
page. I admired its crispness, its emptiness, its invitation to escape from
these hideous people, and for a few moments, go wherever I chose.
Journey
.
I could write about my journey here today, but that would be too obvious.
Perhaps I should write about my personal journey, about leaving
him
and
rediscovering myself, redefining who I am by throwing my energy into my passion
for writing. Again, it seemed too obvious.

“No pressure!” announced Montgomery, making me feel
pressured. “It’s just an exercise to show each other what we can do.”

What we can do?
Not only did I have to think of
something, but also it had to exemplify my writing style and introduce them to
my ability. It had to be good.

I looked around me for inspiration. I could write about the
journey of Dawn’s hideous top, and how despairing those threads of polyester
must have felt when they learned of their destiny. I could write about Danger’s
name and its journey from being a synonym for ‘hazard’ to being a label for the
least dangerous-looking man on the planet. However, I decided it would be best
not to insult my fellow writers — far better to try to learn about their
strengths than focus on their weaknesses.

“Have we all finished?” asked Montgomery.

Bother.
I hadn’t written a thing. I scribbled some
swirls on the page to look active. “Just two more minutes!” I begged.

I had to write something down. I was surrounded by writers,
and they all seemed to be scribbling. Finally, I wrote, ‘There’s no journey as
hard as the one being watched.’ It was rubbish and far too brief, but it would
have to do. Annabel and her feathery pen seemed to have written a whole page,
but there was no time left for me to expand.

“Right!” bellowed Montgomery. “Who wants to go first?”

Danger nodded.

I braced myself. I’d never been to any sort of writers’
group before, but I had a suspicion that other people’s minds worked better
under pressure than mine did. I felt intimidated by Montgomery. His detective
series was incredibly well known. Never a month went by without somebody in the
forum’s book club nominating one of his books as the monthly read.

“All right then,” said Montgomery. “You can start. I’ll repeat
the word, shall I?”

Danger nodded.

“Is that all right with you Dawn? Shall I repeat the word?”

She reddened further.

“All right, here goes ... ‘Journey!’” pronounced
Montgomery.

“Gurney,” said Danger.

I waited for more.

“Excellent!” cried Montgomery, clapping his ruddy hands
together. “Old school! I like it!”

Danger almost smiled.

“What made you choose ‘gurney’?” asked Dawn. “I mean, as
opposed to one of the many other rhymes for ‘journey’?”

“Well, my father had a heart operation recently, and I suppose
I’m still thinking about that.”

“I like it!” exclaimed Montgomery. “A story behind a story!”

‘Gurney’ is a story?

“Well, who can follow that?” he asked.

Annabel raised a hand, shyly.

“All right!” he chuckled, and then bellowed again, “Journey!”

“She made the journey to the beach,” Annabel crooned. Then
she stopped talking.

Seriously? But she’s been scribbling loads.

“Lovely!” Dawn said, clapping her hands, which were too
spongy to make much of a sound. “I can see that the scenery has already rumbled
the tectonic plates of your inspiration.”

“I’m thinking of using it as the first line in my story.”

The door opened again but this time, nobody stepped inside.
Instead, a deep, smoky middle-class English voice echoed into the room. “He
regarded her through his deep, cobalt eyes as his gaze journeyed across the
room to where her stunning, scarlet lips could be seen mouthing the words: ‘Love
me, you wanker.’”

“Rafe!” cried Dawn, hurrying towards the doorway, making a
thunderous noise as her hippo feet thudded.

“Rafe?” squeaked Annabel, swinging around to face the
doorway.

“Rafe,” mumbled Danger, clutching his wallet.

“Rafe!” invited Montgomery, beckoning for him to enter.

I felt like repeating his name myself. I felt like standing
on my chair and shouting, “Run Rafe, run! Get away from here before it’s too
late! These people are insane.” Instead, I peered towards the door with curiosity,
watching for the renowned writer to appear.

Holding my breath, I waited for the moment of truth. Who was
this man, one worthy of such widespread hype?

A suave-looking figure strode in, rocking his broad shoulders
and nodding his head. And then, with false nonchalance, he leant against a
bookshelf. He stood there, one hand on his hip, the other on his chin, and looked
around with a self-satisfied smile.

What a smug, arrogant git. I will never respect a man who
swaggers. And that grin, what was that? Lips drawn tightly together, rising
high and stretching the chin, head nodding subtly ... That wasn’t a
smile, it was a declaration of self-love.

It was a sad fact that Rafe was, indeed, gorgeous. He had
floppy, dark, wavy hair, centrally parted, kissing his ears and curling at the
nape of his neck. His skin was clear and white, which made his penetrating
green eyes shine like stagnant pools on a sunny day. He had striking cheekbones
and a square jaw, like an action hero.

Remembering Biff, I wondered if the men around here were
sculpted not born. Then, I caught sight of Danger scratching his ear with a setsquare,
and fell back to earth with a bump.

Rafe’s physique was easy on the eye too. He was at least
six-foot tall and athletically built. His broad shoulders prevented him from
appearing lanky.

Still, no matter how hunky he might be, there was no
excusing the attire. He wore a smart grey-blue suit with a casual, knitted grey
scarf and trainers. Who the heck did he think he was?

 I watched as he ran his fingers through his unnaturally
shiny hair. “Sorry about my terrible little contribution there. Really didn’t
have time to prepare.”

I pictured Rafe outside the door, listening in, meticulously
planning his response to the exercise, plotting the exact moment to enter.

“It was inspiring!” cooed Dawn.

Annabel nodded, speechless. It’s always difficult to form
words when your tongue is hanging out.

Stop lapping it up, you lot! You’re feeding him.

“Well, let’s move on. Nobody can top that, can they?”
chuckled Dawn, gazing wistfully at Rafe Maddocks.

* * *

Rafe picked a piece of paper from my velvet trilby, unnecessarily
spinning my hat in the air. “I’m a mother of three!” he delivered. “Now, who do
we think wrote that one?”

“That’s too easy,” groaned Montgomery, slouching in his armchair
like a sulking schoolboy. It wasn’t a flattering position for such a heavy-set
man and his bulging waist spread rumours about a fondness for bacon.

“How is it easy?” asked Dawn, looking deeply affronted. “Any
of us could have three children. You’ve got two!”

“Yes, but I’m not a
mother,
am I?” He rolled his
tongue into his chin and made a remarkably infantile face I hadn’t seen since
play school. “Duh!”

“What do you do, Montgomery?” I asked, trying to diffuse the
situation.

“I’m an author.”

“A
full-time
author?”

He squirmed, despite being firmly wedged in his chair. It
was like a whale wriggling in a microwave. “Well, I also have a regular suit
job to pay the bills.”

“I think I’d like three,” mused Annabel. “Or two and a Chihuahua ...”

“Does it actually say ‘mother’ on the paper?” snapped Dawn.

“Yes,” said Rafe, holding it up.

“Well, let me change it, and I’ll put it back in,” Dawn
demanded.

“Well, we’ll know now, won’t we?” mocked Montgomery. “Pick
another one, Rafe.”

“But nobody’s guessed mine yet,” moaned Dawn. She exhaled so
deeply that I feared for the stitching on her top.

“You just said it’s yours!” laughed Montgomery, elevating
his wide, rosy nose and forgetting to put it away again. I was grateful for his
hairy nostrils, which prevented me from seeing further up his snot tunnels.

“All right, I’ll pick another,” said Rafe, delving into the
hat and emulating a drum roll with his teeth. “‘I went to Oxford University’.
It’s your turn to guess, Dee.”

“Is it you?” I asked him.

“Me?” he said, with exaggerated shock. “You think that
I
could have gone to Oxford? But I’m just an ordinary chap.”

“I went to Oxford,” chirped Annabel.
Really?
“For a
week. We stayed in a lovely hotel.”

“I had an interview at Cambridge,” muttered Danger.

It was more than Montgomery could stand. “Me!” he bellowed,
standing up to the tune of creaking joints. “
I
went to Oxford.”

“Well done!” Rafe told me, with a wink.

“Cheers, very kind of you to say so,” Montgomery thanked
him, placing a hairy hand on Rafe’s tidy square shoulder.

“Your turn to read one, Dee,” prompted Dawn.

My hand ventured into the hat. I pulled out a sliver of
paper.
Oh for hippy’s sake!
“‘I’m a perfect size ten’,” I read out.

“It’s you!” laughed Rafe.

“You picked out your own fact!” laughed Montgomery.

No, I bloody well didn’t.
Who, in their right mind,
would use their dress size in a getting-to-know-you game? Well, there was only
one person it could be. I looked across at Annabel, who was looking at me and seething
— a tower of rage in Topshop heels. It wasn’t my fault that people thought it
was me! I wasn’t a size ten anyway, I was an eight, but I thought it untactful
to say so.

“It wasn’t me,” I said, sheepishly.

“It was me!” screeched Annabel.

“Really? Are those hips a ten?” asked vast Dawn.

The poor girl had gallons of steam shooting out of her neat
little ears. Unfortunately, when she pouted she looked even more like a sex
doll. I hoped the steam wouldn’t melt her face.

Desperate to move things forward, I grabbed another sliver
of paper. When I opened it, I had a cardiac arrest moment. It was like somebody
reaching in there and yanking out the power cord.

“Hey! You’ve already had your turn!” squealed Annabel.

“She’s right, sweetheart,” said Rafe, winking at me.

“Put it back in!” demanded Dawn.

I couldn’t put it back in, not after what I’d seen — not
after those words ...

“Come on, Dee! Stop hogging the limelight,” laughed
Montgomery.

“What’s the matter?” asked Dawn, suddenly switching to
maternal mode. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What’s on the paper?” asked Rafe, looking concerned.

“It says ... It says ‘I die tomorrow’.”

Everybody fell silent. Then, after a few moments, Rafe
started laughing. “Good one, Dee! What does it really say?”

“‘I die tomorrow’, look!” I held up the paper.

Rafe grabbed it from my hands. He studied it for a few
moments. “Who wrote this then? Very funny, but come on, own up!”

I didn’t find it funny, not here, not now, certainly not
after my run-in with a seagull.

“It is not my handwriting,” drawled Danger.

“I was using a pink pen,” Annabel explained.

“Who was using a black felt-tip?” demanded Rafe.

We all held up our pens: blue ballpen, pink gelpen, blue
rollerball, blue fountain, black ballpen, green ballpen. No black felt-tips.

“But who else could have written it?” asked Rafe. “We’re the
only ones here.”

“Are you sure the hat was empty when you lent it to us?”
asked Dawn.