Chapter 3
‘Oh Essie, will you look at this place? It’s like you’re an actual proper grown-up now!’
‘I know. Isn’t it weird?’ Essie still marvelled at the ways in which her life had changed in the last twelve months. At twenty-five, she and Scarlett had been sharing a shabby, cluttered flat with lavish amounts of mould on the ceilings, posters covering the cracks in the walls, noisy neighbours above and below, and the kind of furniture that looked as if it had been stolen from a skip. Which, knowing their landlord, was most likely where it had come from.
Then she’d met Paul, almost exactly a year ago, and by some miracle he’d liked her as much as she’d liked him. Better still, after eleven months together, the grasping landlord had announced that he was raising the rent and Paul had said, ‘For that dump? What a nerve he has. Tell him to get lost.’
‘Great idea,’ Essie had jokingly replied. ‘I’ll do that, and move into a five-star hotel instead.’
That was when Paul had taken her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I mean it, Ess. I love you. It’s going to happen sooner or later, so why don’t you move in with me?’
Well, who in their right mind would want to turn down an offer like that? Paul was the type of perfect boyfriend most girls could only dream of. He was kind, he was thoughtful, he was good-looking and he always emptied the kitchen bin before it was too full.
Scarlett called him Prince Charming.
Now she gazed around the cottage in admiration. ‘You’ve done well for yourself, Cinderella.’
‘I know it’s lovely, but that’s not why I’m here,’ said Essie.
‘Oh of course I know that! You’d be happy living in a tent if it meant being with Paul. I’m just saying that the fact he has this place is a bit of a bonus.’
Essie grinned and opened the bottle of wine she’d taken out of the fridge. ‘I suppose it doesn’t do any harm.’
‘I can’t get over everything being so perfect. The glasses are a full set . . . those kitchen blinds are exactly the same shade as the floor tiles . . . even the tea towels match the toaster!’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of coordination.’ Pouring the wine, Essie said, ‘Paul likes his home to look good, and now so do I. I’m growing up. Cheers!’
‘Cheers. I’m not having a go at him, by the way. You know I love Paul. I’m just jealous . . . I mean, look at that.’ Scarlett pointed gleefully. ‘Completely empty! You don’t even have any dirty dishes soaking in the sink!’
‘That’s because he only left this afternoon.’ Since Scarlett knew what she was like, Essie didn’t have to pretend to be a domestic goddess. ‘He’s away for two days, so I’ll have to make sure all the washing-up’s done before he gets back.’
An hour later, their gossipy catch-up was interrupted by a call from Essie’s brother, Jay.
‘My favourite sister! Hellooo!’
‘What a racket,’ said Essie, barely able to hear him over the background noise of voices and music. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in a library. OK, maybe that’s not true. I’m here in Bath. I drove over for a party.’
‘And did you find one?’
‘Believe it or not, I did. Hang on, let me move somewhere quieter. OK, the thing is, if the party’d been rubbish I was going to drive home. But it isn’t rubbish, it’s great, so now I’ll be heading back tomorrow. Which means . . .’
His voice had trailed off. Essie knew what this meant. She said, ‘You’re spending the night in your car? It’s cold out there, mind. You’ll want to borrow a blanket.’
‘Did I happen to mention you’re my favourite sister?’
She was his only sister. Essie said, ‘You may have done, once or twice.’
‘Ess. Lovely Ess. Can I crash at yours?’
Her brother lived twenty miles away, in Bristol, and had old uni friends in Bath. Three weeks ago, he’d come over and spent the night in the spare room, before heading home the next morning.
‘OK,’ said Essie. ‘Paul isn’t here, but that doesn’t matter.’ She knew Paul wouldn’t mind. ‘What time will you get here?’
‘Who knows? But it’ll be late. Don’t worry about waiting up – just leave a key somewhere and I’ll let myself in.’
‘Fine. I’ll hide one under the blue plant pot by the front door. But don’t make any noise, all right? Because a kick down the stairs often offends.’
‘I’ll be silent! As silent as the grave,’ Jay promised. ‘And I’ll bring you up a coffee in the morning. Thanks, Ess. You’re a star.’
While Essie was on the phone, Scarlett had been inspecting the Christmas cards lined up on the mantelpiece. Now she said, ‘There’s no glitter on any of these cards.’
‘I know.’ Essie had already noticed this; she was partial to a bit of glitter.
‘And no Father Christmas either. They’re all so . . . boring.’
This thought had crossed Essie’s mind too. ‘The word is tasteful.’
‘Who are these people?’
‘Family friends. Of Marcia, mainly.’
Marcia was Paul’s mother. Scarlett pulled a sympathetic face, then picked up a folded sheet of paper that had been tucked behind one of the cards. ‘What’s this, a secret love letter? Don’t tell me Paul leaves romantic notes for you to find when he’s away . . . Oh bum.’ She looked disappointed. ‘It isn’t a love letter.’
‘It’s a round robin,’ said Essie. This one, written by one of Paul’s aunts, had arrived yesterday. She’d read it and started to laugh, and Paul had warned her that there would be more to come. His family, he explained, were very keen on the tradition of sending out round robins; they all did it and would be disappointed if she and Paul didn’t write one too.
‘I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen a real one before . . . Oh my God this is brilliant, Hyacinth Bouquet as I live and breathe!’ Letting out a shriek, Scarlett adopted a Hyacinth voice and began to read aloud:
‘“Jonathan managed not to disgrace himself and scraped through his GCSEs with eleven A stars and one A! Such a shame to have missed out on a full house – we’ve told him he must work much harder in future! Meanwhile, Hugo has been promoted yet again and is now leading a team of seventy – apparently the youngest person ever to hold such a senior position within the company!”’ Doubled up with laughter, Scarlett began skimming in order to pick out the best bits. ‘“Arabella’s violin lessons continue apace . . . she has been inundated with offers to play at prestigious events” . . . oh, and “Letitia’s stay at the yoga retreat in Arizona proved marvellously calming and relaxing after the pressure of her dazzling career in the banking world . . . Our holiday this year was a wonderful month in a villa on the banks of Lake Como, where we became quite accustomed to bumping into a certain world-famous film star on an almost daily basis. Jeffrey grew quite jealous of the attention he paid me on one occasion when I accidentally dropped my sunglasses next to his car!”’
‘How can I write one of those things?’ Essie cringed at the idea and pulled a face. ‘Just the thought of trying to put one together makes me want to die of embarrassment.’
‘Oh, this is better than brilliant.’ Pointing to the final paragraph, Scarlett cackled with delight. ‘“We can’t wait for the hordes to descend this Christmas for a week of merriment and good cheer! Our children and extended family do so look forward to coming to us so we can all celebrate the festive season together in the traditional way!”’ She snorted. ‘Ha, of course they do. I can imagine how much they look forward to it.’
‘Well according to Paul, Letitia’s so-called yoga retreat was actually a rehab clinic,’ Essie confided. ‘Jonathan’s an insufferable know-it-all who likes to shoot at birds from his bedroom window with his BB gun. And Arabella’s a slutty minx whose favourite hobby is sleeping with other women’s husbands.’
‘See? That’s the trouble with these things.’ Scarlett waved the round robin triumphantly. ‘Why do people always have to pretend their lives are perfect? All it does is make other people feel like failures. Why can’t they be honest about what’s going on?’
‘Exactly.’ Essie nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘Because then we’d like them more. It just makes so much sense!’
‘Right, that’s it. What were we saying earlier about not knowing what to get each other for Christmas?’ Scarlett spread her hands. ‘Well, problem solved, we’ll do this instead. I’ll write a completely honest round robin to you, and you can write one to me. And no one else will ever see them, they’ll be our secret. How about that?’
Entertained by the idea, Essie divided the last of the wine between their glasses. ‘Hundred per cent honest?’
‘No holds barred. Let it all out. It’ll be like therapy, only cheaper.’
‘And it’s just between us?’ she double-checked.
‘Of course. Million per cent.’
‘OK, let’s do it.’ Scarlett trusted her and she in turn trusted Scarlett. ‘It’ll be fun. And cheap!’ Essie held up her glass. ‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Cheers!’
And since there was no time like the present, as soon as Scarlett had left the cottage to catch the last bus home, Essie decided to make a start. Sitting with her laptop balanced on her knees and her mind bursting with ideas, she began to type.
How time flew. The words, helped along by the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc they’d demolished earlier, came tumbling out. Gosh, this was fun. And so cathartic! Seriously, though, wouldn’t the world be a happier place if everyone could just relax, let go of their inhibitions and write one of these things? Ooh, it was probably like in the olden days when people kept diaries, except this was way more fun because Scarlett would soon be reading it, shrieking with laughter at the funny bits and appreciating every last—
God, what was that noise? Was there a dolphin in the kitchen?
Essie pushed the laptop to one side and leapt off the sofa, because the unearthly sound was so high-pitched it was hurting her ears. The next moment she yelped and jumped back onto the sofa as Ursula burst into the living room with a panicking, terrified crow in her mouth.
‘No!’ Essie let out a howl of horror because the crow’s eyes were wide open and it was making a terrible squawking noise. Much like herself. It was also flapping its wings wildly in an effort to escape.
Oh God, this was so gross. In the few weeks Essie had been living here, Ursula had brought her the odd present in the form of mice and voles, but they’d all been completely dead.
That had been gruesome enough, but this was worse. Essie yelled, ‘Drop it, DROP IT!’ then realised this would mean having to pick up the crow herself. Urgh, and the high-pitched noise emanating from its gaping beak was getting louder. Launching herself off the sofa cushions, she clapped her hands and attempted to shoo the murderous cat back into the kitchen.
‘Kikkikki!’ shrieked the petrified crow, both wings flailing as Ursula ducked and dived around the living room with its body hanging out of her mouth.
‘OUT!’ bellowed Essie, grabbing a cushion and brandishing it at Ursula. Oh no, and now there were drops of blood landing on the carpet. In desperation, she flung open the window and chased the cat around the living room a couple more times. It was like one of those frenetic Benny Hill sketches her grandfather had loved to watch on TV years ago, except this was less of a comedy romp, more of a nightmare.
Finally Ursula released her grip on the crow. She gave Essie a malevolent look as if to say, ‘This is all the thanks I get?’ before turning and exiting the kitchen via the cat flap in the back door.
Evidently relieved, the crow flew up in the air, circled the living room and did a series of victory poos by way of celebrating having escaped with its life.
‘No, don’t,’ Essie wailed, ducking as it swooped back towards her, just missing her head. Her heart was clattering with panic; she hated seeing any living creature in pain, but the frantically flapping wings were making her feel sick.
Moments later, as suddenly as it had arrived, the crow found the open window and flew out through it, disappearing with an upwards swoosh into the cold night sky.
Thank goodness. At last.
Essie listened to the blessed silence and clutched her still-pounding chest with relief. Then she hastily closed the window before the bird could come blundering back in, and turned to survey the scene.
It was carnage. There were feathers scattered everywhere, and tiny spatters of blood that wouldn’t have shown up if Paul had only chosen a dark patterned carpet rather than a plain cream one. But he hadn’t, which meant they were all too visible. And there were splodges of black-and-white crow poo too. What more could you want at eleven thirty at night?
Essie exhaled slowly. There was nothing else for it; she was going to have to do her best to clear up the mess before it dried in. The carpet had been expensive. If Paul had been here, he’d be doing it himself, but seeing as he was up in London on business, the task fell to her.
Forty minutes later, the cat flap rattled and the would-be murderer strolled back in to sit on the sofa and observe the clean-up operation unblinkingly.
‘Thanks, Ursula.’ As she scrubbed away at the carpet, Essie noted how cosily the cat’s front paws were tucked beneath her. ‘No, really. Thanks so much. You’re a great help.’
It was twenty to one in the morning before she finished the job, having worked on the stains until her arms and shoulders ached. Ursula, who’d been sleeping, opened a laconic eye as Essie carried the cleaning equipment through to the kitchen and gave her hands one last wash. Finally, she left the spare front door key under the plant pot next to the porch so that Jay could let himself in when he turned up.
Right, all done.
Shattered now.
Bed.