Chapter One
Charlie Faulkner
A Sunday in January
‘WHERE THE HELL DID they put my shot glasses?’ I huffed, as I tried to shift boxes to see their contents. This was why you needed to be organised when you moved house, and I was anything but. I’d made sure my favourite tipple of peach schnapps was the first thing I’d located when I’d moved in yesterday. In fact, it was on the kitchen worktop before the toaster. But could I find my glasses, or my kettle come to that?
I gave up and tipped a good glug into the glass measuring jug I’d found. Quite why I had a measuring jug I had no idea. I was as scared of cooking as most people were of spiders. My diet was atrocious, and not helped by the fact that I sat on my arse all day writing, eating when I was hungry instead of at set times. Just one of the hazards of being an author. It was like disappearing into the twilight zone. One minute the sun was shining and I was starting a new chapter, the next it was midnight and I’d not eaten because I’d been so engrossed in my characters’ lives. I was living vicariously through them.
Living in Cheltenham town centre had been perfect at times like those. I could either call one of the many places I had on speed dial to bring dinner to my door at any hour, or slip out to the nearest burger joint while I took a break and people watched. I loved doing that. Strangers I’d watched and snippets of conversations I’d heard had inspired so many characters and situations in my novels. However, as much as I’d loved the hustle and bustle of the town, it was also one of the reasons I’d decided to move to Dilbury. I’d done the clubbing scene in my twenties, and I was finding it hard to concentrate on writing with the constant noise. What’s more, I was worried that my fast metabolism, which had allowed me to get away with eating what I wanted while doing no exercise, was soon going to wave a white flag in surrender, and my hips and arse would suddenly balloon and stop me from fitting into my trusty writing chair.
Hitting thirty the previous January had really made me reassess my life. I couldn’t afford a house in the Cotswolds, but in Shropshire, particularly villages like Dilbury that were close to the Welsh border, houses were far more affordable. I’d moved here with the intention of enjoying some peace and quiet, of getting more exercise in the fresh air, and getting away from the myriad of convenience foods at my fingertips so that I could learn to cook and eat more healthily.
‘Epic fail so far, Charlie,’ I scolded myself as I tried to hide the evidence of last night’s Chinese delivery by squashing more of the annoyingly squeaky white polystyrene pasta shapes, which the movers had packed around my breakables, on top of the rubbish in the kitchen bin.
The Internet was a curse sometimes. The previous day, moving in day, I’d stopped at the local village shop and picked up a supply of healthy-looking produce to do a stir-fry. Of course, I had no idea how to stir-fry, unless it really was as simple as it sounded and just involved stirring food around in a frying pan, but I doubted cooking could be that easy, or there wouldn’t be so many restaurants and takeaways. After I’d stared at the courgette for five minutes, with it only inspiring ideas for the next sex scene in my current work in progress, I’d given up on the idea of a stir-fry. I’d gone online to discover, in under thirty seconds, that there was a Chinese takeaway and a pizza place in the next village, both of which would deliver within twenty minutes. That was a hell of a lot faster than I could work out how to cook a damn stir-fry.
After quickly phoning the local Chinese before the guilt kicked in, I’d placed the courgette on the floor behind Mrs. Tibbles, my four-year-old tabby cat, who was happily eating the freshly-diced chicken I’d just purchased and purring like a pneumatic drill. It had given me a few minutes of amusement when she’d turned, spotted the courgette lurking behind her, and leapt about three feet in the air as her tail expanded and she hissed in surprise.
If anyone ever needed a courgette shredded in record time, Mrs. Tibbles was the cat for the job. In seconds, she’d attacked it with her front claws and teeth, then laid next to it and dragged it into her furry embrace, using her back paws to maul it to death. When she’d finished, she’d stalked off, leaving strips of courgette all over my beautiful oak floor as she’d continued to try and decide where in the new house her favourite sleeping spot was going to be. The giggle I’d had at her surprise was almost worth the extortionate cost of the damn courgette and chicken. No wonder I’d never eaten well. Fast, convenient food was far less expensive and had never ended up in hundreds of tiny strips all over my kitchen floor, or in Mrs. Tibbles’ belly.
I drank some of the schnapps from the jug and wandered over to the bi-fold glass doors that ran across the back of my kitchen-diner, gazing at the view. It didn’t suck to look out and see such an amazing vista down the garden and over the fields towards the river, instead of looking out at the rooftops of the town centre. I sighed in contentment. I had a feeling I was really going to like it here. The cottage was the perfect size for me. I was lucky that the previous owners had spent a lot of money on it before being offered a job overseas, which had necessitated a fast sale at a ridiculously low price. The timing had been perfect and I’d snapped their hands off.
I’d started working as a financial advisor almost immediately after leaving university and had pulled in an absurd salary, some of which I’d been saving up for the day when I would want to get out of my cramped one-bedroomed flat and quit my job to write full-time. My author income fluctuated month to month, but the knowledge that I didn’t have a mortgage to pay and that I had a buffer of a year’s decent salary gave me the confidence and freedom to focus on trying to get my work traditionally published. If I could, it meant that I could earn enough to never have to consider applying for a “normal” job again. Writing was my passion. I lived and breathed it, and I knew there wasn’t a better way to spend the rest of my days. It didn’t feel like a job when I was lost in my own writing world.
I couldn’t have found a more perfect cottage if I’d created it in my own vivid imagination. It had been modernised to my taste while keeping the character I liked, and there was no need for me to do anything but slowly unpack my boxes. A beautiful white shaker kitchen with oak butcher-block worktops, sage green painted walls, and oak floorboards complimented the brilliant white butler’s sink. A glass and oak dining table with cream leather scroll chairs completed the look. From the kitchen, there was a door to a small utility room with a downstairs cloakroom on the side of the house. On the other side of the hall was my lounge, which had a huge open log fire, and also benefitted from glass bi-fold doors to the rear. A glass wall behind the oak staircase in the middle of the house let light flood into the small hall.
Upstairs, in the eaves of the thatched roof, was a small bathroom opposite the stairs, and a decent-sized master bedroom with its own en-suite shower room. The guest room doubled as my office. I’d had a custom-built study bed made, which was a huge desk where my notebooks, pens, and MacBook sat, but could be pulled down, everything in-situ, and turned into a double bed in seconds if I had visitors. The views from upstairs, even through the small windows, were even better than down here.
Something in my left field of vision suddenly drew my attention. My eyes wandered over to the corner of the garden, and I frowned as I spotted movement.
‘Hello there. It looks like your reputation has already reached the villagers of Dilbury, Charlie,’ I chuckled to myself, as I took another sip of the warming schnapps. Two women were lying down in the field, barely concealed by the winter-bare hedge at the bottom of my garden.
I was used to the looks I got from neighbours when they discovered I wrote “illicit material.” But truth be told, it was great that it was becoming far more socially acceptable to say you were an author of steamy novels. I’d often toasted the success of E.L. James for helping me gain the courage to try writing in that genre without worrying that I’d be chased down the street with pitchforks for admitting that I did. That said, I was in quite possibly one of the sleepiest villages in England, complete with its own stately home owned by a Lord. Maybe news of the erotic romance revolution hadn’t reached its aged population. Though, looking at the women who were currently failing to inconspicuously spy on me, they didn’t look like the blue-rinse brigade I’d seen on my few trips to view the house. I’d been warned that the average age of the villagers was pushing seventy, but these women looked my age.
I sniffed the air, my nose wrinkling in disgust at the scent of cow dung that was somehow making it inside, even with the windows shut. Wow, that was definitely one downside to living in the country. I watched as I saw a tractor approaching from the field on the right, manure spraying out from the contraption hooked onto the back and arcing up and over the hedge. My eyes flicked back to the women, who appeared to be arguing as they pulled their jumpers up over their noses. Part of me was ready to fling open the doors and warn them that they were about to be showered with cow manure, but the evil part of me triumphed. Maybe it would teach them not to be so rude. If they’d just knocked on the door, I’d have happily invited them in and answered any questions they wanted to ask.
Their high-pitched screams as they were suddenly pelted with the sludgy mess made me laugh so hard that I had to walk away from the glass doors. I didn’t want them to realise that I’d seen them and feel embarrassed.
I accidentally kicked a box on the floor and heard the chime of glass on glass, and rejoiced that I’d found my shot glasses. I paused for a moment, biting my lower lip. Maybe I should go and introduce myself, invite them over for drinks. Anyone prepared to go to those lengths to see me must be slightly crazy, and that was something I’d been accused of many a time. I’d never really had any girlfriends to speak of, as my previous career in finance had meant I’d worked mainly with men. It might be fun to get to know the neighbours and hopefully develop the sort of friendship that my heroines always had with their best friends.
I hurried to the cloakroom and quickly raked my fingers through my long blonde waves, trying to make myself look halfway presentable. Working from home each day meant that I rarely wore makeup, but I was lucky enough to have thick, dark lashes that framed my brown eyes so well, it looked as if I was wearing mascara. I’d pass muster, I’d never tried to be someone I wasn’t. I grabbed my keys and hurried out of the front door, groaning at the pungent smell that filled the air. Did people in the country ever get used to it? It wasn’t until I was walking up my front path that I realised these women might not even be my neighbours, as I knew there were public footpaths all around Dilbury. They might have come from any direction and disappeared home already.
Shrill screams puncturing the air made me quicken my pace up the lane to follow the sound, which seemed to be coming from behind Ivy Cottage, the one closest to mine. I walked up the drive and spotted a log cabin to the left, against the hedge. In front of it, the two women were standing in their underwear, hosing each other down. I giggled as I leaned on the wide gate and watched them. It seemed I’d found my spies, and one of them actually lived next door.
‘I hate you, Abbie Carter!’ the redhead shouted.
‘Oh, shut up,’ the other one laughed.
‘Hello?’ I called, making them aware of my presence. ‘Is everything ok?’
They both turned to face me, looking aghast to be caught in such an embarrassing situation.
‘Are you kidding me?’ the redhead muttered, shooting a glare at her friend.
‘Sorry to interrupt your … whatever it is you’re doing in your wet underwear,’ I said as I waved a finger at them, ‘but from the screams, I thought you might need some help.’
‘We’re awesome, thanks,’ the brunette called, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘Just hosing off cow manure.’ The redhead put her hands on her hips as she tossed her wet hair back over her shoulder and stood in a pose that would rival any of the girls on America’s Next Top Model. She was stunning.
‘We were walking the dog in the field when the muck spreader went past,’ the attractive brunette added.
‘Really? I thought it was that you were lying like army commandos as you spied on me through my hedge.’ I shot them a grin and laughed as they glared at each other.
‘I really hate you right now, Abbie,’ the redhead hissed. ‘It was her idea,’ she added, flicking an accusing thumb at her friend.
‘Don’t worry, my reputation precedes me. I’m used to people wanting to see the “hussy” next door. I’m Charlotte, by the way, but most people call me Charlie.’ I smiled as I leaned over the gate and offered them my hand. The redhead made the first move.
‘Georgie Basset. So sorry, it was my stupid best friend’s idea. I wanted to come and knock on your door like normal people would,’ she said with a grimace as she shook my hand.
‘I wasn’t feeling glamorous and I didn’t want you to see me looking a mess, but now you’ve ended up seeing us in our wet underwear, stinking of cow shit. Abbie Carter, and I really am sorry,’ the brunette said as she shook my hand too.
‘Don’t be. You’ve just inspired a whole “hot lesbians in the country” novel,’ I teased.
‘Not lesbians,’ they both stated firmly.
‘Why don’t you go and change, then come over for a drink? I’ve no idea where the kettle is, but I’ve got my shot glasses and some alcohol out.’
‘A girl with my own priorities,’ Georgie laughed.
‘We’re actually supposed to be heading back to Daphne’s, next door,’ Abbie reminded her. ‘Her husband just died and we were having afternoon tea with her. Why don’t you give us ten minutes and head over there instead? She has whiskey, as well as hot drinks.’
‘I won’t be intruding?’ I asked, not sure it was the best time to meet one of my neighbours if she was grieving.
‘Trust me, she’s eager to meet you too. And from what we learned this afternoon, she’ll be grilling you for sex tips when she’s ready to get back on the horse. She’s not as innocent as she looks. Plus, as the village gossip, your book sales in Dilbury will soon go through the roof.’
‘Excellent!’ I nodded. Well, that sold me. ‘Ok, I’ll go rummage out a bottle of wine for her. See you in a while.’
‘Bye,’ they both called in unison as I turned to head back up the drive.
‘Owww,’ I heard one of them moan.
‘Great way to impress the sexy new neighbour, dripping wet in my unmatching underwear and stinking of shit. I’m so going to get you back for this,’ hissed the other, making me smile to myself. They sounded like they’d be fun to get to know.
I rapped sharply on the solid stable door of Honeysuckle Cottage, and was startled when Abbie flung it open faster than I’d expected.
‘You came. We weren’t sure if you would after we embarrassed ourselves earlier.’
‘You made me laugh for the first time since I started packing up to move house, of course I came,’ I grinned, brandishing the bottle of wine and giving it a wiggle for her to see.
‘Well, invite her in, Abbie, you’re letting all the heat out,’ a voice softly scolded. Abbie rolled her eyes with a sigh and flicked her head, gesturing for me to step inside.
The cottage appeared to be the same layout as mine, without the modern glass back wall. Where my beams had been painted white, these were dark brown, bordering on black. I followed Abbie through to the warm, old-fashioned living room. It was just how you’d expect a pensioner’s lounge to be, even down to those weird knitted doily-looking things on the backs of the chairs. But it had a real homely feel, with the roaring fire, green patterned floral carpet, and tall floor lamps with large pink shades. Georgie smiled at me from one of the chintz armchairs by the fire, and I saw an elderly white-haired lady sitting on the matching patterned sofa, her knitting needles clacking away loudly, moving at such a fast tempo they were a blur.
‘Hello, dear, don’t be shy, come on in. I’d stand and give you a kiss, but my knees are playing up today. I’m Daphne, Daphne Jones.’ The warm smile on her kind, wrinkled old face made me give her one in return. She seemed sweet and reminded me of my grandma.
‘I’m Charlie, Charlie Faulkner, but I guess you already knew that.’ I walked over and leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me over, and I’m so sorry for your recent loss.’
‘Thank you.’ She let out a heavy sigh, then patted the sofa next to her, indicating for me to take a seat.
‘I was sitting there, that’s where I always sit,’ Abbie protested.
‘Well, now it’s where Charlie’s sitting. Don’t be petulant, Abbie, it doesn’t suit you. Besides, I know everything about the two of you. I have a new and interesting neighbour to become acquainted with.’
‘So, now we’re not interesting anymore? Honestly, I could rapidly go off you,’ Abbie retorted, flashing a scowl in her direction that made me bounce my eyes between them and wonder what I’d just walked in on. I’d never have spoken to Grandma like that, she’d have clipped me around the ear. I was surprised to hear Daphne tittering as she carried on knitting.
‘Don’t mind us, Charlie. I’ve known this feisty one since she was born, like a daughter to me she is. A very annoying daughter sometimes, but a daughter all the same. Georgie too, though we’ve only known each other a few years. Sit, sit,’ she ordered in a bossy tone as she noticed I was still standing. ‘We like to pick at each other, it’s our thing, when we aren’t busy laughing. These two girls are wonderful friends, they’ve seen me through a tough month and not treated me with kid gloves, and that’s what I need. Life goes on, it’s for the living.’
‘You are allowed to cry on us too, Daphne,’ Georgie said with a serious face as I sat down, and Abbie smiled at me as she plopped down in the other armchair by the fire.
‘He wouldn’t want me to cry, girls, unless it was with laughter. My David always loved hearing me laugh with you both, said it kept me young at heart and reminded him of the young girl he fell in love with. He’d want me to enjoy the rest of my days, not spend them mourning him. You know one of his favourite quotes was from Thomas Jefferson. “I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past,”’ she said with a wistful sigh, a tear appearing in the corner of her eye. She quickly wiped it away and smiled again. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Why doesn’t someone go and put the kettle on and we can all warm up with a nice whiskey coffee while Charlie tells us all about these sexy men she writes about in her books.’
‘You want to hear about my writing?’ I spluttered. Grandma would have had a heart attack if she’d found out I was writing the sort of material I was.
‘No need to be bashful,’ Daphne smiled, patting my knee with one hand. ‘I can’t get enough of those BSM books.’
‘BSM,’ Abbie giggled, and Georgie let out a weird snort of amusement that didn’t seem to fit with her character at all.
‘Did I say it wrong? Isn’t it BSM?’ Daphne asked, not stopping her knitting for a second.
‘BSM is British School of Motoring, hardly a sexy topic. I think you mean BDSM,’ Abbie told her between more laughter. I stared at them all wide-eyed, not quite sure I believed the frank, unfiltered conversation I was hearing in front of an old lady.
‘Ah yes, I always forget the “D.” Why do I forget that each time? What does it stand for again?’
‘Well, the “D” is for domination,’ I said slowly, not sure what weird universe I’d woken up in this morning, where I was potentially discussing the world of bondage with my aging neighbour.
‘Oh yes,’ Daphne nodded with a wide smile. ‘How could I forget domination? Who doesn’t love a bit of domination in the bedroom?’
‘Oh my God,’ Georgie snorted, shaking her head as I tried not to laugh myself. ‘Seriously, Charlie, tell me you have a boyfriend and have hot and kinky sex like your heroines do, as Daphne and the Dilbury old-age pensioners have a better sex life than Abbie and I do. We can’t be outdone by them.’
‘Actually, I’m single, have been for quite a few years now. I seem to keep picking the wrong guys, so figured it was safer to stay single.’
‘I hear you,’ Georgie nodded as she leaned over to high five me.
‘So, how do you write such realistic and steamy sex scenes? I started one of your books as soon as I heard you’d moved in, and I have to say, that first steamy scene, with the dirty-mouthed Frenchman, nearly necessitated a trip to accident and emergency for the fitting of a pacemaker. I haven’t had such a vivid and exciting dream in a long time.’
‘Oh my God, you’re reading one of my books?’ I gasped, my cheeks colouring up with embarrassment as I desperately tried to remember just how graphic that book was. Once I’d written one, it was like wiping the blackboard clear of all the chalk scribblings on it. I had to forget the last one to come up with the next new story and characters.
‘Don’t underestimate her,’ Abbie said as she stood up with a wide grin. ‘She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but underneath that sweet granny exterior she likes to portray is a sex-crazed nympho with a mouth that would make a sailor blush.’
‘Abbie Carter,’ Daphne scolded, as she peered at her over the top of her glasses. ‘Don’t scare the poor girl off before I’ve grilled her.’
‘I’m putting the kettle on and I’ve a feeling we’ll need extra whiskey in Charlie’s coffee, judging by the shocked look on her face. Welcome to Dilbury, where life is never dull.’
‘I’m beginning to get that,’ I laughed as I shook my head, wondering what on earth I’d let myself in for.
‘What the hell?’ I exclaimed, as I opened my front door to what looked like the most enormous slice of pepperoni pizza I’d ever seen, with a pair of jean-clad legs and scuffed black army boots sticking out of the bottom of it. A pair of arms were outstretched, holding out a green, red, and white pizza box for me to take, the delicious herby smell of it making my stomach rumble.
‘Pizza on wheels,’ mumbled the pizza’s male voice.
‘Seriously? That’s the best slogan they could come up with?’ I laughed.
‘Seriously,’ sighed the guy from somewhere inside his outfit.
‘How did you get here? I can’t even see your eyes, surely you didn’t drive?’
‘I have to put the suit on when I get off the bike, it’s all part of the customer experience,’ he replied, making me laugh even harder as I imagined him desperately wanting to air quote the words “customer experience” to highlight his indignation.
‘There have to be better jobs, surely?’ I asked, as I took the box off him and put it on the small console table in the hall, then grabbed my wallet.
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? I can’t say it was my dream, when I left university, to one day dress in a sweaty, flammable suit and scare the crap out of customers when I deliver their dinner.’
‘You have a degree? Why on earth are you delivering pizza?’ I asked, completely astonished at the revelation, as I peeled a tenner out of my wallet.
‘My mum’s sick. She doesn’t have anyone else to take care of her. I couldn’t afford a carer for her twenty-four-seven, so figured it was easier to do it myself and get someone to look after her for a few hours every night while I did some part-time work.’
‘Surely you’re paying more to a carer than you’re actually earning?’ I asked in amazement. The pizza shrugged, its pointy tip wobbling back and forth as if the guy was nodding his confirmation.
‘Yes, but I’d go stir-crazy looking after her around the clock. It does me good to get out, even if I’m not getting any fresh air in this damn suit,’ he chuckled. I laughed as well, warming to his rich timbre and honest admissions.
‘Well, I think what you’re doing is amazing. She must be so proud to have a son that puts her welfare first.’
‘I wish. Most days she has no idea who I even am. Anyway, you didn’t order pizza with a side of self-pity. Sorry, it’s not very professional to talk about myself. That’ll be nine pound ninety-nine please.’
‘Please don’t apologise, it must be really hard for you. I’m not surprised you need to get out and talk to someone. I have a pizza addiction, so if it helps, you can always offload when you deliver to me. Though I am supposed to be cutting way back, I’m too fat as it is,’ I grimaced, still trying to work out where his eyes were. It was weird having a conversation with someone you couldn’t even see, especially when looking at them dressed as a pizza made you hungry enough to be tempted to take a bite out of them.
‘You’re not fat. I think you have an amazing figure,’ he said sincerely, making me blush as I handed over my ten-pound note.
‘Thanks. Don’t worry about the one pence change.’
‘Thanks, Mrs. Faulkner,’ he replied.
‘It’s Miss Faulkner, but I prefer Charlie. We’re likely to get on first name terms if I can’t control my cravings. Thanks for delivering, I’m sure I’ll see you again.’
‘Thanks for listening, Charlie. Enjoy your pizza. See you.’
‘See you.’
Pizzaman, as I’d decided to nickname him, turned around, and I giggled as he shuffled his way up the path and struggled to get the bottom section of his costume through the gate, softly cursing before he turned sideways and did a crab-like walk out. He shut the gate behind him and gave me a wave as he disappeared behind the hedge. I went to close the door, but hesitated and bit my lip. I felt sorry for him. As if having a parent who didn’t even know you were their son or what you were sacrificing to take care of them wasn’t enough, his employers made him dress up in a ridiculous costume. He was probably only getting minimum wage as well. I quickly pulled a five-pound note out of my wallet and ran up the front path in my socks. I threw the gate open and stepped into the lane to find a guy desperately trying to fit the folded pizza costume into a small box on the back of a bright green, red, and white moped that could have been plucked straight from the streets of Italy. His black helmet was balanced on top of a well-worn black leather jacket that had been thrown over the seat.
‘Ermmm, hey, I forgot to give you a tip,’ I said. He took a startled jump and gasped before he turned to face me. I was pleasantly surprised. I’d expected a spotty, greasy-haired, sulky-faced twenty-something. Instead, I was looking at a seriously cute guy who was probably in his mid-thirties. He had cropped dark brown hair, deep green eyes, and a classically good-looking face, with some freckles over the bridge of his nose. Dressed in a white t-shirt and black loose-fit jeans, he looked like the kind of guy I might give a once over in a nightclub. He wasn’t drop dead, “snap my neck from the whiplash I’d get from checking him out” gorgeous, but he was far from being unattractive. Dressed like that, he had a whole “James Dean” vibe about him. He ran a hand through his hair as he frowned at me.
‘There’s no need to tip.’
‘Maybe not, but I like to. Here, take this,’ I offered, holding out the five-pound note. ‘Don’t worry about change.’
‘I can’t take that, it’s too much. You could have another half a pizza for that.’
‘Despite my love for the food, even I couldn’t eat a pizza and a half. Please, take it. I really appreciate having a delivery tonight. I’m not the best cook and I just moved in and have no idea where anything is in my kitchen. You really saved my bacon, so to speak.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,’ I nodded, waving it at him. He reluctantly took it from me, his cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment.
‘Thanks, Charlie, that’s really kind of you. Well, I’d better get going, I’m sure more orders will have come in while I’ve been chatting. See you again.’
‘You can count on it,’ I replied. I gave him a smile, then went back through the gate and shut it, watching him shrug on his jacket and strap his helmet on. ‘I never got your name,’ I called as he straddled the tiny moped.
‘Kitt,’ he answered, sounding puzzled, as if no customer had ever asked him the question.
‘See you around, Kitt.’
He waved over his shoulder as he kicked the stand away and started the engine. I headed back to my front door, only to gasp when I saw that I’d left it open. Mrs. Tibbles was peeking around it, her eyes as wide as saucers as she scanned the front garden. She only looked like that after a hefty dose of catnip spaced her out.
‘Oh God, you could have run off,’ I exclaimed, as I dashed in and quickly slammed the door behind me, my heart racing at the thought of losing her. She’d been an indoor cat all of her life, and had more than likely never even seen a blade of grass before. Yet another tick on the list I’d made of reasons to move. I wanted to be able to let her out to run wild now and then, like animals should.
She’d spent most of yesterday sitting in front of the lounge glass doors, watching all of the wildlife and occasionally chattering her jaw, making a weird-sounding noise that I’d never heard from her before as her tail quivered. And last night, she’d started meowing and pawing at the glass as if she was begging me to let her out. She scurried into the kitchen with a meow of disappointment that she still hadn’t been allowed out to explore her first ever garden. Though I suspected that the second she made it out, she’d be so scared she’d hare back in and cower behind the sofa. It was going to be a gradual process to coax her to go out, but not until we were fully settled and I’d finished unpacking.
I threw myself onto the sofa with the pizza box on my knees as I turned on my TV. I dug into my tasty, calorie-laden meal with enthusiasm while I washed it down with a glass of wine. Pizza really was a cure all. It was the best medicine for all moods.
It hadn’t been a bad day, all things considered. I seemed to have made three new friends in my neighbours, not to mention having great pizza on tap, delivered by the cute Kitt. And best of all, I couldn’t hear a thing. No drunken people shouting in the street below me. No beeping from the buttons being pressed on the cash machine in the next building. No annoying noise of the TV or arguments through the paper-thin walls that separated my flat from the one next door. No smashing of empty glass bottles, or clanging as they bounced off the large metal waste bins as they were thrown out at closing time. Best of all, no being woken up by the sounds of the street cleaners at some ungodly hour.
In fact, the only sounds I’d heard so far tonight as I sat here was the occasional screech of an owl. Even the inky darkness, lit only by thousands of stars that I’d never seen above Cheltenham, was oddly comforting and not at all oppressive as I’d worried it might be. It was so much nicer than the harsh glow of street lamps outside my flat windows.
Yes, moving to Dilbury was turning out to be a very wise decision indeed.