Simon took a swig from his can and wandered through to the living room. He liked Cabin Cottage but could never quite work out how two people lived in such a tiny place and still got on so well with each other. He and Felicity had shared a large, three- bedroomed semi and still managed to get on each other’s nerves. Kristen and Jimmy were lucky.
‘Hi, Jim,’ he said, stepping carefully into the living room which looked like Whitby Harbour in miniature. ‘How’s the ship-building going?’
Jimmy looked up from his home on the carpet and grinned. ‘Marvellous.’ He beckoned to Simon who got down on all fours to examine the latest masterpiece.
‘I don’t know how you do it. I just wouldn’t have the patience to work on something so small,’ Simon confessed, turning the miniature boat around in his hand, admiring each tiny detail.
‘Well, I couldn’t do your job,’ Jimmy said, resting on his thick denimed haunches. ‘It would drive me mad being sat in front of a computer all day.’
‘It’s great,’ Simon defended. ‘When it goes right.’
Jimmy nodded as if he understood. ‘Like everything else in life.’
Simon gave the briefest of smiles and handed the boat back to Jimmy.
‘God - look at you two on the carpet!’ Kristen said as she entered the room, looking at the two men in her life. ‘Just like a pair of kids!’
‘Well, that was a complete waste of a lager and shepherd’s pie,’ Jimmy said after Simon had left, putting his arms round Kristen’s waist and pulling her towards him.
‘What do you mean?’ Kristen frowned.
‘We didn’t get a word out of him. I’ve known budgies that talk more than him. I don’t know why you bother.’
‘Oh, it’s just his way.’
‘You know what your problem is?’
‘What?’
‘You care too much.’
‘Is that so bad?’ she asked, eyes widening.
‘It is when it makes you unhappy,’ he said, ruffling her hair with his thick fingers.
‘I’m not unhappy.’
‘No?’ Jimmy didn’t sound convinced. ‘Then what?’
‘Thoughtful?’
‘Is that what you call it?’ he pursed his lips. ‘You take on too many problems which don’t belong to you. If it isn’t Claudie, it’s Simon.’
‘They’re going through a rough time at the moment-’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to as well.’
‘Doesn’t it? I thought that’s what friends were for.’
Jimmy raised a gentle hand and pushed back a strand of red hair which had fallen across her face. ‘You know, I could put my foot down. I mean, what man in his right mind lets his partner see an ex-boyfriend on a regular basis?’
‘There’s nothing going on between Simon and me. Nothing ever did. He’s a friend! Anyway, we only went out a couple of times.’
‘A couple?’
‘Well, a couple of months, and it was years ago.’
‘Not that many,’ Jimmy said sounding unnaturally sulky.
‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy?’ Kristen teased.
‘No. But you shouldn’t get so involved in his problems. He’s a grown man. Let him sort them out for himself.’
Kristen sighed. In her heart of hearts she knew he was right. She couldn’t fight Simon’s battles for him. Or Claudie’s for that matter.
‘I need you too, you know,’ Jimmy added.
Kristen tutted good-naturedly. ‘You’ve never needed anyone in your entire life.’
‘No?’ he pulled her towards him again. ‘What’s this then?’
She giggled. ‘You know what I mean.’
His eyes twinkled softly and suggestively in the lamplight before blurring into darkness as she closed her eyes to kiss him.
When Simon got back home, he paused for a moment in the hallway, resting his head on the cool wood of the stair banister. It was so quiet. He hadn’t quite got used to being greeted by silence when he came home. He didn’t like it. Despite his rather isolating job, Simon was a gregarious person by nature, and just didn’t feel right living on his own, and he always felt it acutely after a visit to Kristen and Jimmy’s.
As much as he knew Kristen hadn’t been the girl for him, he still couldn’t help feeling a little bit envious of Jimmy. Did he realise how lucky he was to have her there? To have someone to holler to when you got home. Someone to share a meal with, a bath with, a bed with. God, he sometimes even missed the things that had really grated on him, like the lipstick-rimmed cups left by the sink, and the rows of wet tights which would hang like strangled snakes over the bath.
He switched the front room light on and winced as the sixty-watt bulb blinded him. When Felicity had left, she’d remembered that the chintzy light shade was hers. She’d also remembered to empty the cupboards of her collection of pots and pans, fleeced the under-the-stairs cupboard of items worth more than ten pounds, and had even managed to get up into the loft in spite her fear of ladders. In fact, the only thing that she’d left of hers had been Pumpkin.
Simon walked over to the little glass bowl and sprinkled some food on top of the water and watched as Pumpkin rose eagerly to the surface. Poor little mite, he thought. Won at a local fair, Felicity had been thrilled with Simon’s skill with the hoop for all of ten minutes. Then, as soon as her make-up had demanded a retouch, she’d flung her fish in a bag towards Simon and disappeared into the ladies’ loos. She hadn’t bothered with the goldfish after that.
She hadn’t even bothered to give him a name but, peering into his bowl one day, had announced that he looked like a mini pumpkin floating around. The name had stuck.
Simon wiggled a finger above the water. It was a useless pet really. You couldn’t pick it up, couldn’t stroke it, couldn’t take it for a walk, and he always felt self-conscious when he spoke to it, as if somebody was secretly filming him.
‘All right, mate?’ he said, stooping to look into the beady, non-communicative eyes. ‘Had a shit day too?’
Simon’s eyes glanced round the glass bowl. With its one small ornamental bridge, it was even barer than his front room. He once again determined to buy a deluxe tank with all the trimmings. He might not be able to live in the lap of luxury, but he’d make damn sure Pumpkin would. Perhaps he’d even buy him a companion to while away the watery hours.
Oh that life were as simple for him.
Chapter 4
After the strange bathroom sighting, Claudie had gone straight to bed. Lavender essential oil was, she’d read, meant to induce a sense of well-being, not a sense of madness.
But she hadn’t been able to sleep. It had all been so vivid: like watching a little film. She really had seen a beautiful woman in a pale lemon dress dancing without a care in the world, as if the white enamel tiles were a ballroom rather than a bathroom.
Claudie had even got up in the middle of the night and tiptoed back into the bathroom as if she’d still expected to see her dancing, or at least find some little wet footprints to confirm that what she’d seen had been real. But no. The shampoo bottle and the loofah remained alone. Nothing had been disturbed.
She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. It was almost as if she’d discovered an amazing new drug and just had to have another hit. She really wanted to believe in what she’d seen.
‘What would Dr Lynton say?’ she said aloud to herself in the broad band of morning. ‘Why do you want to believe what you saw?’ she mimicked his soft, low voice and giggled at her accuracy.
‘Because?’ Claudie paused. What possible reason could she have for wanting to hallucinate?
‘Look deep into yourself and question what you find.’ That’s what one of the self-help books had told her, but what did they know? Who wrote those books anyway? What could they possibly know about her? Anyway, she didn’t want to look deep into herself. She was still too afraid of what she might find there, and even more afraid that there might be nothing to find at all. Just a great abyss.
That probably explained why she was watching more MGM musicals than ever before. Her usual diet of one a week had multiplied by seven. One a day - after work with a large cup of hot chocolate. What better combination to combat the world than Gene Kelly and Cadbury’s? As soon as she heard that lion roar at the start of a movie, she could feel herself slipping gently into another world. A world of colour and music, of love and laughter. A world populated by a cast of characters she knew so well that they were like friends to her. And she didn’t care what Dr Lynton said about barriers and blockages. Her diet of musicals certainly beat the hell out of all the self-help books which had been thrust at her by friends and therapists.
Ever since Claudie could remember, she’d relied on musicals to get her through the tough times. She had a vivid image of herself sitting on her bedroom floor at weekends, snuggled in a nest of cushions, her curtains drawn tightly against the wet Whitby weather as she immersed herself in early Deanna Durbin, Judy Garland, Gene Kelly and Doris Day on her portable TV. It was the perfect way to escape her mother, the drudgery of homework and, during her late teens, the trauma of boyfriends. The world was a better place when it was filled with song and dance. June Allyson never yelled at her for not tidying the kitchen, Marilyn Monroe never gave her detentions for not doing homework, and Gene Kelly never ever stood her up.
It had started innocently enough but soon become an obsession, with Claudie scanning the weekend television guide and circling her favourite films with a bold red pen and becoming inconsolable if something was cancelled owing to extended sports coverage. Over the years, she came to know many of the films by heart and that was where the greatest pleasure lay. There was enormous comfort to be had in knowing what was coming next; of the absolute knowledge that a happy ending was just around the corner and that, although there may be tears and heartache along the way, there was nothing but bright eyes, smiles and a grand finale before the end credits.
Despite constant teasing from friends and family, this obsession hadn’t abated through adulthood so, after a weekend immersed in High Society, Singin’ in the Rain and Brigadoon, Claudie entered the office on Monday morning with her head chock full of uplifting lyrics and neat little dance steps. She even attempted a little routine as she walked up the stairs, but it proved rather unwise in her kitten heels.
‘Ouch!’ she winced, rubbing her twisted ankle. She would never cut it as a Cyd Charisse, that was for sure. But then, she thought, Cyd Charisse would never be able to cope with Mr Bartholomew and his mounds of paperwork, his hieroglyphic handwriting and unpredictable mood swings.
Like Dr Lynton, Mr Bartholomew had never given Claudie leave to call him by his Christian name, but she knew what it was. George. Not terribly inspiring but thoroughly suitable.
‘Morning!’ Claudie chirped as she entered the office, pulling her seat out with a flourish and igniting her computer with a wand-like finger.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Kristen said. ‘Good weekend?’
‘Lovely.’
‘Don’t tell me - Warner Brothers?’
Claudie shook her head. ‘Too serious.’
‘RKO?’
‘Not enough colour.’
‘Then it’s got to be -’ Kristen hesitated, ‘MGM?’
‘You bet!’ Claudie laughed. ‘MGM - the three most magical letters in the English language.’
‘Oh, Claudie! You haven’t spent a whole weekend watching musicals again?’
‘No. Not a whole weekend. I reread that Doris Day biography too.’
‘Claudie! You really should get out more.’
Claudie laughed again. She’d heard it all before, and she chose to ignore it again.
‘Coffee?’ Kristen sighed.
‘Please.’
Kristen disappeared down the hall for their early dose of caffeine. Claudie logged onto her computer and sifted through the papers that had miraculously collected in her in-tray since Friday.
‘Claudie?’
‘Yes?’ She turned round, but there was nobody there. Strange. She felt sure she’d heard someone. Perhaps she’d imagined it. She still had half-a-dozen film scores whizzing through her brain.
‘Claudie!’
She turned round again. Somebody had called her name, hadn’t they? She hadn’t imagined it.
‘Clawww - deeee!’
It wasn’t coming from behind her. In fact, there wasn’t anyone in the office to call her name. She looked around the desk, moving her pencil pot, picking up files, peering behind her computer screen as if she might come across some kind of voice throwing machine.
‘I’m over here! Look up here!’
Claudie looked up, and there, perching on the giant fig tree behind her desk was the little woman who’d been waltzing in her bathroom the night before.
‘Well, don’t look so surprised to see me! You can see me, can’t you?’
Claudie nodded at the dark-haired girl in the yellow dress who was sitting, quite comfortably, on one of the thicker branches of the fig tree, legs dangling happily.
‘Thank goodness for that! I was beginning to think you were ignoring me. Or that maybe you couldn’t see me after all. People are always trying to pull one over on us.’
‘What do you mean?’ Claudie whispered, looking round her in case somebody saw her talking to a plant.
‘You know - they like to be in charge - like to think they’ve got things sussed and that they don’t need our help.’
‘Are you real?’ Claudie frowned, her eyes narrowing.
‘Of course I’m real!’ she said somewhat indignantly. ‘Don’t you believe your own eyes?’
‘Frankly, no. Not lately.’
The dark-haired girl stared at her with sudden tenderness. ‘People always think they’re so tough, but they aren’t tough. They’re tender. Tender as baby birds.’ She spoke the words as if they were lines from a poem. ‘And that’s where we come in.’
‘You?’
‘Us.’
‘What? You mean there’s more than one of you?’ Claudie suddenly looked round her desk, half-expecting to see a whole troupe of little people.
‘Gracious, yes! I couldn’t do this job on my own.’
‘Claudie?’ another voice called her name. Claudie felt her body freeze.
It was Mr Bartholomew. How long had he been standing there? Had he been watching her? Listening to her talking to a fig tree?
‘Is there anything wrong?’ he peered at her closely: something he didn’t normally do so it was rather unnerving to have his beaky nose pushed into her face.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied hesitantly. She felt herself turning round quickly again to look at the tree. The dark-haired girl was still there, swinging her legs merrily, humming a little tune.
‘Are you sure?’ he repeated his words very slow, his beaky nose only inches away from her face.
Claudie nodded. Could he not see the little girl, then? She looked at her boss, her eyes wide and questioning.
‘Look!’ he said, remembering why he’d come into the office in the first place. ‘I’ve made some amendments to this letter. Can you get it typed and run three copies off before lunch?’
Claudie took it from him and nodded, trying not to grimace at the amount of red pen and scribble on it. It looked like one of her old school assignments.
‘No problem,’ she added hastily, lest he thought her away with the fairies. Claudie started at the thought, turning back round to the dark-haired girl when her boss had walked back to his own office. Was that what the little figure was - a fairy? And why hadn’t her boss seen her?
‘Look,’ Claudie began, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but what on earth are you?’
The girl smiled back at her. ‘Before you say it, no, I’m not a fairy!’ She held her tiny hands up in mock defence. ‘Everybody asks that.’
Claudie found herself smiling unexpectedly. ‘I mean, who are you?’ She scratched her head. ‘Am I finally losing it?’
The dark-haired girl sh
ook her head. ‘You’re not losing it, Claudie. You’re finding it!’
‘Can’t anyone else see you, then?’ God, she thought, this was madness. Talking to apparitions! You could still be locked up for that, couldn’t you?
‘Of course nobody else can see me! I’m yours!’
‘Mine? What do you mean?’
‘I’m here for you - nobody else. Don’t you realise that?’
Claudie shook her head very slowly. ‘And you’re not-’
‘A figment of your imagination?’
‘Yes! How did you know I was going to say that?’ Claudie was becoming more perplexed by the second.
The girl shrugged. ‘Because I’ve done this before. I know all the questions.’
‘God! I think I’m going mad!’
‘Claudie?’ It was Kristen’s voice.
Claudie jumped for the third time in ten minutes. This was getting ridiculous, she thought. Perhaps she should just admit defeat and go home and get some sleep. Maybe she was just over-tired.
‘Coffee.’ Kristen placed it on her Peter Rabbit coaster and perched on the edge of her desk as she sipped hers. Claudie knew that meant trouble.
‘Are you all right, Claudes? You look a bit pale.’
‘I always look pale,’ she joked, giving what she hoped was a cheerful smile but it was hard to tell under the circumstances. ‘I’ve just been handed this.’ She pulled the letter her boss had given her out of her in tray in the hope that Kristen might believe she’d been talking to herself about that.
‘Blimey! No wonder you’re pale. Why does he do that? You’ve typed that letter at least five times before.’
‘Six. This will be number seven.’ Claudie peeped surreptitiously over to the fig tree. The dark-haired girl was still there but she was sitting perfectly still now, watching the pair of them with intense eyes. Claudie smiled to herself. She was losing it, wasn’t she?
‘Claudes,’ Kristen began again. Claudie recognised that tone of hers. It always preceded a probing question.
‘Yes?’ she said airily, bringing up the saved letter on her computer screen, with just a quick flick of the eyes to the dark-haired girl who had now descended and was dancing behind her computer.
Flights of Angels Page 3
