by Karen Clarke
Figuring he’d crept in that morning while the door was open, I hurtled upstairs to check for damage. After a few hours cooped up, he’d probably wreaked havoc, or at least done his business somewhere. But apart from a still-warm indent in the middle of my duvet, there was no sign he’d done anything but sleep.
Back downstairs I attempted to shoo him out, but he was stretched along the back of the sofa, staring at the blank television screen as though waiting for his favourite programme to start.
Intimidated, I backed out, banging my heel on the corner of the boxed-up Christmas tree in the hall. I should probably put it up. It would save me a job in the morning, when I would be busy with the new bed arriving, and getting myself ready for Ollie’s arrival. I hadn’t shaved my legs for a while, and even Mum had commented that they’d taken on the appearance of a hairy, mythical monster.
Not that I cared about a reality star seeing my furry shins; it was personal pride that was all. I needed to wash my hair too, which I hadn’t bothered brushing after my shower that morning, so it had dried in a tangle at the back.
I poured another glass of wine and took a long drink, before tearing open the Christmas-tree box with the help of some scissors and plenty of brute force.
The tree was in three separate pieces and far too tall to inhabit any of the rooms.
‘Boggle,’ I mumbled, dragging it all out, sweating in the heat from the kitchen and the radiators. I pulled off my top and threw it over the banister. Bending over the pieces of tree, I was aware of my waistband cutting into my stomach. The dried fruit I’d ingested, not to mention the wine, had made me bloated. I unfastened my jeans to release my muffin-top, and puffed out a breath of relief.
‘Come on!’ I cried, yanking the tree segments into the living room, leaving a trail of fake pine needles in my wake. Marmite looked round, as though finally registering my presence. ‘Fat lot of help you are,’ I scolded. ‘Sitting there like a king.’
I scratched my head, staring at the parts of tree, sipping more wine. Then it hit me – I could put it together without the middle bit! ‘Genius!’
Marmite yawned and closed his eyes.
‘I’ll do it on my own then, shall I?’
By the time I’d wedged it together the tree looked bottom-heavy, like a lady in a crinoline dress, but no one would notice once it was laden with baubles and lights – and at least it fitted nicely in front of the window. I stuck my tongue out at Marmite, and returned to the bags in the hall. After retrieving the tree lights and decorations, I ripped open the boxes and emptied them on the floor.
‘There’s an awful lot of them,’ I said, but it turned into a burp. ‘Oops, pardon me.’ I looked sheepishly at Marmite and giggled. His eyes were still shut. ‘God, you’re boring.’ Sheelagh was probably wondering where he’d gone. ‘You need to go home,’ I said.
Didn’t cats like playing with string? Perhaps I could lure him to the front door, and trick him into leaving.
I had some string tucked away in a kitchen drawer. Erin had laughed when she’d discovered the stash of ‘emergency’ equipment I’d brought back from my studio flat to Mum’s, and kept in my bedroom.
‘What emergency will ever require you to whip out a ball of string?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ I’d said, unable to think of anything in the moment.
After scrabbling my phone out of my back pocket, I texted Erin:
‘aBOut to get my string out HA HA HA XCCX’
I noticed I’d had a missed call, but didn’t recognise the number. Probably one of those annoying home insurance calls I kept getting since ringing around for a good deal on the cottage.
I swayed towards the kitchen, widening my eyes as the floor tilted towards me. Mixing alcohol with dried fruit had clearly been a mistake. It must have fermented in my stomach and become more potent. I swallowed the final drop of wine, surprised to find the bottle was empty. I’d better eat a meal to soak it up.
I retrieved a cooked chicken leg from the fridge and plonked it on a plate, then turned to admire my mince pies. Mary Berry couldn’t have done better. Impulsively, I picked one up and crammed it in my mouth, groaning with pleasure as the butter-soft pastry melted on my tongue. I took a selfie and sent it to Mum with the caption ‘PIE-FACED!!!!!’
She’d be glad I was settling in and having fun.
Next to the tray of cooling apple pies was a mud face-mask I’d bought in the supermarket, and I picked it up, doing a little shimmy as Justin Bieber’s new song came on the radio. I was startled by the sight of my naked, bouncing breasts reflected in the window, and fuzzily remembered I hadn’t put a bra on after my shower that morning, before dashing to the supermarket.
‘Booby boobs, booby boobs, boobies all the way,’ I sang, to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘Oh what fun it is to have, a pair of booby booooobs.’ I jiggled them for effect, then tore open the sachet with my teeth and slathered the gooey mask all over my face. The last time I’d used anything like it had been on my sixteenth birthday, in the hope it would eliminate an outbreak of spots, but all it did was trigger a rash, and I’d spent my party hiding in the bathroom.
Obviously the ingredients were more sophisticated these days, but it still felt as though I’d smeared quick-setting concrete on my face.
‘No pain, no gain,’ I intoned through gritted teeth, arms outstretched like a Dalek, suddenly remembering why I’d come into the kitchen.
After washing my hands and drying them on my jeans, I found the ball of string, which I took to the living room, staring in shock at the baubles and lights scattered all over the floor. Hadn’t I put them on the tree? I was sure I had. And why was the tree so fat on the bottom and leaning to one side?
‘Blasted cat,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t you know I’ve got visitors coming tomorrow?’ I looked around, a prowling headache making my eyes scrunch up. ‘Marmite?’
Hearing a crash behind me, I pelted back to the kitchen to see the cat on the worktop with the chicken leg clamped in his mouth.
‘Drop it!’ I ordered, feeling my face mask crack. ‘That’s my dinner, you little… varmint.’ Unwinding the ball of string I dangled a length in front of him and jigged it about. ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’ I tried to make my voice enticing, but Marmite was having none of it.
He leapt to the floor and slipped past me, the chicken leg jutting from his jaws.
‘Come here, you… son of a banana.’
As I dived to grab him, I became aware of a bright white light shining under the front door, as if a spaceship had landed in the garden.
‘What the…?’
Marmite paused, as if spotting the light too, and I took the opportunity to grab him and scoop him up. ‘Give me that.’ I tried to wrench the chicken leg from between his teeth, as if I could possibly eat it now. He held on, writhing in my arms. Extending his claws he lashed out at my upper arm.
‘Ow!’ I howled, dimly aware that someone was rapping urgently on the door. ‘What?’ I cried, tugging it wide, reeling from a rush of cold air. A beam of white light filled my vision, and I remembered a programme I’d seen about people convinced they’d been abducted and probed by aliens. ‘What’s going on?’ I whimpered. Shielding my eyes with the forearm that wasn’t wrapped around Marmite, I could just make out the shape of a man on the doorstep. His head wasn’t typically alien-shaped, but that didn’t mean I was safe. ‘Who… who are you?’
‘Wow!’ said a male voice, with a hint of comedy poshness. ‘Now that’s what I call a greeting! Is it a Maori thing, with the bare breasts and face paint? Should we press our noses and foreheads together?’
Too late, I remembered I was half-naked, and tried to arrange the cat across my chest, but he chose that moment to make a bid for freedom, erupting from my grasp with a yowl.
‘Switch that thing off, Craig,’ the man said, in cut-glass vowels, and as the bright light abruptly vanished I had a vague impression of another man, holding the sort of camera normally used for filming.
Filming. Noooooooooooooo! It couldn’t be. Unless I’d entered some sort of time warp, surely it was still the same day?
‘You’re early,’ I whispered, my stomach rolling queasily, trying to fix my gaze on Ollie Matheson’s features. My eyes wouldn’t focus properly. It was dark without the hall light on, and his face was cast into shadow, despite the flashing lights from the surrounding houses.
‘I wanted the element of surprise,’ he said, cheerily. ‘Plus, I fancied going incognito.’ His head moved, as if looking behind him at the street, his voice unnaturally loud. ‘Didn’t want the selfie brigade out because they knew I was coming.’
I tried to blink my way to some sort of clarity, but it was no good.
‘Lily Ambrose, I presume?’ I sensed him looking more closely. ‘Is it a make-up thing? Contouring I think it’s called. I saw something about it on an episode of the Kardashians.’
Oh god, the face mask. ‘It’s got moisturising properties,’ I said, squiffily. Behind Ollie Matheson, the other figure made a sound that could have been a yawn or a groan signifying either boredom or displeasure. ‘Gotta go,’ I said. With one arm fastened across my upper half, I stepped back and slammed the door.
The letter box rattled. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
Stomach rising, I grabbed my top from the banister and dragged it over my head, then stumbled upstairs and made it to the bathroom in the nick of time.
Chapter Nine
My eyes were broken. Also, my head was too heavy and my tongue felt fat. My whole body felt like it didn’t belong to me. Had I come down with the flu?
As I tried to peel back my eyelids, a memory rushed in. I’d opened the door to a shadowy figure – two shadowy figures. There’d been a light, shining in my eyes. Maybe that’s why they were broken.
Had I been attacked?
Where was I?
I really, really needed to open my eyes.
Heart thrashing, I ran my fingers over the duvet and felt the familiar imprint of embroidered butterflies on the cover.
Phew.
Prising open one gummy eye, I saw pale sunlight slanting through the window and across the rug on the floor.
Not kidnapped, then.
A rush of relief brought another memory, of me sloshing wine into a glass. Of course. I’d had too much to drink. It was so long since I’d had a hangover, I’d forgotten how awful they were.
My stomach gave a queasy roll, and I closed my eye again.
There was a smell in the room that I couldn’t identify. Nice, but unfamiliar. Maybe it was another hangover symptom, affecting my battered senses.
‘Never drinking again,’ I moaned. Even my voice sounded wrong – as if I’d swallowed something fluffy. I blindly felt for my phone, impressed I’d placed it on my bedside table as usual before falling into bed. If only I’d closed the curtains. It was far too bright in the room, even with my eyes shut.
‘Well, hello!’
My phone clattered to the floor.
There was a man in my bedroom. There was a man in my bedroom.
My mind hurtled through the possibilities.
I’d gone to the pub… and brought someone home?
No. I’d have remembered, and anyway it wasn’t my style. Plus, I didn’t know any pubs in Shipley.
The man on the doorstep. Perhaps I’d invited him in and…
No. I’d definitely have remembered that.
The floorboards creaked, and I managed to hold in a scream. Perhaps if I pretended to be asleep he would leave me alone.
‘I know you’re awake, your nose is twitching.’
My nose was twitching in response to his cologne wafting over me – the scent I’d detected on waking and now recognised as fresh linen with a hint of basil, and something exotic that made me think of palm trees. It was surprisingly soothing, and my panic subsided a little.
‘Please wake up, Miss Ambrose.’
My eyes pinged open. That cut-glass voice definitely belonged to the man on the doorstep, but why was he in my bedroom if I hadn’t invited him in?
Then it came rushing back. The man had been Ollie Matheson. He’d turned up early. He’d seen my boobs. He was in my bedroom. He’d seen my boobs. And my muffin top. Had he put me to bed?
A panicky sweep of my body confirmed I was fully dressed. In fact, I was wearing more clothes than I had been when I answered the door, and I remembered pulling my top over my head before rushing upstairs to be sick.
I struggled upright, clutching the duvet to my chin, wincing as the hammering in my head increased. ‘Why…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Why are you in my bedroom, Mr Matheson?’
‘Oh, please, do call me Ollie,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make sure you didn’t die in the night. I couldn’t have your death on my conscience.’ His accent reminded me of the time Mum was cast as a toff in one of her plays, and spent several weeks in character, saying things like, ‘Oh, yah, absolutely, how WAAANDERful!’ to everyone’s bemusement. Except Ollie’s voice was lower pitched and unexpectedly sexy. ‘You snore like a bear,’ he added.
‘I do not.’ My eyes swivelled painfully in the direction of his voice. He was standing between the bed and the door, his hands braced on his hips, and although I’d intended to order him out, a gasp jammed in my throat.
Ollie Matheson was – I blinked and double-checked – gorgeous. Like a fairy-tale prince. He looked so different to his photo, his browny-blond stubble giving him an edgier look, and his golden hair was longer – thick and wavy, swept back from a broad, tanned forehead. He was taller than I’d expected, with a presence that hadn’t translated in his picture. I felt almost cheated, even as a hot flush travelled through my body. He was supposed to be weedy, not look like he worked out for twelve hours a day, giving the impression he could handle himself in a fight. And those eyes! What was that shade even called? Brandy or cognac – something alcoholic – sprang to mind. Deep-set and intensely twinkly, framed by gold-tipped lashes, they radiated a flirty warmth that was matched by a wide-lipped smile. His mouth was almost indecently sensuous, and his teeth, although white, weren’t blindingly so.
In short, he was very handsome.
At least the outfit was exactly what I’d expected: turned-up shirt collar, paisley cravat, navy blazer, and narrow-legged trousers in a shade my grandmother would have called maroon. He wasn’t wearing socks – a pet hate of mine – with his tan brogues, and the laces were unfastened.
‘You’ll trip over those, if you’re not careful,’ I croaked, resorting to teacher-speak to counteract the way my traitorous body was reacting.
‘What?’ He glanced down in surprise, and it was as if a spell had been broken and I could finally tear my eyes away. ‘I didn’t want to dirty your carpet so I removed them, but when the heating went off my feet got cold, so I—’
‘Wait!’ My gaze wandered to the palm-print armchair in the corner of the room. My dressing gown was flung over the arm, and there was a cushion on the floor, next to one of my mugs. ‘Have… have you been in here all night?’
‘Most of it, yah.’ He gave a frisky smile that set my insides twanging. ‘Like I said, I wanted to keep an eye on you. I have a younger sister, you see, and would do the same for her. In fact, I have done.’ He cocked a shoulder. ‘She was a bit of a tearaway in her teens.’
The thought of a coffee-sipping stranger watching me sleep was deeply unnerving. Even one as good-looking as Ollie Matheson. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I said, pushing my matted hair back. ‘As far as I know, I didn’t even ask you in, which means, technically, you’re an intruder.’
‘Hey, look, you don’t need to worry,’ he soothed, his eyes dancing over me as though I resembled a sex kitten, rather than someone horribly hung-over and smelly. ‘I felt bad, that’s all. You didn’t lock your front door. Anyone could have come in.’ Like he had. ‘I couldn’t leave you in that state.’
That state. I’d assumed that I would be the one making judgements, once we finally met, and was scalded with embarrass
ment that his first impression of me had been so unflattering. And what about during the night? I might have broken wind, or talked in my sleep. Thank god I hadn’t been sick again.
‘In case you’re wondering, you crashed onto the bed once you’d finished in the bathroom, and I covered you up and made sure you were comfortable.’ He smoothed the air with both hands. ‘Not everything you’ve read about me is true. Here.’ He slipped a smart-phone from his blazer pocket, tapped the screen a few times and thrust it under my nose. ‘This is me with the fam.’
‘Fam?’ Nothing was making any sense.
‘Family,’ he said. He sat on the side of the bed, knees spread wide, the fabric of his trousers straining over his well-built thighs. ‘Ma, Pa, Aunt Belinda, Uncle Toby, and that piece of grey fur is Prissy’s Miniature Schnauzer, Bentley.’ His chuckle was affectionate. ‘He tends to do his business around the house, but gets away with it because he once saved Prissy’s life. She got into trouble in the swimming pool, and Bentley dived right in and pulled her to safety.’ He hitched a bit closer, his proximity making my head swim. Or perhaps it was the hangover, heightening my senses.
I goggled at his ‘fam’ who were all as good-looking and expensively clothed as Ollie, with perfect teeth and salon-styled hair, posing in what looked like the grounds of a stately home.
‘That’s your house?’
‘One of them,’ he said, shooting his fingers through his hair. ‘They mostly live in the Kensington pad these days, except in the summer when they decamp to the chateau in France.’ His head was so close to mine I could almost see my reflection in his hair. ‘This is the family shack in Hertfordshire, where I was raised.’ Shack? ‘We were celebrating Uncle Toby winning a world conservation award.’ A smile tilted the corner of his mouth. ‘He’s big on saving badgers.’
‘That’s… amazing,’ I said, aware that I probably smelt of vomit. A sideways peek at the mirror propped against the wall shot back an image of my bed-ruffled, puffy-eyed appearance, the remnants of the mud-mask clinging to my face as if I’d slept in a swamp. Ollie Matheson looked like my ridiculously handsome carer.
