Rules for a Perfect Life Page 10

  Rule Seven: Honesty is the best policy

  I wake up sweating, trying to free myself from the bedding that’s tangled around my legs. I feel like I’m bandaged in it, it’s wound so tightly round me – I must have been thrashing around pretty hard.

  I know what’s woken me. I was having that dream again – the one where I’m falling, and no matter how hard I try to grasp on to something to stop myself crashing to certain gory death, I can’t. I’ve been having it for a while now but it still manages to scare the daylights out of me every time. I know what it means, of course, because in the time-honoured tradition of my love affair with Google I looked it up on-line. Having a nightmare about falling without ever hitting the ground means I feel out of control in my life – not very surprising, really, considering how wonderfully things are going for me at the moment.

  Usually Robert features somewhere in the dream too: he stands in the background, watches me fall, then sadly turns the other way. Even my subconscious feels guilty that I left him. Theresa would have a field day with that one. Dream psychology is another of her passions: she analyses every single dream she can remember. Of course, taking the little blue pills causes weird ones sometimes, but she documents these, too, because keeping in touch with your psyche is vital, she says, even if you are just a little too fond of prescription drugs and your dreams are more hallucinations.

  I rub my face and lie catching my breath, telling myself it was only a nightmare, that I’m fine, really. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to my unfamiliar surroundings. I’d been expecting to see the cool blue tones of my own bedroom walls and instead a warm yellow glow infuses the room. But unless someone has been busy painting in the middle of the night when I was out cold, I’m not in my flat in the city – the one that Dermot lets me rent for peanuts. I’m somewhere else entirely.

  And there’s something else as well – that noise. What is it? It sounds like … like a hundred birds sitting on my head singing their tiny little lungs out. In my half-awake, half-asleep state I can’t figure out what it could be. Is it the TV? A mobile phone’s ringtone? What the hell is that racket?

  And then it hits me. Of course. I’m not at home. I’m in Rose Cottage and that noise isn’t the TV or some weird ringtone: it’s birds squawking for real. Knowing my luck, word has got round that a real live city slicker has come to stay and every blasted mangy bird for miles around has converged on the window-ledge especially to aggravate me. The din is horrendous. How do people stand it? It’s noise pollution, that’s what it is. It’s deafening – worse than any city traffic I’ve ever heard. I’d take wailing city sirens over that – that chirruping any day.

  Rolling across the bed, I reach for my watch to see what time it is: eight forty-five a.m. I’ve slept almost twelve hours straight. I can’t believe it. Obviously the drive down really knocked me for six. I can barely remember what I did after I’d dragged my suitcases inside. From the grimy feel of my skin, I definitely didn’t take off my makeup – which I’m now regretting because I can almost hear my pores cheerily clogging up as I lie here. Maybe Claire has the right idea – if I stopped wearing makeup altogether I wouldn’t have to spend so much time every night taking it all off. It’s tempting. No one knows me down here – I could get away with it. Then again, the thought of leaving the house without a few layers of slap terrifies me. It’s something I’ve grappled with on and off for years – in my drunker moments I’ve even considered getting permanent makeup tattooed on. The only thing that stops me is my fear of needles – unless I’m out cold there’s no way anyone can touch me with one.

  Pushing myself out of bed, I make my way into the kitchen to look for coffee. I need a really strong cup to kick-start my day – otherwise it takes me for ever to get going. Not that’s there’s any major rush, I suppose – it’s not like I have a job to go to. That thought depresses me even further. How many mornings have I woken up, longing for a day off just to do nothing? Now that day has come and it’s the worst feeling in the world. I’d do anything to be back home, getting ready to troop into Hanly’s and spend the day filing. I’d gladly listen to Dom’s sexist banter all day long if it meant I could have my job back. I wouldn’t complain once – not even if Solid Mahogany rang a million times. Poor old Dermot’s bound to be struggling with her calls – he never could handle her and her high-maintenance ways.

  I rummage around the tiny kitchen for a while, looking for a percolator. The original oak floors that Claire admired so much are nicely warmed by the sunlight that’s peeking through the sash windows. Even though I scoffed at those boards when we viewed the house, I have to admit they make a pleasant change – usually I’m shivering on the porcelain tiles in the flat. Still, they’re probably a terrible dirt trap.

  I nose in every cupboard, but I still can’t spot a percolator so I flick on the kettle – instant will have to do for now. It never gives me the same boost – I may need two cups.

  I’m leaning against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, when I hear a thump at the door that makes me jump. Who can that be? I’m not expecting anyone – I don’t know a soul here. Unless … unless it’s stroppy Matilda. Maybe she had a think about what to say to make me go back to the city. She was absolutely furious when she left me – maybe she’s come back to challenge me again, demand that I go. I wouldn’t put it past her – she’s a cheeky kid, that’s for sure.

  There’s another knock, more insistent this time. If it is Matilda, she’s not going away and suddenly I’m very annoyed. That girl has no right to arrive on my doorstep, practically at the crack of dawn. I’m going to give her a piece of my mind – keying my car like that was outrageous, a criminal act. In fact, I’d be perfectly within my rights to report it to the police. Who knows what the consequences could be? Probation, maybe – even community service.

  I wrench the door open, prepared to do battle, but Edward and little Polly – looking as mutinous as ever in a navy blue school uniform – are standing there. There’s no sign of Matilda.

  ‘Hi!’ Edward smiles at me.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I say. This is awkward. Last time I saw this guy I was dissing this cottage – the one I’m now living in. I feel just a little foolish, but I try not to let it show.

  ‘We just wanted to check that you were settling in well,’ Edward says. ‘I hope you have everything you need – I left some basic provisions in the pantry for you.’

  Is he a little nervous? It seems he is. He looks as if he doesn’t know how I’ll react to him turning up on the doorstep. Like I might bite his head off. Which I suppose, to be fair, I sort of did last time we met. ‘Yes, everything’s fine, thanks,’ I say.

  I tug my T-shirt down round me. Maybe I should have pulled on my jeans before I opened the door. I slept in the top I drove here in because I was too tired to look for my pyjamas. Suddenly I feel a little self-conscious that I’m not dressed – this T-shirt is barely covering my bottom. Still, that’s not my fault – it’s not as if I’d been expecting anyone to drop by so ludicrously early, especially not my temporary landlord and his child.

  ‘Good, that’s good. Um, I’m sorry I dropped by so early,’ he says now, as though he’s reading my mind. ‘We’re just on our way to school so I thought I’d check everything was all right. I should have realized you’d be relaxing on your first morning here – that was stupid of me.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I force myself to smile. There’s no point making mortal enemies with the landlord – that’s what I’ve always told my clients. Maintaining a civil relationship is best and Edward looks friendly enough – he’s obviously decided not to hold my criticism of him or his precious Rose Cottage against me.

  ‘What’s that on your face?’ Polly pipes up. ‘It looks really weird!’

  I glance in the mirror by the door. Black streaks of mascara are round my eyes. I look a fright. ‘That’s makeup I didn’t take off last night,’ I reply. There’s no point trying to hide from this one – she’s as sharp as a tack. />
  She nods, her little face scrunched up with concentration, obviously trying to think what I remind her of. ‘You look like a … panda,’ she decides eventually.

  ‘Polly!’ her father admonishes.

  ‘That’s OK.’ I sigh. ‘She’s probably right. I was just so tired from the drive down here, I guess I fell asleep before I had a chance to clean up properly. Plus, this mascara is the long-lasting type.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Polly asks.

  ‘It means that if you put enough on, it lasts all day,’ I answer.

  ‘But doesn’t that mean it’s hard to get off?’ Polly says.

  ‘Well, yes, it does,’ I admit.

  ‘Why do you use it, then?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I reply. She has a point. This stuff is a nightmare to remove. ‘I guess I’m a sucker for advertising.’

  ‘Did you sleep in that?’ she goes on, pointing at my chest.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edward wince.

  ‘Don’t you have pyjamas?’ she asks curiously.

  ‘Yes, I do. I just haven’t unpacked yet.’

  This kid is a question a second. I can barely keep up.

  ‘My Pooh Bear ones are my favourites,’ she announces. ‘You can borrow them if you like. Matilda says they’re only for babies but she doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘She doesn’t?’ I say, trying not to laugh out loud. She is pretty cute, even if she’s very forthright in her opinions.

  ‘No, she’s naff.’

  ‘Naff?’

  ‘Yeah, naff. Naff is my favourite word.’

  ‘Is it?’

  How am I having a conversation with a six-year-old child about her favourite words? I need a coffee, fast.

  ‘Yeah, I try to use it ten times every day. That’s what Mrs Ryan told us to do with our favourite words.’

  ‘Mrs Ryan?’

  ‘Mrs Ryan is Polly’s teacher,’ Edward explains. ‘Her very long-suffering teacher.’ His cheeks are red. He’s mortified by Polly’s ramblings.

  ‘What does “long-suffering” mean?’ Polly says.

  ‘It means that she puts up with quite a lot,’ Edward replies.

  ‘Do you mean what I said about her chin?’

  ‘What did you say about it?’ I ask. This sounds interesting.

  ‘I told her she had a hairy chin.’

  Edward physically cringes.

  ‘You did?’ I giggle. I can imagine Polly speaking her mind, just like that.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ She puffs out her chest. ‘She has a chin just like a Billy Goat Gruff.’

  ‘It gets better.’ Edward rolls his eyes.

  ‘Why? What happened then?’ I ask Polly.

  ‘She came in the next day and the hair was gone, but her chin was really red. So I told her she looked like the troll. You know, the one who lived under the bridge.’

  ‘She’d waxed her chin?’ I look at Edward.

  ‘It took a long time to live down,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve told her about you already,’ Polly says to me.

  ‘You have?’ God, what has she said?

  ‘Yes, I told her I thought you were naff when I first met you, but Daddy said I had to give you a second chance because we need the money.’

  ‘Polly!’ Edward gasps. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he says. ‘I probably should have brought Polly to school before I stopped by …’

  ‘I can see your pants, you know,’ Polly interrupts. ‘They’re pretty naff too.’

  I’m wearing my oldest pair, of course I am. Are they really on show? I can’t bear to look. Edward is cringing again. Is it because of his daughter and her never-ending questions or the state of my pants? I can’t be sure.

  ‘Do you always sleep this late?’ Polly goes on.

  She’s on a roll and I can tell she’s using her opportunity to extract as much information as possible from me. Are Theresa’s twins going to be like this in years to come? How will she cope? They can’t even talk properly yet and they have her run ragged. I can only imagine what it’s going to be like when they can have a conversation. It makes my head spin just to think about it.

  ‘Polly!’ Edward says. ‘That’s enough questions. I’m sorry,’ he says to me.

  ‘That’s OK. She’s right – it is late.’

  They obviously think I’m inexcusably lazy. Usually, of course, I’d be at my desk at this hour. Not knowing why, I decide to lie, to save face. It’s one thing to admit to not removing makeup, but I don’t want them to think I have nothing better to do than laze in bed all morning when everyone else is up saving the world. Edward definitely thinks I’m a layabout. While Polly has been rabbiting on, he’s barely said a word.

  ‘Well, we’d better get going,’ he says briskly. ‘I think Polly has embarrassed me quite enough for one day – and I still have the school gate to get through.’

  I laugh at this – even I know that school gates can be dangerous places.

  ‘Actually,’ I blurt, as they turn to leave, ‘I don’t usually sleep this late. Normally I’m up at the crack of dawn, you know … to work out …’

  This is a grade-A fabrication. I never work out. The truth is, I never roll out of bed until I really have to. Still, Edward will never know I’m not a fitness fanatic. Well, not unless he catches sight of the flabby thighs I’m trying to hide with this blasted T-shirt. Why didn’t I grab something else before I answered the door? I shuffle back inside a little so he can’t see.

  ‘Really?’ Edward sounds interested. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, wishing I hadn’t opened my mouth. What on earth made me decide to fib like that? I don’t have to impress this person. What’s it to him if I lie in bed till teatime?

  ‘To keep fit?’ He goes on. ‘What sort of workout do you do?’

  ‘Um, I run,’ I say brightly. ‘I run a lot – it’s great, you know, for the mind. And the body, of course. It’s very … therapeutic.’

  God, that sounds weak. He’ll never fall for it – even Polly is sceptical. From the way she’s looking at me she knows I couldn’t run for a bus. Anyone who got a close-up of my rear could testify to that fact. Still, that’s the sort of thing that people who do exercise say, isn’t it? That it’s all very worthy and good for the mind, body and spirit?

  ‘Daddy runs every morning!’ Polly pipes up again. ‘And then you come back and make me breakfast – don’t you, Daddy?’

  ‘That’s right, Polly. Poached eggs on toast – your favourite.’

  Edward smooths Polly’s hair. There’s a tangled knotty bit at the back that her mum must have missed brushing.

  ‘Do you like eggs?’ Polly directs another question at me.

  ‘Sure, yes.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Which way?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes, which way – poached, fried or scrambled?’

  ‘Or fertilized?’ I laugh.

  Then I see Polly’s face. Shit. That was a grown-up joke. I shouldn’t have said it. ‘Um, scrambled, I think,’ I mumble. I can’t admit that I haven’t touched an egg since that time I got thrashed in an end-of-term egg fight in college – I was washing scrambled eggs out of my hair for days afterwards.

  ‘Urgh. I hate scrambled.’ Polly makes a face. ‘They make my insides go wobbly.’

  ‘They do? Oh, no.’ I make to go back inside. It’s time to end the chit-chat. I need my coffee and I need to put a halt to this awkward conversation.

  ‘So – how many do you do?’

  Edward’s not letting me go yet.

  ‘How many do I do?’ I look at him blankly. What does he mean? How many eggs do I eat at a time?

  ‘How many K do you do? On your runs?’

  His face is eager, like he actually expects me to answer him.

  ‘K?’

  ‘Kilometres,’ Polly says. ‘Don’t you know that?’

  Does he mean how far do I run every morning on my fictitious outings? His face
says he does – that’s exactly what he means. I try to think. What should I say? Twenty? That sounds like a lot, but maybe it’s not really. I decide to try it. ‘Twenty?’ I chance.

  ‘You run twenty K every day?’ Edward is incredulous. Even Polly looks stunned, as if she knows something I don’t. I’m obviously very far off the mark.

  ‘Well, not every day,’ I backtrack. ‘Just sometimes. Once a week, maybe twice.’

  ‘Wow, that’s impressive.’ He whistles. ‘You must be very fit.’

  I back in behind the door so he can’t take a closer look at me – if he does he’ll know there’s no way I could run anywhere without collapsing into a breathless heap after about two minutes. How on earth did I get myself into this? ‘Not really. To be honest, I’ve been letting things slide recently.’

  I pull the door towards me so he gets the hint and takes off, taking his cute, outspoken daughter with him. This charade has gone on long enough.

  ‘You should go running with Daddy!’ Polly says. ‘Shouldn’t she, Dad?’

  ‘Um, yes, of course …’ Edward seems unsure. ‘If you like. There are some excellent tow-paths round the village – I could show you.’

  Oh, no. I can’t go jogging with him – he’d suss me out in five minutes flat. ‘Um, I’m not sure,’ I mutter. This is a nightmare.

  ‘Of course not. I’m sorry,’ he says quickly, his expression changing when he sees the reluctance in my face.

  ‘No, it’s not that …’ I start. Now I feel bad. I didn’t mean to insult him – I just need to get out of this mortifying situation.

  Polly is looking from him to me, bemused. What’s going on here? her face says. Are all grown-ups as mad as these two?

  ‘Honestly, forget it.’ He’s brisk now, taking Polly by the hand and turning towards the gate. ‘I’ll see you after lunch – you can start with the ponies then.’

  Eh? Start with the ponies? I’d almost forgotten that part. Claire was getting a reduction in her rent because she’d agreed to work for free. I don’t want to hold up that side of the bargain. I’m not a horsy person. I’m not an animal person full stop. As far as I can see, they’re all smelly, slobbery inconveniences. I wouldn’t be any good at grooming or whatever it is Claire agreed to do. Her poodle Charlie almost took my fingers off once when I tried to pet him – that had been right before he’d pooped in her Balenciaga handbag. I might even have scared the poor mutt into doing it. He seemed terrified by me. Then again, he did have some serious issues – he used to chase his tail far more than could ever be considered normal.