“I don’t want to be one of them,” I grumble. “They’re annoying.”
Not her.
She’s … enchanting.
And that’s all the more reason for me to return to my castle and never speak to another human again. But it seems I can’t host this gods-forsaken ball without one.
“You don’t thinkI’mannoying, my lord.”
“My opinion of you has lessened since you decided to put me through this ordeal.”
“If there were vampires who did this kind of work, I’d have hired one.” Reginald yanks on the wheel, sending me sliding over the bench seat. “The organiser arrives tomorrow, and I think you’re ready. I’m sure you’ll be able to resist one human. I’ve made up their room in the tower, so you shouldn’t smell them during your slumber, and I’ll be ever at your side if you need me.”
Yes, the organiser. Because Reginald is determined to test my immortal patience, he decided that preparing for my mother’s visit was beyond even his capabilities, and he hired a human to help us tidy my things and arrange the castle while Gideon – my only friend and the darling of the local vampire community – plans the actual event. Reginald says it will look good to our guests of honour if I’m seen interacting with a human.
I don’t care what my guests think. I don’t want a human in my castle. I don’t want to take these trips into the village to “train” myself not to devour their stupid faces.
And most of all, I don’t want a ballroom filled with snooty vampires quaffing my finest blood and acting like they’re so fancy that theircoffins don’t rot.
But what I want is of no concern when Callista Valerian is involved.
As long as the organiser doesn’t smell like that woman at the pub, I will endure their presence. And the sooner they leave my castle and my mother hosts her ridiculous ball, the sooner things can go back to the way they’ve been for five hundred years – quiet and perfect.
CHAPTER FOUR
WINNIE
Mum: Winifred, I still haven’t heard from you! You must be very busy with that job of yours. I left those sundresses in the hall to give to you next time you visit, along with a beautiful wooden rocking horse. I saw it in the charity shop window and I think it’s just perfect for when you have kids. You will be having kids, won’t you? You only have so many years before your eggs are no longer viable. If you had the sundresses with you, you might be pregnant already.
Ilie on the bed in my creaky pub room (Lilac lied – the pillows have more lumps than an elephant with chickenpox), staring at the crooked ceiling beams, contemplating the mess that is my life and wondering if the hot guy from the bar ever really existed, until sunlight streams through the flimsy net curtains.
Every time I remember that needy, wretched sound I made, my face flares with shame. I thought that when I moved out of Mum’s house and got my life together, I’d never feel shame like this again. But ever since Patrick left me, it’s been living beneath my skin, flaring up whenever I dare to believe that I’mworthy of good things.
Ofcoursea guy like that wouldn’t be interested in me. Ofcoursehe was just being kind. OfcourseI moaned like a pornstar in a pub full of people. No wonder he ran off into the night.
I’m amess.
You have to get your shit together, Winnie. You’re meeting the new client today, and they mustn’t know you’re an abject failure at life.
When I hear staff wandering around downstairs, I drag my arse out of bed and into the shower. I make liberal use of the surprisingly-fancy bottles of shampoo and body lotion from a local company called Zen and Tonic, and wrap myself in fluffy towels like an Egyptian mummy. Today is a new day, and I’m a new Winnie. I’m out of London, and I’m off to meet a new client who will think I’m absolutely wonderful, and no one will remember me as the girl who caused a scene in the pub.
I throw open my suitcase, admiring the neat rows of packing cubes, each one containing the components of a different colour-coordinated outfit. Yesterday’s carefully chosen “impress the new client” outfit is hanging dripping wet from the curtain rail, but lucky for me, I’m Winnie Preston and I’m always prepared for any eventuality.
I pull out my backup “impress the new client” outfit – a pair of Max&Co purple tailored trousers and matching jacket, a pale grey blouse, and a scarf covered in bright squares from a Mondrian exhibit Patrick took me to at the Tate Modern. I swipe on some makeup, fluff my blonde hair, and smile at myself in the mirror.
This is why Faye wants you to do the jobs. Because you have a way with the clients. The Winnie Wins System will triumph once again.
I blow myself a kiss and head downstairs. Lilac is nowhere to be seen, but an older lady named Emma is setting tables in the restaurant and making coffee for the handful of customers demolishing their full English breakfasts. She offers to store my suitcase for the day, and since I’m not due to be collected from the station until this evening, I gratefully accept.
After the barrel of alcohol I consumed last night to obliterate my shame, the thought of a plate of greasy sausage andbaked beans makes me feel as though life is still worth living, so I scarf down a big breakfast before setting out to explore the village.
Yesterday’s rain has eased back to grey skies and on-again, off-again drizzle. I wander around the shops that circle the village green and discover that Zen and Tonic has a whole store filled with cute soaps and beauty elixirs, as well as a schedule of weekly yoga classes. I buy a mountain of delicious-smelling things with spurious health claims from a fresh-faced blonde named Beth who forces me to drink a free sample of dirt-flavoured tea while giving me a sixteen-minute lecture about the detoxifying powers of dandelions.
Buoyed by my toxin-clearing purchases, I decide to test the dandelion tea’s efficacy with a fresh date scone slathered in butter, jam and clotted cream from a bakery called Glazed and Confused on the corner. I wander around the flower-lined churchyard, sucking in lungfuls of fresh, scented, un-smoggy air.
I may have made a silly un-Winnie-like mistake coming to Argleton a day early, but honestly, I’m not sad about it. Every street I walked down in my London neighbourhood reminded me of Patrick or Claire, and Mum’s been driving me crazy, trying to convince me to move back in after I lost the flat. This job is exactly what I needed.
Besides, it’s hardly going to take six weeks. Our clients always think their mess is worse than it actually is. My last London job was just three days standing in a rich housewife’s state-of-the-art scullery, helping her put labels on bamboo containers of quinoa and activated charcoal. When you’re rich enough to hire a professional organiser, you don’t have the kind of life that gets messy. But this client paid a huge bonus in advance, and, as Faye pointed out, I have nowhere else to go.
