‘Hello, my old nemesis.’
I patted the trunk of the tree outside Ms M. Moore’s house, having arrived promptly at the appointed time. My hair was washed, my shoes were clean and my frayed temper somewhat soothed. It took an entire tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a straight hour of watching eyeliner hacks on TikTok in the hot tub, but my rage was almost all gone.
At least the gates were open this time; not all the way open, but just wide enough for me to squeeze through with her packages, a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine. I came prepared, partly because Gran raised me never to show up to anyone’s house empty-handed, but also because I was half-expecting her to snatch the packages out my arms with a stick then send me on my way and if she did, I was going home, getting back in the hot tub and drinking the entire bottle of wine while stuffing the chocolates straight down my gullet.
There was no doorbell on the front door, just an old-fashioned brass doorknocker in true murder house-style. So far, so ominous. Jiggling the tote bag on my shoulder, I knocked and I waited. The last time I was here, there wasn’t much time to enjoy the gardens, what with climbing a tree and running for the gate and whatnot, but today I had a moment to take it all in. The house was surrounded by beautifully manicured green lawns and rose bushes so overloaded with blooms, if their scent hadn’t been so overwhelming, I might have thought they were fake. Right in front of the house, a circular gravel driveway curved around a stone fountain, ready for a vintage Rolls-Royce or some other classic car to roll up with some satin-clad 1940s Hollywood starlet spilling out the back into the arms of a tall, handsome, possibly gay leading man she was contractually obliged to be seen with three times a week.
While I was busy daydreaming about the perils of the studio system, the front door to the house opened and in the dim light I saw the silhouette of its presumed owner loom into sight.
‘Hello,’ I said when she did not move or speak. ‘I’m Phoebe Chapman? I came yesterday? You asked me to bring your parcels back today?’
‘Yes, I recall,’ she replied. ‘I’m old, not an imbecile.’
‘Noted.’ My lips inched upwards in an awkward smile. ‘Would you like me to leave them here or should I bring them in?’
‘You may bring them inside,’ the woman replied, moving back through the shadows of the entryway. ‘Follow me.’
The outside of the house was impressive but the inside was magnificent. Two symmetrical, sweeping staircases filled the entrance hall and a crystal chandelier bigger than my Renault Clio hung from the ceiling. With the windows all shuttered, only the narrowest beams of light were able to slice through the musty air, occasionally catching a crystal tear drop and sending a burst of rainbows dancing across the wall. It was beautiful.
In front of us were three archways, each presenting a different path into darkness.
‘This way,’ the woman said, choosing the one off to the right, and for reasons I truly did not understand, I trotted right off after her. A very long, very quiet minute later, my host stopped at the end of the hall and opened a door, the sudden burst of light inside dazzling me.
‘Come in if you’re coming in. And put the boxes on the table.’
‘Sorry, yes, thank you,’ I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut until they adjusted. ‘Couldn’t see for a second there.’
‘And you’re going to apologize and thank me for blinding you?’ I heard a thrilled cackle fill the air. ‘As though I didn’t already know you were British.’
Blinking, I trod carefully until I could see again. And what a sight it was to see. The deep bottle-green wallpaper that looked like silk, the glossy mahogany wood of the furniture, the softly glowing brass accents and plush velvet. French doors opened on to the garden at the back of the house, the wine-coloured drapes that hung on either side of them loosely restrained by matching swags. It was a shock to see a flatscreentelevision mounted to the wall on one side of the room; anything other than a gramophone felt like an affront. It was like stepping back in time.
‘Sit,’ the woman instructed.
Like a well-trained dog, I plopped down on the closest seat, resting my tote bag on the tops of my feet, afraid to let such common fabric touch anything in this house. My host eased herself into the chair opposite, affording me my first proper look at her, and I couldn’t stop myself from staring. She was old but how old was impossible to say. Her skin was perfectly even and fair, lined with evidence of a life well lived, but her fine bone structure was still there: high cheekbones, long nose, neat chin. Her hair was silver and carefully set, and her bright blue eyes looked sharp enough to cut through steel.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t you seen a faded movie star before?’
‘I, um, no, you’re not, I mean—’ I started before giving up. I didn’t know what to say. Whatever else she might be, I was certain I’d never seen anyone quite so beautiful.
‘Myrna Moore.’ She reached one arm across the table, swathed in black silk, and held out her slender hand for me to shake or kiss, I wasn’t sure which. ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you but I’m too old to lie.’
‘I’ll just give you your packages and be off,’ I said, speaking into my chest as I dug around in the tote bag. ‘No problem.’
‘If I wanted you to leave, I wouldn’t have asked you in.’ Her voice was deep and raspy but there was a warmth to it that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. I could have listened to her read theinstruction manual for my air fryer and not get bored. Which reminded me, I really should get round to reading the instruction manual for my air fryer.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Phoebe,’ I replied. It felt like a confession. ‘Phoebe Chapman.’
Myrna Moore sat back in her chair, one finger lightly pressed against her chin. ‘It used to be that I knew everyone around here but I’m not familiar with any Chapmans. You said you’ve been getting my mail?’
I nodded and handed over my offering of a box of chocolates. Sod it, I was keeping the wine.
‘My sister lives at 4001, Suzanne Chapman? Tall, blonde, British? Swears a lot?’
She reached for a gold pendant, flat and round, that hung around her neck and ran it back and forth along its rope-like chain. Every possible part of her was bejewelled; she had gems in her ears and every other finger was decked in diamonds and emeralds and rubies, stacked all the way up to her knuckles.
‘The white villa on the crest of the hill? I didn’t know Myrtle and Roy had moved.’
