He goes pink at the ears again. I chuckle. ‘See you later,’ I say more kindly. ‘I enjoyed us doing “it”.’
He waves me off with a very bigI’ve just had a great deal of sexgrin on his sleep-crumpled face.
Bless.
* * *
I hurry back into the lobby and up the stairs. Why are there so many stairs? The muscles in my thighs burn with each step.
‘Ow. Ow. Ow … Ow,’ I hiss to myself as I make my way up. Must do a warm-up next time I intend to make lurve for an entire night.
Ow.
God, I’m so late.
At the sound of the door opening, Peach comes running out of the kitchen and into the hallway of doom, a pretty floral saucer in her hand. ‘Where have you been?’ she whispers, sidestepping an old KitchenAid, her eyes wide with apprehension. ‘We thought you’d left! Mrs Beam’s been very upset.’
‘Oh sorry. I, er, I just went for a … early morning run.’
‘A three-hour run?’
‘I like to run.’ I shrug a shoulder casually. ‘Anyway, Mr Belding is still here, and all of my stuff. I wouldn’t have left them behind!’ I hop over a cardboard box full of brightly coloured poster paints.
Peach purses her plump lips, a small frown gathering at the top of her freckle-covered nose. ‘Be careful not to trip over again coming through here. Mrs Beam is having her meeting in the drawing room with the lady from the publisher. I don’t think it’s going well at all and disturbing them might make it worse.’
Drawing room? What is this, the olden times?
‘Why isn’t it going well?’
Peach’s eyes flicker towards the ‘drawing-room’ door. ‘I’ve only popped in and out with tea a few times but, from what I gather, the publishersaren’there to make an offer to reprint Matilda’s books at all, they’re here to tell her that they’re absolutelynotinterested in republishing her books and that she should stop sending them letters about it. It seems they only sent someone in person out of respect for their history with her.’
‘Oh, that sucks.’ I feel a spike of sympathy. Publisher rejection. Grandma and I have that in common.
‘It is an awful shame,’ Peachy squeaks, fiddling with the end of her plait. ‘Lord knows what we’re gonna do now.’
‘Something will come up, I’m sure. It always does.’ I pat Peachy’s arm briskly. ‘As for disturbing them, don’t worry about that. I’m a pro at this hallway now. Check it out.’ I twist sideways in order to angle myself past a dismantled pewter bedstead and before I’ve even taken one step, some sticky-out part of my body nudges a wonky table, off the top of which a bowling ball comes rolling, dropping onto the floor with an almighty thud.
‘Fuuuck,’ I hiss.
Peach puts a palm to her cheek. ‘Oh mah goodness.’
The drawing-room door immediately swings open and out glides Grandma, wearing a sage-green twin set and pale gold scarf-slash-shawl. She looks so relieved to see me, overwhelmingly so, until her eyes drop downwards and she spots the hot pink bra dangling from my wrist. Then her gaze travels slowly back upwards to what I suspect is the hairstyle of someone who has blatantly just been mega-shagged. She presses the back of her hand to her forehead.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ she says beseechingly. ‘I thought … I thought—’
‘Sorry! I was just out, you know, running.’
‘Running? Running away? Runningwhere?’
‘Just … around. I like to run.’
She gives me the same worried look she was giving me yesterday. I cross my arms with a prickle of annoyance. And then, as if things couldn’t get any more ridiculous, a head pops up from behind Grandma’s shoulder. It’s a familiar head with beautifully highlighted hair and a hugely impressed, dazzling grin.
‘Jessica Beam? How wonderful! What a fabulous, abstract idea to use a bra as a bracelet. You’re so creative!’
What the hell is Valentina Smith doing at Grandma’s house?
