Page 37 of How To Plot a Payback

His head ducks a little as he rushes on, “The Masters Family Christmas. But it’s a very large and established group, and believe me, a pretzel can’t hold a candle to star-shaped pastries filled with spiced mincemeat.” Abruptly, he stops. Looks at the pretzels. “Is there turmeric in these?”

“Why, yes,” the caterer says, startled. “You’re the first to ever guess.” And then, suddenly, this silent mouse of a woman opens up as if he’s spoken the secret password. “I mix 500 grams of spelt flour with two teaspoons of turmeric—”

“Unbelievable. Excuse me,” he interrupts in a guttural tone. Then, checking his watch, he makes a mad dash for the door.

Chapter 5

Finn

The woman caused me to break out in hives.

More specifically, Lavender Rhodes, with her absolutely ridiculous need to make other people try food before she opens up to them about incredibly important things relating to the success or failure of their jobs, made me break out in hives.

And quite literally caused me to run out of my first day of work to the nearest clinic directly in the middle of a very big and very unplanned shift in the plot of Neighbors.

Broken shoelace flapping.

“You know, you really should start asking before you sample treats.” Mrs. Teaberry tsks as she looks at my face. It’s also the sound she makes when she pulls open a can of cat food, however, and at least eight emerald-green eyes pop out from various spots in her living room.

“It was a pretzel. Who puts turmeric in pretzels?”

She tsks again, and this time at least three cats jump onto the floral couch. “And I suppose you’d open the door to a burglar and defend yourself by saying, ‘He knocked. How was I supposed to not open the door when he knocked?’”

Still shaking her head, she beckons me to the kitchen. “C’mon, Finnyboy. I’m sure I have some Benadryl somewhere.”

“Doctor said I’m capped. I’ve been at the emergency clinic all afternoon.”

“Pssh, what do they know? A bunch of teenagers who can Google some words. I’ll take care of you.”

The woman currently trying to become my drug dealer is my neighbor. Eighty-year-old Mr. Teaberry is around, too, though despite everyone’s urgings, he still spends weekdays trucking the western states before hitching back home Thursdays for the weekend. On my very first day at the flat, he slipped me a twenty-dollar bill and asked me to keep a lookout for Mrs. Teaberry on the days he was gone. I didn’t keep the twenty, of course, but I did keep my word.

Years later, here we are.

Me with a swelling face. She with her spatula pushing cats off the kitchen counter.

I learned early on in my time as a resident of Flat 4, Casa Laguna, that the definition of “looking out” for someone was flexible, and that while I had been initially awkward and bumbling in my efforts to check after her, she was right at home with the notion of caring for me. Letting her do so, mostly in the form of fretting over my state of singleness while simultaneously trying to overmedicate me anytime I so much as sneezed, seemed to be the ticket.

“I suppose you’ll be staying for supper,” she says.

This is the way she invites me to dinner.

It’s never really an invitation, always spoken like a mild inconvenience, but if I ever refuse, she’ll go on and on about it for days. “No notice, though. And I’m not sure if I have anything good left in the cabinets . . .”

“How about we order in?” I say. I catch a glimpse of myself in the antique gold mirror on the living room wall opposite and wince. I look like a gang got hold of me in the alleyway. “There’s a new Chinese place across the street.”

“What are you trying to say, Finn?” She leans in to survey me. “You don’t like my cooking?”

I open my mouth to reply that yes, of course I like her cooking, when she waves me away and sticks her head back in the cabinets. “You’re just delirious from the attempted poisoning. Chicken and rice it is.”

“I like the little peas,” I add.

“Fine. Chicken and rice and little peas. Just ’cause you look so pathetic.”

I nudge two tabbies off my spot on the floral couch and sit down, then drop my computer bag beside it. The bag has several teeth marks from those dogs that Lavender Rhodes brought in. It was a present from my brother for my twenty-fifth birthday. A sort of hurrah gift that spoke the unspoken words: he finally supported my life’s decision. He never fully grasped why I left home and the family to pursue writing abroad. Well, back then it was acting, but still. Hollywood in general. Sometimes, especially lately with the sting of each photo of my family growing and carrying on life without me, I understand why.

As I take a look around, I get a strong feeling of being watched. I turn my head towards the telly in the corner. A black cat lounges there, beside a potted houseplant.

I squint at it; well, with the one good eye that can currently squint. The other has sealed shut.