Best Served Cold, page 1
BEST SERVED COLD
HILLY BARMBY
This edition produced in Great Britain in 2023
by Hobeck Books Limited, 24 Brookside Business Park, Stone, Staffordshire ST15 0RZ
www.hobeck.net
Copyright © Hilly Barmby 2023
This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Hilly Barmby has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-915-817-26-6 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-915-817-25-9 (ebook)
Cover design by Jayne Mapp Design
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Contents
Are you a thriller seeker?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Hobeck Books – the home of great stories
Also by Hilly Barmby
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To my mum and dad (who have now both passed on), as they never wanted me to let go of my dreams and told me to do whatever I wanted with my life.
I did, but I wish they were here to see it.
And, to all the dogs who like avocados.
Chapter One
SATURDAY, 14 NOVEMBER – THE LAUNCH
It may be my eighth book launch, yet a cocktail of anxiety and exhilaration still makes me queasy. The launch is in my local Brighton Just One More Chapter bookstore at three this afternoon. Which gives me time to walk along the beachfront, padding over the pebbles in my bare feet, swinging my high heels by my side and listening to the sibilant waves sloshing up the shingle. The sea is gunmetal grey and blends seamlessly with the sky. As it’s mid-November, the air is chilled but fresh.
Breathe, now. Breathe. I should try to get a handle on such emotions, except it gets to me every time. My feet numb, I sit on the steps leading up to the promenade and slip into my shoes. It takes a moment, and then I get chronic pins and needles. Ouch and double ouch! Brushing the sand from my coat, I can tell the salt air has made my face and hair sticky. I hope no one notices.
The bouquet arrived this morning. Twelve long-stemmed red roses. A pretty card tucked into the leafy-green foliage, but nothing on it except a kiss. They’ve arrived early morning for every book launch, and I still have no idea who is sending them to me. At first, it was cute. A secret admirer? A fairy-tale fan? But in the dark of the night, the kiss changes to X marks the spot. It’s not cute anymore and I try not to be surly as I take them. Who the hell is it? Own up or ship out!
I walk back up towards the bookstore, and when I push through the glass door into the shop, I spot the table with my books placed on it. The usual stand of best-sellers has been shunted to a different position, so the first thing anyone will see when entering after three will be me, sitting at my table, pen raised in anticipation. Well, that’s the crux, isn’t it? Will anyone come to see (and hopefully buy) the latest Lily Maye book? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a J. K. Rowling, but I do have a hardcore group of fans. I’m an illustrator, and the book I will be signing is a compilation of fairy tales: ten Grimm and ten Hans Christian Andersen. These are not the Disney versions. Most people don’t realise the original stories were too dark and scary for kids. Thinking about it, they are pretty dark and scary for adults too!
Three chairs are tucked behind the table. One for me, one for Mary, my publisher, and one for Mr Hudson, an academic researcher in folklore, here to tell us of the origins of the fairy tales in my book. About thirty fold-up chairs are placed in front of us, and I wonder if they will be filled.
By five past three, people are milling about, getting seated and chatting in low voices. More are coming in, looking a little guilty for being five minutes late. So very English! Hopefully, this means today will not be a washout, as I sometimes fear. These people are often enthusiasts, and some are grannies searching for unique Christmas presents for the grandkids. Illustrated books with full-colour plates are not cheap, and I’m always thankful I get a few free copies to give to my nearest and dearest. Otherwise, I probably couldn’t afford it all.
Mary clears her throat. That is the signal for everyone to stop. She always begins by singing the praises of the book’s quality and saying how brilliant my illustrations are. Whoop-whoop! Mr Hudson takes over after a while. I’m scanning the room, and the audience seems enthralled, listening intently as he dissects the provenance of the original tales.
‘Fairy tales are much older than previously thought,’ he says. His voice is deep and resonant, booming across the space. I spot a few souls nodding and smiling.
‘Stories such as “Beauty and the Beast” and “Rumpelstiltskin” can be traced back thousands of years to prehistoric times, with one tale originating from the bronze age. While these types of stories were first written down in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the researchers found they originated significantly earlier. Both tales can be securely traced back to the emergence of the major western Indo-European subfamilies as distinct lineages between 2,500 and 6,000 years ago.’
There are a few oohs and aahs at this point. Even though I know all this stuff, it is still an incredible fact that most people are not aware of. I suspect many believe the tales exist only as Disney animations, with a few musical numbers thrown in.
Then I see a woman tucked at the back in the corner. She’s hidden by others in bulky coats and the odd bobble hat they haven’t taken off. Leaning forward, her face becomes clearer. It’s like I’ve been jabbed with a cattle prod. I feel a snap of recognition as I look at her, although I can’t place her. What the hell? Why is my hair standing on end? The voice next to me is a burble of sounds. It feels as if I am underwater in a fast-flowing river. I need my ears to pop. A hard nudge in my ribs brings me back. Mr Hudson has stopped talking, and Mary gives me a sharp look.
‘Lily, dear?’ She is in her late fifties, although exceedingly well turned out. Smart, slim, wearing modern glasses and a designer suit. Her mind is as sharp as the look she is giving me. What did I miss? ‘So, where do you get your inspiration from?’ Even her teeth look sharp. I realise we are at the question part of the session. I must have zoned out. Glancing about, I catch an enquiring look from a woman in the front row. I focus on her.
‘I’ve always had a rich imagination,’ I start. ‘Painting from nature seemed so instinctive to me, and over the years, I’ve combined that love with painting what’s not seen, the wild and the fey.’ The woman at the back of the room shifts position, and I can see her more clearly. Red-gold hair. There is another stab of recognition, and my words stumble, although I pick up again. ‘I use multi-media, so in a way, a lot of my work has to evolve as I go along.’
‘So, are you saying,’ says another voice from somewhere in the middle, ‘you don’t work out what you want beforehand? You create a painting as you go along?’
‘That’s a good question.’ I think for a moment. Every launch has a different set of queries. ‘I have a pencil sketch that I work into, and usually I overlay some colours on it, but mostly I get going on it, starting with watercolours and then building up from there.’
There are more questions, and when no more hands are raised, Mary says, ‘Right. Anyone who would like a signed copy, please line up here. Can you all be aware Lily doesn’t have time to write an essay for you all, so can you try to keep any inscription brief? Thanks.’ Laughter ripples around the room, though Mary isn’t joking. She never jokes. You wouldn’t believe what people want you to write as their dedication to someone. Downright scary, sometimes.
I smile as expected at each person who stands with the book outstretched for that pretty little signature I had to practise getting just right. I know people are shy, and this is when they ask their questions, so the bodies in front of me dwindle at a snail’s pace until there’s only one woman left. My arm is aching, and I long to set the pen down and have a cup of coffee. I look up. It’s
‘Hi,’ she breathes. Her voice is husky. ‘I can’t believe I’m here and getting a signed copy of your new book. I’ve been a fan of your work for years. I have all your books.’
‘That’s really nice to know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. Have we met before? You look familiar.’
There’s a long pause, and her lovely face freezes for a nano-second. ‘I have copies of all your previous books. You’ve signed every one of them. So, yeah. We have kind of met before.’
A wave of embarrassment washes over me. That must be it. What a jerk I am, yet that reaction to her still seems over the top. ‘I’m so sorry. Of course. Sometimes I get so nervous I don’t see what’s in front of me, or in this case, who. I didn’t mean to be rude or anything.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure it must be quite stressful, and how can you be expected to remember everyone who is clamouring for a book? We must be a blur of faces, hands and blank pages.’
‘I should, especially someone who has all of my books.’
‘You are so talented.’ Her smile takes a moment to reach her eyes. ‘I was brought up on such tales from a little kid. Your illustrations capture everything I saw in my imagination. I suppose you could say I’m your number one fan—’
She must have seen my face fall and laughs. ‘I didn’t mean in a deranged Annie Wilkes sort of way.’ She grins at me. ‘I’m presuming you have read Stephen King’s Misery, or that would be meaningless.’
‘Yeah, I’ve read it. A long time ago, though “number one fan” definitely has different connotations since that book.’
‘Clearly, and I didn’t mean to scare you, simply show you my appreciation.’ She plays with the front cover of the book laid in front of her, although she doesn’t open it. I’m about to inquire if she’s ever sent me roses when she asks, ‘So, Grimm and Andersen. Which do you prefer?’
‘Andersen is lighter, I suppose you could say frothier, but I adore the Grimm tales. So dark and sometimes rather appalling, as Mr Hudson pointed out! Not that you’ll find them in this book, I might add. These are the tamer versions, though the originals are something else.’
‘Like what, for instance?’
I hesitate as these stories certainly are grim. ‘Do you really want to know, as most of them are truly ghastly?’
‘Now, how can I refuse that? I’m intrigued, so please go on.’
‘Okay.’ I pause again. Should I be saying this? Mary said to keep the interactions short, but she appears to be the last person waiting in line, so I plough on. ‘In the original “Sleeping Beauty”, after her father lays her out, she is raped by a king, who is angry his endeavour to wake her failed. She bears two kids, one of whom saves her. In the meantime, this king has married someone else, and when he hears of the miraculous awakening of his “one true love”, he burns his actual wife alive, so he is unhindered in his quest to get to the princess.’ I raise an eyebrow at her. ‘Nice, eh?’
She seems pretty shocked. ‘Yes, you’re right. Ghastly. I didn’t realise they were quite that bad! Mind you, my favourite is “The Little Goose Girl”, especially the part when the false princess describes her own fate. You must know this one?’ But now there’s another look on her face, as if she is staring into my soul, and that comment is personal. Then her expression changes, and she’s smiling gaily at me again.
I nod. ‘Of course. She says a false princess should be put naked in a barrel with nails punched through from the outside and then dragged along by two white horses from street to street until she is dead.’
‘I like the fact the false princess gets her comeuppance. It’s only right, after all.’ Once more, by the way she is staring at me, I feel her words are somehow personal, but I have no idea why. Rolling her eyes, she says, ‘I was never into the soppy Disney stories. I prefer these, as they are deep down and dirty.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking earlier.’
‘Then we are on the same page…’ She laughs, though there’s a strange undercurrent to the sound that I can’t quite put my finger on. I see movement behind her. An elderly lady has cleared her throat and is peering past this woman at me.
‘I’m so sorry, someone is waiting behind you. Would you like a special inscription or just the scrawl?’ I am aware that she is staring intently at me. It’s as though her eyes are lit from behind, glowing emeralds. This woman is unsettling me, and I want her to go.
‘Oh, please can you put, “For Mama Anna and baby Lara. Always in our thoughts.” That would be great.’
I find that a bit unnerving, as it’s not the usual request. It sounds too… mortal. As if Mama Anna and baby Lara are… No, don’t go there.
‘And do you want me to put your name, too?’ I can see my hand shaking slightly. I put it down to a long afternoon, and it has nothing to do with this ephemeral woman in front of me.
She pauses. ‘No, only what I said.’ I write and then wait a moment to allow the ink to dry.
‘There we go,’ I say as I hand it to her. I’m not sure what else to say.
‘Thanks. I look forward to the next one.’ Her voice is soft as she steps away.
‘I will remember you, don’t worry,’ I call at her receding back.
‘Oh,’ and it’s a murmur now, ‘I think you can count on that.’
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
As the woman behind her pushes forward, I glimpse her hugging the book, bowed over it as she slips out of the door. My head feels like a snow globe that has just been shaken, full of glittery flakes. That was plain weird.
The elderly lady wants an inscription for Joshua. Standard stuff, and thank goodness for that!
‘She was a bit odd, wasn’t she?’ The woman nods over her shoulder. ‘I wonder who she was talking about?’
‘I wondered, too, but I suppose it’s not our business.’ I must have unintentionally come across as curt, as the old lady huffs. I smile up at her. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you,’ she says with a rigid smile as she takes the book.
I’m glad we are nearing the end of this session, as my neck is aching, and I’m beginning to get a fatigue headache. At five-thirty, we start to clear up. Mr Hudson is chatting animatedly with an elderly lady by the counter, and Mary is bustling about, whistling cheerfully. That’s a good sign the launch has been a great success. If not, smoke and fire would be razing this bookstore to the ground.
Mary does a little excited wave. ‘I’ve checked the numbers online, and you’re doing well.’
‘Brilliant!’
Hallelujah for that!
Chapter Two
ALICE
The evening light is rather glowering as my best mate Alice comes to drag me back out into the real world. Everyone should have a friend like Alice; someone quirky, who isn’t one to ‘toe the line’ and keeps me on my toes.
‘Whoa, babe!’ she calls as she heads up to the main doors. ‘It’s right bloody cold.’ She blows on her fingertips.
I stare up into the sky, billowing with pewter-tipped clouds, as I slide into my coat and sling my bag over my shoulder. Maybe it will snow? Now that would be a magical end to an afternoon of spells and enchantments. And peculiar fey women.
‘Thank God you’re here.’ I motion behind me. ‘I think I got writer’s cramp in there. Mary always tells people not to ask for too much, but I still get the ones with an inscription at least a page long!’ I grin at her. ‘I know. Moan, moan, moan.’
