Oddly Enough, page 12
“Made it yourself, did you, Mrs A?” she asked, making a note on her clipboard.
“Of course, Deidre,” Mrs A said stiffly. “What a question!”
Deidre examined the commercial-sized tin, and said, “What is it?”
“A … a pie. A savoury pie.”
A ripple of laughter ran across the observers, and Mrs A flushed. Deidre sighed. “What type of savoury pie, Mrs A?”
“Oh. Oh, of course. I … ah … Well. I seem to have forgotten.” The laughter was louder this time.
“You seem to have forgotten?” Deidre said, and the minor celebrity talked over her.
“It looks perfectly wonderful, Mrs A. I’m not surprised you forgot – long old day, eh?” He grabbed the knife from the board and stabbed at the pie, the crust flaking and splitting generously. Mrs A gave Deidre a self-satisfied sort of smile, then turned back to the minor celebrity.
“Can I help you with that?” she breathed.
“Well, actually,” he said, jiggling the knife and frowning. “I’m not sure. Are there bones in here?”
“Bones? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s just that the knife seems to be stuck.” He tugged it out, the crust pulling with it a little, then settling back.
Deidre took the knife off him. “Let me see.” She jabbed it into the pie, and it sliced though the crust effortlessly. “I don’t see— oh. Wait.” The knife had caught on something hard, and she twisted it irritably. “Mrs A, have you left bones in here?”
“Oh. Well. Now you mention it, I was using this very experimental recipe book by a rather wonderful American chef. You won’t have heard of him—”
“It’s a pie, Mrs A. A pie does not have bones in it. Not even an experimental pie.”
“Well, you would say that …” she trailed off as Deidre pulled a wedge of pie up and out, bleeding thick dark gravy and chunks of tender meat, and … something else. The something else rattled as it hit the plate, a distinctly un-bone-like sound. Mrs A leaned forward, frowning, as Dierdre poked it with the knife, teasing it out of the pie. No one spoke, and the chair of the Women’s Institute hooked the offending object, lifting it aloft so it hung between them, dripping gravy.
“Is this a joke?” she demanded, and Mrs A made some small noise that could have been a half-swallowed scream.
They were leaning against the counters, prep done, eating pasta and drinking pint glasses of what they all would have sworn was straight lemonade when Mrs A came pounding into the kitchen and thrust the pie at Simone, her face pale. The dog collar – rather less pink and missing some diamantes – rested on top of it, some ill-thought-out crown.
“What have you done?” she hissed, her eyes tight little dots of fury. “What did you do?”
Simone gave her a confused look and set her bowl down, taking the pie from her. She peered at the collar. “What’s this, then?”
“You know what this is! You made it!”
Zack picked the dog collar up and examined it with some wonder. “Holy hell, Simone.”
“Yeah. Don’t know how that happened.” Simone teased a piece of meat out of the pie and popped it in her mouth, chewing with relish. “Probably shouldn’t really eat it. Some of those stones are probably loose in there.”
Albert leaned over, stabbed a piece of meat on his fork and ate it, grunting in approval.
Zack shrugged, took the pie from Simone, helped himself then held it out to Freddy. “Seems a shame to waste it.”
“I really do apologise,” Simone said to Mrs A, who was watching the pie being passed around with staring eyes, the front of her dress twisted in one hand. “I don’t know how the collar got in there.”
“You …” the woman whispered.
“This is really good,” Freddy said, then winced. “I think I got a diamond.”
Albert huffed laughter and took a swallow from his pint.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mrs A asked, in that same breathy whisper. She backed toward the door. “There’s something wrong with all of you.” She hovered at the threshold, wavering, then added, “And you’re all fired!” It came out as a reedy sort of scream, and she hurried away, almost running.
“Really?” Freddy said uncertainly. “Like, now?”
“Nah. Get your apron on,” Simone said. “Service as usual.”
Zack rubbed the back of his head and looked at the dog collar. “So how exactly did it get in there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
The head chef swanned in with a flush in his cheeks from gin tasting at the fête, and Simone handed him her notice, effective immediately. She’d been carrying the letter around since the first week, figuring it’d come to it sooner rather than later. And while she might have been able to put up with doggy dinners a little longer, wearing the by-products of a doggy dinner was going a bit far.
The head chef blustered a little and swore a lot, and she pointed out that if he gave her a bad reference, she had the numbers of three waitresses who had quit because he felt their duties should extend beyond serving diners. She also suggested he get his baby-soft hands used to slinging pans rather quickly, as they had a full house tonight. Zack, Albert and Freddy hid their grins and kept their eyes on their plates, and as she walked out Zack mimed call me. She nodded – she would. Probably when she needed a good sous-chef. She headed for her car with the shouts of the head chef ringing across the car park like the shrieks of an angry bird. Yeah, she was done with this. The next kitchen was going to be her kitchen.
She opened her car door and looked at the little dog. “Off you go. Go find Mrs A.”
The dog stared at her with his bulging eyes, wagging his tail so hard it looked like he was going to fall over.
“Come on. I have a cat that’ll eat you alive. Out.”
Fabien yipped happily, and rolled onto his back on the passenger seat.
She sighed. “Seriously? Wearing cute little outfits and being fed a macrobiotic diet was that bad?”
Fabien wriggled, watching her.
“They can’t get me for dog murder with a venison pie, but I’m pretty sure dog theft is a real thing.”
He yipped, sat up, and watched her with liquid eyes.
“God.” She grabbed the dog and deposited him on the driveway, where he whined unhappily. “Shoo!”
He darted past her and jumped back into the car.
“Crap.” Cars were starting to arrive, people trickling in for dinner. If she left him out here, he’d probably get run over, brainless thing that he was. And she wasn’t about to take him back inside now. “Fine,” she said, throwing her bag in the back and getting in. “One night, okay? I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”
Fabien yipped, propping his paws on the dashboard so he could see out. Simone shook her head. The cat really would eat him.
Her phone binged a text in at one a.m. Zack.
The dog’s back.
“What?” She looked at Fabien, snoozing by the heater while the cat regarded him suspiciously from the back of the sofa. What’re you talking about?
She’s just marched in here with him. The assistant found him. Lucky, right?
“Lucky,” Simone said, and glared at the dog. He tapped his tail anxiously against the floor, and the cat growled. “I suppose one inbred mutt looks much the same as another, do they?”
Fabien scrambled to his feet and trotted to the sofa, trying desperately to pull himself up next to her, and she groaned. Bloody quick-thinking assistants. What the hell did she do now?
The dog whined, scrabbling madly with his back legs as he tried to get up next to her. The cat unwound herself with a snarl and launched an attack that sent the dog yelping and crashing back into the coffee table. He cowered under it, trembling, then recovered himself and lunged for the cat, and they tumbled across the floor, spitting and snarling at each other. Simone jumped up and flung a cushion at them, then found herself the subject of two sets of reproachful eyes.
“Stop it,” she told them. “Seriously, I do not need this.”
The cat sat down and started grooming her rumpled fur. The dog pattered to her and put his paws on her bare foot, tail whipping. She rubbed her face with one hand. So she had a dog now.
She poured the last of the wine into her glass and sat on the floor, the cat and the dog separated by the no-man’s land of her lap. It had been a damn good pie. And that W.I. fête was going to be the stuff of legend. All in all, yeah.
Worth it.
All Wishes Are Granted
Ah, typos. The writer’s constant irritant and the editor’s hunting ground. The result of clumsy fingers, overzealous autocorrects, and that distracted moment when a bird flies past and your fingers type “bird!” instead of getting on about the actual business of writing coherent sentences. They’re persistent little monsters, too. This particular one withstood three beta readers and an inordinate amount of self-editing before I spotted it.
But I can’t hate typos completely. I’m fairly sure Mrs Smith tucking a brain behind her ear (rather than a braid) in the first Gobbelino London story led directly to the second Gobbelino London story.
And while the book this one came from may have called for bulging muscles, the typo itself called for this story.
The woman in the layered red top was sporting the sort of fixed grin that inspires sympathy jaw aches as she forced half a head of unchopped broccoli into the Super Magic Mind-Bending Bonanza Blender. Or whatever it was called.
“Broccoli rice!” she exclaimed, jabbing at the buttons, then clutched the glass jug with both hands as the blender screamed. Her arms shook violently as she tried to keep it on the table, the copious material of her sleeves shimmying like a flamenco dancer’s skirt. The camera zoomed in on the contents of the blender jug, which looked remarkably similar to the stuff that kid from The Exorcist redecorated her room with. The woman stopped the blender and opened the lid, displaying the contents for the camera, while her smile stretched into a rictus and Ben thought any rice that looked like that would probably have attained consciousness. He took another mouthful of vodka as the woman jammed the lid back on.
“Broccoli puree!” The blender started screaming again. The woman’s upper body strength must be quite remarkable, because it definitely looked like the Super Magic whatchama was trying to make a break for it. Ben’s eyelids slid to half-mast, and he tried to hike them back up again. He wasn’t at all sure he was drunk enough to sleep through the night yet.
Five easy payments! the text at the bottom of the screen screamed. Don’t miss out!
Who bought this stuff? How was it even worth their while, paying the grinning woman with the unmoving hair to stand there with the painfully yowling blender? How desperate must she be to do it?
And how desperate was he, sitting here watching it?
He woke with a sticky mouth, but no pounding head. Not yet. That’d come later. But he was awake, which was annoying as hell. He’d fallen asleep too soon. He picked up his glass – there was still a good inch of vodka in the bottom – and shifted position on the sofa. The broccoli woman was gone, and instead there was a slight woman with drifts of white hair and a purple … kaftan? Was that a kaftan? He wasn’t actually sure he’d ever seen a kaftan. Weirdly, she was in the same kitchen broccoli woman had been in. She’d dimmed the lights and thrown a deep red cloth over the display table, but the same blank white walls and fake, empty windows loomed behind her. Ben could see a spill of crushed broccoli on the table where the cloth didn’t quite cover it, the bright green rendered grimy in the low light. The woman adjusted her hoop earrings with a hand that was so heavy with silver rings and beaded bracelets that Ben was surprised she could lift it, then she squinted at the screen. Well, the camera. Although it kind of felt like she was looking at the screen. At him.
“Dani,” the woman said, and Ben realised she must be reading off an auto prompter. “Dani, are you with us?”
A text box appeared in the top right of the screen. Yes, yes, I’m here!
Holy hell, was she pretending to communicate with ghosts via text message? Ben giggled. Late night television could get away with anything.
“Dani, tell me your wish. All wishes will be granted, but be careful. The old saying is true.”
The text box didn’t respond for a moment, the cursor flashing uneasily, white against black. It looked like something out of a ’90s chatroom.
“Dani, there are others waiting.”
I want my husband back.
The woman nodded, lowering her head to look at the red cloth. It had gold symbols painted on it, and it clashed horribly with her floaty purple dress. “You must use the words.”
Ben suddenly imagined a gang of goblins hiding under the table, holding the woman’s hubby captive while David Bowie sang at them and flourished his crop. He almost spat his drink out.
I wish my husband would come back.
The cursor flashed violently at the end of the words, and Ben shivered, the laughter dusty in his mouth. Poor woman. She was grieving, and here was this mystic faker playing with her loss like it was a damn game show. Playing with it, and charging her, no doubt.
“Shouldn’t be allowed,” he whispered to the empty house, and wondered if he should turn the TV off. This felt greasy, voyeuristic. But he was too awake, the house too empty. He took another gulp of vodka.
“As you wish, so it shall be,” the woman on the TV said gravely, and there was no flash of light, no puff of smoke, but Ben found himself leaning forward, shoulders suddenly tense under his ears.
When? When will he come back? How? the text demanded.
“Now she asks,” Ben muttered, and dug through the sofa cushions until he found the vodka bottle. It was all so painfully silly. But grief makes fools of us all.
The woman shook her head. “I can’t give you a time. But he’s coming. I feel him. He will be with you.”
The cursor flashed a few times before it said, As he is now, or as he was before?
Ben shuddered, although he couldn’t have said why.
“I can’t say. But you wanted him back, so back he comes.”
Ben thought he caught a flicker of something in the woman’s voice – malice? Amusement? Or was he imagining it, half-cut as he was?
“And now we must move on,” the woman said. “If you’d like to text in, the number is on the screen. Texts cost 50p each. Please make sure you have the permission of the bill payer. Only one wish per person. All wishes are granted. No responsibility is taken if you make an unsuitable wish or change your mind.”
All wishes are granted. Ben swallowed hard. What would he wish for? Would he wish her back? No, not after what she’d done. And with her personal trainer, of all people. Brain the size and complexity of a pink marshmallow, but of course all six-pack and bulging muscles. No, he didn’t want her back. He was angry and drunk and miserable, but even so he could see it’d only happen again. Accounting and competitive rose gardening was a hard sell for someone who preferred triathlons and skydiving. He supposed he was lucky it had lasted as long as it had. Or unlucky, considering how it had ended.
So no, he wouldn’t wish her back. But maybe he could wish flat bike tyres on her. Or that muscle boy would get a ravenous appetite for pies. That’d be pretty funny.
“Scott,” the woman was saying gravely, “please tell me your wish.”
I want to go to Mars, to be light years away from anyone.
The woman nodded. “If this is your wish, please use the words.”
I wish I was on Mars.
“As you wish, so it shall be.” The woman straightened the sleeves of her kaftan while the cursor blinked in its box. “Who do we have next?”
Ben stared at the cursor, willing Scott to say something, to ask when he’d get to go to Mars, to say thank you, anything. Anything except that ominous, hungry cursor, waiting to deliver the next texter to the Goblin King.
There was nothing. Scott was gone. Not to Mars, of course not, that was impossible, but he was gone. Mars would be cold. Cold and suffocating and lonely in the moments before Scott died. Would his blood vessels burst out of his unprotected skin? Would his eyes bulge like hardboiled eggs? Would he have time to regret his wish? Would … Ben drained his glass in two gulps, wondering if his mind would ever just shut up. Bet muscle boy never had that problem.
Mystical TV lady was asking someone called Glen if he would use the words to complete his wish of winning the office Fantasy Football league when Ben dragged his attention back to the screen. That was pretty innocuous, if a bit of a waste of a wish. The next person wanted a Rolex, and whinged a lot about how he wanted to know when it’d arrive, until Mystic Madge cut him off. Ben wasn’t entirely paying attention. What would he wish for?
Maybe wishing terrible things on the gym bunny couple was a bit nasty. Not that he felt above being a bit nasty, not after the way she’d ended things, but it wouldn’t give him anything other than a brief, bitter moment of satisfaction. So what if he wished something for himself? Something to make her jealous. Not to get her back, just to show her that she’d underestimated him, perhaps. Something to make muscle boy feel a little inadequate. Yeah, that’d be good.
He grinned, leaning back and putting his feet on the coffee table. Not that he was actually going to text in, of course. He wasn’t that desperate. Or that drunk.
“And we only have time for a few more wishes,” the woman said, pushing her hair back with fragile-looking hands. Ben wasn’t sure how many wishes he’d missed, but it didn’t feel like that many. She was stopping already? Why so quickly? He leaned forward, frowning at the TV, wondering if he’d dozed off, or maybe even blacked out for a bit, although he didn’t think he’d drunk enough for that. He wasn’t Friday night drunk, just weeknight-damn-insomnia drunk.
“Please text in immediately if you would like your wish granted,” the woman said, raising her eyes to the camera. Again Ben had the feeling that she was looking right at him, seeing him sitting there still in his work clothes, with the curry spill on the collar of his shirt. “Don’t wait. This opportunity will not be repeated. Normal programming will resume. There will be no second chances.”
