In Bloom. C.J. Skuse

victims?’ scoffed Nev. ‘That guy in the canal had it coming by all accounts. And the dude in the park was a –’ pause to lower voice to a whisper ‘– sex offender – and that woman in the quarry—’

      ‘What?’ said Helen, all raised eyebrows and pass-ag. ‘The MOTHER in the quarry who was held for weeks and tortured, then raped and thrown into a pit? She had three children, Nevaeh. Thee!

      Nev shut up. Scarlett looked at Pin. Helen looked at Scarlett, snooty as a fox. My heartburn scorched my throat and my arse had begun to twitch. Pin called the waiter over for our bill. Marnie patted my forearm and mouthed ‘I’m so sorry.’ I think she meant it.

      I turned to Helen. ‘It hasn’t gone to trial yet.’

      ‘And you’re standing by him, are you, Rhiannon?’

      They looked at me. The waitresses looked at me. Tiny Tantrummer looked at me. Old Me would have said something meek and non-controversial but today, I just couldn’t be bothered. I could see the Pudding Club becoming like the PICSOs – bloody hard work. In a parallel universe, it might have been different. We’d have dinner parties, drink Prosecco into the small hours and bond over risqué conversation about fluffy handcuffs and fisting. Perhaps we’d have had barbecues and playdates and swapped ideas about nativity costumes in the schoolyard. But in this universe? No chance.

      ‘Yes Helen, I’m standing by my knife-wielding, rapey-lady, torture-happy, murderous asshole of a boyfriend. Now get me a doughnut before I pass the fuck out.’

Monday, 16th July – 10 weeks, 1 day

       1. TV programmes about billionaires who spend millions on lampshades and ornaments and STILL find stuff to bitch about.

       2. TV programmes about benefit cheats who buy fags, tattoos and Heineken but have ‘nothing to feed their kids’. Cry me a river.

       3. People who say ‘might of’ and ‘could of’ not ‘might have’ and ‘could have’.

      Plymouth Star guy was on the doorstep when I went out the front to shoo seagulls off the bird table. Him and a curly-haired camera guy.

      ‘Hey, Rhiannon. How you doing?’

      ‘Good thanks.’

      ‘Any chance of a couple of words for the Star?’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve got two words that would be perfect for you.’

      ‘Come on, throw me a bone, I’ve been in the job ten weeks and the most interesting thing has been Kids Set Fire to Furby in Precinct.’

      ‘I know what it’s like. I used to work for a local newspaper. Not the heady heights of crack reporting mind you – just editorial assistant.’

      ‘So you know what it’s like?’ he said. ‘Please. I need a scoop or they’re going to fire my ass. This is a huge story and you’re right at the centre.’

      ‘Too true,’ I sighed, folding my arms.

      ‘Please? Anything I can take back to the office? You’ll be getting your own side across. Some of the tabloids are saying you knew all along what Wilkins was doing.’

      ‘I did not know anything,’ I said. I noticed then he had Voice Memos recording on his phone. The camera guy was clicking. I calmed myself with a breath. ‘Tell me why I should bare my soul to you. Give me one good reason.’

      He backed away. ‘I can’t.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘It’s my job,’ he said. ‘This is what I do. There isn’t a good reason.’

      ‘Come on, give me a sob story. Why should I put you through to the second round? Dad dying of cancer? Brother out in Afghanistan? Granny just too damn nuts in the nursing home to recognise your face anymore? Tell me why I should give you my story and not the Mirror or the Express. They’ve offered me shitloads more than Pleases.’

      He backed away, frowning. ‘I don’t have anything to give you. I just need a break.’ I stared him out until both he and the camera guy had disappeared through the front gate and out of my sight.

      *

      I have made a boo-boo – I shouted at Elaine. In fact it was worse than shouted. I jumped on the highest of horses, whipped its ass and rode it right through her. I caught her dusting around my Sylvanians country hotel in the corner of the lounge and rearranging things in the rooms.

      ‘DON’T FUCKING TOUCH THAT! WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THAT?’

      I didn’t mean to say it, it just splurged out. And I know they’ve been good to me and looked after me and blah de blah blah, but JEEEEEEZUS why can’t people leave my things alone?! I’m not asking too much, am I? She’d moved the front desk into the sitting room. She’d made up the bed in the cat family’s bedroom when the maid was CLEARLY on her way there to do that herself. And she’d taken out everything in the fridge and put it on the kitchen floor.

      Nerve = touched.

      ‘Rhiannon, I was only having a look, love …’

      I could see my mother’s face in hers – What’s the big deal? It’s only a few toys, Rhiannon. You’re too old for toys now.

      ‘You weren’t “having a look”, you were touching things! Why can’t you leave them?’ My fingers were lengthening; my breathing grew sharper the longer I looked at her blank face. The room seemed to pale away and into sharp focus came the phone cord and Elaine’s saggy neck. Wrapping it around again and again, pulling on it, squeezing it, that face going purple.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Elaine blushed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She sprinted from the room.

      I took the hotel upstairs and shoved it in my closet, safe and sound. I knew it was too exposed downstairs but I had no room to display it up here. I had more Sylvanian stuff than I had clothes.

      When I resurfaced, the house was quiet and there was a note on the hallway table – Elaine was at the church hall with her Christian women’s group for the craft fair and Jim was on the beach with the dog. I walked down there to find him sitting on the large rocks watching Tink sniffing in the rock pools. He didn’t mention the Sylvanians debacle at first; he started off-topic.

      ‘Did you look into that Airy B thing for me?’

      ‘Airbnb?’ I said. ‘Yeah, all done.’

      ‘You’ve done it?’

      ‘Yeah, I’ll show you later. We’ve had a few enquiries already. I think it’s looking quite good for August.’

      ‘Oh that’s great, thank you.’

      ‘No problem at all. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it?’

      He smiled, looking out to sea. ‘I don’t have a clue about this internet lark. That place needs to start paying its way to keep the bank happy.’

      See this is a lie pie if ever he’s baked one. One of the discoveries I’ve made about Jim since living with him is that he’s LOADED. He has quite the property portfolio. It’s another hobby – buying up shitholes and turning them into sought-after real estate. I’ve seen his bank statements. He’s got three projects on the go – a flat in Cresswell Terrace where a junkie melted into the floor, a five bed house on Temperley called Knight’s Rest where a hoarder stashed several hundred ice cream tubs of his own shit, and a holiday cottage called the Well House on the Cliff Road which has just finished being refurbed. For years it was used as a derelict meeting place for local teens to shag and break bottles. Jim asked me to put it ‘on the line’ now that it’s ready for holiday bookings.

      That’s Jim’s problem, he trusts me. And I, being the gal