Best to wait a couple of days, by which time he’d work out that the toilet didn’t clean itself. I glanced up. Funny, I hadn’t heard the bedroom door close – a draught must have pushed it shut. I gripped the gold door handle. Hmm. It wouldn’t budge. I grasped tighter and pulled it hard. Still no luck.
Heart thumping, I again recalled the spooky face from last night and hurried over to the window. Down on the lawn, Groucho swaggered up to a blackbird. It looked like Luke had gone. Maybe if I shouted through the open top window, that friendly man Terry or Melissa would hear and raise the alarm. But their houses were so far away, not like the mid-terrace I’d grown up in where the neighbours could probably hear my disgusting teenage brother break wind.
What would they have done on Most Haunted? ‘I mean you no harm,’ I eventually said, voice trembling. ‘Show me a sign that someone is here.’
At that exact moment, a sweet-smelling cloud of smoke edged its way under the door. What now, a fire? Had I left the oven on? Yes, that must be it. My chest relaxed for a second. All these shenanigans had to be due to something logical like that – except that… that… the smoke smelt kind of sweet and the whooshing wind noise increased in pitch. Oh shit! I swallowed hard.
‘Show me your presence,’ I stuttered, mouth dry, like I’d scoffed a whole packet of wafer crackers.
Brave Kimmy Flees Fire – I could see the headline in OK Magazine. And a photo of me and Adam, arms around each other, him declaring his love since I’d almost died.
I sat on the bed and picked up the list of instructions I’d been reading that morning. There was no other option; Luke was nearest. I’d have to find his number and ring for his help. The police was a no-no. If Mr Murphy got to hear of any damage, from me having potentially caused a fire, he’d probably blame me and I’d be out; I’d lose my chance to impress Adam. I had to keep any funny goings-on in this house well under wraps. Ghost or no ghost, Mr Murphy had to think my stay was running smoothly.
My finger ran down the page, to Luke’s number. I slid my phone out of my trouser pocket and dialled.
‘Luke? It’s me, Kimmy… The housesitter. I’m trapped, in the bedroom. Talk about odd noises… and I think something’s on fire.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Someone’s in the house, I’m sure of it. Can you come back? I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else.’
Apparently Luke was in his car and about to drive off. Finally, with a sigh, he said to shut myself in the ensuite, just in case the smoke was dangerous. Not that I needed his advice. I laid a damp towel across the bottom of the bedroom door. It reminded me of the time Mum lit the barbecue with petrol and the flames instantly spread to the lawn. Hands flapping, she’d run around the garden, whilst I got the hose and put it out.
After a few minutes, a voice shouted, ‘Kimmy? You in the bathroom?’
Legs feeling wobbly, I pushed open the ensuite door and there Luke stood, by Lily’s bed, chestnut hair all tousled. Slowly I left the bathroom.
I looked around. ‘Was it, um, the oven? Have you put out the fire?’
‘This your idea of a joke?’ His lips pursed. ‘It’s not my job to play your silly games. My Murphy pays me to do handy work. That’s all. I’ve got another job to get to.’
‘Games?’
‘Smoke, an intruder, sounds of a blowing gale…? What next? Voices coming out of the telly?Crockery moving on its own?’ He shook his head. ‘And as for your door being locked…’
‘I could have been burnt to death!’
He laughed. ‘I know it’s a boring job, minding the house, but really – if you need company, go visit Terry next door, he’s a sound bloke. I’m flattered, don’t get me wrong, but…’
‘You think I fancy you?’ My top lip curled. Who the hell did he think he was?
He folded his arms. ‘Why else would you pretend the shower was broken? Ply me with cupcakes? Ask me to come back and put out some imaginary fire?’
‘That dripping kept me awake all last night!’
‘All the showerhead needed was a good clean. Any idiot could see that.’
‘Well, for your information, I’m not romantically available,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘That photo you spotted is of–’
‘Adam?’ he smirked.
‘Yes. My boyfriend… well my Ex… But we’re getting back together and I’m not looking for a replacement and even if I was, you would hardly be–’ I stopped. Did someone just scream?
This whole cul-de-sac was bloody bonkers, what with shagging on Bugattis and smoke under doors; what with dogs that didn’t understand pooch jumpers were the in-thing and big-headed handymen who thought a leaky shower was an excuse for seduction. Luke eyed me for a second, as if he might say something else, but instead charged downstairs. I followed. There was another bloodcurdling scream and we legged it onto the drive.
‘This is a matter of life and death!’ screeched a female voice. ‘You can’t do this!’
OMG! My recent scary experience forgotten, I instantly recognised the back of that beautifully coiffured head. Melissa Winsford stood on the pavement at the bottom of Walter’s drive, shouting into a phone, wearing the shortest, tightest blue dress, which showed off every inch of her size six legs, plus a tailored black leather jacket and what looked like a real crocodile skin handbag. The sunglasses (totes unnecessary) had a Chanel C on the side. I could tell that, under the flesh-coloured tights, her caramel tan was perfect, with no streaks or blotches of orange – unlike my legs, which had the odd razor cut and patch of stubble. On the pavement just behind her, I stood panting, next to Luke. We’d practically sprinted the length of the drive.
‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll spread the word – make sure you never work south of Watford again!’
She stuffed the phone into her bag and something like a sob escaped her lips. Maybe her doctor had misdiagnosed some fatal illness. Or her accountant had fiddled the books.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked and subtly tried to brush flour off my jeans. Pity I hadn’t had time this morning to re-straighten my hair.
She jumped and turned around. ‘How long have you two been there? Do tell your editor that there’s nothing to report and if you’ve taken any photos, darling,’ she said to me in a more velvety voice, ‘delete them and I’ll provide you with some shots that’ll really sell.’ She unzipped her leather jacket and subtly pushed out her double D cups. What a pro!
‘We’re not the press. I’m Luke. Last month I unblocked your upstairs loo, as a favour to Mr Winsford. He saw me mending Mr Carmichael’s roof.’
‘How nice for you, darling.’ She stopped posing, whilst I chuckled as she visibly shuddered at his cords. If only I’d thought to grab Groucho, complete with his new glitter-trimmed sweater. ‘Are you the cleaner?’ she asked me. ‘I’d have thought they’d have sold this place by now.’
‘No, I’m…’ My cheeks flamed up and
