Her room was trashed. Totally trashed. The curtains she had lovingly handmade out of old Japanese kimonos had been ripped from the rails. The boxes of trinkets, necklaces, bracelets, and rings that she kept on her dressing table were scattered over the floor, some of them broken, their glass and plastic beads everywhere. That wasn’t to mention the state of her wardrobe: the door was hanging off and all of the clothes had fallen off their coat hangers.
As the words “what the hell” were preparing to erupt from her mouth, Henrietta stopped.
She remembered.
Breath sharp, hands shaking, she pressed her fingers into her mouth, her eyes widening in surprise and shock.
Good god, what had happened to her last night?
She sat back down on her bed, eyes never blinking as she surveyed the mess. A cold, sickly feeling was gathering deep in her belly and it washed over her skin in regular waves. She had to lean down, grab up the duvet and bring it around herself to cut out the fiendish chill and shock.
Henrietta Gosling closed her eyes. She brought her hand up and rubbed it over her face, but try as she might, she couldn’t erase the memory of last night.
Last night Henrietta, the mild-mannered cafe waitress, had undergone a transformation, and she had trashed her room in the process.
To think yesterday had started off so innocently. In fact, apart from being late in the morning, she’d almost had a good day. Almost, because around midday things had started to go pear shaped.
As her grandfather clock ticked in the background, she sat huddled on the edge of her bed. After a bit she poked her hands out from under the duvet and looked them over. She turned them around, staring at the fingers, the palms, the nails. Her hands were undamaged. Which was a fantastic fact considering what she’d been through last night.
As she sat there, she gave a huge shudder, even letting out a gasp. She let her gaze shift across the room until she caught sight of the grandfather clock.
“Dammit,” she spat as she jumped to her feet. She was late for work. Again.
Before she could lean down and grab the simple black skirt and white shirt she always wore to wait tables, she stopped. Seriously, she couldn’t consider going to work after what she’d gone through. So Henrietta Gosling called in late that day. Instead of waiting tables at the cafe squeezed between the central police station and the fire station along the main road of town, she sat on the edge of her bed or walked around her room waving a hand at her face and swearing.
Yesterday
Henrietta was late. She was running down one of the side alleys that cut across town and led to Sizzle Cafe where she worked. Her handbag jostled around on her shoulder as she ran, and her worn ballet slippers kept coming undone and almost falling off her feet. Suffice to say, she was in a bad mood.
One look at the grey clouds gathering above suggested her mood was about to get worse. She’d dressed for the summer’s day promised by the weatherman last night, but he’d neglected to mention there would be a storm thrown into the mix.
As she rounded a corner and came out onto Main Street, she ducked to the side to avoid two burly men moving a large couch through the front doors of the furniture store.
One of them asked whether she was in a hurry, but she didn’t have the time to stop and reply: hell yes, she was in a hurry.
She’d been planning on getting to work early today, so she could leave early and head over to her sister’s for dinner. It wasn’t every day Marcia Gosling invited her over for tea. Henrietta and her sister weren’t on the best of terms. Marcia was a drop-dead gorgeous, knock-out bombshell, and Henrietta was average, and only if she bothered to put the effort into brushing her unruly hair and ironing her unkempt clothes.
Their difference in looks didn’t account for the two sisters’ less-than-perfect relationship. That had to do with the fact Marcia had stolen every single boyfriend Henrietta had ever had. First was Mark in sixth grade. Minutes after Henrietta had kissed him behind the gym, Marcia had gone in and kissed him in full view of everyone in the yard. Then there’d been Richard in high school. About a day after Richard had asked her to the dance, Henrietta had seen Marcia walk through the mall with him wearing the man like a handbag as he hung off her arm and gawked at her.
Then… then there was John. John had hurt. John had been Henrietta’s boyfriend during her brief flirtation with college. John had been studying engineering. John had already bought himself a house at the tender age of 20. John had prospects, John had intelligence, John had wit, and John had adorable floppy hair. Several months after meeting Marcia for the first time, Henrietta had come home to the crushing view of the two of them on the couch.
Marcia was that callous, she was that forward, and she was that uncaring. To Marcia it had meant nothing that she’d stolen Henrietta’s boyfriend. To Marcia, you couldn’t take flings seriously, and if you couldn’t take them seriously, then what right did Henrietta have to get upset over them?
Still, Marcia was family. That meant Henrietta had to go over for dinner tonight. Considering who Marcia was, it also meant Henrietta had to stop by the fancy delicatessen on the high street and get some fresh, new, white freesias.
