“Why did you say we’re little old ladies?” says Daisy’s mum at the conclusion of the call.
“Well, we are,” says Mrs. A.
“You made us sound utterly pathetic.”
Mrs. Abernethy is too nice to produce the obvious reply. But perhaps the description worked, or possibly the crims of Whetstone are having a slack evening, because barely five minutes pass before two uniformed police constables (a male and a female) arrive in a patrol car to join the cast in Mrs. Abernethy’s sitting room. Having peered (and sniffed) through Chloe’s letter box across the landing, and (correctly) concluded that fire is not an immediate issue, they perch themselves on the flowery sofa and feed off slices of walnut cake. The female officer uses her mobile phone to procure the services of a twenty-four-hour locksmith.
“We could put in your door, love, but this way is better,” she explains.
“We’re very sorry for the trouble we’ve caused,” says Mrs. A, giving Daisy’s mum something of a look.
“No trouble at all,” says the male. “Better safe than the other thing. Top cake, by the way.”
“Do you have far to go?” adds Chloe, in what her daughter would no doubt describe as her minor member of royalty mode.
The officers seem reluctant to depart. Perhaps Mrs. A’s sitting room represents a warm safe bubble of respectability a world away from whatever the evening shift usually holds for these guardians of the peace. But eventually the radio sets at their shoulders squawk—something about a disturbance outside a kebab shop—and they are off into the night, to be replaced by Ray, the locksmith, who makes short work of replacing the fittings on Chloe’s front door, supplying four keys, charging £138 + VAT and accepting a piece of walnut cake. He says the original lock was worth changing in any case, being old and about as much use against burglars as a chocolate teapot. He impresses the women further by requesting a dustpan and brush to sweep up the wood shavings the installation has created.
To celebrate the end of the crisis, Mrs. Abernethy joins Daisy’s mother in her own kitchen for a relaxing cup of camomile tea.
“I read in the Mail you should only ever fill the kettle with filtered water,” says Chloe. “It’s all to do with charged particles.”
She pours the contents of the plastic filter jug into the electric toaster and depresses the handle.
There is a loud bang and the lights go out. (Our coverage switches to an audio feed supplied by Mrs. Abernethy’s mobile phone; credit and thanks to that device.)
In the long pause that follows, Mrs. Abernethy begins to weep softly.
“Oh, fuck. What have I done now?” says Mrs. Parsloe.
Mrs. Abernethy’s sobs grow louder. She starts to speak; it’s even possible she is praying because the only words I can make out are, “Heavenly Father.”
“Stop it, Mrs. Abernethy!” snaps Chloe. “Get a grip,” she adds with impressive sangfroid in one so loopy. “Now where is the blessed torch?”
Mrs. Abernethy, perhaps receiving instructions from A Higher Power, makes her way to her flat and returns with a burning candle.
“Where is your fuse box, dear?”
“Don’t you dear me,” says Chloe. “I’m not completely wotsit.”
“The fuse box.”
“What about it?”
“Where is it?”
“Never seen one.”
“You must have.”
“There’s no must about it—dear. What do they look like?”
Mrs. A sighs heavily.
“Why did you do that?” she asks.
“Do what?” says Daisy’s mother.
“Pour water in the toaster.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I saw it happen, Chloe.”
“If you’re going to be like that, I’m afraid I shall have to bid you goodnight.”
“You want me to leave you all alone in the dark?”
“I’ll phone that pleasant young man. He’ll sort this out.”
“He was a locksmith.”
“All right, you think of something then.”
Technical note: You may be wondering why it’s not in my power to restore the electricity to Chloe’s flat, given what I was able to achieve so recently at her daughter’s apartment as the repulsive Whittle was pulling up outside. The answer lies in the vintage of the apparatus, having been installed in an age when the internet was only a pencil sketch on the back of an engineer’s envelope.
But wait! Mrs. A has thought of something. She has reasoned that her neighbors’ fuses are probably to be found in the same location as those in her own flat across the hallway. After a short fumble through a utility cupboard, a switch is restored and electrical power once again surges through the circuity.
“There! Simple!” says Chloe triumphantly, causing Mrs. A—I daresay—to consider breaking the Fifth Commandment; the one about killing.
“Might be an idea to leave me a spare key, Chloe. You know, just in case.”
“Good plan. Now, where did I put them?”
Mrs. A takes her leave. “God bless you, Chloe,” she says. “No more dramas this evening, I hope.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Abernethy.”
“Please. It’s Andrea. We’ve been neighbors long enough.”
“Very well. But don’t pray for me!”
“I shan’t include you, if that’s your wish,” she says softly. “Maybe your daughter should also have a spare key,” she adds.
“Daisy? Yes, she should. Look. If you see her, no need to mention any of the nonsense that’s happened tonight. She’d only worry unnecessarily. Goodnight… er. What was it again?”
“Andrea.”
“Yes, of course. Andrea. AA. Like the motoring organization.”
“It was my late husband’s name. Mine was. Mine was Taratooty.”
“Gracious. How terrifically silly. I can see why you dumped it.”
“I’ll be getting along.”
“Yup. And if you could let me have that cake recipe…”
I’ve been such an idiot.
But the good news is that I dumped Sebastian! It turned out that wasn’t even his real name, can you believe it? His real name—fuck, I can hardly bear to write this—was, is,—oh God, the shame—Dean Whittle!
Dean Whittle!!!!
Call me superficial, but I’m sorry, I could never have knowingly gone out with anyone called Dean Whittle. So many things begin to make sense now. Why he always paid cash (so I wouldn’t get a glimpse of his credit card); why I never
