Chapter 2
Two
-PENELOPE-
“You’re late.”
Maude always has an accusing tone. She treats me like a child with no self-control.
I rustle my hair and give a brighter than sunshine smile, showing her I’m not drunk. And I ignore how tired my eyes feel, widening them to prove I’m alert.
Maude eyes me like I’m some bumbling clown. It’s not fair. I just had coffee in Grayson’s home. It’s not like I’m tripping over my own feet.
She, and the other two cottage witches, are knitting various black garments.
I can never gauge why they stick to this grim colour, even though it’s what I’m wearing right now.
But every week, more black wool is acquired.
Every week, more black beanies, jumpers, and cardigans are made.
Maude claims they’re being bohemian. Black will always be the new black. It goes with everything.
But I’m wondering, who wears their clothes? Trendy folk wear black. Of course they do. Maude is right in that respect. But trendy people also like African-sunset-red jumpers, or Matcha-green beanies. I know. I have an eye for fashion.
Several of their garments are neatly folded on the chunky wooden table under Maude’s portrait. And she’s relaxed in that painting. Her expression, totally chilled. A look I’ve never seen directed at me.
“Where have you been?” Petra asks me. She sounds friendlier than Maude.
“Grayson has bloomed.” I wait for their reactions.
Slowly, they stop counting their stitches, and the women in my knitting circle exchange eager looks. Even Maude’s cat is purring with approval, rather than sprouting some smartarsed remark.
He smirks while raising his tail. “What’s he going to do? Conjure up a friend?” Well, the cat couldn’t help himself.
“Tinkles, mind your manners,” Maude barks.
I cringe at the name as I never understood why anyone would name a pet Tinkles. It’s what grannies say when they excuse themselves to have a pee. ‘Just going for a tinkle.’ Was Maude on the throne when she named him?
Petra turns to the others and says, “I’m still waiting for Henry to discover himself.” And just like that, they’re chattering among themselves.
While I have a reprieve from Maude’s judgement, I notice the new candles in her sewing room.
They’re purple, the same colour as her walls.
And they’re dancing on little wax legs as their flames wave like scarves in the wind.
But in a room where the lighting is way too bright so these elders can knit with ease, there’s no reason for these candles to be lit.
I’m sure it’s part of a ritual Petra dreamed up.
She often insists on some mumbo jumbo before our knitting circle begins.
Once we did an eccentric dance, Kate Bush style, before we settled down to our first slip knot.
Another time we consulted Maude’s crystal ball to find out what knitwear our friends needed.
It informed us our friends didn’t need new winterwear.
All these practises are a waste of time.
But I never say anything. Maude would make an issue of my concerns.
Besides, the only reason I’m part of this group is to spend time with Petra and Doris.
Their cheerful faces brighten my chaotic life, providing calm between men who claim they love me, and the occasional boring party.
Being able to conjure cocktails is a blessing in either dilemma.
“What happened when Grayson discovered he was a wizard?” Petra looks up from her knitting.
All eyes are on me. Usually, it’s my drunken disasters they’re keen to gossip about. I’m relieved that’s not the case today.
“He sneezed and conjured a miniature pink elephant.”
“A baby elephant?” Doris asks.
“You mean Hugo,” Maude says.
I nod.
“Who is Hugo?” Doris asks.
“A free-spirited, small pink elephant,” Maude replies.
“How small?” Doris is really confused.
“About the size of a parrot.” I show the size with my hands.
“With feathers?” Doris asks.
“No feathers,” I reply. “Just pink wrinkly skin.”
“About the size of a parrot, you say.” Tinkles licks his lips.
“And tell me, Penelope,” Maude begins, “were you able to reverse Grayson’s spell?”
For a moment, I go into myself, the collective knitting circle far from my reality. I want them to be pleased. I don’t need their criticism. But they can smell a lie from ten paces. I mustn’t tell them I turned Hugo into Matilda. Or set fire to Grayson’s couch.
“Eventually,” I reply.
Maude eyeballs me like I’m a cheating spouse. “How many attempts did it take for you to finally get rid of the elephant?”
I pop up a finger. Then another. And another. And I can’t help being coy about it.
“You’re lying.” Maude is sniffing; the tangy odour of my fib is hard to ignore.
“Okay. It took several attempts, but Grayson ended up with a steam-cleaned couch.”
“That’s why you need to stop drinking.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Petra rests her knitting on her lap. “I think a clean couch is a good outcome.”
“It’s better than turning Doris into a washing machine.” Tinkles grins.
“I burped soap suds for a week,” Doris adds.
“It’s not like I’ve turned anyone else into white goods.” My cheeks warm with embarrassment. Out of all the mistakes I’ve ever made, everyone always brings up that one.
“Have you ever tasted soap?” Doris frowns. “It overpowered everything I ate that week.”
“You really need to give up drinking,” Maude tells me again.
“But it’s what makes Penelope unique.” Petra is always on my side.
I wink at her. “And at the various witches’ conventions, stories of Penelope’s wayward spells are always popular.
” I shouldn’t have winked. “Isn’t that right, Doris?
Your take on what it’s like to experience spin cycle always intrigues those who listen. ”
“Yes,” says Tinkles. “And she’s still dizzy from that experience.”
“Now, now, Tinkles.” Maude shakes her finger. “Play nice.”
The cat sits, raising its head as if he’s snubbing Maude. He often does this when he’s been put in his place. The furry white crescent moon on his chest stands out on his black body, an original and possibly mystical birth mark.
“Sit, my dear.” Maude points to the spare seat next to her which I was avoiding. “Let me smell your breath.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“But you drank at some stage today.”
“It helps me cope.”
“With what? A bad hair day? Ingrown toenails? Botox gone wrong?”
I sigh. I really don’t have an excuse to drink as much as I do at those parties. Well, not an excuse anyone would understand. Without a cocktail, I’m boring. I can’t deal with small talk, or strike up a conversation with a stranger.
But give me a Whisky Sour or an Old Fashioned and I’ll spin yarns about my various marriages. Or my various affairs. People never find me boring once vodka is running through my veins.
Yet I was comfortable with Grayson earlier this afternoon, after I sobered up.