Chapter Two
Chapter
Two
“Holy shit.”
I turn the engine off and Marina, Artie, and I all sit and stare, goggle-eyed, at the magnificent castle frontage.
We’ve just driven in across the drawbridge and through the huge wooden gates set into the thick castle walls and it’s like entering a secret fairy tale.
At least the public might get more of a chance to see the castle now; as Glenda said, it’s always been in private hands and cloistered from prying eyes.
“I don’t think the security guard liked the look of Babs,” Artie says, stating the obvious from the disdainful way the neon tabard-clad guy had eyed Babs, our 1973 Ford Transit.
Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s two-tone buttercup yellow and off-white, or triple tone if you were feeling unkind enough to count the rust. Maybe it’s the fact that we were all gawking at him through the windshield from the front bench seat, or it’s possible it had something to do with the in-your-face Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency logo that Marina lovingly hand-painted on the side.
Sure, it echoes back to the glory days of Charlie’s Angels, but Babs is a seventies hippie chick, so it’s entirely in keeping with her retro style.
She wears her slightly rusty chrome bumpers with jaunty panache, and her juddering and backfiring is the biggest thrill my nether regions get most days, which is more of a sad reflection on me than her.
“It’s bigger than it looks in the pictures,” I murmur, leaning forward until my face is almost pressed flat against the glass as I peer up at the crenelated roofline above the third-floor windows.
The facade is bedecked with several tiers of stone-mullioned windows, seven abreast set across the wide, almost mellow pink stone.
It’s actually very pretty, if a castle can be considered as such.
It’s certainly a far cry from the austerity of the ruined gray castles Marina and I were hauled around on rainy school trips as kids.
It was difficult to listen to the teacher or tour guide when a bevy of beheaded prisoners from the 1500s were bustling around you with their heads underneath their arms indignant at their fate, or on another memorable occasion when the ghostly inmates of an asylum swamped me so badly that Marina caught me as I’d passed out.
I developed a twenty-four-hour sickness bug on trip days after that, which I expect came as a relief all around.
I was universally known at school as the latest in a long line of weirdos from Chapelwick’s resident crazy family.
I was saved from being bullied only by the fact that some of them had seen Carrie, the Stephen King movie where the telekinetic kid burns the school down with them in it. Oh, and by Marina, of course.
“Do you think we just knock on the door?” Artie says, gazing across the deep expanse of the gravel forecourt.
I don’t know why I’ve instinctively parked as far away from the castle as the forecourt permits; maybe because Babs is like an out-of-place canary here when there should only be sleek ravens.
A sweep of wide, shallow steps lead up onto a stone porch inset with ornate double oak doors.
Marina grins. “Nah. I reckon we should just sit here and wait until a knight rocks up and bangs his rod on the window or something.”
“His rod?” Laughter bubbles up in my throat. Trust Marina to be inappropriate.
She shrugs. “See if I’m wrong.”
On that, one of the front doors swings back on its hinges. “You were wrong,” Artie says.
All three of us watch a small, birdlike woman flutter out onto the top of the steps.
She shields her eyes with her hand to peer at us, and the huge jewels on her fingers catch the sunlight and bounce tiny rainbows around her, as if she is the actual rainbow queen in her own rainbow-themed Disney movie.
Only this queen has switched her turquoise velvet cloak for a turquoise velvet jumpsuit, and her ethereal crown has been exchanged for a white sun visor that loudly proclaims that she’s a fan of the Kansas City Chiefs.
“I’m guessing that must be Lady Lois Letterman,” I murmur. “Time to get out and say hi, people.”
Marina pulls a fresh pack of gum from her jeans pocket and opens the foil seal, miffed there will be no knight banging his rod on her windows today.
The tiny turquoise rainbow queen starts flapping both arms over her head.
“I think she’s recognized us,” I say.
“That or she’s trying to land a plane,” Artie says, watching her wide-eyed.
Marina laughs and I slide the driver’s door back and jump out onto the gravel with a satisfying crunch. I raise a hand as I round the front of Babs and join the others in the warm early July sunshine.
“She looks like a manic Smurf,” Marina says from the corner of her mouth as she glides effortlessly over the uneven gravel in her beloved skyscraper heels, while I link arms with her to stop myself from stumbling even though I’m in my daily uniform of Converse.
I let her go as we reach the safety of the sweeping stone steps and glance at Artie, flicking an encouraging wink.
He grins back, a slash of sunshine over his perpetually anxious eyes.
He’s coming out of his shell a little more every day and I’m enjoying watching him reveal his personality in front of us.
I don’t think he has a clue how funny or smart he is, because no one besides his parents ever took the time to see beyond the awkward, long-limbed boy in the thick glasses.
“That van is a riot!” Lois hoots, stilling her crazy arm motions as we come to a standstill on the top step.
Close up, she looks like a bit of a nut.
A walnut, to be precise, in that her skin is deeply tanned and crisscrossed with fine wrinkles in all directions.
She’s been crazy-paved by too much exposure to sunlight, but nonetheless she exudes an almost childlike energy and excitement.
Her skin says seventy-seven and her behavior says seven.
In actual fact, I know that she’s about to turn sixty.
I know this from research, because, as I already said, I am a badass businesswoman.
Or because Glenda Jackson gave me a file with all of the details.
Thanks to the file, I also know that Lois is Oklahoma born and bred, as is her husband, Barty, three years her senior.
“Melody?” she says, looking uncertainly at Marina, who in turn nudges me forward sharply enough for me to almost stumble into Lois.
I smile, wide and professional, as I thrust my hand out and flick my other elbow back into Marina’s ribs in retaliation.
I don’t think Lois notices our minor girl fight; she’s too busy arching her eyebrows at the fact that I’m the boss rather than my slicker, more put-together friend.
“I’m Melody Bittersweet,” I say at the same time Artie and Marina both say “She’s Melody Bittersweet.” Have they never seen Spartacus? My stretched smile is hurting my face, so I plow on. “I’m guessing you must be Mrs. Letterman?”
Her bright-blue eyes twinkle with trouble. “Aw, call me Lolo, honey, everyone does. Or Lady Lolo, as Barty has decided to call me!” She cackles loudly, amused by her own grandiosity. “What gave me away? The accent? The American tan?”
I’m tempted to say I’ve seen her photo clipped neatly into the file Glenda prepared, but I just nod and look enthusiastic. “All of those things. It’s so great to meet you.”
“What a place!” Marina steps up beside me, all smiles, her arms spread wide to indicate the castle.
Lois laughs with obvious delight. “Isn’t it? You buy a castle on the internet and, trust me, you fear you’re gonna roll up and find a pile of rubble.” She lowers her voice and leans in conspiratorially. “I mean, who does that, right? Only crazy Americans!”
We all nod and then shake our heads at the same time, confused.
Is this a test? I can feel myself getting hot and flustered even though I’m only wearing a skinny pink T-shirt.
I’ve deliberately moved away from my usual wardrobe of character or statement T-shirts to meet our prospective customers, because you never know whom you might offend with Frankie Says Relax emblazoned across your bajongos.
No one needs to know that I’m wearing my Wonder Woman knickers under my jeans.
That’s strictly between me and Lestat, the only male to lay eyes on me getting dressed in the morning.
“This is Marina Malone and Artie Elliott,” I say, introducing my motley crew.
“Lady Lolo. I feel as if I should curtsy!” Marina says, thrusting her hand out.
“Aw, honey, there’s really no need!” Lois says, but all the same she doesn’t take Marina’s hand, and her wide eyes and expectant smile say “Go on then, girlie. Drop for me on the steps of my castle.”
Marina shoots me a look that says “Must I?” and I respond with a bland smile that very clearly says “Why yes, you absolutely must.” I can barely contain my snort as I watch her daintily grip the edges of her imaginary tutu between her fingers and thumbs and bend her knees outward like a frog.
Lady Lolo looks taken aback, that big, flashy smile faltering slightly.
“Where I come from, a lady always keeps her knees together, honey,” she says with a sniff, and Marina shoots me a WTF glance.
“I’m so interested to see inside the castle,” I say, shiny-eyed and enthusiastic. “I don’t know how you don’t get lost in a place this size.”
“Oh I do, honey, all the time,” Lolo says. “I’ve got a pretty impressive holler for a tiny thing though.” She stops suddenly and throws her head back, then lets out a bloodcurdling scream. “Barty!”