Читать книгу The Doris Day Vintage Film Club: A hilarious, feel-good romantic comedy - Фиона Харпер - Страница 10

Dominic’s body clock was so screwed up he’d bypassed the sleepy stage of tiredness and now just felt a bit drunk. Reality swam in and out of focus when he opened his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was in yet another hostel or airport, but he soon realised the reason he didn’t recognise his own bedroom ceiling was two-fold—firstly, he stayed here so infrequently he’d forgotten what it looked like and, secondly, somehow he’d turned himself around in the night, and now he was lying with one foot on his pillow and his head in the opposite corner of the bed, one arm dangling towards the floor.

Food.

That was the thought that entered his head, a primal and desperate signal sent direct from his abdomen to his brain, but the rest of him was so exhausted he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to eat or throw up. Be that as it may, he still managed to flip himself off the bed and stumble into his kitchen.

Inspecting the fridge might be a risky manoeuvre. He’d gone straight out for a ‘welcome home’ drink with his mate Pete as soon as he’d dropped his rucksack inside his front door and hadn’t checked the contents yet. He couldn’t quite recall if he’d remembered to empty it before he’d left back in February.

To be honest, he was happy to leave that riddle unanswered for now.

He turned his attention to the cupboards. There wasn’t much tempting there, either. Packets of rice and pasta. A tin of kidney beans that he had no memory of buying – especially since he hated the things. Some Cup-a-Soups that were well past their expiration date.

His stomach growled and clenched.

Great.

It had finally made up its mind what it wanted: anything, basically. As long as it arrived within the next thirty seconds. He was just giving the can of kidney beans some serious thought when he spotted something brightly coloured lurking in the back of the cupboard. Before his brain even registered what it was, his hand delved in and retrieved it.

He laughed a little manically as he saw it and thought to himself, still smiling, that he was definitely still sleep loopy. Why else would the sight of a multipack of miniature cereal boxes be quite so funny?

He started tearing at the cellophane, which was a pretty stupid idea, he discovered, because as he battled with one end of the package, a box of Coco Pops fell out the other.

Ah, he’d already started them. He remembered now. This had been the joke gift Pete had given him on his birthday, quipping that Dominic couldn’t even commit to something as big as a whole box of cereal.

He abandoned the boxes still imprisoned in the cellophane for the one that had escaped. He ripped open the top and poured the contents into a bowl and ate it with a spoon that was technically too large for his mouth. He didn’t care. It was just the first thing that his fingers had landed on when he’d raided the cutlery drainer on the sink.

He turned and sat on the table, legs swinging, as he munched his way through the first couple of mouthfuls. Once he’d shoved the third in, he realised that, as nice as they were, Coco Pops were a tad dry on their own. He glanced hesitantly at the fridge. Any milk he’d left in there had probably been growing bacteria for so long it had now evolved into an organism the size of a small Yeti.

And then he remembered …

The old bird upstairs had her milk delivered. Had done for years.

He checked the clock. Six-forty. If he timed it right, he could ‘borrow’ a pint, then go out and buy a replacement before she came down to fetch it in. He wasn’t usually given to such petty thievery, but he was desperate. She was a nice old lady, with a great sense of humour and a twinkle in her eye. He was sure she’d understand.

He dropped his cereal bowl on the table with a clang, sending a shower of tiny chocolate pellets across the surface, and headed out of the kitchen. He was just salivating at the thought of all that ice-cold milk making his cereal pop when he opened his flat door, stepped outside and immediately found himself face down on the hall floor, something sharp digging into his arm.

He discovered it was a brake lever.

What the …?

He lay there for a moment, wondering if he was still dreaming, but the insistent throbbing in his bicep where the brake lever had poked him made that unlikely. Slowly, he picked himself up and dusted himself off. He could have sworn he hadn’t left the bike there last night. However, severe jet lag and a couple of beers could mean he was wrong about that. He probably shouldn’t have cycled home.

It was then he noticed the crisp white envelope lying on the floor. It was addressed to Mr D. Arden. He kept an eye on it while he righted his bike and leaned it against the wall, then picked the pristine letter up and went to snaffle the milk from the front step.

Thankfully, some things never changed. There was a pint waiting for him, still cold enough to be beaded with condensation. He picked it up, keeping the letter in his other hand, and made a mental note to go out to the shops as soon as he’d finished breakfast. He knew a plastic carton wasn’t going to fool her, but he’d leave a note, explaining …

Once back inside, he dumped a generous amount of milk on his Coco Pops then sat down on one of the kitchen chairs to read the letter.

Dear Mr Arden, it started. He snorted. That made him sound like his father. People hardly ever called him that. Most just used his last name, no pleasantries. Sometimes people used his Christian name, but a lot of his friends just called him Nic, mostly because he’d made it clear if they ever tried to shorten it to ‘Dom’ he’d flatten them. Whatever this letter contained, he guessed it wasn’t going to be good news.

He read on …

It has come to my attention that you are in residence again.

He snorted again, smiling as he continued to shove Coco Pops in his face. In residence? That didn’t just make him sound like his father; now he sounded like the Queen!

As a consequence, I think we should establish some ground rules that allow us to cohabit harmoniously.

Ah, the old bird upstairs. Once upon a time they’d got on fairly well, but maybe she was getting extra crabby in her old age. He stopped both reading and chewing to look at his kitchen ceiling. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her for quite a while. How long had it been? One year? Two? One time he’d come back she’d been so quiet he thought she might have gone into a home.

He’d thought they’d had quite a good arrangement going. Most of the time she had the house to herself and when he was ‘in residence’ she was deaf enough that she hadn’t minded his loud music or the fact his body clock was so messed up that sometimes he clattered about in the middle of the night and slept all day. Mainly, they’d just stayed out of each other’s hair. It seemed that was about to change.

He carried on reading, Coco Pops forgotten, with a growing sense of apprehension.

Firstly, I think we can all agree that the communal hallway is not a bicycle shed.

His eyebrows rose and he let out of huff of surprised laughter. His upstairs neighbour was starting to remind him of Mrs McClure, his old headmistress, who had also had a lot to say about him and bike sheds – but it hadn’t been about leaving his bike there, that was for sure.

Secondly, each of us should be responsible for our own post and the disposal thereof. I’m sure the Amazon rainforest will benefit greatly if you could cut down on your magazine subscriptions and remove yourself from quite so many takeaway food mailing lists.

He picked up his spoon and shovelled another helping of cereal in, frowning. Okay, this had been mildly amusing to start with, but where did this interfering old busybody get off telling him how to run his life?

Lastly, I should remind you that it is your duty to maintain any lights on the ground floor, just as it is mine to replace those on the top landing. It seems the light bulb in the hallway blew last night so I’d be very glad if you could replace it promptly and before you go away again, to prevent any further accidents from happening.

Yours sincerely,

Claire Bixby

Dominic stared at the letter. He wasn’t feeling quite as cheerful as he had when he’d picked it up. He chewed and his frown lines deepened further. Claire? He thought her name had been Laura or Lottie or something like that, although he’d always erred on the safe side and called her Mrs Bixby. He shook his head and threw the now chocolate milk-splattered letter down on the table. But then that generation were keen on abandoning their given names for nicknames. Look at his grandparents … They’d been christened Mavis and Reg, but everyone had called them Teddy and Bob.

He sighed. Normally, he’d have blown this off, because he’d have been away and the snotty letter thousands of miles behind him in less than a week’s time. However, the shoulder he’d busted a couple of years ago working in South America had been bothering him. And if it bothered him too much, then he couldn’t carry his kit, and that just wasn’t thinkable, especially now he was branching out, mixing his freelance camera operator work with making films of his own.

Stupid doctor had told him he needed to rest it, to let it finish its healing process without having to deal with the rigours of supporting a broadcast-size camera for hours on end, travelling in jeeps that would have laughed at the idea of suspension and sleeping in hammocks or on the ground.

He’d had the offer to work on a historical documentary for the BBC in China, about a plucky single lady from London by the name of Gladys Aylward, who’d travelled to China to be a missionary at the turn of the twentieth century. Not only had she ended up adopting over a hundred orphans, but she’d marched them over mountains and the Yellow River to escape the invading Japanese army.

Aside from the fact he was interested in the story, the job would put plenty of money in the coffers for his next directorial project, and would also provide some useful contacts. However, he needed to be fully fit by mid-July or they were going to have to go with someone else. He had some physio sessions lined up and an appointment with the specialist at the end of June, so he couldn’t say yay or nay until then.

All in all, it meant just one thing. He was grounded. For now at least.

Which also meant he was going to have to play nice with the old lady upstairs. He blew out a breath of frustration. Whoop-de-do. Less than twenty-four hours back in dear old London and he was already having so much fun.

He threw his empty cereal bowl in the sink and headed out to the hallway to collect his bike and stash it back in his spare room. And while he was at it, he really ought to write a note – a not too sarcastic note, if he could manage it – and explain about the milk. That was really going to put him in her good books, wasn’t it?

She had a point, he supposed. She probably wasn’t too steady on her feet any more, and the last thing he wanted was to be responsible for a broken hip because she’d tripped over his bike. He had left it in a pretty stupid place, hadn’t he? So stupid that he’d managed to fall foul of it himself. He shook his head and laughed softly as he lifted it up and manhandled it into his flat. It was only as he was resting it against the wall of his spare room-slash-office that he started to think about exactly just how stupidly the bike had been positioned …

He swore. Quite violently. And he didn’t care if the old bat could hear him!

The bike had been left partially covering his door, hadn’t it? Now he was properly awake, he could remember where he’d left it quite clearly, and it certainly hadn’t been where he’d found it this morning. The old witch! There was no way he could have parked the bike blocking his own front door, no matter how tired he was.

He wasn’t sure whether to have her arrested for assault or admire her for pranking him like that.

Looking at the desk full of unread Video Monthly and HD Camera Pro magazines, he walked over and rummaged for a bit of paper – any bit of paper – and a pen. He was going to write the sweet little old lady upstairs a note all right, but it certainly wasn’t going to be an apology for stealing her milk!