Free Pompomberry House by Rosen Trevithick

friends?” she asked.
    “Nothing’s changed since yesterday,” I replied, deliberately
leaving my remark open to interpretation.
    “Oh good!” she beamed. Then she grabbed me, wrapped both
arms around my waist, and gave me a bear hug. I felt a little baffled by it.
All I wanted was my breakfast.
    I was happy to hear that it would be a working breakfast.
After yesterday and all the faffing around, I was keen to get started on the
book.
    When I entered, Montgomery was mid-rant. He was dressed in
another old-fashioned suit paired with navy and red striped slippers. As he
shouted, his head flailed around, sending locks of grey hair flapping. The
other writers sat around watching.
    “Why would she say that? What skin is it off her nose if we
write another book?”
    The room burned with anger, like fire in hell.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “It’s Enid Kibbler!” he cried. “She just posted about the
anthology we’re writing!”
    “She did? Well, what did she say?”
    “That she was considering sprinting here, just so that she
could stop us polluting the interweb with more of our lowbrow drivel.”
    “Where did she write that?”
    “On the forum!”
    “Our forum?”
    “Yes!”
    “What is Enid Kibbler doing on a forum for indie writers?”
    “Poisoning!”
    “How do you know she’s commented?”
    “I checked the forum on my phone.”
    Dawn stepped in. She was wearing a lemon top and a turquoise
skirt that looked as though it might once have been a tent. By ‘lemon top’, I
don’t mean that it was a tasteful pale-yellow colour; pictures of the fruit
were actually printed onto the fabric, in garish tones of yellowy-lime. “Dee is
quite right, Monty. This is supposed to be a retreat. Turn your phone off.”
    “Who does she think she is?” he bellowed.
    I began to stutter, “I just ...”
    “Not you, I mean Enid!”
    “Phone off, Monty!” demanded Dawn.
    “You’ve got a new review,” he told her, changing the
subject.
    “I have?” she asked, suddenly alert.
    “Yeah, it’s a Jellie Monsta.”
    “Oh great,” she said, sarcastically. “Nobody takes any
notice of her reviews. She doesn’t even know the difference between double and single
quotes.”
    Rafe spoke up. I noticed that whilst Annabel looked transformed
by their night of passion (glowing and giggly), Rafe looked the same as ever. “Jellie
Monsta interviewed me once. She asked me if I had kept any of my childhood toys.
I mean, what sort of thing is that to ask a writer ? Damned interview.
Didn’t help me sell a single book.”
    “We mustn’t let people who don’t understand our art get us
down,” Dawn explained, in encouraging tones. I was amazed by how rapidly she
had switched from demanding to nurturing. “I do relate to your frustration
though, Rafe. My first review was by Jellie Monsta. I was gutted, because there
wasn’t a single line I could quote from it. Every single sentence contained a
grammatical error.”
    “But it was kind of her to write a review though, wasn’t it?”
I asked.
    “Oh, bless you!” chuckled Dawn.
    Montgomery walked past me, to get to the door. I detected
the odour of mothballs.
    “Where are you going?” demanded Dawn.
    “Taking my phone up to my room,” he replied.
    “Well don’t!” she snapped. “I haven’t read my new review
yet.”
    Breakfast was a tasty-looking spread, which could only mean
that Dawn had had nothing to do with it. There were three types of cereal, four
types of pastry, toast, juices, yoghurts and some little dark brown-red blobs
that I couldn’t identify.
    “Do you like my pirate’s hearts?” asked Dawn.
    “What are they?” I enquired, poking one tentatively with a
spoon.
    “Scones soaked in pig’s blood.”
    “Oh.” I quickly retreated. Perhaps Dawn had had
something to do with breakfast.
    I expected her to be offended, but instead she leapt up in
the air and shouted, “Bingo!” When she landed, the whole house quivered. Thank
goodness the walls