Page 49 of One Summer

No pressure, then.

At least, I reflect, Buttercup is a vegetarian reptile so will be content with a bowl of leaves, instead of requiring a complicated mouse-defrosting procedure, as outlined on another gruesome laminated sheet.

The icing on the cake is that one of the bull snakes is apparently severely constipated and therefore needs vibration therapy with its own ‘personal massage device’ which has to be masking-taped to its belly for twenty minutes a day – truly an act of animal husbandry that I never saw myself performing.

I slump down on the floor and lie flat on my back, staring up at swirls of Artex on the ceiling.

If only Max could see me now.

Forty-Two

Work

I won’t cry. I can’t afford to break down. Life is just a series of challenges and I have to rise to this one. So what if I’m going to be responsible for eighty-seven snakes, one cat, one dog and an ageing tortoise? It’s hardly working down the mines. There’ll still be time for lunch breaks in the sun, notepad scribbles and jewellery-making in the garden, won’t there? Won’t there?

A tear slides down my cheek. This is ridiculous. I didn’t cry when I got into trouble at work, I barely cried when Max dumped me, but I’m crying over the thought of properly looking after a few dozen snakes? Seven dozen. Plus three more.

I need to get a grip.

Ted gives me a sympathetic look and raises his front paw, as if he perfectly understands my mental anguish and would like to offer his support.

‘Thanks, Ted,’ I say, shaking hands, and then I get to work.

An hour of disinfecting water dishes and refilling them, and I can’t stop yawning. Exhaustion from the journey and the ensuing ‘excitement’ get the better of me, and even though it’s almost six-thirty and I know I’ll never fall asleep tonight if I nap now, I put my feet up on the sofa and let my eyes close.

When I wake up drooling onto a cushion two hours later, Ted is curled up against my chest with his head on my belly. He’s like a very soft and compact hot water bottle, which lets out the occasional snore.

I should move him. Nemo will be stressed out if he smells dog on me. It’ll be a betrayal, but Ted is fast asleep so he must have been on the sofa with me for a while, which means the damage is already done. His doggy scent will be all over my clothes – reeking, in Nemo’s opinion. And secretly, I think I may have already fallen a bit in love with Ted’s charms. He just has something about him. A je ne sais quoi that I can’t resist.

I stroke his head, and I wonder what Henny’s doing now. She’s rooting for me to make a go of this – she thinks I’m living the dream by giving up a dead-end job with a bully boss and moving to an idyllic island.

Outside, there’s a bird singing so loudly, they must be able to hear it on the other side of the island. A song thrush, maybe. It’s louder even than the roar of the high-tide waves hitting the cliff.

My thoughts flicker to Bandanna Man and I idly wonder if I’ll run into him again, but I doubt it; he doesn’t seem like the sociable type, and I can’t imagine bumping into him on quiz night down at the local pub. Once the penny drops that I’m the shell-stealer, he’ll probably just go back to glaring and huffing at me.

Yawning, I drag myself off the sofa. Before I start on the mouse-defrosting process for the snakes that specifically prefer to eat at bedtime, I make myself an instant, barely drinkable coffee and take it outside to appreciate the warm breeze and soft light of the evening, and to check on a still very wide-awake Buttercup. I feed her some lamb’s lettuce from her planter in the garden and sit by the washing line, trying to take the deep, yogic breaths that Henny was always on about.

I’m three breaths in when I hear a radio switched on. The sound is coming from the fabulous beach house next door, which is styled like a millionaire’s Mediterranean villa: white-painted walls with a red tiled roof, plus multiple terraces and balconies, and a show-stopping, white tower that I imagine encloses a lavish marble spiral staircase. I’ve already dreamed about it belonging to me, or at the very least to the sexy surfer with the red surfboard. I’ve even thought about having a quick wander across the lawn to look through the slit windows of that tower to see if the steps are indeed marble, but I haven’t been able to confirm if the place is empty. There’s been no light or noise in there until now, and I’d begun to assume it was some rich mainlander’s second home, who only comes to visit once a year.

But no, there is definitely someone in there now.

For a few moments, I can’t quite hear what the song is, but then the volume is turned up high and I hear the DJ introducing ‘Hits of the Eighties’ hour. The dulcet tones of Men at Work’s ‘Down Under’ blare into the calm evening air with its distinctive flute riff.

It must be some middle-aged person up there, I presume – an impression only strengthened by the off-key whistling that erupts from the upper balcony. The whistler – whoever they are – seems really invested in making it to the end of the song. I’d have thought they’d have at least stopped to take a breather, but no, they’re determined to make it from one flute riff to the next without a single pause.

When the song eventually ends, the whistler keeps going through ‘Tainted Love’ and ‘Money for Nothing’, but they’re completely defeated by New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’. They don’t seem to be taking this defeat well, since halfway through the song, the radio is abruptly switched off and I hear the thud of a hastily closed sliding door.

Ha. Whoever lives next door is going to be fun to have as a neighbour.

Maybe it’s an eccentric, rich, old woman, who will tell me all her scandalous stories and give me brilliant, life-changing advice.

But then again, I’m not that lucky.

Forty-Three

Itch

The nap was a mistake, just as I knew it would be, because now I can’t sleep. Ted insists on lying with his spine against mine and snoring loudly in my ear. Any attempt to make him sleep in another room has resulted in manic barking, so I’ve given in. Apart from the unwelcome addition of Ted to my sleeping quarters, my whole body itches – either from actual fleas or psychosomatic ones – and my back aches from the mattress, which appears to be made from some ancient memory foam that remembers nothing of its original shape and leaves me rolling into a pit every time I turn over.

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