Page 7 of Scary In Love
I nod politely, wondering how on earth they’ve managed to keep track of our names, and Peter’s head snaps towards me.
“Do you know this woman?”
“No, I’ve never been here before.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Miller snaps, her booming voice sucking all the air out of the room. “Why would you tell such filthy lies, girl?”
“I’m… sorry?”
I’m not sorry. I’m fucking delighted at being told off. Her tone sends a humiliating thrill up my spine.
“You will be,” she mutters, her top lip curling in disgust before she fixes her smile back in place. “Tea?”
Peter and I speak at the same time.
“Yes, please.”
“No, thank you.”
At least he’s remembered his manners.
“You’ll drink my tea,” she says, her voice so stern it makes me pinch my lips closed.
Thin brown water pours from the teapot. I watch for steam, a sign that it’s authentic and hot, but I imagine from a health and safety perspective that’s not possible.
“Milk.”
It’s not a question. She raises the jug, tilting it just so. Thick, creamy clumps of rancid slop land in the cup, splashing tea over the side.
My throat closes up, and beside me, Peter almost loses the contents of his stomach, retching over the side of the sofa.
I stifle a laugh and catch Lady Miller’s eye. To her credit, she remains in character, frowning in disgust. She sets the teacups and saucers down, and lifts a three-tier cake stand from beneath the table, setting it in front of us.
Beyond the fact that the contents are inedible, there’s a mutualunderstanding we won’t actually interact with her props.
“Do help yourself. Everything was baked fresh this morning. Just for you.”
Lady Miller’s true title should be Queen of Bullshit. We lean in closer to see her‘fresh’cakes are covered in green fluffy mold, I assume not real.
“Is something wrong?” Her smile is saccharine but deadly. “You wouldn’t offend me by refusing my fine fare now, would you? Take a scone, dear.”
I lift one to find it teeming with maggots. Peter gags into his hands and slumps against the back of the sofa.
The whole thing is perfect, and I’ve been so thoroughly absorbed in the scene, I don’t notice a figure approaching behind us until he roars between our faces.
“The Lady said eat!” he roars.
It all happens so quickly. I drop the scone on the table, make my apologies and stand, ready to head for the next room. Peter leaps up, but the next thing I know he’s on the floor, kicking and screaming like an upturned bug. If I didn’t already have the ick, I definitely do now.
I look down to see an arm reaching out from underneath the sofa, shackling his ankle as he thrashes around. He’s so loud I have to cover my ears, but when I stoop to help him up, his eyes shut so tightly he doesn’t understand it’s me.
“Leave me alone,” he cries, his feet kicking out as he tries to escape the actor’s firm hold. One connects with my knee, sending searing pain shooting through it.
“Motherfucker,” I yell, hopping on the other leg before toppling backwards onto the sofa. Would be more apt if it were a Victorian fainting couch.
“Oh shit,” Lady Miller says, dropping her accent as she rushes to my side. Peter scrambles towards the door we first came through.
“Get out of my way,” I hear him yell, leaving me alone with three actors whose shocked expressions are definitely not part of the act.
