You're Right Next Door by Carrie Magillen

Author:Carrie Magillen [Magillen, Carrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-17T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FOUR

GLENDA

‘We’re just going a different way this year,’ Cynthia says.

‘You couldn’t take the trouble to come here and tell me that in person? You had to do it over the phone? I’ve already ordered the flyers⁠—’

‘Really? You usually leave those till the last minute. Cancel them, will you, Glenda? We’re going for a fresh design this time.’

‘I can’t cancel them. They’re being printed this morning.’

‘This morning? How were you going to pay for them? You know you have to put in a kitty request before incurring expenses.’

‘I was going to, but I wanted to get on top of the organisation this year and you were⁠—’

‘That’s my point, Glenda. I didn’t think you’d be so upset. I mean, every year you complain about having too much on your plate for the⁠—’

‘It’s different this year.’

‘It is different,’ Cynthia says. ‘It’s going to be very different. We have Mark and Laura now and they’re donating a substantial sum to the village fête. We even have enough for a marquee.’

‘Just because he’s donating, that doesn’t mean I can’t still organise it.’

‘There’s no need, darling. Mark has offered the services of Hardman’s events co-ordinator. She may even be able to get us a famous band for the soirée. I bet Mark knows all sorts of people: Take That, Harry Styles.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Cynthia. Take That and Harry Styles don’t play at village fêtes.’

‘Maybe not. But maybe if Mark Hardman asks them to … His radio station plays their records after all.’

‘How about if I work alongside Hardman’s co-ordinator? After all, she doesn’t know the village, and I do.’

‘Hmm … I did think about that,’ Cynthia says. ‘But I hear relations between you, Mark and Laura are a bit … What’s the word? Chilly. Didn’t you tear down their garden fence or something?’

‘Oh, fuck off, Cynthia.’

She squeals my name, but I only catch half of it before hanging up the phone. I scroll through my contacts for the local printer, but no matter how many times I hang up and redial, the phone just squawks a busy signal. So I grab my handbag from the kitchen counter and rush for the door.

Closing it behind me, I realise that telling Cynthia to fuck off probably wasn’t the best idea. She might have paid the printer’s fees out of sympathy. She won’t now. And I’ll be a hundred pounds out of pocket. Not only that, I’ll have a thousand useless fliers lying in my garage. I had them printed with a silk finish, so maybe I could take them over to Mark and Laura’s and they can wipe their asses with them.

I shuffle down the path, talking to myself in my best Cynthia accent. ‘Oh, Mark has offered the services of Hardman’s events co-ordinator!’ Of course he fucking has.

I stop dead when I reach my car on the drive.

From headlight to tail-light, my brand-new Ford Focus – in Fantastic Red – has a scratch along the side. As I run my finger along it, praying it’s superficial and will rub out with some T-Cut, I swallow bile.

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