I go to the door and put the key in nervously, unsure as to whether I should knock first. But then everyone else might be asleep still and their first impression of me would be that I’m the bitch that woke them up. Maybe they’re all in bed together and Jazz forgot to mention that they’re a sex colony. No Poppy, you’re getting ahead of yourself.
I take a deep breath and walk in, the smell of damp hitting me hard in the face. The swirly flower wallpaper in the hallway looks a hundred years old; making my head spin and the carpet is covered in brown and red stains. Someone must have died in this house. I look around, hoping it's not haunted.
I walk straight ahead into what smells like the kitchen, not from fresh bread being cooked or sausages and bacon, but from coffee and cigarettes. I dump my bag on top of the aged brown worktop and let out a big sigh. This is my new home I suppose.
‘Err, hello?’ a voice says from behind me, making me jump out of my skin.
I turn around, my heart racing, to find a man with brown messy hair sat at the kitchen table in a grey dressing gown. His dirty bare feet are resting on the other chair. God I hate other peoples feet. Don't get me wrong, mine are nothing to write home about either. In fact I could probably read a newspaper with my gangly toes. But still. I shudder at the sight of them in a kitchen. Milk from his porridge drips sloppily down his chin into his heavy dark stubble.
‘Hi!’ I say feeling instantly uncomfortable.
‘So...who are you then?’ he asks narrowing his eyes at me, as if he’s considering calling the police.
‘Oh...of course. You must be wondering who I am, of course!’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘I’m Poppy. I...’
But then I remember that Jazz said I have to lie. Have to make my life sound more exciting. I look around the house for inspiration, but all I can see is a toaster and a kettle. Then I spot a sombrero hanging up against the door. Perfect.
‘I’m Poppy, Jazz’s cousin from Spain. I’m staying here for a while and she’s gone to stay with a friend.’
‘Really? You don’t look Spanish?’ He eyes me suspiciously, whilst still managing to wolf down his porridge.
I try and stop my face retracting in disgust. I still feel a bit woozy and the smell of milk isn’t helping to settle my stomach.
‘Well, obviously I’m not actually Spanish. I’ve lived there for a few years and now I’m back.’ Yes that sounds viable, doesn’t it?
‘How long have you lived in Spain? You don’t look very tanned,’ he questions, his face unfriendly and his voice deeply sceptical. His eyes look over my pale face and body. I should have put some fake tan on; really committed to it.
‘Did I say years? I meant months!’ I say in unnaturally high tones. ‘I was only over there to...’ I search desperately round the room and spot some handbags. ‘To design handbags…for Jessica Simpson,’ I add, looking at the Simpsons advent calendar. Hang on, advent? Christmas was six months ago.
I stare at him a little discomfited. He stares back, seeming to study me. Maybe I went a bit too far with the Jessica Simpson thing.
‘Oh, well that's random.’ he finally says, seeming no friendlier. He tips the bowl up to slurp the last remains of the milk.
Hold onto your stomach Poppy. Do not vomit.
‘Morning!’ a girl sings, skipping into the room.
She’s shorter than me, probably only about 5 foot 2, but her limbs are long and tanned. Her brown wavy hair has honey highlights through it. It hangs down to her bum, swishing as she moves. She’s wearing pink tracksuit bottoms with a white vest top that shows off her tan. Now, she looks like she could have lived in Spain and designed handbags for Jessica Simpson.
‘Oh, I didn’t know we had company,’ she says, seeming taken aback. She looks back accusingly at the guy. ‘I can’t keep up with all of Ryan’s lady friends.’ She smiles and winks.
‘Oh – I’m not....I mean, I’m not here for...’
‘She’s not here visiting me.’ he grunts. ‘But if she were you’d have been totally rude. Thanks for that.’ he says, with another flash of irritation. He turns to face me, still not smiling. ‘This is Poppy. She’s Jazz’s cousin from Spain. She was there designing handbags for Jessica Simpson.’ he explains.
Did I notice sarcasm in his voice? Does he know I’m lying? Am I that transparent?
‘Oh my God! How cool is that! Did you get to meet her? Could you design me a bag?’ she squeals in excitement, her big brown eyes nearly popping out of her head. Well, she clearly believes me.
‘I...err...’
‘Jesus, Izzy, give her a second! She’s barely walked in the door and you’re harassing her.’
‘Oh shut up. She’s probably dying to tell someone all the gossip, aren’t you Poppy?’ she says, grinning broadly.
‘Actually, I am kind of knackered. Probably jet lag, you know.’ Hopefully now she’ll leave me alone.
I notice Ryan smirk out of the corner of my eye. Oh, come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t have jet lag from a two and a half hour flight. What an idiot.
‘Well, I’m Izzy,’ she sings. ‘Let me show you to Jazz’s room.’
She picks my bag up and dances out of the kitchen. Ryan gives me a vicious stare and I stare right back. Who does he think he is anyway? I follow her, not wanting to be left in the same room as that arrogant prick who is clearly not going to be my new best friend.
‘Here we go,’ she smiles opening the door next to the kitchen.
I stare back at her. She must be confused. Surely that’s the sitting room. My bedroom must be upstairs, no? She opens the door and I quickly realise this is my room. Jazz’s crap is thrown all over the room, barely leaving any floor space, and every surface is covered with make-up. I kick away some jeans so that I can make a path towards the double bed.
‘Well thanks.’ I flop onto the bed, hoping she will leave me alone.
She smiles and hops out of the room. Christ, she’s like a ballerina the way she dances around everywhere.
I stare at the ceiling while loud music starts playing through the walls and my stomach contracts with nerves. I’m living in a strange house, with strange people, telling them random lies about designing handbags. Why on earth did I ever agree to go along with this?
Chapter 3
‘Poppy!’
The sound of my name being called wakes me up. I sit upright and look at my watch. Its 7pm – I must have slept for hours.
‘Poppy!’ the screech comes again.
It sounds like that Izzy girl and she seems quite persistent. I get up and walk into the kitchen in my crumpled clothes, removing the sleep from my eyes.
‘Ah, there you are. We were thinking about going out for a few drinkies. Are you up for it?’ she asks as enthusiastic as ever.
‘Sorry, but who is she?’ a loud husky female voice asks.
I turn around to follow the voice and find a gorgeous woman in just her bra and knickers. She walks into the kitchen and takes a seat next to Izzy at the kitchen table.
Wow. She’s so breathtakingly beautiful I can't help but stare. Her long black hair is tousled, as if she’s been having sex all afternoon. She has cheekbones you could sharpen your knives on and eyes so dark brown that they’re almost black. She’s got dark olive skin, possibly Cuban, but I really can't work it out. Her pale pink lace bra shows of her amazing boobs, which I’m not sure are real. Her waist is tiny but her hips and butt are curvy. Her figure is probably better suited to FHM than this grubby kitchen. She takes a cigarette out of the packet on the table and lights it, leaning back casually, surveying me disapprovingly.
‘Poppy,’ Izzy says, miffed, as if she’d already told her twice.
‘Poppy?’ she smiles. ‘What, were you born on Remembrance Day or something?’ She laughs, her voice raspy, as she looks at me up and down.
‘Err...no,’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘My Mum just liked it I guess.’
‘How amusing.’ Her full dewy lips turn into a wide smirk.
I hate her.
‘Gracie! You should really try and be friendlier. You come across as such a bitch sometimes.’
‘Sorry, but we can’t all be miss sunshine 24 hours a day like you,’ she roars. ‘Anyway, I’m Grace. It’s nice to meet you Poppy.’
She extends her hand and shakes mine formally. Her hand is so cold that it sets the hairs on the back of my neck up. Her black painted nails press into my skin as she squeezes it tightly. What is with this chick? She reminds me of the beautiful bitches at school, always waiting to trip you up. Her face does mesmerise me though; it really is enticing. She could be a model. Maybe she is. Maybe I’m now living with a house full of models. Sure fire route to suicide... or at least bulimia.
‘So, are you up for coming out then Poppy?’ Izzy asks, smiling hopefully.
‘Um...yeah, ok.’ I try to sound half as upbeat as her.
‘Sweet!’ She jumps up and down, catching me off guard by hugging me. God, she clearly has no problem with physical contact. She swivels round. ‘Ryan! Are you coming too?’
I look around a wall and find a tiny two seater sofa with a TV in front of it. Ryan is sprawled out over it, still in his dressing gown, his long hairy legs dangling over the edge.