Page 25 of Six Steps to Happiness
Desperate to get out of there, Ronnie spotted Willow and Bea parked up on the other side of the street, waiting to drive her home. However, as she hastily made her exit, she failed to watch where she was going as she stepped out onto the footpath. “Ouch!” she said, as she walked smack bang into a passer-by. Her handbag flew from her hands, its contents spilling out as it hit the floor. “Bugger!” she said, immediately crouching down in a desperate bid to retrieve her belongings. Of course that wouldn’t have happened if she’d been using one of her own bags, giving her yet another reason to be upset. It was just like her to treat everyone else and never create something for herself.
“Sorry,” a male voice said, its owner joining her at floor level to help.
Ronnie paused for a second, before lifting her gaze. “PC Shenton,” she said. As if the day couldn’t get any worse. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Ronnie?” he asked, as if not quite sure.
As he continued to look at her, Ronnie flushed red, momentarily mesmerised by his eyes. They were the palest shade of blue and he had the kind of long dark lashes most women would die for. Realising she was staring, Ronnie suddenly remembered her dodgy haircut and, diverting her attention, swept everything back into her bag at double speed. “Sorry, I have to go,” she said and straightening back up, hurried across the road.
“Ronnie!” he called out, but she pretended not to hear as she threw herself into the back of Willow’s vehicle.
She waited for her daughter to start the engine and drive away, but as they turned to look at her, both Willow and Bea froze.
“Please, take me home,” Ronnie said, staring directly out of the front window.
“What have they done to you?” Willow asked.
“Jesus, take the reins.” Bea stifled a giggle. “It’s Rod bloody Stewart.”
17
Having retreated to her studio for the foreseeable future, Ronnie stared down at the sketchpad resting on her knee. She chewed on her pencil, assessing the potential handbag design she’d come up with. Hating it, she sighed, and unable to think about anything but the state of her head, added a face and spikes of unruly hair to the drawing. “It’s like looking in a mirror,” she said, scribbling over the whole image. She scoffed, supposing that thanks to Pete, she at least had plenty of time to come up with a collection she’d be happy with; about six months, the rate her mop grew.
Ronnie hadn’t been able to concentrate at all since that man had gotten his hands on it. Goodness knew what he’d done, because in the forty-eight hours since, she’d tried styling and restyling and still ended up looking like an ageing rock star. She wondered if there was a call for Rod Stewart lookalikes of late. After all, if her creativity didn’t show itself, she’d have to earn money somehow. Ronnie let out a mocking laugh as she pictured herself prancing around on some stage or other. As long as they didn’t need her to sing, considering she was tone deaf.
Deciding to give up for the day, she slung her pad and pencil to one side and, letting herself out into the garden, locked up behind her. Making her way towards the house, she stopped at the sound of number eight’s back door opening.
“I’m telling you,” Gaye said, charging out into the open air. “It’s a ghost!”
Ronnie put a hand up to her mouth, surprised by her neighbour’s voice.Operation Poltergeist.How could she have forgotten? She reached up to touch her hair and for the first time since getting it done, Ronnie smiled, wondering if she should be grateful for the debacle at the hair salon. Having thought about nothing but next door for months, thanks to Pete, her ex and his new woman had been the last thing on her mind.
She ducked down, hoping no-one would spot her as she listened in.
“Come on, Gaye,” Nick replied.
He sounded dismissive, but Ronnie had always known thathe’dneed hard evidence before falling for her stunt. Nick had always been a sceptic when it came to talk of the spirit world; one of the reasons that madeOperation Poltergeistsuch fun. Ronnie, however, recognised a believer when she saw one and, from the beginning, would have put money on Gaye being like her, a fan of all the TV ghost hunting shows; shows that Nick readily dismissed as hocus-pocus trickery.
“You can’t possibly think that,” he continued.
Determined to enjoy every second of this, Ronnie tried her best not to laugh.
“What else can it be?” Gaye asked.
“I don’t know,” Nick replied, clearly getting frustrated. “An earthquake, maybe?”
“An earthquake?” Gaye was having none of it. “Now who’s being ridiculous?” The woman’s voice crumpled. “Oh, Nick, you saw those pictures. They’re hanging at the exact same angle. And the kitchen drawers…”
Ronnie couldn’t deny Gaye’s nervousness, but as far as Ronnie was concerned, the woman had brought everything on herself. All Gaye had to do was move, which according to Nick’s prior text message, she refused to do.
“Sweetheart, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“Well, I can’t think of one.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes; she didn’t have to see the pout, she could hear it.
“Why don’t you go and run yourself a nice hot bath,” Nick carried on. “And I’ll do a bit of research.”
Ronnie imagined Nick putting his arms around Gaye in an attempt at reassurance. Ronnie stuck a finger in her mouth, pretending to make herself sick.
