Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Might it be a family trait?
More tea drinking. More gossip. More worried looks from Amelia.
I let Sadie’s grandson sit in the driver’s seat of my car to pretend he’s Batman and agree with the oldies that it’s a good thing it’s not raining. There are definitely better uses of my time, but I just can’t get my feet to take me.
A little after four in the afternoon, news is brought to us by means of a community police officer. She’s wearing a high viz jacket about ten sizes too big, which makes her look like a little girl wearing her father’s coat. But she has the appropriate amount of authority in her tone to get the older ladies to pay attention. We’re told that the houses in Doreen’s street, plus three others, are off-limits until the almost eighty-year-old bomb, that is likely highly volatile, is moved off-site for a controlled detonation.
Cries of dismay go up, but it’s not the young WPC’s fault, so no one gives her a second look as she moves along to deliver the news elsewhere.
“But we don’t have any of our things.” Amelia looks genuinely dismayed.
“Well, I did think ahead,” Doreen says, reaching for a blue, white, and red checkered shopping bag. Large and square, you could probably fold a dead body in it. “Not much, of course. Just a few things. Here.” She thrusts a phone charger Amelia’s way.
Amelia blinks. “Anything else?”
“I thought there was more,” Doreen says, digging deeper into the bag, “but this is all my stuff. My makeup bag…I wouldn’t go anywhere without that.”
“Too right,” strikes up one of the chorus.
“Me either,” agrees another.
“I have my good shoes and a change of undies, my slippers, plus my nightie and face cream. And my vibrator, of course.”
“Aunt Doreen!” Amelia declares, her face a picture—a picture of a thousand burning suns.
“What’s wrong with you?” the older woman demands. “I’m sorry I didn’t get more of your things, but by the time I’d chased Brian around the house—”
“Who’s Brian? Actually, you know what?” Mimi holds up her hand. “Don’t answer that.” She also seems to be resisting a shiver of discomfort.
“The cat.” Doreen gestures to the pet carrier on the floor. “The ginger tom cat you’ve become such friends with.”
“I thought his name was moggy.”
“I did tell you,” I murmur, which earns me a frown from both women. “It sounds like Doreen’s vibrator was just at hand. As far as packing goes.”
Mimi scrunches her nose in distaste.
“Well, yes, it was,” Doreen begins, making Mimi look like she might pass out from embarrassment. “I keep it on my armchair next to the fire. You know I do,” she says, turning to Mimi. “I asked you to switch it on the other night.” That squeak? That might’ve been from me as I try not to lose my ever-loving shit. This is hilarious! “Remember I said it helps with my lumbago?”
“The vibrating seat pad with the infrared heat!” Mimi says in a moment of relieved eureka!
“What did you think I was talking about?” Mimi shakes her head, but it doesn’t stop the older woman from barrelling on. “For goodness’ sakes, did you think I was talking about a dildol?”
“Dildo,” one of the senior sisterhood helpfully puts in. Mimi is now puce, and I think I might not be far behind. This is the most entertaining conversation I’ve heard in forever, and it’s seriously taking some effort not to give in to a belly laugh, the kind that makes you bend forward because you feel like you can’t breathe. Oh, man. Talk about entertaining.
“Dildo,” Doreen corrects.
“Aunt Doreen,” Mimi pleads, pressing her face into her hands.
“I’m no prude.” She glances between Mimi and me. “I doubt he is, either. But I don’t own a dildol—a dildo,” she amends with an annoyed shake of her head. “I don’t need one, not when I have Frank!”
The woman of the garden hose comment looks like she’s just swallowed a brick. Geriatric jealousy in the suburbs? This would make a hilarious TV show.
“Give over,” heckles another woman. “The man is seventy-five if he’s a day!”
“And I’m older than that,” she says, puffing out her chest. “Let me tell you, Barb, many a good tune is played on an old fiddle.”
“Or a garden hose,” I find myself barking out, unable to help myself this time as I bend at the waist and give in to a shoulder-shaking, belly-aching roar.
“What’s up with him?”
“If you don’t stop snickering, I’m going to scream.”
“I can’t help it,” I protest, flicking the indicator to turn left. “You’ll have to distract me if you don’t want me thinking about this afternoon. God, I hope I have half as much life in me when I’m Doreen’s age.”
Mimi harrumphs and folds her arms, turning her gaze to the passenger window. It’s only there a beat before she turns to me again. “Do you think I’ll be able to get back to the house tomorrow?”