The Doris Day Vintage Film Club: A hilarious, feel-good romantic comedy

Chapter Five

Anything You Can Do

Dominic’s body clock was so screwed up he’d bypassed the sleepy stage of tiredness and now just felt a bit drunk. Reality swam in and out of focus when he opened his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was in yet another hostel or airport, but he soon realised the reason he didn’t recognise his own bedroom ceiling was two-fold—firstly, he stayed here so infrequently he’d forgotten what it looked like and, secondly, somehow he’d turned himself around in the night, and now he was lying with one foot on his pillow and his head in the opposite corner of the bed, one arm dangling towards the floor.

Food.

That was the thought that entered his head, a primal and desperate signal sent direct from his abdomen to his brain, but the rest of him was so exhausted he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to eat or throw up. Be that as it may, he still managed to flip himself off the bed and stumble into his kitchen.

Inspecting the fridge might be a risky manoeuvre. He’d gone straight out for a ‘welcome home’ drink with his mate Pete as soon as he’d dropped his rucksack inside his front door and hadn’t checked the contents yet. He couldn’t quite recall if he’d remembered to empty it before he’d left back in February.

To be honest, he was happy to leave that riddle unanswered for now.

He turned his attention to the cupboards. There wasn’t much tempting there, either. Packets of rice and pasta. A tin of kidney beans that he had no memory of buying – especially since he hated the things. Some Cup-a-Soups that were well past their expiration date.

His stomach growled and clenched.

Great.

It had finally made up its mind what it wanted: anything, basically. As long as it arrived within the next thirty seconds. He was just giving the can of kidney beans some serious thought when he spotted something brightly coloured lurking in the back of the cupboard. Before his brain even registered what it was, his hand delved in and retrieved it.

He laughed a little manically as he saw it and thought to himself, still smiling, that he was definitely still sleep loopy. Why else would the sight of a multipack of miniature cereal boxes be quite so funny?

He started tearing at the cellophane, which was a pretty stupid idea, he discovered, because as he battled with one end of the package, a box of Coco Pops fell out the other.

Ah, he’d already started them. He remembered now. This had been the joke gift Pete had given him on his birthday, quipping that Dominic couldn’t even commit to something as big as a whole box of cereal.

He abandoned the boxes still imprisoned in the cellophane for the one that had escaped. He ripped open the top and poured the contents into a bowl and ate it with a spoon that was technically too large for his mouth. He didn’t care. It was just the first thing that his fingers had landed on when he’d raided the cutlery drainer on the sink.

He turned and sat on the table, legs swinging, as he munched his way through the first couple of mouthfuls. Once he’d shoved the third in, he realised that, as nice as they were, Coco Pops were a tad dry on their own. He glanced hesitantly at the fridge. Any milk he’d left in there had probably been growing bacteria for so long it had now evolved into an organism the size of a small Yeti.

And then he remembered …

The old bird upstairs had her milk delivered. Had done for years.

He checked the clock. Six-forty. If he timed it right, he could ‘borrow’ a pint, then go out and buy a replacement before she came down to fetch it in. He wasn’t usually given to such petty thievery, but he was desperate. She was a nice old lady, with a great sense of humour and a twinkle in her eye. He was sure she’d understand.

He dropped his cereal bowl on the table with a clang, sending a shower of tiny chocolate pellets across the surface, and headed out of the kitchen. He was just salivating at the thought of all that ice-cold milk making his cereal pop when he opened his flat door, stepped outside and immediately found himself face down on the hall floor, something sharp digging into his arm.

He discovered it was a brake lever.

What the …?

He lay there for a moment, wondering if he was still dreaming, but the insistent throbbing in his bicep where the brake lever had poked him made that unlikely. Slowly, he picked himself up and dusted himself off. He could have sworn he hadn’t left the bike there last night. However, severe jet lag and a couple of beers could mean he was wrong about that. He probably shouldn’t have cycled home.

It was then he noticed the crisp white envelope lying on the floor. It was addressed to Mr D. Arden. He kept an eye on it while he righted his bike and leaned it against the wall, then picked the pristine letter up and went to snaffle the milk from the front step.

Thankfully, some things never changed. There was a pint waiting for him, still cold enough to be beaded with condensation. He picked it up, keeping the letter in his other hand, and made a mental note to go out to the shops as soon as he’d finished breakfast. He knew a plastic carton wasn’t going to fool her, but he’d leave a note, explaining …

Once back inside, he dumped a generous amount of milk on his Coco Pops then sat down on one of the kitchen chairs to read the letter.

Dear Mr Arden, it started. He snorted. That made him sound like his father. People hardly ever called him that. Most just used his last name, no pleasantries. Sometimes people used his Christian name, but a lot of his friends just called him Nic, mostly because he’d made it clear if they ever tried to shorten it to ‘Dom’ he’d flatten them. Whatever this letter contained, he guessed it wasn’t going to be good news.

He read on …

It has come to my attention that you are in residence again.

He snorted again, smiling as he continued to shove Coco Pops in his face. In residence? That didn’t just make him sound like his father; now he sounded like the Queen!

As a consequence, I think we should establish some ground rules that allow us to cohabit harmoniously.

Ah, the old bird upstairs. Once upon a time they’d got on fairly well, but maybe she was getting extra crabby in her old age. He stopped both reading and chewing to look at his kitchen ceiling. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her for quite a while. How long had it been? One year? Two? One time he’d come back she’d been so quiet he thought she might have gone into a home.

He’d thought they’d had quite a good arrangement going. Most of the time she had the house to herself and when he was ‘in residence’ she was deaf enough that she hadn’t minded his loud music or the fact his body clock was so messed up that sometimes he clattered about in the middle of the night and slept all day. Mainly, they’d just stayed out of each other’s hair. It seemed that was about to change.

He carried on reading, Coco Pops forgotten, with a growing sense of apprehension.

Firstly, I think we can all agree that the communal hallway is not a bicycle shed.

His eyebrows rose and he let out of huff of surprised laughter. His upstairs neighbour was starting to remind him of Mrs McClure, his old headmistress, who had also had a lot to say about him and bike sheds – but it hadn’t been about leaving his bike there, that was for sure.

Secondly, each of us should be responsible for our own post and the disposal thereof. I’m sure the Amazon rainforest will benefit greatly if you could cut down on your magazine subscriptions and remove yourself from quite so many takeaway food mailing lists.

He picked up his spoon and shovelled another helping of cereal in, frowning. Okay, this had been mildly amusing to start with, but where did this interfering old busybody get off telling him how to run his life?

Lastly, I should remind you that it is your duty to maintain any lights on the ground floor, just as it is mine to replace those on the top landing. It seems the light bulb in the hallway blew last night so I’d be very glad if you could replace it promptly and before you go away again, to prevent any further accidents from happening.

Yours sincerely,

Claire Bixby

Dominic stared at the letter. He wasn’t feeling quite as cheerful as he had when he’d picked it up. He chewed and his frown lines deepened further. Claire? He thought her name had been Laura or Lottie or something like that, although he’d always erred on the safe side and called her Mrs Bixby. He shook his head and threw the now chocolate milk-splattered letter down on the table. But then that generation were keen on abandoning their given names for nicknames. Look at his grandparents … They’d been christened Mavis and Reg, but everyone had called them Teddy and Bob.

He sighed. Normally, he’d have blown this off, because he’d have been away and the snotty letter thousands of miles behind him in less than a week’s time. However, the shoulder he’d busted a couple of years ago working in South America had been bothering him. And if it bothered him too much, then he couldn’t carry his kit, and that just wasn’t thinkable, especially now he was branching out, mixing his freelance camera operator work with making films of his own.

Stupid doctor had told him he needed to rest it, to let it finish its healing process without having to deal with the rigours of supporting a broadcast-size camera for hours on end, travelling in jeeps that would have laughed at the idea of suspension and sleeping in hammocks or on the ground.

He’d had the offer to work on a historical documentary for the BBC in China, about a plucky single lady from London by the name of Gladys Aylward, who’d travelled to China to be a missionary at the turn of the twentieth century. Not only had she ended up adopting over a hundred orphans, but she’d marched them over mountains and the Yellow River to escape the invading Japanese army.

Aside from the fact he was interested in the story, the job would put plenty of money in the coffers for his next directorial project, and would also provide some useful contacts. However, he needed to be fully fit by mid-July or they were going to have to go with someone else. He had some physio sessions lined up and an appointment with the specialist at the end of June, so he couldn’t say yay or nay until then.

All in all, it meant just one thing. He was grounded. For now at least.

Which also meant he was going to have to play nice with the old lady upstairs. He blew out a breath of frustration. Whoop-de-do. Less than twenty-four hours back in dear old London and he was already having so much fun.

He threw his empty cereal bowl in the sink and headed out to the hallway to collect his bike and stash it back in his spare room. And while he was at it, he really ought to write a note – a not too sarcastic note, if he could manage it – and explain about the milk. That was really going to put him in her good books, wasn’t it?

She had a point, he supposed. She probably wasn’t too steady on her feet any more, and the last thing he wanted was to be responsible for a broken hip because she’d tripped over his bike. He had left it in a pretty stupid place, hadn’t he? So stupid that he’d managed to fall foul of it himself. He shook his head and laughed softly as he lifted it up and manhandled it into his flat. It was only as he was resting it against the wall of his spare room-slash-office that he started to think about exactly just how stupidly the bike had been positioned …

He swore. Quite violently. And he didn’t care if the old bat could hear him!

The bike had been left partially covering his door, hadn’t it? Now he was properly awake, he could remember where he’d left it quite clearly, and it certainly hadn’t been where he’d found it this morning. The old witch! There was no way he could have parked the bike blocking his own front door, no matter how tired he was.

He wasn’t sure whether to have her arrested for assault or admire her for pranking him like that.

Looking at the desk full of unread Video Monthly and HD Camera Pro magazines, he walked over and rummaged for a bit of paper – any bit of paper – and a pen. He was going to write the sweet little old lady upstairs a note all right, but it certainly wasn’t going to be an apology for stealing her milk!

Chapter Six

Ain’t We Got Fun?

Claire woke with a start and immediately flipped herself over to look at her alarm clock. Sunlight was streaming through her thin floral curtains. Her heart was racing and she pressed a palm against her chest to calm it.

It was okay. It was still only just past seven. She wasn’t late for work. She yawned and collapsed back down into the mattress.

She’d crawled back into bed not long after delivering her note to her neighbour, thinking she might as well be comfortable as she whiled the hours away until she needed to get up, but she must have dropped off to sleep almost immediately. Hmm. It seemed she’d been right – her plan of getting all of those churning thoughts out of her head and onto paper had worked. She actually felt quite refreshed. Even that image of her father in his armchair was receding, getting fuzzier and less insistent.

She stared at the ceiling, her mind drifting, and it inevitably flowed until she was thinking of the letter. She replayed what she’d written inside her head, listening to herself as she read it aloud. After a moment, she pushed herself halfway to sitting, rubbed a hand over her face then through her hair. She’d thought the wording had sounded formal and firm last night. Now, in the mellow sunshine of a May morning, it seemed a little … well … snotty.

It would have been a better idea to just write the stupid thing so she could get some rest, but leave it on her kitchen counter instead of delivering it straight away. She smiled to herself. That was the beauty of actual pen and paper as opposed to electronic forms of communication. It wasn’t permanent, irrevocable, until it was in the hands of its intended recipient. With email that took a split second, but she’d bet her letter was still sitting on the bicycle saddle downstairs. She really didn’t think Dominic Arden was much of a morning person.

Maybe she should just go down and fetch it, have a little read … She could always seal it up in a new envelope if she still thought it was fine, although it did seem a bit of a waste to use two such fine bits of stationery on one such unappreciative man.

She flicked the switch of the kettle on as she passed by the kitchen and headed for her front door. Quietly, still in her love-heart PJs, she crept down the stairs and headed for the bike.

Ah.

Too late.

Damn that man’s nocturnal wanderings. Not only was her lovely envelope gone, but the bike had disappeared too. He’d definitely found it.

Oh, well. The tone might have been a bit sharp, but she stood by what she’d said. She stared at his front door. There was no movement behind the glazed top panels, no sound from inside. She let out a breath of relief. The confrontation would come eventually, but she was kind of glad it wasn’t about to happen right now.

Before heading back upstairs, she turned and crossed the hall to open the front door, but when she stared down at where her glass bottle of milk should have been all she found was a plastic two-pinter with a scruffy note taped to it.

Huh? Since when had the milkman been buying his supplies at Tesco? And why was he sending her notes? She paid her bill online these days.

Frowning, she ripped the note off then hooked the plastic carton over a finger and used her free hand to unfold the piece of paper as she trudged back upstairs.

When Claire was halfway up, she stopped.

Of all the …

Dear Ms Bixby, it started. Thank you so much for your very informative note.

Claire’s stomach dropped. The tone matched that of her letter perfectly, and she’d been right – it did sound snotty.

I’m sure we can all agree … it continued. Claire swallowed and started walking up the stairs to her flat again.

It was written perfectly reasonably and neatly – surprisingly neatly, actually, given that Mr Arden seemed such a pig the rest of the time – but somehow the words oozed sarcasm. Was that how her note had come across? She really hadn’t intended it to. She closed her front door, deposited the milk on her kitchen counter and carried on reading, picking up at the beginning of the paragraph again.

I’m sure we can all agree that you probably don’t need to have your nose quite so far into my business. What I do with my post and what I eat really is no concern of yours.

I will, however, concede that I shouldn’t have left my bike parked where it was last night, but I must admit I (wrongly) assumed that you would be safely indoors and watching Countdown with your cocoa by the time I came home, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I apologise for that.

Claire bristled. This man didn’t even know her! How dare he start making assumptions about her like that, as if she was a hopeless spinster who had nothing better to do with her life? The fact that some nights she really was home quite early, often curled up watching trashy TV while she did travel research on her laptop was neither here nor there.

He might have hit the nail on the head – accidentally, of course; she couldn’t believe he had a perceptive bone in his body – but he didn’t have to make her sound like a dried-up old prune. She’d get around to dating and romance sometime soon; it wasn’t totally off the agenda, just not anything she was planning for in the immediate future. Besides, there was more to life than men, that was for sure. She didn’t need one to make her complete, as her mother had. If she did find someone she thought she could spend her life with it would be an enrichment, not a necessity.

She shook her head and returned to reading the letter.

So I apologise for leaving my bike in the hallway and for any inconvenience it might have caused you. I will try to keep it in my flat as much as possible. I have to say that I didn’t appreciate the little prank you pulled. I honestly thought you’d be above something like that.

Claire felt a blush creep up her neck. He was right. She was better than that. Most of the time. And there was she, just thinking he didn’t know anything about her. How odd. Maybe he wasn’t quite as much of a pig as she’d thought.

She sighed and shook her head. She didn’t know what had come over her last night. She’d just been so … so … after Maggs had given her the letter from her father. Just thinking about it caused that itchy warm feeling come back, tingling in her fingertips, swirling in her head. She clapped a lid on it and tried to ignore it as she went back to reading the letter.

I have to admit to ‘borrowing’ your milk this morning. However, I replaced it immediately and I shan’t be repeating this act of felony.

I have already dealt with the light bulb in the hallway, so that should cause no further problem. However, if you have any future concerns relating to our shared space, feel free to contact me. If you don’t, then please could you kindly butt out of my life? Perhaps I can suggest a hobby? Knitting or bingo. A social life. In any event, something to keep you entertained enough so that the urge to meddle doesn’t become all-consuming.

Yours very sincerely,

Mr D. Arden Esq.

Any goodwill her neighbour had created during his mostly reasonable letter evaporated. Not a pig? She was right about that! This guy was a fully blown warthog.

Mr D Arden Esquire? He was mocking her, just with those three little letters. It made her insides burn and her head spin. Before she had a chance to think it through, she ripped the little green cap off the plastic carton of milk and poured the whole lot down the sink. She didn’t want any of his milk! She’d go out and buy her own. She didn’t want to have any connection to him at all.

There were a few moments of satisfaction as she watched the last of it gurgle down the drain, but then she realised she’d run out of bread and the only thing she had left in the cupboard was cereal. She squashed the empty plastic container to put in the recycling with slightly more force than necessary. There was no way she was going to attempt Weetabix now. It would be like eating hamster bedding. There was only one thing for it.

She threw the carton in her recycling bin and stomped off towards her bedroom. She was going to have to go out for breakfast but, to be honest, the further away she got from here right now the better, otherwise there’d be blue lights and sirens and a puzzled Scenes of Crime Officer wondering how a man could drown in a pint-sized puddle of milk!

Chapter Seven

There’s Good Blues Tonight

Dominic rang the doorbell, balancing a bunch of carnations and a bottle of wine from the petrol station in one hand. A few seconds later, the door opened and there stood Pete, all bearded six foot five of him, grinning. He slapped Dominic on the shoulder. ‘Nic! Mate … come in. We’re a bit behind schedule. Hope you don’t mind if we eat a little—’

He was cut off by a high-pitched female shriek from the living room. ‘Sammy! Nooooo! Don’t you dare—’

Pete took off running, Dominic hot on his heels. They both burst down the hallway and through the living room door. There they found Pete’s wife Ellen, who was close to tears, and a small boy completely naked from the waist down.

Ellen put her hands on her hips, but her defiant stance was spoiled by the wobbling of her bottom lip. She looked at her husband accusingly. ‘He pooed on the carpet. I told him not to but he pooed on the carpet.’

Dominic stifled a smile as he spotted the offending article right in the middle of the rug.

Pete shook his head. ‘Sam … Mate … You know you’re supposed to do it in the potty. Where’s the potty?’

Sammy, wide-eyed and silent, pointed at the corner of the room, to a gleamingly clean Lightning McQueen potty. Dominic didn’t blame him. Who wants to poop in a cool car? They should have got him Hello Kitty to do his business in.

Dominic looked at Ellen again. Her eyes were wild and she looked as if she was about to crack. Her hair was hanging out of what might once have been a ponytail, and her T-shirt was doused with ketchup stains. What had happened to the cool, slick girl he and the rest of his mates had envied Pete for snaffling first?

Obviously, Pete saw what he saw too. He scooped up his son and handed him to Ellen. ‘Look, you deal with him and I’ll deal with—’ he nodded towards the lump of brown on the carpet ‘—that. Okay?’

Ellen nodded gratefully, then swept swiftly out of the room and upstairs.

Dominic couldn’t help grinning as Pete dealt with his son’s ‘accident’. ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ he quipped, as Pete went to fetch a pair of hot pink rubber gloves from under the sink. Dominic dumped the flowers on the counter, put the wine in the fridge, then watched, smirking, as his best friend dealt very efficiently with the mess, disinfectant and everything.

Pete just shook his head. ‘You wait,’ was all he said, and, despite the fact he had just had to clean up someone else’s poo, he was still relaxed and smiling. Dominic would have expected at least a couple of swear words. ‘Well, that pretty much sums up my life at the moment,’ he added as he peeled off the rubber gloves and disposed of them. ‘What’s new with you?’

Dominic launched into the tale of the bike and notes and the snotty upstairs neighbour. He’d only got to the bit where he’d tripped over the bike when Ellen returned, this time in a clean T-shirt, her hair down and with Sammy in his pyjamas. ‘There,’ she said, handing the boy back to his father, ‘you can deal with your son.’