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“Oh, leave her be,” said Caz. “She’s having fun, that’s what counts.”
“It’ll be your kitchen cabinets that she gets paint all over,” Hope said, depositing the shopping bags on the kitchen table as Rosie shot through the cat-flap and ran into the hallway and up the stairs. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Probably messed with the wrong bird,” said Caz, pulling paper towels off a roll and handing them to Alice. “Wipe your hands, love, you’re getting paint everywhere. You’ll spoil your picture if you touch it with those grubby fingers.”
Alice did as she was told.
“What do we say?” asked Hope.
“Thank you, gran,” said Alice as the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.”
She ran off before Hope could stop her. Not that Hope was particularly worried. Whitebridge was a small town, if someone was ringing their doorbell chances were it was someone they knew.
“I got some nice ham for tea,” she was saying to her mother as Alice ran at top speed back into the kitchen.
“There’s a lady and she says that Rosie pooed in her garden,” Alice stated matter-of-factly.
Hope looked at Caz who shrugged back. “I suppose next door’s probably rented again,” said Caz. “Can’t say that I’ve noticed whoever it was though.”
Hope sighed. “Alright, I’ll deal with this.” Alice skipped after her. “No, not you, young lady. You’ve got painting to do. And get gran to wash your face, I can barely recognize you. I might mistake you for a traveling fairy and throw you out.”
“Mu-um,” said Alice, but she was smiling under the paint. “It’s me, Alice.”
“That’s what you say.”
“Okay, okay,” Alice muttered and went off to get her face washed.
Hope re-opened the front door to find an angry looking woman holding up a plastic bag of what she presumed was Rosie’s business.
For a brief second her brain registered that the woman was attractive. More than attractive. She had black-rimmed glasses pushed up on top of red-gold hair that brushed her shoulders. She had green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a firm chin. She had curves in the right places. Quite large curves, Hope couldn’t help but notice with a faint blush of warmth in places she hadn’t thought about for quite some time.
Her eyes traveled back up to the bag of poo that the woman was holding in her hand. It rather spoiled the whole effect.
“Can I help you?” she asked, trying to sound as neutral as she could.
???
The child that had originally opened the door was so covered in paint that Ava honestly didn’t know whether it was a girl or a boy. It had said hello, then promptly slammed the door in Ava’s face when she’d explained why she’d come.
The second time the door was opened, a woman was standing framed by light streaming in through a window on the staircase. She had long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt. She looked like she’d just come in from a run and Ava immediately felt a pang of guilt.
She’d promised herself that she’d be healthier, that she’d run more, drink less, eat better.
“Can I help you?” asked the woman, lifting one eyebrow.
She had nice eyes, Ava thought, warm and kind, dark and framed by long lashes. Then she remembered that she was supposed to be angry. That she was angry. She held up the little baggie accusingly. “I think this belongs to you.”
The woman’s lips twitched into a slight smile. “Um, not personally, no,” she said.
Ava refused to weaken, even when the woman’s cheeks pinked a little which made her eyes shine. “Your cat is using my lawn as a toilet,” she said.
“How do you know it’s my cat?” The woman leaned on the doorpost, folding her arms.
“Because I saw it disappearing over the fence and then through the cat-flap in your door,” said Ava.
“So you’re spying on me and my family?” Another eyebrow raise.
“No, of course not,” said Ava, taking a step back. “I was simply seeing where the cat went.”
