Page 69 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Chapter Nineteen
It is not a lady’s place to trouble herself with the financial matters of her family, but the man’s. Trust your husband’s judgement, always.
Matilda Beam’s Good Housewife Guide, 1957
The buoyant mood of the call with Leo Frost is dampened shortly afterwards when the door buzzer goes.
‘I’ll get it!’ I yell, weaving my way down the hallway of doom and narrowly avoiding death via a precariously wobbling block of Japanese chopping knives balanced on a stack of retro board games. I tut and, carefully placing the knife block on the floor beside the other junk, answer the intercom.
‘Yo.’
‘Morning. Y’got a letter needs signing for.’
I buzz the postie up and open the front door. I see him − a stocky fella in shorts and a postman’s cap − racing up the stairs. When he spots me, his young, tanned, smiling face drops in stark disappointment. Jeez. I know I look a bit manky in the mornings, but he could at leasttryto hide his distaste.
‘Where’s Peach?’ he asks, handing me a letter addressed to Matilda. ‘Has … has she left her job? Are you her replacement?’
‘Oh no, Peach is in the kitchen, I think. Would you like to speak to her?’
He pulls the lip of his cap down. ‘N-no. Unless … do you think she wants to talk to me?’
‘I don’t know. We can ask her?’ I turn around to call Peach from the kitchen.
‘No! No, don’t.’ He wipes a bit of sweat from his brow. ‘It’s cool. Just sign this, please.’ He hands me a little machine and an electronic pen. I do a squiggle and take the letter from him.
‘You want me to tell Peach you said hello?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘Um, no. I’ll see her tomorrow,’ he mumbles, hurrying back off down the stairs.
‘Bye then!’ I call after him cheerily, but he’s already gone.
Odd.
Moseying back to the drawing room, I peek down at Matilda’s letter. Beneath the transparent part of the envelope I see the words:
Possession Action: Bonham Square.
Fuck. That sounds serious! And scary. Even the bold font they’ve used looks grumpy. I hand the letter to Grandma, who’s sitting in her blue chair with her sewing box out, taking in the grey pencil skirt she wants me to wear for tomorrow’s date with Leo.
‘This letter just came for you!’
She barely glances up. ‘Thank you, dear. Put it on the hall table, please. I’ll get to it later.’
I picture the stack of unopened final reminder letters I saw last night.
‘Er … maybe you should open this one. I think it’s important.’
‘Yes, I shall … later,’ she answers vaguely.
‘But … ’
Grandma looks up sharply, her face displaying the same frowny expression Mum used to give me when I asked her why I didn’t have a dad, or spent my week’s pocket money in one day. I stop talking and rub my neck. Why am I even getting involved? It’s notmyproblem. It’s not my business. In two to four weeks I’ll be out of here, hopefully in another country.
But … when you don’t deal with letters like this, nasty people start turning up at your door. And that’s not something that should happen toanyold person, regardless of whether or not they’re a blood relative. My stomach lurches just imagining the horrible scenario.
I rip open the letter.
Grandma’s head darts up from her sewing, her mouth dropping open. ‘W-what on earth are you doing? That’s private! It’s illegal to open someone else’s post! Stop!’
