A Nest of Nightmares

Sheila shared her world with no one, and never thought of publication, except as a vague fantasy. It was her mother who brought it about, indirectly. Sheila knew she was a disappointment to her mother – she almost took pleasure in it. Something in her seemed to compel contradiction, and as long as her mother nagged her about her appearance Sheila would eat too much, forget to wash her hair, and dress in unattractive, poorly fitting clothes. Her mother thought scribbling in notebooks was a waste of time, and it was her disparaging comment on a ‘writers’ weekend’ being held at a local college which made Sheila consider attending. And it was there that Sheila met the editor who ultimately published Moonlight Under the Mountain.

She didn’t make a lot of money from the book – the reality wasn’t like her fantasy – but it gave her enough to leave Texas, to fly to Los Angeles and buy a used car and find her own apartment before she had to look for work. On the West Coast, in the sunshine, far from her mother’s nagging, Sheila blossomed. She took an interest in the way she looked, bought fashionable clothes, joined a health spa, had her hair permed, and exchanged her heavy, smudged glasses for a pair of tinted contact lenses.

Damon met her while she was temping in his agent’s office. He admired her clear, emerald eyes, her smooth, tanned skin, and slim figure, but those things were the norm in California – it was her book which caught his attention. He admired writers, and liked the idea of dating one so much that Sheila didn’t know how to tell him the truth. She had written a book, but that didn’t make her a writer in the way that he was an actor. Writing was one of the things – like baby fat, acne, and bad manners – she had left behind her in Texas.

They were like ghosts of her past, standing there waiting for her in the Campbell County Airport. Sheila knew them at once, without any doubt, and knew she had been wrong to come.

‘Sheila Stoller?’

They knew her, too, and that was another bad sign; like calling to like. She wished she could deny her name, but she nodded stiffly, walking toward them.

There were two of them: a fat one swathed in purple, and a thin one in a lime-green polyester trouser suit and teased, bleached-blonde hair. She knew them – they were the unwanted. They were the sort of people she had been lumped in with at school, always the last to be chosen for teams or dances. Her mother had pushed them on her, inviting them to parties, but Sheila had preferred loneliness to their company. She always shunned them rather than admit that she was like them.

‘How do you do,’ said the thin one. ‘I’m Victoria Walcek, and this is Grace Baxter.’

Victoria would be smart, Sheila knew. Too smart for her own good. A bookworm with a sharp tongue and too many opinions, no one would like her, but she would exert a special influence over one or two followers; dull, timid outcasts like her fat friend.

‘Your plane was late,’ said Victoria.

The tone was reproving and before she could catch herself Sheila said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Victoria smiled. ‘That’s all right. We didn’t mind waiting. Do you have much luggage coming?’

‘Only this.’ She indicated the small case.

Victoria gave a dainty shriek. ‘That’s all? How do you manage? I couldn’t possibly . . . my hot-curlers and makeup would just about fill that little bag. I always need a big garment bag whenever I go anywhere. I suppose I worry too much about the way I look . . . I like to have everything just right. It’s much more sensible to travel light and just not think about that.’

‘Sheila looks very nice,’ said Grace with so much emphasis that it sounded like a lie. Sheila tried not to mind, but she wished Grace hadn’t felt obliged to defend her. She knew how she looked: more fashionable and far more comfortable in her pink and grey tracksuit than Victoria in her ugly green polyester and high-necked ruffled blouse.

‘Of course she does,’ said Victoria. ‘I didn’t mean to imply otherwise! Only with that little bag . . . well, there can’t be more than one change of clothes in there.’

‘I’m only staying the weekend.’

‘Oh,’ said Grace, sounding surprised. ‘We thought you’d want to stay . . . being from Texas, and all.’

‘I only came for the convention. I can’t afford – I need to get back.’

‘To your writing?’ asked Grace.

The lie came easily. ‘Yes, I’ve started a new book.’

‘Oh, please tell us about it!’

‘Wait until we get to the car,’ said Victoria – her sharpness might have been directed at either of them or both. ‘We’ve still got a long way to go.’ She turned with a twitch of her narrow shoulders which said she didn’t care if she was followed or not, and Sheila felt trapped into hurrying after.

‘How far are we from Byzantium?’

‘Fifty miles,’ said Grace, huffing and puffing beside her.

‘Fifty! I had no idea – ’

Victoria glanced over her shoulder. ‘I thought you came from Texas?’

‘Not this part.’

Victoria exhaled sharply. It sounded like disbelief, but Sheila couldn’t imagine why.