Stories of the Cellar Door

At Granny Marge’s request, and expense, the black limo, that matched her dress and her mood, had waited. It drove the Gates family back to Bridge House. Solemn wipers flicked water from the windscreen as it reflected skeletal trees. The crooked, half-timbered building looked the same from the outside. But once they shuffled in through the heavy oak door, the floors creaked more loudly, the clock ticked more slowly, and the living room fire refused to light. “It feels different somehow.” Granny Marge lifted her silver-rimmed glasses and wiped away another tear from her soft, grey eyes. "Less like home." Her breath was short. “Let me make you a cuppa, Gran. Why don’t you take a seat?” Josephine pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and filled the kettle. She was careful not to chip her mint green nails, though even Grandad's favourite colour seemed to dim in the new shadows of the old house. “You know, your Grandad Billy made this table and chairs." Marge tucked a

Same face, same voice, same height. But Kaya was always the favourite. Born four minutes earlier, she never let me forget it. But I knew who she really was – I had evidence. The first in a series of juvenile crimes against me. Age seven she took my favourite doll, Mandy Moll, and cut her hair with the kitchen scissors. Dad captured the moment with his digital camera. Did he try to stop her? No. Was she ever punished? No. To add insult to injury, the picture was printed out and stuck on the fridge. It stayed there til I left home at 17 and took it, along with Mandy Moll. Reminders. Motivators. I became a hairdresser to spite my bad-spirited sister. The meanness continued throughout childhood. Kaya was jealous of my piano certificates, so she ripped them. She tripped me over in the park. She threw my school wildlife project into the canal behind the house. No one ever told her off. When I asked why she was so horrible to me all the time they said she wasn’t, I was just making up st

Jane: “Oh, hold the doors!” I teeter through the lift lobby in my sleek, yet second hand, Jimmy Choo's. Who am I kidding? Even if I do get the job, I can hardly show up to work five times a week dressed like this. Give me a pair of comfy flats any day and let my calves relax a bit. Dressed like this, no one would guess I get my hair done at Super Cuts. Don't think like that; rent to pay, rent to pay, rent to pay. This little skirt isn’t doing me any favours. It turned a few heads in reception, for all the wrong reasons. I'll never impress a chivalrous hero from one of my much loved romance novels by dressing myself up like a dog's dinner. Speaking of dogs, I’ve even packed my essential bits into the Radley handbag Blake gave me last year. I must be desperate to impress. I never touch anything Blake gave me without spitting out the words “Fuck you Blake” as it meets my skin. I'll have to fight to hold that in when I leave today’s panel; bills to pay, bills to pay, bi