Chapter 1
The confessions of Tallulah Brooks
“Hell…o? I know it’s late for confessions. I’m sorry to turn up like this,” she slurred. Tallulah apologised for her midnight intrusion on God’s house and kicked off her death-trap stilettos.
“Thank god they’re off. My bloody feet are killing me.” Tallulah rubbed her sore feet, took a panty liner from her handbag, and dabbed the bleeding graze on her knee. She had fallen through the vestry window and miraculously not dropped her bottle of fizz.
“I’m surprised you’re still open for business at this time of night." She said and then topped up her champagne glass.
“Cheers!” Tallulah raised her glass; she thought it polite to acknowledge her listener on the other side of the screen whilst she enjoyed her champagne.
Of course, the church was empty in the early hours of the morning, and she was too drunk to realise that nobody was there to listen to her.
“I presume this little chat is free.” She continued. All she had with her was her credit card, and she didn’t want to keep talking to the person if they only accepted cash. She continued talking anyway.
“How do I start this confession thing?” Tallulah tried to get up off the cold floor but spilt her champagne on her dress, with an expression not appropriate for church, Catholic or otherwise. She flopped back down and sat cross-legged like a child at school.
“Hell…o, hell…o, hell…o.” She continued in a silly, drunken voice, hoping for a reply.
She did wonder if there was actually anyone on the other side of the screen, but then she thought…no, surely God’s little helpers should be available twenty-four seven.
“Is there a time limit for this confession thing?” She asked, knowing that even though she was pissed, she had a lot to get off her chest.
However, the four shots and two bottles of champagne she had drunk earlier that night finally registered in her brain and body, and she lost consciousness until the next morning. Waking up with an imprint of her handbag on the side of her face where she had face planted it.
Tallulah opened one eye; her head was pounding, and her mouth was dry. She reached for her empty champagne flute in the hope that there was some left, and a spider scurried down her arm. The spider and the champagne flute were launched across the cramped, damp-smelling confinement in which she had found herself.
“What the f***k?”
Hearing a door close next to her and a person’s voice, she sat up, looking worse for wear, her hair stuck to the side of her face, and her fake eyelashes blocking her vision. A physical state she would find herself in regularly after a Tallulah night out.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” A calming voice came from the other side of the screen, where Tallulah was slumped; she panicked when she realised her surroundings were very unfamiliar to her. Tallulah had no recollection of the night before, but she noticed a phone number that had been written on her hand; she had no idea why, and she was too hungover to care.
“What?” She was confused.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” The voice asked her again, and things were starting to make sense; she was in a damp-smelling house of God.
“God, I feel like shit. Oh, Jesus, I didn’t mean to swear, soz.” Tallulah opened her sticky handbag and took out her hangover survival kit. She popped two painkillers in her mouth, reapplied her hot gossip bright red lipstick, and squirted herself with costly perfume. Clearing her throat, she continued talking to the voice on the other side of the screen whilst she removed her eyelashes.
Tallulah did need to get things off her chest, and for once, it wasn’t her bra.
“God, I’ve got the hangover from hell.” Tallulah continued. The voice asked her to speak quietly, which she thought was a bit rude.
Tallulah took a moment to try and reenact the past twenty-four hours in her head; things were starting to come back to her. She recalled that she had been at work. Well, it wasn't real work even though she got paid a salary by her parents; all she had done was supervise the delivery of her mother's latest additions to her wardrobe and then go for Friday night drinks with friends and a round of speed dating.
“Oh god, in a nutshell, I am a bit of a slag. I’m ashamed; don’t judge me.” She admitted it to the voice on the other side.
“I’m not here to judge.” The voice replied a little nervously.
“My dog died; he ate something poisonous. One minute he was there wagging his tail; the next minute, dead.” Her conversation was erratic, bouncing from one topic to another.
“God, I need a wee. I’m going to have to go now; thanks for the chat.” Tallulah said to the voice.
“You could do with hanging an air freshener in here.” She told the voice.
She grabbed her death-trap shoes and stumbled out of the confession box.
Father Andrew hadn’t recognised the voice of the ‘lost child’ as he described her to his boss, looking down on him from heaven. It was normal practice for a person to visit the confession box once or twice a month, but the next day, Tallulah turned up to unload her sins again.
“I’m back,” Tallulah said to the voice on the other side of the screen.
Father Andrew recognised her voice straight away. He paused, not sure how to explain to her that she didn’t need to keep coming back regularly.
“How are you?” He asked Tallulah, more like a friend would than a priest would, knowing he would regret it.
“Still hungover from the other day.” She replied.
“Actually, I’m a bit pissed off.” She continued loudly.
“I lost my phone yesterday; did I leave it in this little tiny smelly room?”
“It might be a good idea to go home and get some rest. It will help you see things more clearly.” Father Andrew advised her.
“I guess you’re right. I will see you tomorrow then.” Tallulah left the confession box before Father Andrew could reply.
Tallulah didn’t go back the next day, but she did meet Father Andrew again, this time face to face.
“Good morning, please can I have a black coffee and one of your delicious fruit scones, thank you.” A voice said.
Tallulah looked up from scrolling through her phone when she heard a familiar voice. It was the voice from the other side of the screen in the church. She had just finished her oat milk skinny cappuccino with a shot of caramel and a blueberry muffin at her favourite coffee shop.
The familiar voice belonged to a very handsome man sitting at the table in front of her, no longer sitting behind a screen in a smelly box.
“Is it your day off?” Tallulah asked the handsome man.
“Excuse me, sorry, what did you say? I can’t quite hear you.” He asked her and finished his question with a gorgeous smile Tallulah thought to herself.
“I recognise your voice; I chatted to you in your little box thing the other day in church,” Tallulah replied. She got up and plonked herself down on the spare chair at the man’s table.
“Tallulah Brooks.” She said and held out her hand to shake his. The scent of her expensive hand cream was to stay on his hand until the end of the day.
“Andrew Moore, nice to meet you, Tallulah.” He shook her hand and was taken aback by her boldness. He hadn’t realised how beautiful the drunk voice he had spoken to yesterday was.
“Doesn’t God need you today?” She asked innocently, having no idea how the whole church thing worked.
“No, because I had been busy in my little box, he thought I deserved the morning off.” They both laughed.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Tallulah said with her Tallulah smile.
“Did you find your phone?” Andrew asked her.
“Yes, I did.” She was impressed that he remembered about her phone.
Andrew took a sip of his coffee whilst keeping eye contact with Tallulah.
“Can I give you my number?” He asked much to Tallulah's surprise.
“God has given me Saturday night off, and I wondered if you would like to go for a drink. Not too much because he wants me back in his office on Sunday morning.” Andrew smiled again.
Tallulah was impressed with Andrew Moore; she could see herself being a priest’s wife. She’d never slept with a priest before – well, not that she can remember – and the days leading up to her Saturday night’s date with one of God’s little helpers, she spent fantasising about it. Could Andrew Moore be the one? She thought to herself, delusively.
On leaving the cafe, Tallulah’s phone rang.
“Tally, it’s me. What happened to you last night?” It was her best friend, Samantha.
They were old school friends. Samantha was married with two children, much like most of her friends, which Tallulah found very inconvenient.
“I think I’m in love, Sam.”