The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy)

by Geraldine Fonteroy

  ‘Undercover hah?’ An obese, bearded man sitting on a large drum of something flammable stroked the facial hair and considered her carefully.

  Crossing her fingers, she prayed they wouldn’t ask to see ID.

  They didn’t. Instead, the driver asked perversely: ‘Where do you keep your gun.’

  Rosie looked him dead in the eye, then cast her own down to the zipper on her jeans.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Shortie whispered. Rosie suspected he actually shot his load inside those grubby builders’ overalls.

  Satisfied that any woman who stored a Smith and Wesson between her legs must be a serious law enforcement officer, the idiot driving agreed that they would say she was an architect who needed a lift to her next job because her car had broken down.

  It turned out she could have simply sauntered into the studio. The limo driver, who was sucking down a cigarette so deeply that it must have contained something more potent than tobacco, couldn’t have cared less about them, even though the doofus driving the van had parked him in.

  There was a young girl, pretty with long dark hair, sitting at a sort of makeshift office just inside the front door.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she exclaimed on seeing them. ‘It’s about time you guys gave me a proper place to sit.’ Then she noticed Rosie.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A hot architect,’ Shortie said, far too quickly.

  His fat mate poked him with a chubby elbow. ‘Just an architect. Her car broke down on the last job; she’s waiting for us to finish here and take her back to Queens.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like she lives in Queens.’ Girls knew about fashion, and this one could no doubt work out that Rosie’s outfit cost the better part of $1000.

  ‘I don’t,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s where I had the misfortune to break down. This lot were working nearby.’

  ‘They were supposed to be here this morning, first thing.’ The pretty brunette’s glare refocused on Fatty.

  Suddenly, there was a clattering of feet on hard floor, announcing Rosie’s second encounter of the day with a group of rancid male specimens.

  She saw Felix Hastings immediately. The long hair, bouncing as he moved, and naturally curling at the ends; the piercing, a silver stud, on the left eyebrow; the unbelievable violet eyes, previously only seen on Elizabeth Taylor. And finally, the clichéd black leather trousers and silk black shirt so freshly tailored they seemed as if only purchased that morning.

  Rosie’s first impression of Felix Hastings was one of a clean, bumbling fellow trying to be a serious, mucky rockstar. The deception worked in photos; he appeared in print as if baths were an anathema to him. In real life, he seemed remarkably clean cut.

  So clean, in fact, that Rosie, having studied some psychology at Bristol, thought he might have OCD.

  Then Felix saw her.

  And boy did he see her.

  His eyes lit up like Times Square at midnight on the 31st of December.

  ‘Well, look at that.’

  Typical schmuck, Rosie concluded immediately. Schmuck was a brilliant word she’d heard for the first time that morning, as she queued for an early morning latte, where a rather buxom woman with numerous shopping bags was complaining about the barista forgetting she had ordered soy.

  Purposely, she pretended her BlackBerry had buzzed, and took it out, playing make believe that something fiercely important demanded her immediate attention.

  Next, she turned her back and began a fake conversation, something about roof shingles and guttering, and the supplier being a vengeful prick.

  Next to her someone grabbed the phone. Half a lifetime of playing goal attack in netball had given her super-fast reflexes, and she snatched it back.

  ‘Do. You. Mind?’ she snapped at Felix Hastings, adding a nasty grimace for good measure. ‘That was a business call.’

  And she pressed the speed dial for her voice mail, and once again became immersed in a phony call.

  As well as brilliant coordination, Rosie also had excellent peripheral vision, and she could see Felix standing sedately, waiting for her to finish. With genuine exasperation, she told Mr Nobody to hold on, and spun around to face him. Man, nice violet eyes.

  ‘Do you want something?’

  For the second time in less than two minutes, the famous rockstar was taken aback. Rosie felt a ping of satisfaction at his hangdog look, and couldn’t wait to regale Julia with a rendition of it.

  ‘A fuck, baby?’

  God. Talk about upfront. What an utter shocker.

  Rounding her vowels even more than usual, Rosie looked him straight in the eye (they were almost the same height, and at five eight, she wasn’t Amazonian) – ‘I don’t do rude morons, sorry.’

  There was a communal intake of breath around the room. Obviously, no one spoke to the great Felix Hastings as if he was dirt. No one except his ex-wife that was.

  The limo driver, a lovely African American who must have the patience of all the saints any church had to offer, popped his head around the front door. ‘Mr Hastings, you’re due at the award thing – Upper West Side in 30 minutes.’

  ‘Thanks mate, I’m coming.’ Felix whispered the last two words into Rosie’s ear.

  It was veritable music to her ears. She let rip: ‘Shame you have a problem with premature ejaculation, you peasant. Maybe it’s directly related to your revolting attitude towards women.’

  Now Felix looked as if he was having a heart attack.

  Hilarious.

  Better than hilarious.

  She had never thought making money would be this satisfying. It was certainly better than working at that crappy bank of her dad’s.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ A fellow Englishman, probably the manager, rushed over. One of those guys with a ring of fuzz around his otherwise bald head.

  Rosie smiled brightly. ‘Apart from his rubbish cock, he’s perfectly fine.’ And with that, she stalked in the direction of the toilets, signposted with a temporary (and misspelled) cardboard sign.

  Which left Felix Hastings’s ‘people’ to deal with the fallout of his overwhelming and humiliating rejection at the hands of the beautiful English blonde.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EVERYONE, EXCEPT FOR THE BUILDERS and the brunette, was gone when she emerged from the bathroom.

  ‘Shit, you told that Hastings. I thought he was going to piss himself, he was so fuckin’ angry.’ Shorty chortled at the memory.

  ‘He deserved it. A total and utter fuckweasel.’ Rosie was beginning to warm to these guys.

  ‘Oooo,’ said Fatty. ‘You are nasty, girl.’

  ‘I’m a cop, remember. I don’t take shit from anyone, especially trumped up singers.’

  ‘So, you gonna do a drug bust now?’

  ‘I’ve just had a call from my partner. Apparently it was a false alarm. So, thanks guys, but I’ve got to go.’

  ‘How’s the gun?’ Shorty asked, looking pointedly at her crotch.

  ‘Comfy,’ she told him, before leaving her number with the receptionist – in case she needed a nice new building to replace the one they were in.

  ‘I don’t think so, but I’ll keep it just in case. What was your name?’

  ‘Rosie. Rosie, um, Rosswell.’

  A tribute to the Grey Virgin. What the hell, it would probably be the only accolade the old bag ever got.

  ‘Thanks Rosie, and I mean thanks!’

  Were there tears in the pretty girl’s eyes? Ah, so the rutting rockstar had served her too.

  ‘All in a day’s work,’ Rosie replied.

  Funny how that was true.

  As she exited she turned back. ‘Why not make sure he gets my number? If he calls I’ll really make him squirm.’ Rosie didn’t want the girl to think it was a betrayal of Rosie to hand over the number.

  That number was her passport to the other $20,000.

  The brunette squealed with delight. ‘Okay, I will!’

  The moment she was outside, Rosie called Alex.

 
‘Contact made. He asked me out. Well, technically he asked to fuck me. I told him he was a loser and a four-second wonder and walked away. He has access to my number.’

  ‘Wow, it’s only been a few hours. You are incredible, Rosie. Just one question, what the hell is a four-second wonder?’

  ‘A guy who can’t hold on to his load. A dud fuck.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, except, can you handle another job as well as this one? Same sort of thing.’

  ‘Same money?’

  ‘$5000 here for you now, if you want it.’

  ‘Sure, but first, do you mind if I call Julia? I want to fill her in on how pathetic he looked when I told him to fuck off.’

  Later, when she was sitting in a huge, hot bubble bath, preparing for a dinner date and meeting with Alex, her thoughts turned to the inevitable.

  Alex.

  Her stomach began to feel uncomfortable again. Down Rosie, he is a judgmental tool, remember? Besides, if you want to, you can play about with Felix Hastings soon enough. He’s bound to be incredible in the sack.

  But Felix Hastings was just like all the others, and despite his incredible allure (and really fresh, clean smell), Rosie felt no desire to bed Felix.

  ‘See, Grey Virgin,’ she called out to the empty bathroom, ‘I am not a sex addict.’

  Because no sex addict in her right mind would turn down a fully-fledged rockstar like Felix Hastings.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ALEX LOOKED EVEN MORE INCREDIBLE than the last time they had met. This time he was wearing work stuff: grey with white suit and cool black and white tie. The combo shouldn’t work but on Alex, it did. His square-cut jaw was freshly shaven.

  Just how I like it, Rosie thought.

  Alex didn’t pay any attention to how she was dressed.

  ‘So, was Julia pleased?’

  The movie star had started to cry with joy upon hearing Rosie’s responses to her ex’s come-ons. ‘Extremely. Actually said I was worth double the fee; that she had waited years for Felix to feel as crap as she did.’

  ‘Well, it’s not over yet.’

  Rosie smirked. ‘Wait until he undresses in front of me and I tell him his dick is the smallest I’ve seen!’

  ‘Ooooer, that’s harsh.’

  Seeing the twinkle in his eye, Rosie laughed out loud. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’

  ‘I’m glad my ex hasn’t got the money to employ someone like you. That’s brutal.’

  ‘And I’m just getting started!’

  Alex adjusted his collar and cleared his throat, as if the thought of Rosie’s actions made him slightly uncomfortable. Excellent, thought Rosie. At least I am having some effect on him.

  ‘Speaking of getting started, here is the next assignment.’

  Leaning in, Rosie listened intently as Alex explained the sorry saga of a billionaire’s long term girlfriend, jilted at the altar when the man ran off with a secretary twenty years younger. They had been together seven years.

  ‘Like Julia, she got loads of cash, but it’s not about the money.’

  Is to me, Rosie countered silently.

  ‘Where do they live?’

  She lives on Long Island, but is due here any minute, to give you all the intimate details you’ll need.’

  Wanting to point out that all that was usually required when it came to men was a walk past and a flirtatious glance, Rosie shrugged. She had nowhere else to go. In fact, being here, with delicious, delectable Alex, was about as perfect as she could ask for right now.

  The new client was Georgia Kettle, ex-girlfriend to fifty-year-old playboy billionaire Cliff Askie.

  Rosie thought Cliff Askie, with his flabby paunch, ridiculous dyed-brown comb-over and twitching left eye, wouldn’t get a root if he wasn’t endowed with a gianormous bank account. Georgia Kettle, on the other hand, was beautiful. Not in a sexy, unattainable way, like Rosie, but in a relaxed, hippy kind of way. She had long brown hair, dead straight, with a blunt cut fringe. About five six, her figure was a perfect size six and her huge doe eyes gave the impression of being permanently startled.

  She turned to Alex. ‘She’s perfect. I’ve never seen anyone quite like her.’ Then she turned to Rosie. ‘Sorry, that was rude. I can’t seem to function properly these days.’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘Men are pricks, aren’t they? How can I help make you feel better?’

  ‘I want him dead, but dear Alex says he can’t arrange it.’

  Rosie immediately thought of Hugo and understood the sentiment.

  ‘Well, I prefer to enjoy New York from outside the prison gates,’ Alex said. ‘Why don’t you tell Rosie what happened, so that she can make sure you get your money’s worth.’

  Surprisingly, it was short and sweet, and accompanied by streaming tears. ‘I could have had anyone, and I chose him. I didn’t care about the money. Even now, with 20 million in the bank, I would take him back. But he doesn’t want me. He’s moved on to someone younger. And according to our mutual friends, she’s his soulmate. Bastard! I still love him, but he tore my heart out, and now I want him dead.’

  Rosie patted her hand. ‘I can’t murder him, but I can make his life a living hell. Would that do?’

  The tears dissipated a little. ‘Yes please.’

  Rosie pondered the situation. ‘How would it be if I got him to alter, and left him there, with a church full of guests?’

  ‘Now, Rosie, I don’t think we can promise that kind of–’

  She cut Alex off. ‘I can promise it, because I know men. This one sounds like a right weasel – and weasels always head for the biggest trophy.’

  Tears now dried up, Georgia Kettle actually looked happy. ‘If you could do that, I’ll pay you double.’

  To Alex’s disgust, Rosie shook her head. ‘That won’t be necessary. The usual fee will suffice. Besides, I will enjoy it, that’s my bonus! Another score on the board for womankind.’

  For the rest of the meal, Alex kept casting furtive glances towards Rosie, as if he had created a monster.

  And Rosie, with $50,000 due to hit her bank account in the near future, couldn’t really disagree with the notion.

  She could get used to making men squirm for a living.

  Very used to it.

  Scarlet was stunned to hear how things had developed in less than two days.

  ‘Is this wise? she asked Rosie worriedly. ‘These men are famous – you could end up on the tabloids; what would your parents think then?’

  Rosie was in the bath once again. Whatever was in the bubble bath it should be sold as a cure for insomnia? She hadn’t slept so well in forever.

  ‘Then perhaps they shouldn’t have abandoned me in New York. It’s brilliant having the last laugh, Scar. Mother has tried calling at least five times since our argument and I haven’t picked up. She must be frantic.’

  Scarlet confirmed she was.

  ‘You’ve spoken to her? How could you, you’re supposed to be on my side.’

  ‘She was threatening to call the police over there, worried you were dead in a ditch.’

  ‘There aren’t many ditches in New York City.’

  ‘Rosie!’

  ‘Alright, I suppose telling them I am alive was acceptable.’

  ‘So,’ Scar settled in for a gossip, ‘What’s Felix Hastings like in the flesh. Yummy?’

  But Rosie was far too tired for gossip, and promised to call Scar tomorrow – after she’d met her next victim, Cliff Askie.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BEFORE SHE HAD TIME TO ARRANGE a chance meeting with the billionaire, Rosie received the call she’d been expecting, just as she went in search of yet another café that might be able to make a suitable skim latte. Felix Hastings’ dulcet tones greeted her in a much more subdued fashion that yesterday.

  ‘Is that Rosie Rosswell?’

  He did sound sexy as shit, but Rosie needed to make him crawl before she agreed to any form of a date. ‘What do you want, Hastings?’

  ‘I got your number from
the studio.’

  ‘You need something built?’

  ‘Er, no, yes, um, maybe.’

  Liar. What a toad. ‘Well, why did you call?’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’

  ‘And why is that my problem?’

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  A massive prick. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And doesn’t that at least get me a date.’

  ‘No. Why should it? I hate your music.’

  There was dead silence.

  ‘If that’s all then–’

  ‘No, hang on. Can’t we just have a coffee?’

  ‘It can’t go anywhere. I find you completely abhorrent.’

  ‘Just a coffee, give me a chance.’

  ‘If you say anything about having sex, I will smack you one.’

  ‘I might enjoy th–’

  ‘That’s it! I’m hanging up now.’

  ‘No, wait, please. Sorry, I’m not used to this. I’ve never met anyone like you.’