by Lynda Renham
Phoebe Smith’s
Private Blog
Lynda Renham
for Mum and Dad
About the Author
Lynda Renham writes romantic comedy novels. Lynda’s novels are popular, refreshingly witty, fast paced and with a strong romantic theme. She lives in Oxford UK and when not writing Lynda can usually be found wasting her time on Facebook.
‘Lynda Renham is right up there with chick-lit royalty! I’m not talking princess either, for me, the Queen of Chick-lit.’ – Booketta Book Blog.
Lynda is author of the best-selling romantic comedy novels including Croissants and Jam, Coconuts and Wonderbras, Confessions of a Chocoholic, Pink Wellies and Flat Caps, It Had To be You, Rory’s Proposal, Fudge Berries and Frogs Knickers, Fifty Shades of Roxie Brown, Perfect Weddings and The Dog’s Bollocks.
Lynda Renham
The right of Lynda Renham to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978-0-9934026-7-8
first edition
Cover Illustration by Gracie Klumpp
www.gracieklumpp.com
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Thanks to…
Michelle Webster for suggesting the
fabulous character: Barry/Bruno,
and to my Facebook readers for
their humorous ideas.
Printed for Raucous Publishing in Great Britain by
4edge Limited
Copyright © Raucous Publishing 2016
www.raucouspublishing.co.uk
Chapter One
New Year’s Eve
Don’t you just hate New Year resolutions? Maybe you don’t. Perhaps you’re one of those amazing people who actually keep their resolutions. Good for you. Mak, Imogen and I never have, never will, and never want to. So, I don’t know why we’re making half-hearted drunken ones now. Everyone knows drunken resolutions are never kept and rarely remembered. Frankly it’s hard to remember anything after you’ve knocked back a bottle of Prosecco or was it two? And I’ve not even mentioned the cans of gin and tonic we had on the way here.
‘Just to loosen up,’ Imogen had said.
So, here we are, well and truly loosened up and making New Year resolutions yet again and actually, if I recall, my resolution last year had been to drink less, eat less and exercise more. That was a great plan wasn’t it?
‘Darlings,’ slurs Imogen. ‘Daniel is definitely going to leave his wife this year. He’s absolutely promised. He said he can’t live without me. My resolution is to get engaged and you’re both to come to the wedding. This time next year I’ll be Mrs Daniel Marks, wife of top London solicitor.’
If I remember rightly, despite fighting a fog of overindulgence, this was Imogen’s New Year resolution last year and I do believe it was her resolution the year before that, too.
‘He’s never going to leave her,’ I say. ‘I really don’t know why you keep thinking he will.’
‘Really?’ she says miserably. ‘Oh God, you’re so right aren’t you?’
‘She is,’ agrees Mak solemnly. ‘He is never going to leave her. Not this year, not next year, and certainly not, like he promised, last year.’
‘I know, I really should leave him,’ she sobs into her empty champagne glass. ‘He was going to come tonight you know,’ she adds, her face brightening. ‘It’s just one of the kids got sick.’
Mak and I nod and grab another glass of bubbly. Don’t you just hate office New Year’s Eve parties where everyone gets drunk and some of us even get groped? Mostly by the creeps of course, but let’s face it at New Year’s Eve parties there are plenty of those. I’m Phoebe Smith, by the way. Good-time girl, always guaranteed to get the party going. It is widely acknowledged that I can hold my drink, in my hand anyway, and there was always Ashby to spin me around the dance floor in my slinky black dress. That was, until last month. No, don’t think about that. Think about anything but that. But how can I think about anything but that when the little weasel is gliding across the dance floor in front of me? Ashby dumped me one Sunday afternoon three weeks before Christmas. I’d already bought him the new Jeremy Clarkson book and written ‘To my sex stud’ inside the front cover, so I couldn’t even get a refund. I’d spent the majority of Christmas Day pissed on my mum’s cheap Spanish sherry. Ashby is the love of my life, or I should say was. For his birthday I had chopped and diced chillies to make his favourite chilli con carne until my hands were on fire, only to have him let me down at the last minute. Just as well really, as I spent the whole evening with one hand in cold water and the other knocking back the expensive bottle of red wine I had bought especially. I don’t think he has even noticed me in my slinky black dress. Talking of slinky black dresses, this one is a Dior copy and honestly, you can’t tell the difference. I feel like fashion royalty. I’d accessorised it with a set of pearls and a Lulu Guinness clutch, a fake of course. I’m the queen of fake fashion and proud of it too.
Ashby looks gorgeous in his white shirt and bow tie. His floppy hair falls across his forehead and I’d do anything to brush it back. He didn’t use enough gel. I always had to tell him to use more gel. How could he? I don’t mean, not use enough gel. How could he have come to the party? He knew I’d be here. He could at least have stayed away.
‘Don’t let that prick bother you,’ says a voice in my ear. ‘Everyone knows he plays the field better than David Beckham, everyone except you of course. That’s a fabulous dress by the way, makes your tits look huge.’
I turn to a red-faced Henry. His eyes are bulging.
‘You look delicious,’ he breathes into my ear.
God, I feel sick. Henry is stationery. I don’t mean he’s standing still as such. I only wish he was, but then again I think it is me that is swaying. What I mean is, he is head of the stationery department. Did I tell you that I work in Lynworths department store? It’s not a fancy upmarket store, but it’s quality at affordable prices. We don’t even have an intercom. If I need help on my counter I have to call over Big Mary. I work in men’s clothing. The men’s department that is, just in case you thought I wore men’s clothing at work.
‘Don’t you have a wife, Henry?’ I slur.
‘Oh yah, but you know, when the cat’s away …’
A tray of glasses filled with a yellow liquid is held in front of me.
‘Lynworths very own eggnog,’ says the bored waiter, ‘to usher in the New Year.’
Well, that’s a first …
Bagpipe players line up and I throw back my eggnog.
‘Five, four …’ everyone shouts.
‘O. M. G., that looks gross,’ says Imogen, eyeing up my eggnog.
I see Ashby strolling towards me. Before he has got even halfway I’ve knocked back another glass and am on my third when he stands in front of me.
‘Henry,’ he nods, ‘everything sweet?’
‘O. M. G.,’ mutters Imogen.
Imogen is my best friend and tends to say ‘O. M. G.’ a lot, and Ashby is my ex-boyfriend/lover/best friend and tends to say ‘sweet’ a lot. I feel all hot and my head spins and, oh God, before I know it I’ve puked all over Ashby’s white shirt which isn’t sweet at all.
‘
Three two one …’
The clock chimes twelve and I couldn’t have started the New Year in a worse way.
*
New Year’s Day: 11 am
Welcome to Phoebe Smith’s private blog. I’ve decided to title this, “The Diary of a London Shop Assistant”. Not as catchy as “The Diary of a London Call Girl” I know, and I don’t imagine there’ll be much bondage in here either. What am I talking about, there won’t be any bondage in here, unless I tie up Harry Bloom from the flat next door and torture him and that is highly likely if he doesn’t stop playing those sodding drums of his.
It was Imogen’s idea that I should write a blog. The alcohol-influenced brainwave came to her shortly after midnight at the New Year’s Eve party. Her actual words were ‘you should write a fucking blog darling, you’d be fucking brilliant’; making me sound like Bridget fucking Jones. So, that’s what I decided to do. Of course, her idea was that I would put it on the internet to be an inspiration to other women like me. You know, crazy, boyfriend less, and who most likely puked over their ex while pissed at a New Year’s Eve works party. Did consider it, after all it would be nice to be an inspiration to women in the manner of Oprah Winfrey but then had to consider Ashby. Had horrible visions of him reading it and swearing never to talk to me again. So, here we are. Phoebe Smith’s private blog. Didn’t know you could keep a private one but Mak told me how to do it and here I am. I could keep a diary but I know I’ll lose it before January is over. I have a habit of tidying up my things never to see them again.
Did wonder about mentioning people’s surname’s but if it’s private it doesn’t really matter. All the same, best think that one through at some point. After all, should I be kidnapped by terrorists in a pre-apocalyptic attack – well, you never know do you? It would be awful if someone read my private blog.
Mak had said it would be cathartic and I could get things off my chest. And so the catharsis begins. God, I’m so hungover and can’t stop thinking about throwing up over Ashby’s white shirt, which had turned a funny shade of green by the time I’d finished. Riyana, I mean, who christens their child Riyana? Stood there in her blue chiffon dress and huge Essex earrings saying, ‘Oh it’s all on your shirt, babe, your lovely white shirt.’
Don’t you just hate women who call their boyfriends babe? It’s so last century isn’t it? Like she really needed to rub it in that his shirt was once a dazzling white and was now a yucky green.
She accused me of doing it on purpose, her Essex earrings swinging like meat cleavers. I felt sure if she stood much closer to Ashby she was likely to slice off one of his ears. Mak told her that if I were able to vomit to order then she should stand back. Ashby just stood there looking down at his shirt. I felt awful, I told him it was the eggnog that did it but he pointed out that eggnog was not green. Imogen didn’t help matters by waving her champagne glass in the air and shouting, ‘Well, we know for sure it weren’t fucking white.’ And that was it really. Any hope I had of getting back with Ashby was hopelessly dashed by three eggnogs and one green vomit.
*
New Year’s Day: 12 pm
Oh, fuckity fuck, Ashby has only unfriended me on Facebook. It must be a mistake. Surely he wouldn’t unfriend over a bit of vomit would he? Shit, shit and treble shit. I bet Essex Earring Riyana made him do it.
Scrolled into Instagram and sighed with relief. He’s still there. I was happily drooling over his New Year’s Eve photos, while covering Essex Earring with my hand, when the door buzzer sounded.
‘Happy New Year,’ Rita had trilled throwing the baby over her shoulder like a bag of potatoes.
Ah, my sister Rita.
Chapter Two
‘That’s a sodding big one,’ says Rita.
It’s my Christmas tree she’s talking about, just in case you wondered.
‘I know and the pine needles get everywhere. They’re even in my knickers.’
‘Not many things get in your knickers these days,’ she laughs while bouncing the screaming Emma on her knee and inducing a vomit over my John Lewis throw.
‘Oh sod it. Sorry, Phoeb.’
‘I did that yesterday, over Ashby’s white shirt. It was a funny green colour when I’d finished.’
She gapes.
‘You were with Ashby on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Not exactly, we were just both at the same party.’
‘What happened?’ She plonks little Emma on to her nipple. I duck a spray of breast milk and scrub at the couch with a wet J-cloth.
‘He came with Essex Earring,’ I say scathingly.
‘That was a bit thoughtless. What a git.’
‘Well he does work at Lynworths too.’
I’m not sure why I’m defending the little shit, especially as he has just unfriended me on Facebook. Emma attacks the nipple like a starving Ethiopian.
‘That’s better,’ Rita sighs. ‘I tell you, they were fit to burst.’
‘I had noticed.’
‘So what happened?’ she asks.
‘He came over to say hi, well I guess that was why he came over, and with ‘her’ I hasten to add.’
I groan.
‘I’d drunk too much. It was the eggnog that did it.’
‘Yuk. I’m not surprised you threw up. If you ask me you need to stop brooding over that pointless little knob and find yourself someone else. There are so many ways to meet people nowadays. You won’t find a husband sitting here in your grotty little flat,’ says Rita, emptying a pack of Boots cystitis relief into her cranberry juice and swigging it back like a whisky swilling John Wayne.
‘Should you drink that stuff like that?’ I question, ‘especially if you’re breast feeding?’
‘I’m not snorting crack and at least she won’t get sodding cystitis will she? If I can save my daughter from one thing it will be sodding cystitis.’
‘There might be alcohol in it.’
‘I sodding hope so,’ she quips. ‘You ought to try celebrating New Year on Boots cystitis relief.’
‘Anyway, I don’t think my flat is grotty,’ I say, trying to avoid looking at her blue veined breast. ‘And I’m not looking for a husband …’
‘You need to get Tinder for a start and …’
‘Oh no, there are just creeps on there.’
‘That’s not true, there’s some real talent.’
‘How do you know?’
She shakes a dismissive hand at me.
‘You can also do online dating and … Jeremy knows this guy …’
‘Oh God, he’s not a bloody priest is he?’
She makes a tutting sound.
‘No, he’s nice. He works at the housing association. I’ll get Jeremy to introduce you …’
‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ I say, tucking into a blueberry muffin. There’s nothing like a muffin when you’re depressed. ‘I’m really not interested in men.’
That’s not strictly true. I am interested in one man. I still don’t know why he ended things. It surely wasn’t for Essex Earring. I least I hope it wasn’t.
‘There’s something wrong with you then. I could understand it if you had a vagina like mine. I can’t begin to tell you what a state it’s in. Jeremy and I haven’t done it in sodding months.’
I hasten to add that I’m not like my sister. I don’t have big breasts for a start. Rita’s got my share as well as her own. You’d never believe her husband was a vicar. He’s a Baptist minister to be precise. To be honest I don’t know the difference. I don’t do God. My mum does. She blames him for everything. It’s his fault I’m not married apparently, which takes some of the stress off me.
‘I’d better phone Jeremy and check he’s coping with the kids okay.’
I click the kettle on for another coffee and fetch a pack of squashed fly biscuits aka garibaldis, left over from Christmas. Then it starts; Harry Bloom’s drumming and his bloody dog barking in accompaniment.
‘Oh God,’ I moan, swallowing two aspirin. ‘That dog and those pis
sing drums.’
Rita pulls Emma off the breast and sprays milk on to my fly biscuit.
‘That dog’s mental,’ says Rita. ‘You ought to give it a poisoned bone.’
I gawp at her. I blame her hormones.
‘I sometime doubt you’re my sister,’ I say. ‘I’m sure I was adopted and Mum doesn’t like to tell me. How can you be married to a vicar and then tell me to poison a dog?’
‘What’s being married to a minister got to do with it?’ she asks, putting away her blue veined breast and swollen nipple.
‘You’ll be suggesting I poison Harry Bloom next.’
‘Oh no,’ she protests, ‘I think he’s rather cute.’
‘Harry Bloom? Cute?’ I laugh. ‘Listen to that drumming. You’d think he was the welcoming party for the lost tribes of Borneo.’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Let’s face it, you’re not known for your musical appreciation are you? Let’s be honest, you must be the only woman in the country who chose to give birth to Michael Buble’s singing.’
‘He calms me.’
‘He drives everyone else nuts. Talking of being driven nuts, is he playing the bongos?’
‘It is New Year’s Day.’
‘I don’t care if it’s his bloody birthday,’ I say jumping up and feeling myself sway. It sounds like he’s doing a re-enactment of Zulu in his flat. If only someone would spear him and put an end to this racket. My head is aching unmercifully. I storm from the flat and thump on his door.
‘For God’s sake, can’t you do your tribal call somewhere else? Some of us have hangovers.’
The drumming stops and the door opens.
‘Do you mind?’ I snap.
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realise you could hear it.’
‘I always hear it,’ I say angrily. ‘In fact, I hear everything that goes on in your flat.’
He smiles. I have to admit Harry Bloom has a nice smile, but that’s the only good thing I can say about him. He is the most up his own arse toff that I have ever met. His father owns Bloom Properties and Bloom bloody Properties are trying to buy my flat, and not just my flat but the whole block. Arthur Bloom turns affordable flats into luxury apartments and then sells them to foreign investors. We are offered a new tenancy but at triple rent of course. Seriously, I can barely pay the rent as it is. He has no thought for people like Mr Tyler who has lived in this block for twenty years.
