by Lynda Renham
‘I don’t exhibit,’ I say, fighting back a yawn.
‘You must have hobbies?’
Does going to the pub count as a hobby?
‘Erm …’ I hesitate. ‘I like fashion, I love getting a bargain. For instance, I know the best shops for fakes and …’
‘What kind of fakes?’ he asks, scribbling in his notebook.
‘Clothes, bags, shoes, you know.’
‘Ah I see, and you find that enjoyable?’
More wine is needed. What the hell was Rita thinking of? My head swims from drinking too much too quickly.
‘Right,’ he says, closing the book. ‘Let me tell you something about me.’
And that is exactly what he does. Fifteen minutes of Roger, Roger, and more Roger until I’m all Rogered out, so to speak. Before I realise it we are on a second bottle, or should I say I am.
‘Any questions?’ he asks.
I knock back another glass.
‘No, I think you’ve covered everything.’
And more.
‘Right, it has been interesting. Shall we get the bill?’
Oh yes please.
The waiter brings the bill and Roger produces a calculator from his man bag. Surely he’s joking. Okay, so I know this isn’t Pride and Prejudice but it is somehow presumed the guy will at least offer, right?
‘The sea bass was yours. You had the peas on the side didn’t you?’ asks Roger.
There is nothing to do but own up and down more wine.
‘Ah, now bread. I think we had half each or did you have an extra piece?’
I suppose I should own up to that one too.
‘So we’ve drunk one and a half bottles of wine, and there are six glasses in one bottle.’
I’m close to banging my head on the table.
‘I’ve had three and half and you’ve had …’
‘You’ve been counting?’ I say surprised.
‘We want it to be fair.’
What a tight-arsed bastard.
‘So, you’ve had four and a half …’ he continues.
I throw back the rest.
‘Ah, five glasses, let’s call that a bottle. So your drink bill is twelve pounds. Oh mustn’t forget the olives. You actually asked for those didn’t you?’
Jesus, is he paying for anything?
‘You had the mousse and …’
I yawn loudly.
He taps the calculator and then beckons the waiter over.
‘I’ll get the coffees, my treat,’ he smiles.
Gee, thanks Roger. I fumble in my purse for my share and sigh when I realise I don’t have enough cash. I pull out a credit card and place it on the table.
‘Do you have credit cards?’ he asks, shocked.
‘Shouldn’t I have?’
‘I hope you pay the balance at the end of the month because the interest on these things can be killers.’
‘Would you like to check my bank statement?’ I say sarcastically.
‘If you need help with finances I’m very good with money.’
Good at hoarding it. I’m going to sodding throttle Rita. We leave the restaurant and Roger hails a cab. Before I can open my mouth he has climbed in.
‘Thanks Phoebe, I’ll be in touch.’
Then the cab pulls away.
‘Wanker,’ I yell, and then lose my balance and go arse over tit on my new Chanel’s. I land in the road and manage to stop an oncoming black cab in the process.
‘Marylebone Towers, Camden please,’ I say, falling inside.
I shall kill Rita, slowly and painfully and I will never go on a blind date again.
Chapter Five
How can there be everything in my bag except my keys? I was sure I saw them when I was in the restaurant with I-love-Somalia Roger.
‘Bollocks bollocks,’ I slur.
I tip everything out of my bag and rummage through the scattered contents.
‘Where the fucking fuck are the fucking keys for fuck’s sake?’
This is my bag isn’t it? It looks like mine. Ah yes, that’s my squashed tampon. God knows why I carry that everywhere. I’m never going to stick that up me am I? I empty my make-up bag but no luck there. They’re not in the zip compartment or jumbled up in my spare knickers. I leave everything on the floor and try the door again. Well, you never know, it may not be locked, although if it isn’t then I’m buggered if I’m going in to be mugged by a burglar.
‘You do realise it is almost midnight?’ says a voice behind me.
I wobble on my heels.
‘Jesus, are you trying to give me heart failure?’ I snap at Harry Bloom. ‘Still, I suppose if they take me out feet first it will save your family a job.’
He rolls his eyes and says, ‘I think it’s your liver you should be worried about.’
I blink through blurry eyes to see he is wearing a pair of night shorts giving me a quick peek at his hairy legs. God, they are hairy too. I’ve only ever seen that much hair on an ape. Okay, slight exaggeration, but there’s no doubt I’m in testosterone city. God is that the outline of his …
‘Can’t find the sodding keys,’ I mutter, averting my eyes.
‘Let’s have a look shall we?’ he says, sifting through the contents of my handbag. ‘These look like keys.’
He jangles them in my face like a jailer.
‘They weren’t there earlier,’ I argue, looking at his legs. I scoop up the contents of my handbag, discreetly dropping the tampon in first. Who’d have thought Harry Bloom would have hairy legs. I mean, I know there’s no reason why he shouldn’t. I just didn’t have him down as someone with hairy legs. The truth is I’ve never thought about his legs. He unlocks my door and offers his arm.
‘I’m not drunk if that’s what you’re inferencing.’
‘I wasn’t inferencing anything,’ he says with a smile. ‘But I think you’re far from sober.’
‘You wouldn’t be sober if you’d been out with buggering Gestapo leader Roger. Can you believe he made me pay more than half for the dinner? Fifty quid to be interrogated.’
I fumble with the light switch and groan when the light assaults my eyes.
‘Why is it so bright suddenly?’
‘Where’s your bedroom?’ asks Harry.
‘Blimey, you’re a bit pushy,’ I say removing my hand from his arm. ‘We barely know each other.’
‘For you to sleep off the alcohol,’ he says opening a door. ‘Trust me, drunken women are not in the least appealing.’
‘That’s the cupboard,’ I say. ‘And the broom …’
Too late.
‘Your cupboard’s a death trap,’ he says, pushing back the broom.
I nod.
‘You should live here. It tries to kill me every day.’
He leads me to the bedroom and his words suddenly register.
‘Are you saying I’m unattractive?’ I slur, kicking my shoes off and groaning with relief.
‘When you’re sober you’re very appealing,’ he smiles and then turns the duvet back.
‘Oh,’ I groan as a wave of nausea overwhelms me. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’
I dash past him into the bathroom.
‘Wonderful,’ he mutters.
When I come out he’s gone. I flop on to the bed and drag the duvet over me. Oh God, I just know I won’t make it to the morning. I lay watching the room spin and moan softly. Hang on a minute, whispers a little voice in my head, did Harry Bloom just say I was very appealing when sober? Huh, as if I’d be interested in Harry Bloom, especially with his gross hairy legs.
*
Sunday 14th January: 4 pm
I’d totally forgotten my mother. I don’t mean I’d forgotten I had a mother, I’d just forgotten I’d given her a key to my flat. For one moment I thought I was being burgled, although I have to admit getting burgled on a Sunday morning is a bit unusual. Even burglars like a lie in. It was nine thirty and my mother was vacuuming. Stumbled into the living room to see what was going on. She
started vacuuming around my feet and announced she was taking me for a Sunday roast at The George. The last thing I needed was a roast dinner. Almost flew back into the bathroom to throw up except she’d got there before me and was splashing Domestos down the loo. She managed to make lots of slapping noises pulling on her Marigolds which only added to the throbbing in my head. I asked her what on earth she thought she was doing. Clearly that was the wrong question. She’d gone on to tell me what a state the flat was in and didn’t I know what vacuum cleaners were for. I really didn’t need this with my hangover. To top it all she then interrogated me on my date with Roger. What could I say? It was mortifying. There really was no other word for it. I managed to grab the bottle of water before she tidied it away and swallowed a paracetamol. Admitted the whole evening was a disaster and how I was convinced Roger was psychotic. Another disappointment for my mum, especially as Rita had told her how lovely he was. Can’t believe Rita and I were talking about the same Roger. Mum was disappointed and said she had such high hopes and then I got the ‘I wish you could be more like Rita’ speech and then, after banging on about my sister, she said I was ‘an emaciated woman all liberated and bra burning.’ Felt sure she meant emancipated. Seems she’d heard about the protest. No doubt from Rita. Huh, clearly my mother hasn’t seen my Christmas bulge. I’ve gained five pounds if not more since Christmas so I’m far from emaciated. Explained that I thought she meant emancipated. Then she started going on about my womb and how she couldn’t understand why God gave me one and at the rate I was going I’d never have babies. Tried to explain I didn’t want babies, well, at least, not yet.
‘You’re a woman, all women want babies. Look at Angelina Jolie,’ she’d said.
I thought that was a bit extreme. I don’t have a boyfriend who looks like Brad Pitt for a start. In fact, I don’t have a boyfriend, period. My mother reminded me of this fact. Honestly, I thought her meditation classes were supposed to give her good karma. Said as much and was told I should try it too and that she would buy me a yoga mat for my birthday. I just can’t see me burning frankincense and sitting in the lotus position. I’m surprised my mother can with her knees. Besides I don’t have the time like she does. The flat reeked of Pledge by the time she’d finished. Still, was grateful to have the flat cleaned. Mum thinks Ashby is going through an Essex Earring phase, whatever that is but I so hope she is right. With a bit of luck he’ll be over it before the ball at the Guildhall.
I couldn’t seem to shake her off so finally agreed to lunch and was just about to get ready when there was a knock at the door. Mum opened it to Harry Bloom. His hairy legs were covered by a pair of faded jeans.
He was all apologetic, and said he hadn’t realised I had company. I explained I didn’t consider my mum to be company so it didn’t really matter.
He’d popped round to see how I was feeling. Anyone would think I had Ebola rather than a hangover and I said as much only to have Mum snap at me.
‘Still feeling fragile then?’ Harry had grinned. ‘Does that mean you won’t appreciate my drumming recital this afternoon?’
I pulled a face and he’d then promised to try and keep it down. I was unimpressed. How can you keep the sound of drums down? Mum thought Harry Bloom was very nice. My mother has no taste whatsoever.
‘Don’t even go there, Mum,’ I’d snapped.
The last thing I needed was my mum trying to get me off with Harry bloody Bloom.
Chapter Six
‘I hate myself,’ declares Imogen, polishing off another muffin. ‘I’ve given him everything,’ she sobs into my chocolate sauce. ‘Just because she’s given him kids it doesn’t make her better than me, does it?’
Mak and I shake our heads.
‘I’ll get more,’ I say, hurrying to the kitchen for reinforcements.
‘He only stays out of duty,’ she says grabbing the packet of blueberry muffins from me. ‘I can’t believe he’s done it again. The thing is the tickets cost a bomb.’
She looks at us hopefully. Oh no, not again. I don’t even want to remember how many concerts Mak and I have been to because Daniel cancelled at the last minute.
‘I never did like the real Beatles love, let alone lookalikes,’ apologises Mak. ‘This is one I couldn’t sit through. Sorry petal.’
‘They’re a bit last century,’ I say.
‘Daniel loves them.’
Yes, I can tell that.
‘You didn’t pay for the tickets, did you?’ asks Mak.
She looks shamefaced. ‘Daniel was going to pay me back.’
It just gets worse.
‘Put them on Gumtree,’ suggests Mak.
Imogen sighs and fumbles in her bag for her electronic cigarette.
‘Anyway, he’s definitely promised to take me to the Guildhall ball.’
Mak and I look at each other.
‘What?’ she asks. ‘You think he’s going to let me down don’t you?’
I shrug.
‘Well, if he does, I’ll take you love,’ says Mak, hugging her.
‘I need a date too,’ I say, sounding like Cinderella. ‘Who will take me to the ball? I don’t want Ashby thinking I can’t get anyone.’
‘What if I take you both?’ offers Mak.
I shake my head.
‘No disrespect Mak, but I really don’t want to go with a man who’s taking two women. Ashby will know I’m tagging along and that isn’t exactly going to kick him in the teeth is it?’
‘Tinder,’ says Mak, grabbing my phone. ‘It’s about time we signed you up.’
I sigh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are lots of lovely guys on Tinder but I also imagine there are an awful lot of psychotic sex-craved maniacs too. And with my luck …
‘Okay, profile …’ begins Mak.
‘Gorgeous, sexy blonde with a love of fashion,’ quips Imogen.
‘We can’t put that,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ asks Mak.
‘Because it’s not true.’
‘Okay, we’ll take out the gorgeous sexy and …’
‘I meant the fashion bit,’ I say, affronted. ‘Everything I own is fake.’
‘They don’t need to know that,’ says Mak. ‘Right then, gorgeous, sexy blonde who likes fashion and, what else do you like?’
‘Wine, blueberry muffins and pork pies,’ says Imogen.
‘You don’t think that makes me sound a bit shallow,’ I say.
‘What are your hobbies?’ asks Mak.
I shrug.
‘Fashion I suppose and music. I like music. I like films.’
Well, I used to like films when Ashby and I were together. We’d go to the cinema and cuddle up in the back seat, and we watched DVDs at home. Oh God, I miss him. I feel tears well up and quickly turn away.
‘Oh no,’ says Imogen, ‘are you thinking of Ashby?’
Tears fill her eyes.
‘Love is so painful,’ she sobs, reaching for a Kleenex.
‘That’s why so many poems are written about it darling,’ says Mak, handing out muffins.
‘I’m going to tell Daniel it’s all over,’ says Imogen. ‘Why should I go on like this?’
‘Quite right,’ I say.
‘Good decision,’ says Mak.
Of course she won’t. She never does.
‘Prosecco?’ I announce and jump up.
‘Do you want to put your age?’ calls Mak.
‘What?’ Imogen exclaims. ‘Thirty-four, shit no. They’ll all wonder why she’s still single.’
Great, thanks a lot.
‘We can’t lie,’ I say.
‘Good God darling, you don’t really think people tell the truth on Tinder do you?’ Mak laughs.
‘Well …’
What’s the point then if everyone is going to lie?
I pop open the Prosecco and hit the lampshade with the cork.
‘I’ll say you’re twenty-five,’ says Mak.
I watch as he scrolls through my phone and adds a photo from my camera roll.
>
‘Right, just add location and you’re done darling. Cinderella will go to the ball.’
The sound of crashing cymbals makes me jump.
‘Christ, here we go,’ I mutter.
‘Is that the very divine Harry Bloom?’ asks Mak.
I roll my eyes.
‘I hope it’s not Black-sodding-Sabbath night. I’ll stick my head in a gas oven if it is.’
‘You’re all electric petal,’ Mak reminds me.
‘I think he’s rather nice,’ says Imogen.
‘You’ve never met him.’
‘I did once. He was terribly sweet.’
‘Huh,’ I scoff. ‘You do know what his father does?’
‘Yes, but …’
His dog barks and I curse.
‘Right,’ I say angrily, turning up the volume on my Adele CD.
‘Shall I say you like eating out?’ shouts Mak.
‘Okay.’
‘Now you’re set up, let’s have a look at the men.’
‘You have to swipe right if you like them and scroll to the left if you don’t,’ yells Imogen.
‘Which way?’
‘Can you turn the music down darling?’ asks Mak, ‘I feel like I’m at a rave.’
‘You should live here.’
‘I’m glad I don’t.’
‘Right,’ I say angrily, turning down the music. ‘I’m sick of this.’
‘Oh no,’ mutters Imogen, puffing nervously on her electronic cigarette.
I yank the door open and march the few steps to Harry’s flat. I hear Mak and Imogen behind me. I’m about to rap on the door when I see Mr Tyler rasping as he struggles up the stairs.
‘Mother of God, these stairs will be the end of me, mark my words,’ he gasps.
‘Is it disturbing you too?’ I ask, grateful for some support.
‘Your damn music is disturbing me. I can’t stand that bloody woman.’
‘Adele?’ says Imogen, open-mouthed. ‘You can’t mean Adele?’
‘But, what about Harry’s drums?’ I ask
‘I couldn’t hear anything above your bloody music. Young people,’ he huffs as he makes his way back downstairs.
‘Right,’ I say, feeling myself seethe as I rap on Harry’s door.
‘Oh hello,’ says Harry, ‘feeling better?’
‘You’ve disturbed me and Mr Tyler from downstairs,’ I say.
