by Lynda Renham
‘Actually …,’ begins Imogen.
I shoot her a dirty look.
Harry looks behind me to Imogen and Mak.
‘I don’t see Mr Tyler,’ he says cockily.
‘And,’ I continue, ‘If you don’t stop that yapping dog of yours from barking I shall report you to the RSPCA.’
‘You’re going to report me to the RSPCA because my dog barks? What do you want me to do, muzzle him?’
‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘Well, we should get back darling,’ says Mak nervously. ‘Tinder calls and all that.’
‘Tinder?’ Harry grins. ‘I thought that was for desperate people.’
‘It happens to be a very good social networking tool for meeting new people,’ I say indignantly.
‘I’m not on it,’ says Mak in a self-righteous tone.
What bollocks, he’s on everything but.
‘If that’s what you’re in to,’ says Harry dismissively.
‘I don’t use it either,’ says Imogen. ‘I’ve got it but I don’t use it.’
Honestly, I don’t believe these two. Mak shakes Harry’s hand enthusiastically.
‘It was lovely meeting you. I’m Mak by the way. I’m gay, just in case you were thinking is he or isn’t he. It saves all that confusion doesn’t it? You must come out for a drink with us.’
I shake my head in disbelief.
‘Thanks,’ says Harry, winking at me.
‘Come on love,’ says Mak, patting me on the bum, ‘let’s get a Chinese. I say, would you like to join us?’ he asks Harry.
I don’t believe this.
‘Thanks but I’m meeting someone for dinner. I’ll do my best to have a quiet shower though. Nice to have met you,’ he says to Mak and Imogen before closing the door.
‘Honestly, you two,’ I sigh.
‘He’s friends with Prince Harry, you know,’ says Mak.
‘You’re such a snob.’
Mak rummages through my kitchen drawer for the Chinese menu.
‘Noodles everyone?’ he asks.
I open my mouth to reply when Imogen gasps.
‘Why don’t you ask Harry Bloom to take you to the do?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
Am I really that desperate? I suppose I am.
*
Tuesday 16th January: 8pm
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I still don’t have a date for the Guildhall and no way would I lower myself and ask Harry Bloom. I’ve gone through my phone contact list and everyone is either, female, married or gay. The only single men left in my contacts are the plumber and the dentist, neither of them being viable date material. Tinder is my last resort. Minor technical issue due to distraction from Harry Bloom’s drumming debacle. I got the swiping directions wrong and was swiping left for the ones I liked and right for those I didn’t and ended up with a dozen creeps telling me how they would like to bang me. Had to google to find out what I’d done with the nice ones who presumably wouldn’t want to bang me. Finally got the hang of it and found a gorgeous blond Adonis staring back at me. Loved music and fashion and enjoyed eating out. Better still he was a property developer, so I’m bound to get loads of advice about Bloom Properties too. I hurriedly swiped and waited. All of two hours passed and then my phone pinged with a message.
‘Well, it’s a Tuesday night, time to put on a little Taylor Swift and let the good times roll.’
How could I not swoon? He said his name was Andy, short for Andrew but no one called him that. Wasn’t sure if the, ‘that,’ was Andy or Andrew. After all, wouldn’t want to start off the date by calling him the wrong name. We arranged to meet for a drink at a very swanky wine bar in the West End. Imogen had said always meet in a public place. That way you’ll be safe.
Dead excited.
*
Thursday 18th January: Late
Marjorie Phipps only called in sick. Of all the days, it had to be the one she was booked up to the hilt wouldn’t it and the day I was meeting Andy for a drink. I’d hoped to leave early, have a relaxing bath and get ready slowly and calmly. Brian said I had to take her clients, not ‘would I mind taking her clients.’ I had gawped at him. Told Brian that I couldn’t remember how to do it, after all I did the training a year ago. It was only for a bit of a laugh. I never actually thought I’d be asked to do it and most certainly not on the day of a big date. Brian dismissed my concerns and said it would be like riding a bike and that it would all come back to me. He then went on to remind me, quite firmly, that the store had paid for the training, so I didn’t have much choice really.
Marjorie is the store’s ear piercer.
‘Shouldn’t you get someone more qualified?’ I’d protested.
‘It’s not a heart transplant,’ he’d huffed, ‘and you are qualified.’ And with that he’d left me to it. I’d peeked at the sacrificial lambs in the waiting area and then looked at my shaking hands.
It’s not difficult to pierce. In fact with a piercing gun it’s really quite easy. A steady hand is all that’s needed. You also need to know when to let go, of course. I know I should have hung on but when I felt the piercing gun go through the flesh I just kind of lost my nerve. Big Mary was shouting for Doris and the customer was strutting around the treatment room with the staple gun hanging from her earlobe. It was just awful, like something out of a slasher movie. All I could hear above the client’s screams was Big Mary yelling, ‘Doris, Doris, Phoebe needs you.’ Thankfully, Doris released the woman from the piercing gun who was amazingly understanding about it all. Brian was less so and gave me an official warning.
Arrived home and had a glass of wine to calm my nerves. I meant to have only one but what with my awful day and the added nerves of meeting Andy I may well have had more than one.
I’d had to struggle into the new dress that I had bought especially for this sort of occasion only to have the damn thing split as I squeezed into it. Resolved to go to the gym as soon as Guildhall ball is over. Rummaged through wardrobe and threw on a Zara dress and covered it with a Boden cardigan my mum had given me last Christmas. Realised bulge stood out too much in the Zara dress and changed yet again. Finally settled on copied Jaeger suit and red pumps. Was sweating like a kosher pig by then and had to do my make-up all over again. I had now drunk far too much to drive, which meant I had to splash out on a cab.
Dialled cab number while polishing off the last of the wine only to be told there was a thirty minute wait. I’d had no choice but to grab my coat and bag and hop on a bus. I then had to walk half a mile to the wine bar with my Gucci pumps pinching my toes.
The bar was packed with stunning women with slim figures, gorgeous hair, and no sign of a single bulge between them. Felt very fat for the hundredth time. My neat hair bun had come loose and my toe was forming a painful blister, and then I spotted him, a blonde Greek God sitting at the bar nursing a glass of wine and studying his phone. I limped towards him and then it happened. My foot somehow got tangled in the strap of someone’s handbag. I hurtled forward and landed at his feet. The bugger didn’t even look up from his phone.
Chapter Seven
‘Hello, I’m Phoebe,’ I say, pulling myself up from the floor.
‘What can I get you?’ asks the barman.
‘A large white wine,’ I say, drawing in my bulge.
Andy pulls himself away from his phone and looks at me. He then lifts his hand for a high five. Not the greeting I was expecting.
‘I thought it said you were twenty-five on your profile,’ he says candidly.
Shit, I really must change that.
‘A typo,’ I say, blushing, ‘I must put that right.’
‘So,’ he says. ‘I was here early. I had a client. I’m a property developer. I make tons of money.’
I find myself nodding and sipping my wine alternately.
‘To be honest with you I’m sitting on millions. Actually I’ve not long been back from the S
tates. It’s all go. I bought my first property at nineteen and sold it for a packet.’
I’m seriously pissed and grab a handful of peanuts to soak up the wine.
‘I’ll get you another,’ he says.
God, is he trying to get me drunk?
‘You like the States?’ he asks.
‘I …’
‘California is brilliant, fabulous place. I hire a villa when I’m out there. American women are something else.’
I really don’t need to hear that.
‘So what do you do?’ he asks finally.
Oh, now there’s a question.
‘I half-pierce women’s ears, lose boyfriends and then throw up eggnog all over their shirts. When I’m not doing that I can be found in the Menswear department of Lynworths or rummaging through copies of top designer brands in the market.’
He stares at me. Oh bollocks, I’ve drunk far too much.
‘Half-pierce?’ he repeats.
‘Yes, today I left the staple gun in someone’s ear.’
‘Okay. Do you want another drink?’
He isn’t easily shocked is he?
‘I haven’t drunk this one yet.’
‘Oh right.’
There’s silence. I gently remove my pump and let out a little moan. I then see the blister is bleeding.
‘I’m bored,’ he says suddenly, throwing back his drink. ‘Let’s go back to my place and drink champagne.’
What? We’ve only been together for five minutes. Does he seriously expect me to go back to his place?
‘I don’t think I know you well enough to go back to your place,’ I say.
‘Are you scared or something?’ he says mockingly.
‘No, I’m not scared I’m just sensible. You’re clearly trying to get me drunk.’
And to think I got a blister for this arrogant pain in the arse.
‘Whatever,’ he says, and then proceeds to pay the bill.
‘I’ve got a party to go to anyway.’
He steps off the stool and walks to the door. I stare at him. Can you believe this? I push my wine glass to one side, pick up my bag and limp after him. He stands outside and is on his sodding phone again.
‘Are you coming or not?’ he says.
‘Not,’ I say loudly. ‘You have to be kidding. You just left me in that wine bar, alone …’
And then he does that thing, the thing that all women acknowledge makes a man a dick. He shushes me. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I lifted my handbag and walloped him so hard with it that I almost lost my balance.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he gasps.
‘That was the end of a Tinder date,’ I say angrily.
I hail a cab and jump in. For goodness’ sake, am I ever going to find a man for the Guildhall ball?
Chapter Eight
I remember, as I’m halfway home, that I am totally out of milk. In fact, I’m totally out of lots of things but milk is essential. So I stop the cab outside my local Sainsbury’s. I’m already thinking of their white chocolate and raspberry cookies. I decide to treat myself to one. After all, I need something to cheer myself up after my disastrous Tinder date.
I grab a trolley and begin that boring mooch around the aisles. I hate supermarkets, they have too many tempting things, and what was only meant to be a pint of milk and a bag of cookies ends up as a trolley full of stuff I don’t need. The thing with supermarkets these days is that they sell everything don’t they? The temptation is overwhelming. Well, it is if you’re Phoebe Smith. I stroll around the clothes aisle and throw in a couple of cardigans. You can’t have enough cardigans can you?
I toss in a couple of bottles of wine, you should always have wine at home for the unexpected visitor, but you can’t have wine without crisps, so I chuck in two bags. I stock up on blueberry muffins and Besties. I know I keep saying I’ll give them up but when life keeps punching you in the solar plexus there really is nothing else to do but wallow in pork pies and muffins. I will give them up the moment life gets less stressful.
Note to self: don’t food shop after a disastrous date. They should warn you about that. They advise you not to shop when hungry don’t they? There really should be rules about shopping. A woman should never shop when she’s premenstrual as this equals a cupboard full of chocolate. Or more importantly, never shop after an emotional upset as this most certainly equals a fridge full of Besties pork pies. Well, it does in my case. I sigh and throw in some bottled water.
I turn into the shampoo shelves and see Harry Bloom. Oh no. Hasn’t my evening been bad enough? What’s he doing in Sainsbury’s? Shouldn’t he be shopping at Waitrose or come to that, Harrods food hall? I try to turn quickly but the trolley wheel gets stuck and lets out an ear-piercing screech.
‘Bugger,’ I mutter as the trolley locks solid.
‘Phoebe?’ he asks.
Damn. My head thumps and I remember why I’d come down this aisle. I need painkillers. I turn around.
‘Oh hello,’ I say, pretending I’ve only just seen him. ‘Fancy seeing you here? I had you down for a Waitrose shopper.’
If he says he had me down for an Aldi shopper I’ll clobber him with my handbag.
‘Sainsbury’s is convenient,’ he smiles. ‘It’s just around the corner and it’s open until eleven.’
Which means, had they been open, he would be shopping at Waitrose.
‘Can I help with that?’ he asks, nodding at the trolley.
I give it a kick and it unlocks.
‘I’ve got it, thanks.’
I find myself glancing into his basket. Two packs of smoked salmon sit on the top. That’s typical isn’t it? I’ve got Sainsbury’s Basics mackerel in mine.
‘Ooh, quilted toilet roll,’ I say. ‘That little bit of luxury makes all the difference doesn’t it?’
I don’t know why I’m feeling angry with Harry Bloom. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with his choice of toilet roll. It’s more to do with his father. I’m in a bad mood. Everything that can go wrong is going wrong for me. While for Harry Bloom everything that can go right just keeps on going right.
‘You seem to have a lot of opinions about me,’ he says, reaching for a bottle of shampoo.
‘I do,’ I agree.
I walk past him with my trolley to the checkout.
‘I think you’re an up your own arse toff,’ I say. ‘And your father is worse, and thanks to him I’ll either have to pay an exorbitant rent or be homeless.’
Oh God, I’m taking my bad mood out on Harry Bloom. It’s not his fault I just had a disastrous date. He is still smiling which really isn’t helping my mood in the least.
‘What are you basing this on?’ he asks, following me to the till.
‘I’ve read about you and your family on the internet,’ I say, and then realise how shallow I sound. ‘And everyone knows your father buys everything in sight.’
‘The internet?’ he repeats. ‘Awesome. That’s a great way to get to know people.’
I take a deep breath.
‘Everyone checks people on the internet,’ I say, throwing my things on to the conveyor.
‘Not intelligent ones,’ he shoots back.
Is he saying I’m not intelligent?
‘So you think people are guilty until proven innocent,’ he says, reaching past me to put his items on the counter. The soft smell of him wafts over and I sniff gratefully.
I flex my neck. Maybe I should buy some Ralgex while I’m at it. I’m so tense these days.
‘Don’t you judge people?’ I ask.
‘Not until I meet them, unless they are a convicted murderer of course.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Are you a convicted murderer?’ I almost break my eggs by throwing them on the counter.
He grins before saying, ‘I don’t know, what does the internet say?’
I glare at him.
‘Do you always dress for Sainsbury’s?’ he asks.
Clearly this is war.
‘If
you must know I’ve just been on a date.’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘How did it go?’
‘Very well, thanks,’ I lie.
I clench my teeth and pack away my shopping.
‘Forty-two pounds, fifty-six pence,’ says the cashier. ‘Do you have a Nectar card?’
How much? I only bought a few bits.
‘Erm … no I don’t.’
‘I’ve got one,’ says Harry and hands it to the cashier.
I don’t believe it. He’s not content with all his money, now he wants my Nectar points.
‘You should get one,’ he says, ‘especially as the store is just around the corner. You’d be amazed how much you use it.’
‘There’s a saying isn’t there? The more you have the more you want?’ I quip.
He laughs.
‘Blimey, who rocked your boat tonight?’
Yes, well the less said about that the better. I fish in my bag for my purse. In fact I fish and fish but there is no sign of it. Oh no, don’t tell me I left it at home. I rummage again. The cashier’s smile is becoming fixed and the customer behind Harry starts tapping his feet. I feel around the little pocket. You never know, I might have shoved a card in there, but all I find is a Holland and Barrett loyalty card. I’ve no idea why I’ve got one of those.
‘Do you want to serve him while I find my purse?’ I ask.
‘I can’t really because the till has your purchases on it,’ says the assistant sympathetically.
Bugger.
‘Can I help?’ Harry asks.
‘I can’t seem to find my purse,’ I say quietly.
‘Not a problem, I can pay,’ he says handing over his debit card.
‘I really can’t be in your debt,’ I protest.
Harry Bloom is the last person I want to owe money.
‘Not a problem. Pay me back later,’ he says with that air of nonchalance that he has.
The guy behind is tapping his feet faster than bloody Michael Flatley.
‘Okay, thank you,’ I say.
The assistant lets out a sigh of relief and takes his card.
I struggle to loop all the carrier bags over my hands. I’d stupidly forgotten that I didn’t have my car. I hope Harry Bloom can’t smell the wine on my breath. He’ll think I’m a right lush. Every time he sees me I’m pissed. Okay, not every time, but one time too many for my liking.
