Phoebe Smith’s Private Blog: A Romantic Comedy

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Come with me,’ he says masterfully. I follow obediently.

  ‘You must have had it on for too long and some of it has got on to the lip. It will go down in time but I’ve got something that will speed it up.’

  He produces a bag from a cupboard with paramedic written across it. I can’t believe it, Harry Bloom is a trained paramedic. I didn’t see that on the internet.

  ‘I did it for three years,’ he says, gently applying some cream to my lip. He’s very gentle and oh no, I’m getting just slightly aroused. What is wrong with me?

  ‘But you work for your father now,’ I say accusingly.

  He nods and stops applying the cream.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  I’m not sure what that means but who’d have thought it. Harry Bloom a paramedic.

  *

  It’s no good. I can’t face the thought of going to the Christmas party with Jeremy. I scroll through my contact list and hover over the escort agency number. God, I must be getting desperate. I ask if Malcolm is available.

  ‘He has a client this evening,’ the lady says apologetically.

  Just as well. I really can’t afford him. It will have to be Jeremy. I just hope he doesn’t wear his dog collar.

  I check my lip and see it has greatly improved, enough for me to put on my make-up. I’m about to take out the Velcro rollers when my phone rings. It’s Malcolm.

  ‘My client cancelled,’ he says. ‘Do you still need an escort?’

  Oh dear, I really should be honest.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have phoned. I can’t really afford it. I’ve got a party and didn’t want to go alone so was going with my vicar brother-in-law, but I couldn’t face it. I’m really sorry to waste your time.’

  ‘Why don’t we go as friends?’ he suggests. ‘I’ve got nothing else on. It’ll be nice to go out without having to be the perfect escort.’

  Why not indeed? I’ve just saved myself one hundred and eighty quid and the trout pout has gone, thanks to Harry Bloom. Things are looking up.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Camden cricket clubhouse has been transformed. There are even burly bouncers on the door.

  ‘Tickets,’ says one, smiling at me.

  Ooh I say, he’s rather nice. I wonder if he’s free the night of the Guildhall ball.

  ‘Hello mate,’ he says to Malcolm.

  I turn to Malcolm in surprise.

  ‘I go to lots of functions,’ Malcolm smiles.

  Inside it’s like Santa’s grotto. There’s even a Santa. It’s a bit weird as Christmas seems long gone now. There are tables laden with food and drink. I’m so nervous though that I can barely eat anything. The truth is I’m not sure the food will get down my stomach with the sturdy pants and longline bra squeezing it so tightly. But best of all, I’m with a professional who knows exactly how to behave at these kind of functions. I introduce him to everyone and he nods in that suave manner he has. I feel triumphant for once, especially as Henry is watching us. Gobsmacked doesn’t describe his face. Here I am with a tall, dark, very handsome man with a physique to die for. There’s a live band playing a mixture of Christmas songs and big band music.

  Then I see Essex Earring. The cow is wearing a Victoria Beckham dress and it’s the real McCoy. Trust me, I know a copy when I see one, and no way is she wearing a copy. How can she afford that? She works in HR for goodness’ sake, not for HRH. Okay, so she’s up for a promotion, but blimey. I pretend not to notice her and walk as elegantly as I can to the table plan and there I am. Miss Phoebe Smith and The Reverend Jeremy Grant and, oh shit, we’re only on the table with Nigel Taylor-Lynworth, and guess what, only bloody Ashby. How did we manage to make the top table? I’d also have splashed out of a Victoria Beckham dress had I known. Oh no, it isn’t because I’ve come with a vicar is it? Maybe I should explain that Malcolm isn’t Reverend Grant. Then again, Ashby isn’t a vicar is he? I must keep calm. My Luxury for Women black sequinned dress is perfect for a do like this. Thank goodness my trout pout has vanished, thanks to Harry Bloom. Who’d have thought it? Although he does have a sort of doctor look about him. I know a paramedic isn’t a doctor as such but its close isn’t it?

  Sasha wiggles towards me in her tight fitting dress swinging her hips to the music, a glass of bubbly balanced in one hand and a sparkling clutch in the other. I don’t want a shower of Batiste over my very expensive black dress.

  ‘Way to go,’ she says enviously, nodding towards Malcolm. ‘He is a hottie. Where did you find him?’

  ‘He came highly recommended,’ I say evasively.

  ‘Wow, he’s certainly been in my fantasies,’ she says tossing back her hair seductively. ‘Isn’t this a great do? Things are really looking up now the new Mr Lynworth has taken over. I can’t remember Lynworths ever putting on such a fantastic works do before.’

  I step back to avoid the avalanche and stomp on someone’s foot.

  ‘So sorry …’ I begin.

  ‘Phoebe isn’t it?’

  I’d recognise that posh voice anywhere, and the gorgeous fragrance that wafts from him but I didn’t for one minute think he would remember me. Okay, now is the time to display poise and elegance, stand straight, smile and accept a flute of bubbly with grace and serenity.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. How amazing of you to remember,’ I say, before sipping my bubbly and fighting back the urge to sneeze where the bubbles had got up my nose. Sasha is so stunned that she can’t even shake Batiste over me.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your foot,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t worry I have another.’

  ‘It’s a lovely party,’ Sasha enthuses, flicking back her hair and covering his jacket with a light dusting of Batiste.

  ‘I hope you enjoy yourself,’ he smiles.

  I brush the Batiste from his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve got …’ I begin.

  ‘Yes, I did notice,’ he smiles.

  Nigel Taylor-Lynworth is perfect in every possible way. He has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the room. His hazel eyes appraise you without undressing you and his lips are so sensual that I feel my legs turn to jelly. When he smiles my stomach somersaults and I know every woman in the room feels his potent presence because they can’t take their eyes off him. He’s wearing a blue and white striped shirt with a dark blue tie. Unlike the other men present he is not wearing a bow tie.

  ‘And I do believe you’re wearing Frederic Malle’s L’eau D’Hiver,’ he says.

  Sasha gasps.

  ‘You are?’ she says.

  God, I so wish I was but at a hundred and fifty pound a bottle I don’t think so. After all, let’s face it I need that money to pay for escorts. It’s similar though. Joe and Paul’s Blanc to be exact but I’m not owning up to that.

  ‘You know your perfumes, Mr Lynworth,’ I smile, trying not to be overtly seductive.

  ‘Please call me Nigel,’ he says, fleetingly touching my arm. ‘And you must save me a dance later.’

  I could swear about fifty women give me daggers at that point. Malcolm joins us and I turn to introduce him, after all that’s what you do at functions like this isn’t it?

  ‘This is my friend Malcolm and this is Nigel Taylor-Lynworth, my new boss.’

  ‘Ah, you’re the vicar.’

  Oh dear, maybe I should have brought Jeremy after all. This is going to be awkward. I don’t want to say that Malcolm is as far from a vicar as anyone can get and is in fact a professional escort. I don’t want people thinking he gives me extras. You know how people think these days?

  ‘Actually, no,’ says Malcolm. ‘I must confess my religious leanings aren’t that strong.’

  Nigel Taylor-Lynworth nods.

  ‘So, who is Reverend Grant?’

  I blush.

  ‘Malcolm didn’t think he could make it at first but he managed to cancel the other appointment at the last minute.’

  It’s not a total lie is it? I don’t want
Nigel Taylor-Lynworth knowing what a nightmare it is for me to get a date these days.

  ‘So my brother-in-law, Reverend Grant, said he would like to come.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, patting Malcolm on the shoulder, ‘I’m glad you made it after all. I look forward to seeing you both at dinner.’

  I can’t believe I almost missed this party. What a bonus too, I don’t have to watch my every word. What a blessed relief.

  ‘Blimey, I don’t know how you do it,’ says Sasha, giving me a look of respect.

  Imogen glides across the room with Harry Bloom. Harry gives me a conspirator’s wink. If he mentions my trout pout I’ll kill him. Imogen looks like the cat that got the cream and Ashby looks divine in his dinner jacket and bow tie. I must try not to throw up over this one. All these lovely men and not one of them belong to me. Mak saunters in, wearing a bright orange waistcoat and purple bow tie and with the campest man ever on his arm. He kisses me on both cheeks, ‘Mwah,’ and then raises his eyebrows at the sight of Malcolm.

  ‘Hello darlings,’ he says. ‘I say, this is pretty fab isn’t it? Meet Jasper, don’t you just adore his hat?’

  He shakes Malcolm’s hand.

  ‘Hello, you’re not Jeremy. What happened to the God squad, petal? I had visions of being preached at for being gay.’

  ‘No, I won’t be doing that,’ laughs Malcolm.

  ‘Pleased to hear it, so how did you two meet?’

  ‘You know,’ I say with a nod. ‘I put some photos on Instagram.’

  Recognition glints in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, the microlight. I must say you’re braver than me.’

  Everyone is braver than Mak.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Photos from Elizabeth Snograss’s do.’

  ‘Ah, I get you.’

  I throw back some bubbly.

  ‘Hello,’ says Imogen. ‘You’re not Jeremy?’

  Do they have to keep stating the bloody obvious?

  ‘You’ll have to take out a mortgage if you carry on like this,’ whispers Mak.

  ‘He’s here as a friend.’

  ‘Hello,’ says Harry, approaching me. ‘This is a great improvement to earlier.’

  He nods at my dress.

  ‘Glad you approve,’ I say.

  ‘Take a pic,’ says Imogen, pushing her phone into my hand. ‘I want to post it on Instagram.’

  She pulls Harry close to her and I take a photo.

  ‘Hello,’ calls Elizabeth, approaching. ‘You look nice Phoebe. Hello Malcolm, how are you?’

  ‘I’m good thanks,’ smiles Malcolm.

  I see Ashby strolling towards us.

  ‘We need a photo of all of us petal, for the memory book,’ laughs Mak, grabbing a waitress. We huddle together and I feel Harry’s arm slide around my waist. I move closer to Malcolm. Honestly, I’m getting as bad as Imogen.

  ‘Hello everyone,’ says Ashby.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says, turning to me.

  ‘So do you,’ I reply.

  ‘Hopefully you won’t ruin this shirt,’ chips in Essex Earring. ‘It’s a very expensive one.’

  She links her arm through Ashby’s and says,

  ‘Babe, I’d like another drink.’

  Ashby continues to look at me.

  ‘Babe,’ Essex Earring repeats loudly, ‘prosecco, please.’

  ‘Right, would you like another Phoebe?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  I really must pace myself. I really don’t want a repeat of New Year’s Eve. I watch him wander off to do Essex Earring’s bidding. Honestly, I don’t know what is wrong with him.

  ‘Is that from Luxury for Women?’ she asks, eyeing up my dress.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘They’re very good at flattering the fuller figure aren’t they?’

  What a bitch.

  ‘I’m wearing Victoria Beckham,’ she says airily.

  ‘That sounds uncomfortable,’ Harry quips from behind us.

  He hands me a glass and I take it gratefully. So much for being careful with the booze.

  ‘Victoria Beckham,’ says Essex Earring with a great deal of emphasis, ‘is a top fashion designer.’

  ‘Oh,’ he laughs dismissively, ‘I didn’t think anyone with intelligence took her seriously.’

  I turn and look at him. He’s so sharp he’ll cut himself. Essex Earring turns slightly red and her eyes dart around.

  ‘Do you know anything about fashion?’ she demands.

  ‘Obviously not, I know what looks good though and clearly Victoria Beckham flatters women with no shape. If you’ll excuse me, I do believe dinner is ready.’

  With that he takes Imogen’s arm and leads her into the dining room. Essex Earring seethes.

  ‘Shall we go in,’ smiles Malcolm.

  ‘Goodie,’ says Mak. ‘I don’t know about you lovelies but I’m starving and there’s nothing like a Christmas roast.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’m so glad I didn’t go with Jeremy. What a nightmare that would have been, especially with Mak dressed the way he is. I feel happy for the first time since Ashby dumped me that horrendous Sunday. I finally feel that life is looking up again. I feel glamorous in my sequinned dress and hopefully will remain that way providing I can avoid Sasha’s Batiste volcanoes.

  ‘Awesome,’ says Mak, glancing through the menu.

  The starter is chestnut soup, followed by roast turkey with stuffing, sprouts, and gravy, followed by Christmas pudding with brandy butter. To my amazement, just I was in the middle of my stuffing Ashby plays footie under the table with me. Admittedly it could be a mistake and he may well be thinking it is Essex Earring’s foot. However, as she is across the table from me and right next to him, it seems a very odd mistake to make. I tactfully move my foot. Christmas hits play in the background much to Mak’s pleasure who I can tell is itching to dance with Jasper. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth is the perfect dinner conversationalist, able to talk about any subject. Imogen takes photos of everything from the turkey to Mak’s bow tie. I imagine by the end of the evening she will have crashed Instagram.

  I was feeling very nervous at the start of dinner and kept checking my lip to make sure it hadn’t suddenly blown out of proportion. I’m trying hard to keep my alcohol intake to a minimum but the waiter keeps topping up my glass when I’m not looking.

  It is turning into the most perfect evening. I’m starting to feel like a sex goddess with men vying for my attention. I must wear this Paul and Joe perfume more often. Nigel is chatting to Malcolm. He really does have this wonderful knack of making you feel special. I really don’t understand why he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  ‘He’s going to make a fab boss,’ Imogen whispers, nodding towards Nigel.

  The tables are moved after dinner to make way for the dancing and Mak is up like a shot mincing his way to the dance floor. Ashby smiles at me, seems to brace himself and then asks me to dance, right in front of Essex Earring. Blimey, this perfume is worth its weight in gold and I only paid twenty quid for it. Essex Earring rocks on her Louboutins but says nothing. Then Mak and Jasper scoop her up and shimmer back to the dance floor.

  I can’t believe I’m dancing with Ashby and he has used just the right amount of gel.

  ‘Good do isn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘Brill,’ I reply.

  ‘You look amazing,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I bought a new shirt.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘It’s a good make. I can’t remember the name but you’d know it.’

  ‘You look good in it.’

  And he does. He looks absolutely gorgeous and I have to fight the urge to rip the thing off him.

  ‘Ashby, why did you unfriend me on Facebook?’ I ask.

  He looks taken aback.

  ‘I erm … it upset Riyana,’ he mutters.

  ‘What did?’

  ‘The fact that we were friends on Facebook, she
said it made a fool of her.’

  ‘So,’ he says before I can respond. ‘Are you not seeing that microlight guy any more?’

  My heart surges. He did see the photo. The little git could at least have commented on it.

  ‘Oh no, flying is great and everything,’ I lie. Well, it’s important to look adventurous isn’t it? ‘But he’s quite obsessed with it.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  Is that relief on his face?

  ‘So were you going out with both of them?’

  Shit.

  ‘Both of them?’ I ask.

  He nods towards Malcolm.

  ‘Oh, he’s …’

  Sasha burst between us. I quickly step back to avoid a snowfall.

  ‘Mwah,’ she plonks her pink painted lips on to Ashby’s mouth. ‘I’ve not had a chance to see you all evening. Can I butt in?’

  I can’t think why she’s asking when she’s already done it. I can’t very well say no, can I?

  ‘It’s a brilliant party isn’t it?’ she cries, throwing her arms behind her head and thrusting her hips forward.

  ‘Let’s salsa, Ash.’

  No one calls him Ash. Absolutely no one. I turn back to our table to see Malcolm chatting animatedly to Imogen, who is taking numerous selfies while Harry chats to the band.

  ‘Ooh darling,’ says Mak excitedly, returning from the bar. ‘They have Dubonnet, how decadent is that?’

  ‘Dubonnet and gin, very Noel Coward, honey,’ agrees Jasper.

  ‘We’ve brought one back for you.’

  If you’ve never had Dubonnet and gin then you don’t know what you’re missing. It certainly floats my boat. So much so, that I have another, and it really does make everything look lovely. In fact, it even made Harry Bloom seem lovely. So much so, that I agree to dance with him.

  *

  Why is it that everything Harry Bloom does he does well? He’d just been swinging Imogen around the dance floor in an expert manner. I see him strolling towards me and knock back my Dubonnet.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asks, as Benny Goodman’s ‘Sing sing sing’ is played.

  I’m not sure I’m up to Harry Bloom’s Strictly level but before I can decline, Imogen pushes me forward.

  ‘Go on,’ she urges. ‘Harry is a brilliant dancer.’