by Lynda Renham
Brat Face transformed on seeing the pizzas to being as good as gold. Harry had apologised for calling at a bad time. He wasn’t wrong about it being a bad time. I’d certainly had better ones. Brat Face stared at the pizzas and finally yelled, ‘What’s that?’
Seriously considered getting in an exorcist to drive out the demon from the little bugger.
Harry was extremely good with Brat Face. Told him it was Pizza and again apologised, saying he hadn’t realised I had company. Almost said it was the child from hell so didn’t count as company.
‘I thought you might fancy some pizza,’ he’d said.
Brat Face went on to say how pizza was his favourite and the next thing I knew, Harry was taking Brat Face off me so I could change my clothes. Must admit to being greatly relieved at getting rid of the little sod, if only for five minutes.
Have to admit Harry was brilliant with him. I’m obviously not cut out to have kids whereas Harry Bloom was a natural. Brat Face didn’t complain once and ate his pizza and then played happily with his cars. Harry made a tunnel out of cornflake boxes. You could tell he used to watch Blue Peter. Honestly felt quite inadequate by the time he’d finished. Pizza was good though and by the time Rita returned I was beginning to feel more my old self. Obviously didn’t mention the Coke or the muffin. Could not believe how all over Harry she was, saying how she’d never seen Brat Face looking so happy after being with sitters. He’d only had him for an hour but was thinking that perhaps Harry Bloom wasn’t so bad after all when an email pinged on to my phone. Was from Jenny Oliver saying Bloom Properties are approaching the block’s flat owners. I should have known. If they think sending their son to soften me up with pizza is going to work, they can think again. Thanked Harry for his help and with my head held high returned to my flat vowing never to hand it over to Bloom Properties. Decided I would sit in front of a steamroller if I had to. Will ask Imogen and Mak to support me and will start up a Facebook group. Am feeling like a real activist.
*
Tuesday 6th February: 6 pm
God, things seriously are getting out of control with Henry. He’s like a dog on heat. Feel so sorry for his wife. Met her once at a work do and she seemed terribly nice albeit it a bit meek. Not surprised with an overbearing husband like Henry. Wonder if he’s harassing anyone else at work. Maybe they’re like me and not saying anything. Trouble with being sexually harassed at work is how to prove it. It was a total nightmare this morning with Henry groping my breasts in the staffroom. Starting to think he’ll be doing it on the shop floor soon. He seems to have no control. Stopped wearing the Paul and Joe perfume at work in case it was that, but clearly not.
A trip to the stock room is becoming an expedition these days with me having to fight my way out. Really couldn’t turn my back for five minutes without Henry pushing his swollen appendage against my bum. Seriously gross. I’ve run out of excuses for Brian as to why I can’t go to the stock room. Henry is a fucktard of the highest order. I don’t know about feeling sorry for his wife. I feel sorry for me. Need to do something drastic. I’m getting scared to leave my department. I’m looking like a real workaholic. Couldn’t believe it when Imogen went home early because she felt unwell. I had to work until six to avoid Henry the fucktard. Didn’t fancy fighting him off in the car park. Not in this freezing weather. Much rather be sexually harassed in the summer. Mum said a woman has to put up with these things. Not sure why I’d asked her for advice. Too embarrassed to ask Imogen. Mum said some bloke used to pinch her bum all the time when she worked at C&A. I tried to explain that the 1960s were a bit different to now, although men shouldn’t harass women no matter what year it is. Men shouldn’t harass women, period. Henry keeps insisting I’m gagging for it. Gagging to chop it off more like.
As if things weren’t bad enough, I got my credit card statement. Almost collapsed from the shock. Really can’t afford to lose my job. Must stop buying clothes online. It’s too easy to click that pay button.
*
Friday 9th February: Late
Have met the most fabulous man. At last the perfect date for the Guildhall ball.
Went to Lucille’s nightclub with Imogen and Malcolm. Thrilled they have hit it off. At last, a new man for Imogen too. Hopefully this will be the year when everything changes. Went online and got a fab Georgio Armani two piece. Real thing too and at a cracking price. I so love eBay. Will wear it to the Guildhall. Will try not to think about credit card statement. Will pay off balance as wisely suggested by Roger and curtail spending in the future.
Went to Lucille’s in a tight fitting red dress. Very bold colours. Read somewhere that bright colours indicate a bright personality. Of course, it may have been something else entirely. Have a memory like a sieve.
At the door was the burly handsome bouncer from the Christmas party. His name is Barry and fancied him right away. Had such a great night. Even managed to forget about Bloom Properties for a while. Couldn’t believe they had made Mr Tyler an offer. A good one too. Really couldn’t blame him for accepting. Hate Bloom Properties and hate Harry Bloom. To think I almost liked him and even considered friending him on Facebook. What a fool, silly Phoebe Smith. Of course Harry Bloom isn’t interested in me. He’s only interested in my flat. What a git. Being all nice to my face and feeding an innocent kid pizza. Well, maybe Brat Face isn’t that innocent. He may be an evil little sod but he’s still a kid never the less. Think we should protest about Harry Bloom. Wonder how much he paid for his flat? Probably his father bought it. Must do some research on Harry Bloom and expose him for the arse he is.
Wish I could stop thinking about Harry Bloom. He is a two-faced little weasel and not worth my energy.
Barry is collecting me tomorrow afternoon and taking me to a country pub. So excited. Feel sure he is different to the rest. Wait until Ashby sees photos of me with Barry. Shall put them on Instagram right away. Must take loads in the pub. Will rush out in the morning and get one of those selfie sticks.
Can’t believe that Ashby has friended me on Facebook. Things are finally looking up.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I really can’t believe my credit card statement. I went over it again convinced there must have been a mistake, but it’s not a mistake and I can account for every item. I can barely remember buying them but I know I did.
I check my bank balance. I’ll just about manage to pay off the credit card and my rent and then I’ll be broke. Good job Barry is taking me for lunch today. At the rate I’m going I’ll end up selling myself to Blooms, I’ll be that desperate for the money. Maybe I can ask Brian for some overtime. There must be some extra Saturdays I can do. I only hope they don’t clash with Henry’s.
I spend the morning going through my wardrobe to find the perfect outfit for my date with Barry. I imagine we’ll go on somewhere after the lunch so I want to wear something that will be suitable for lunch and the evening. Finally decide on a Top Shop dress with my five inch Chanel heels. I can barely walk in the shoes, if I’m honest, but that seems a small price to pay for what will finally be the perfect date. I decide to top the dress with a warm cashmere cardigan, one of those cardigans that looks good when you tie it around your shoulders. Not that it is the weather to tie a cardigan around your shoulders but you know what I mean. I choose a brown shawl jacket and then lay them all out on the bed while I do my make-up.
I’m ready far too early and spend the time waiting with butterflies fluttering in my tummy.
Imogen texts and wishes me luck and then sent me three more texts about Malcolm. I’m in the middle of texting her back when my phone rings. It’s Barry. The butterflies flutter and I feel sick. Oh God, he’s phoning to cancel, I just know he is.
‘I can’t find you,’ he says. ‘The satnav’s fucked.’
I wince. I don’t really like men who swear unnecessarily. Still, it doesn’t mean he’s a bad person does it? I give him directions to the flat, hang up, grab my bag and rush downstairs. Minutes later I hear the roar of an eng
ine and my stomach somersaults. Oh no, not a motorbike. Not in my Top Shop dress and cashmere cardigan. The roaring gets louder as a car turns the corner. It’s a boy racer with blacked out windows, a two-tone paint finish and an exhaust that sounds like a souped-up chainsaw. It zooms to the door with C&C Music Factory blaring from the car stereo. At least I think it is C&C Music Factory, I can only hear the bass. This isn’t Barry. What’s wrong with me? He’s much too sophisticated to drive something like this. He must be at least thirty. Thirty-year-old men don’t drive boy racers do they? I hold my breath as the door creaks open. It’s Barry all right and he is as far from smartly dressed Barry the bouncer as anyone could be. The music is turned off and he swaggers towards me. Oh my God, he’s wearing workout trousers and a muscle vest. What happened to his smart black suit?
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says.
‘It’s …’
‘Are you okay?’ he asks looking at me closely.
I can’t take my eyes off the gold chain around his neck. It’s thicker than a dog collar. I’ve never seen so much gold in one place. He makes Mr T look like a Girl Scout.
I try to think of an excuse to get out of the date.
‘I …’
And then I see Harry Bloom walking towards us and I dive into the boy racer faster than you can say hot rod.
Barry joins me, and starts up the engine. It sounds like a formula one racing car. I don my sunglasses and slide down in my seat. I see Harry through the wing mirror peering at us. C&C Music Factory begins playing at a deafening volume.
‘What do you think of my motor?’ Barry yells above the noise.
God, I’m going to need hearing aids after this.
‘I hope you like steak,’ he says before I can reply.
‘I …’
‘Only the pub is closed so I thought we’d go to a great steak place I know.’
Some people are living the dream. Not Phoebe Smith. I’m living the nightmare.
*
Saturday 10th February: Late
Have come to the conclusion that I am the expert on attracting donkey dickheads. They swarm around me like bees to a honey pot. Really don’t want to remember my horrendous date with Barry. Each date seems to be worse than the one before.
The steakhouse turned out to be on the outskirts of Battersea and was more a transport café than restaurant. Could not believe I was wearing Chanel heels, and real ones at that, a cashmere cardigan and Jaeger shawl (copy) to eat steak in a transport café. Was mortified. The smell of the place is still on my clothes. Felt so conspicuous clattering in on my Chanel’s. Can’t imagine what we looked like. Barry said he preferred to be called Bruno and gave no explanation why. I was still reeling from the car journey and the shock of the transport café so wasn’t really taking it in. We must have looked the odd couple. Barry in his muscle vest, which I have to admit showed off his very firm muscles and me dressed to the nines. Almost died of embarrassment.
It was like something out of Thelma and Louise. Country music rocked out of a juke box and everyone seemed to be dressed like Barry. Had horrible visions of line dancing before the evening was out.
Couldn’t hear the waitress when she came to take the order as my ears were still ringing from the roar of the exhaust and Will.i.Am’s ‘Bang Bang’.
I’m sure I sat there clutching my handbag and selfie stick with a shocked expression on my face. It must rank as one of the worst dates of my life, if not the worst. Barry, I couldn’t bring myself to call him Bruno, ordered our steaks.
‘You want it rare?’ he’d asked. ‘I have mine rare. It’s the only way to have a steak.’
‘We can do it well done if you’d prefer,’ said the waitress, who couldn’t have looked more bored if she’d tried.
Barry ordered two beers without even asking me what I’d like. Although by that point I’d have drunk arsenic if he’d put it in front of me. And then the steaks arrived and my stomach heaved.
Chapter Thirty
I feel my stomach turn over as the waitress places the steak in front of me. It’s swimming in a pool of blood. The steak that is, not my stomach. I’m starting to wonder if they have an abattoir out the back. She slams two beers on the table and walks away. I watch horrified as Bruno, I can assure you he is becoming a Bruno more and more with every minute, cracks them open by knocking the tops on the side of the table. He pushes my bottle towards me.
‘There you go sugar lips. Holler when you want another.’
I can barely speak let alone holler. Did he just call me sugar lips? He wolfs down his steak and chips like a starved man. I gesture to the waitress.
‘Could I have a glass please?’ I ask.
‘A glass?’ she repeats, with a look of confusion on her face.
‘For the beer,’ I explain.
‘Nah, she don’t need a glass,’ interrupts Bruno. ‘You don’t have a glass in here sugar lips. You don’t want everyone thinking you’re posh.’
Oh no, God forbid they should think I have manners. Honestly, how do I manage to get into these situations? I don’t even know the way back home. Not that I know how I would get back if I did know the way. Let’s face it, Chanel heels aren’t made for trekking are they?
‘Where’s the ladies?’ I ask.
‘The facilities,’ she says with a mocking posh voice, ‘are through there.’
She points to a white door with peeling paint.
‘Are you eating that?’ Bruce asks, pointing to my steak.
‘I’m not really that hungry,’ I say.
Not for raw meat anyway.
‘Can’t waste it,’ he says, sticking a fork into the meat and sending a little spurt of blood towards me.
I clatter to the ladies in my Chanel’s to the sounds of Dolly Parton. I step over a ream of toilet paper and enter a cubicle where I hurriedly phone Mak.
‘What do I do?’ I ask, trying not to panic. ‘Do you know this place can you come and get me?’
‘I don’t do transport cafés darling and they certainly don’t do me. Have you any idea where you are?’
‘Not a clue. I know we went through Battersea, and the place is supposed to be famous for steak.’
‘Christ petal, I really don’t know how you find them.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say worriedly.
‘Stay calm, chat for a bit and then fake a migraine or something.’
‘He’s not the sympathetic type. He’d probably crack open another beer and tell me to drink that.’
‘Can’t say I’m familiar with the type, flower. Sounds to me like you’re just going to have to stick it out.’
Oh wonderful.
‘You’re a great help. I don’t imagine this dive is even on Google maps,’ I say miserably. I hang up after promising to call him when I get home. Bruno has polished off my steak and is on his second beer. I clatter my way back to the table with what feels like a hundred pairs of eyes on me.
‘You missed a good steak,’ he says. ‘Want more chips?’
‘Surprisingly no, thank you.’
‘They do the best fucking steaks here. You won’t get a better one anywhere else. It’s one of the few places that do roadkill too. You ever had roadkill?’
‘Roadkill … n … no I haven’t,’ I stammer.
‘They do a good deer stew here. The best fucking stew I’ve ever had.’
The way he drives I imagine most of the roadkill are his. And I believe it’s called venison, not deer. Don’t get me wrong I’m not a prude or anything, but is it really necessary to use the ‘F’ word so much?
‘Hey some dude’s admiring my car,’ he says proudly, pointing to the window.
I’m glad someone appreciates it.
‘You like gold?’ he asks, fingering his chunky chain.
‘Well …’
‘All girls like gold,’ he assures me. ‘How much gold do you reckon I’ve got? I bet you can’t guess.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say vaguely, ‘four chains.’
‘No, fucking more than that. Go on, guess.’
For goodness’ sake.
There’s raucous laughter from a group at another table. They look at me and seem to laugh even more.
‘Don’t mind them,’ says Bruno as he jumps up, scaring the shit out of me. The table rocks and blood sloshes from the plates on to the table.
‘You guys got a fucking problem or what?’ he shouts viciously.
Oh dear, this is getting more Thelma and Louise by the minute. The guys shake their heads nervously. It’s like being in a western. I half expect the tables to be turned over and a shoot-out to start at any moment. He then sits back down as though nothing has happened.
‘Go on, guess how much this chain weighs,’ he says, leaning across the table. ‘Go on, feel it?’
You don’t often get asked that in a crowded restaurant do you? So there I am, in some country and western roadside café, with Mr T’s double and feeling his chunky.
‘Go on, have a guess?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m not good at guessing.’
He looks disappointed.
‘You want afters?’ he asks.
I really have no idea what he’s talking about. For a second I wonder if it’s some kind of country and western slang for sex. In which case I most certainly do not want afters. The waitress slams two dessert menus on to the table and I realise what he means. Thankfully she also removes the bloodied plates. I’m in such a state that I down half the bottle of beer.
‘You’re thirsty,’ he says with a smile. ‘I’ll get another.’
I don’t have the energy to protest.
‘You like treacle pudding with custard?’ He asks. ‘It’s my favourite.’
Why does he presume I’m going to like everything he does? I see they have chocolate fudge cake with cream and I’m comforted. I might as well get something out of this date.
