Phoebe Smith’s Private Blog: A Romantic Comedy

by Lynda Renham

  Frankly there’s not much else left.

  ‘Great,’ he says, closing the menu and then hands me a bottle of alcohol gel.

  ‘Best to be safe,’ he says, covering his hands in the stuff. We must be the only table that smells of antiseptic. I’ve only ever seen the stuff at Rita’s, and I suppose with three kids you need it, but two adults in a restaurant with not a kid in sight, now that’s just plain weird.

  The waitress takes our order and I hide the bottle under the table.

  ‘One chargrilled chicken salad,’ says Tony, ‘and I’ll have the salmon and haddock fishcakes. Has the fish been responsibly sourced?’

  I almost choke on my Coke.

  ‘I don’t want anything that’s come from the Pacific.’

  ‘I can check,’ says the waitress looking flustered. ‘I’m not really sure.’

  I must also look puzzled for he continues, ‘There’s radiation contamination in the Pacific ocean. You must have read about it?’

  Erm no …

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say.

  ‘It will give you cancer for sure,’ he explains.

  Bloody hell. Note to self: avoid anything that has been in the Pacific and that presumably includes a hunky lifeguard. The waitress returns smiling.

  ‘It’s been responsibly sourced sir.’

  ‘Not from the Pacific?’ he says.

  He’s not very trusting is he?

  ‘No sir, from the North Atlantic.’

  ‘Great,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘Are they fried, only I can’t eat fried foods?’

  ‘Erm, I can check.’

  Jesus, we’ll be here until midnight at this rate.

  ‘My stomach,’ he explains, patting it. ‘Dyspepsia – Fried foods play havoc with it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say sympathetically. ‘Was that why you had the tests?’

  At least it doesn’t sound like anything too gruesome.

  ‘Oh no that was …’

  He stops as the waitress returns.

  ‘They are fried, sir,’ she says, looking a touch bored.

  ‘Ah, I did wonder. I’ll have the chicken salad too then. That’s a safe bet.’

  She relaxes and walks back to the kitchen.

  ‘No the tests were for a hiatus hernia.’

  His voice is driven out by the sound of my phone blaring from my bag. I glance down at it. It’s my mother. Why can’t she wait until a date is over before harassing me?

  ‘Sorry,’ I say silencing the phone. ‘Oh God, how did you get hypothermia?’

  Please don’t say you go microlight flying or have a penchant for open air opera productions.

  ‘It must have been awful,’ I say. ‘I read about someone with hypothermia who had to have their fingers removed.’

  We both look at his fingers. They’re all there thank goodness.

  ‘A hiatus hernia,’ he says looking at me oddly. ‘I’ve never had hypothermia.’

  Bloody mother.

  ‘I was gratefully relieved to be honest,’ he continues. ‘I had this bleeding you see.’

  Oh no, I really don’t do blood.

  ‘The doctor thought it was piles. But I don’t trust the NHS doctors.’

  I most certainly don’t do this kind of blood.

  ‘I had other symptoms too.’

  Please don’t tell me.

  ‘Frankly, it all pointed to bowel cancer. I did my own research and I had all the symptoms.’

  You know when you can’t sit still? I really don’t want to hear about his bowel problems, serious or otherwise.

  ‘I had terrible indigestion too,’ he continues.

  There’s no stopping him. He’s on a roll now.

  ‘I daren’t go anywhere without this.’

  He plonks a bottle of Bisodol on to the table. I really can’t believe my eyes.

  ‘I have to take it before every meal or boy am I sorry. I always make sure I’m close to a toilet. If you need to know where the public toilets are in Camden, just ask me,’ he laughs.

  I don’t think I’ll ever need to ask him that.

  He takes a spoon from the table and pours himself some Bisodol. This is worse than the bloodied steaks with Bruno. He smiles at me with pink Bisodol stained lips.

  ‘But it was irritable bowel. I take anti-spasmodics for it. I’ve got a spastic colon.’

  I’m glad he said it.

  I could do with a couple of paracetamol. My head is now throbbing. I fumble about in my handbag. I seriously don’t know how I find these men. I must have a label stuck to my forehead that says Dicks Come This Way.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I’m a lot healthier than him, that’s for sure.

  ‘I have a headache,’ I say, rummaging in my overstuffed handbag. Why do I carry so much rubbish? I’ve even got a razor blade in my bag but am not sure why. I’m not going to be shaving my legs in the next few minutes. I might well slit my throat, though, if things don’t improve. And why I’ve got sweetener in my bag I will never know. I eat my own body weight in sugar on a regular basis so sweetener isn’t going to be much good is it? Where the fucking fuck are the fucking paracetamol?

  ‘Damn,’ I mutter. ‘I thought I had some painkillers in my bag.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have some,’ he assures me and then produces a leather bag. Where the buggery was he hiding that? From that bag he produces another smaller one. I gape in amazement.

  ‘I’ve got Ibroprufen or Diclofenic,’ he says. ‘I can’t take them these days, not with my stomach. They used to be great for my fibromyalgia.’

  The guy’s a hypochondriac.

  ‘Is it a migraine?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got Migraleve. You need to take two pink to start and then two yellow later. Or do you need something stronger. I’ve got trammies and some codeine.’

  He spreads pills all over the table. It must look like I’m on a date with a bloody drug dealer.

  ‘Have you got Panadol?’ I ask.

  Clearly I’m not a hardened enough addict for him.

  ‘Panadol, Panadol,’ he repeats, sifting through the mountain of pills on the table.

  The waitress returns with our food and waits while he tidies away his medications. It looks like Boots bloody chemist. I hum while he clears them, acting as if it’s perfectly normal for foils of pills and bottles of Bisodol to be sitting on our table, not to mention a date with pink chalky lips.

  ‘Ah here we are,’ he says, sliding two white pills towards me.

  It looks like we’re conducting some kind of shady drug deal. God, I hope I don’t see anyone I know.

  ‘This looks safe,’ he says looking at the food.

  I swallow the Panadol and try to relax.

  ‘Do you have a lot of headaches?’ he asks.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  He nods knowingly.

  ‘You ought to get that checked. Do you have a stiff neck?’

  No, but I feel one coming on.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got a rash,’ he says looking at me closely. ‘It probably isn’t meningitis. Do you feel hot?’

  ‘Well … it’s warm in here …’

  ‘Tell you what …’ he says as he produces a thermometer. ‘Let’s just stick this on your head.’

  Oh God, I want to crawl under the table. I can see the waitress watching us. He pushes something and the thing bleeps.

  ‘No, you’re normal.’

  I wish I could say the same about him.

  ‘I’ll check mine, just to be safe. I’ve been feeling a bit shaky since we ordered,’ he says. ‘I probably need a sugar lift.’

  He fumbles in his bag. I can’t stand this. He’ll be shooting up next. What an attention seeker.

  ‘Ooh,’ I say, clutching my heart. ‘My palpitations.’

  ‘You have palpitations?’ he says excitedly. ‘I’ve got some beta blockers if you need them.’

  ‘I should go,’ I say. ‘I really feel funny and when I have my turns I have to
go straight to bed.’

  ‘Oh no really?’ he says disappointed. ‘I’d booked us a reiki session for after the meal. It will surely help the headache and the palpitations.’

  ‘I’ve a heart murmur,’ I lie.

  ‘Me too,’ he says leaning forward.

  I can’t believe the guy is trying to outdo me.

  I wave the waitress over.

  ‘Could you call me a cab?’ I ask. ‘I’m feeling unwell.’

  ‘Sure,’ she smiles and then gives me a wink.

  How embarrassing. Minutes later I’m in the cab with Tony’s head poking through the window.

  ‘Let me know what happens. Call me if you go to hospital. I can visit.’

  I imagine that’s a perfect night out for him.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ I reply.

  I lean my head back and feel tears run down my cheeks. That’s it. Clearly all the decent men have been taken. I’m left with the dregs. I need therapy but I’m too overdrawn to be able to pay for it.

  *

  Monday 12th February: Late

  I’m clearly reading the wrong type of self-help books. There must be something I’m doing that attracts these nutcases into my life. Really couldn’t believe that I almost ended up having a reiki session. Only I could go out with someone who has Bisodol pink lips and a hiatus hernia.

  I really don’t want to think what might have happened to me if Mak and Jasper hadn’t rescued me from Bruno the other week. Neither of them could understand what I was doing punching him in the stomach. I’d tried to explain that I was seeing how firm his muscles were. Mak said that kind of thing could put a man off. I don’t think either of them believed me when I said Bruno asked me to do it. Maybe I should put the man search on hold. I don’t think I could go through another disastrous night. Starting to think the more I look for a man the less likely I am to find one. It’s four weeks until the Guildhall. I’ll find someone before then. Must not panic. The important thing is to stay calm and change one’s attitude. That’s what’s attracting these fucktards to me. I’m putting something out that seems to appeal to them, rather than to the nice ones. Need to change my mental attitude. Can’t take any more disasters.

  Thirty-fourth birthday looming. Really should organise something. Not that it’s anything to celebrate. No, must be positive. I’ll have a dinner party. Rita can advise, she’s always having them. I can get six people around the dinner table, well, just. Ought to ask Rita and Jeremy. They’ll say no, so don’t really have to count them. I’ll ask Mak and Jasper. I wonder if I should ask Malcolm too. I’ll check with Imogen. Huh, I’ll be the only one without a partner. That makes seven with Rita and Jeremy. Maybe I could ask Ashby. It would be brilliant if he came but that would make eight and no way could I get eight around that table. Another first world problem. For a fleeting moment I actually thought of inviting Harry Bloom. Obviously dismissed that thought very quickly. Phoned Imogen as soon as I got home from the date with Tony. She was sick. Said she wouldn’t be going in to work tomorrow. That reminded me of Henry. Was going to ask Imogen’s advice but she had to run off to be sick. I hope I don’t catch it.

  I think it might be a good idea to buy the local paper to see what jobs are going. Can’t believe it’s Valentine’s Day in two days. Felt so depressed earlier and broke my resolution never to touch pork pies and muffins again and ate two of each in one go. Felt bloated and hated myself. Finally convinced myself that Valentine’s Day was nothing but a commercial scam. I should be grateful there is no man in my life. It was going to save me a fortune.

  Went online and ordered a Calvin Klein top from Etsy. Cheered me up no end. Can’t wait for it to arrive. Will worry about bank statement tomorrow.

  Had odd email from a total stranger today.

  ‘So sorry for you, I’ve been through something similar. Please email me if you need advice.’

  Wonder if Bloom Properties bought her flat? Must remember to email her back and ask.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I nearly forgot the meeting at Jenny’s. I rush downstairs and almost knock over Mr Tyler.

  ‘Going to the meeting?’ he asks, clutching his walking stick.

  That’s the thing with old people isn’t it? When they look all helpless it’s impossible to have a go at them without seeming terribly cruel. I so want to ask why he sold his flat to Blooms but I don’t want him getting all agitated and have a stroke, so I don’t. I can’t help thinking it was inconsiderate of him though. After all, he might have thought about us other tenants.

  ‘I’m missing a Rotary club meeting for this,’ he says grumpily.

  I’m missing an episode of Badlands but I don’t say anything. I never want to get old and miserable, although I don’t think I’ll be much different to how I am now. I’m always miserable these days thanks to Ashby.

  As usual, Jenny has lain on enough cake to feed half of Africa. I don’t know why people can’t have meetings without the need to put out a bucket load of cake. It’s so inconsiderate.

  I struggle not to yawn too much throughout the meeting.

  ‘Why isn’t there a representative from Bloom’s?’ someone asks.

  ‘They declined to send someone,’ says Jenny.

  ‘We could have invited Harry Bloom,’ I say.

  All he’s done this evening is test out a new set of drums. Just when I thought I was going to get some peace too. Jenny has the nerve to look all flustered and embarrassed. I’m starting to wonder if Jenny fancies him.

  ‘Oh we couldn’t ask him, it’s not appropriate.’

  It’s not appropriate for him to disturb me with his drumming either.

  ‘He works for Bloom Properties. His father owns the company,’ I say.

  Jenny looks even more flustered and proceeds to devour a lemon drizzle cake.

  ‘Yes, but we don’t know he’s involved in this particular case do we?’

  ‘I think Phoebe’s right, someone should have invited him,’ says Roland from number twenty-three.

  Hurrah for Roland.

  ‘I really don’t think,’ stammers Jenny. ‘Just because he lives here …’

  ‘Is this going to take much longer,’ grumbles Mr Tyler.

  ‘I don’t see the point in having meetings if some people are going to sell their flat behind our backs,’ says Roland, getting all hot under the collar.

  Mr Tyler taps his stick on the floor.

  ‘Are you talking about me?’ he demands.

  ‘No, of course …’ begins Jenny.

  ‘Yes you,’ snaps Roland.

  Mr Tyler waves his stick dangerously.

  ‘I can take you on, come on,’ he goads Roland.

  Goodness, I never imagined the meeting would get this heated. At this rate we’ll have to phone for the riot police. Fortunately, Jenny hands round cake at this point and everyone calms down. The power of cake. Jenny then asks if anyone would be able to handle our social media presence. No one raises their hand and then Roland says,

  ‘I think Phoebe should do it. She’s good at that sort of thing.’

  There are lots of ‘hear hears’. I must admit it’s quite nice to be elected.

  ‘I think you should take control of the social media Phoebe. I can’t get my head around any of that. It’s all Irish to me,’ says Jenny.

  I feel quite the activist and the world needs activists doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll go into politics – thirty-four’s not too old. Theresa May was ancient when she became prime minister. Maybe at last I’ve found something important to focus on.

  *

  Tuesday 13th February: 11pm

  What a thought-provoking day. Read several chapters of my self-help book after the meeting while listening to Harry Bloom and his mates practise. What a racket. Must invest in earplugs.

  Really finding self-help books good. Phoned Imogen again who was still sick. Scoffed when I told her I had bought the self-help books. She’d said ‘you can’t live your life by a book.’ I reminded her that people live t
heir life by the Bible, to which she’d scoffed even more. Started to wish I’d never phoned her. Asked how things were going with Malcolm and she’d burst into tears while saying how lovely he was. She’d then rushed off to be sick again. Honestly, there is no pleasing Imogen. She’s either crying over Daniel because it’s all so hopeless or she’s crying when everything is ‘oh so lovely’. Really can’t win. I bet she gets Valentine’s cards. Must not think about it. It’s just another day. Nothing special. Who needs red roses anyway? It’s a commercial rip-off and has nothing to with love whatsoever.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It’s Valentine’s Day. I can’t believe that the Guildhall ball is in three weeks and four days. I thought it was further away than that. Oh God, how will I get a date in that short time? I really can’t believe I still don’t have one. This is a disaster. I’m looking like the saddest woman on the planet, and even worse, I bet my overdraft that there is not one Valentine’s card in the letter box for me. I grab my coat and bag and head downstairs where I check my mail box. Not a sausage. To top it all, my Lynworth blouse is now too tight. I had to pull it across my chest. It’s the bulge that’s the problem. I need to do stomach crunches. And I must not, really must not buy any more pork pies. I’ll buy a healthy salad for my lunch today. Start as I mean to go on.

  I leave the flats and head to Tesco Express where I am tempted to buy myself some red roses. I really don’t want to admit to people at work that I didn’t get so much as one red rose. God, the prices are criminal. I’d need to take out a mortgage just to buy one rose.

  Of all the people to see in Tesco Express it had to be Harry Bloom didn’t it? For some reason I pinch my cheeks to give them a rosy glow. Why I do that for Harry Bloom, I’ll never know. He is wearing a suit and tie. Obviously they are his work clothes. He’s carrying a briefcase and looks a bit like James Bond. I can assure you I don’t look anything like Pussy Galore. My hair is windswept and I’d not bothered with any make-up. I’m afraid to look too appealing at work in case Henry the leech gets aroused. I don’t want to blow my own trumpet or anything but I only have to stroll past him and he gets all hot and bothered. I don’t know why the bulge doesn’t put him off. I watch as Harry fingers the roses. Honestly, how mean is that? I don’t like Jilly but surely she deserves a decent bunch. I cough softly and he looks up.