by Lynda Renham
‘Miss Smith,’ says Nigel, who looks incredibly smart in his designer jeans and shirt. He’s deliciously handsome. Who needs champagne and cake when they have Nigel Taylor-Lynworth?
‘You smell gorgeous,’ he says.
I feel like royalty. Oh yes this is the life. Wait until Ashby sees these photos.
*
I can’t begin to imagine how much champagne and cake costs at The Ritz. We park right outside and a doorman escorts us in. I feel like a celebrity and almost expect several paps to jump out from behind a settee. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth certainly knows how to treat a woman. I feel like the only woman in the entire place and what a place it is too. Everything is so impressive from the patterned carpets to the sparkling silver platters and shimmering crystal.
‘Ever been here?’ he whispers in my ear, his lips brushing my cheek.
‘No,’ I say nervously.
I hope they don’t have a thousand different knives and forks.
‘I hope you love cake.’
‘Oh yes,’ I say.
Blueberry muffins especially but I imagine they’ll have better cakes than that.
And they do. I’ve never seen cakes like it. There are also sandwiches. Fresh Salmon and cucumber, egg mayonnaise, tuna and tomato and lots more. But the best are the scones. It’s not easy getting all this stuff inside me especially with the sturdy pants on but I’m not wasting this opportunity. Who knows when I’ll come here again?
‘More champagne?’ he asks, beckoning over the waiter.
I’m trying to think how to get a photo for Instagram. I can’t really do a selfie with Nigel Taylor-Lynworth can I? As nice as that would be.
‘That’s a gorgeous top,’ he smiles.
‘It’s Calvin Klein,’ I say and then bite my lip.
Nigel Taylor-Lynworth isn’t going to be impressed by designer names is he?
‘It suits you,’ he says, laying his hand on my knee.
I struggle to swallow my scone. Now, I’m no prude but even I’m not comfortable with a man I barely know, laying his hand on my knee. It doesn’t feel right somehow. Although I have to agree this is the perfect seduction environment.
The problem with being almost thirty-four with no man in your life is you become paranoid about why there isn’t a man in your life. I was starting to believe that I was destined never to have sex again. Not that I’m considering having sex with Nigel Taylor-Lynworth, but I had been thinking there was something wrong with me. But now, I’m thinking if someone like Nigel Taylor-Lynworth likes me then I’m obviously okay. Clearly I’m getting desperate. There can be no other explanation for why I stupidly fell under the spell of Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. If I’d been thinking clearly I would have realised right away that someone like Nigel Taylor-Lynworth wouldn’t be interested in me.
*
Friday 16th February: Late
Silly Phoebe Smith. You’d think I’d have more sense now I’m almost thirty-four. The trouble with being desperate is that you don’t see what’s under your nose. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth is a knob. One big knob. And I, Phoebe Smith, am one desperate spinster. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth is no better than Henry. He’s a sexist pig with a bit of class. He uses his power to harass which makes him worse.
Everything was going so well too. We’d toasted Lynworths with our champagne flutes. He was as attentive as any man could be. And then it happened. I’m cringing just remembering. We were halfway through a second bottle of Bollinger when he boldly announced he would get the key to his room. I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘His room’, those were his exact words. Bold as brass he said it. ‘Don’t want to waste time down here,’ he’d whispered into my ear. Didn’t know what to do. I said I couldn’t go to his room. He’d been okay about it at first. Laughing my excuses off and then he’d got very shitty with me when he realised I actually did mean it and that there was no way I was going to sleep with him. Can’t believe I was so stupid. As if someone like Nigel Taylor-Lynworth would be interested in me. I’m a stupid store assistant after all.
‘Come on,’ he’d cajoled. ‘Why did you think I brought you to The Ritz? You’re not a sixteen-year-old virgin.’
I knew then that any future promotion at Lynworths had flown out of the window. Actually I saw my little sales assistant job follow the future promotion out of the window too. I felt so stupid and humiliated.
He’d slid his hand up my thigh. I can feel my skin crawl just writing about it. He said he would do things for me at the store. A word here, a word there, he’d said. I could think of a couple of words for him too. I’d tried to explain but he’d just got more shirty and started reminding me how much money he’d just spent on me. I’d been about to protest a bit more when a blonde woman burst into the foyer and marched towards us. She shouted what a bastard he was and told me not to fall for it. Said he was working his way through the stores, and he’d be all lovely tonight but wouldn’t want to know me tomorrow. I watched horrified as she was thrown from the hotel by a doorman.
Nigel claimed never to have seen her before and said she must be delusional but have no doubt that it was true. I’d refused to go with him and told him how Henry had been sexually harassing me at work. He said I was taking it all too seriously and shouldn’t be so immature. So, really I had no choice did I? I had to grab the Bollinger and pour it over his head.
I wonder if they need anyone to stack the shelves in Sainsbury’s?
*
Saturday 17th February: 6 pm
Have decided to call an emergency summit with friends. I need advice on this sexual harassment malarkey. Can’t believe I’ve had two men harass me but can’t get one decent man to take me to the Guildhall ball. How insane is that? That’s if I’ll still be going to the Guildhall of course. I don’t imagine they invite ex-employees. Thank goodness Henry wasn’t at work today. He works different Saturdays to me. Fully expected Brian to take me to one side and give me my marching orders but he seemed the same as normal. Maybe Nigel Taylor-Lynworth hasn’t had time to talk to him yet. Can’t imagine what he’s going to tell Brian. I’m going to sound a right nymphomaniac if they both say I’ve been harassing them. This is playing havoc with my activism. Really have neglected things but finally managed to get the Facebook page up for our cause this evening. It didn’t take long and then popped round to some of the tenants to tell them. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother. Mr Tyler asked what Facebook was and if it was on TV. Mrs Gregory said she didn’t have a computer and so it went on. If they did have a computer they had no idea how ‘to do’ Facebook. Only three in the block said ‘Great’ and how they’d join the group later, which is another way of saying they couldn’t be bothered. I ask you, what’s the point? They’ll be sorry when their rent goes up. Mr and Mrs Barlow at number ten thought I meant Facetime. Apparently they had just started using it to talk to their granddaughter in Sydney. I spent ages trying to explain the difference. Might as well been talking in Swahili for how far I got.
Checked my emails and there it was, the email from my landlord. It seems someone has made him a very good offer for the flat. Huh, I wonder who that was. Was very apologetic, explained I wouldn’t be thrown out of my flat. Should bloody think not. That’s illegal isn’t it? I’d have a chance to renew my lease with the new landlord, he said. Oh yes, at an extortionate rent, no doubt. He went on to say that nothing was set in stone and not to worry. It’s alright for him to say isn’t it? Only bloody Harry Bloom will be the one staying. Can’t believe I’m having such bad luck. Jobless, soon homeless, boyfriend less and money less. Things couldn’t get any worse. I wonder if my parents will let me have my old bedroom. I’m sure Dad doesn’t really need a study and it will only be for a short time until the sexual harassment case is over and I have a new job and some money behind me. Oh despair, what a thought. Living back with my parents at almost thirty-four.
Chapter Forty
‘O. M. G.,’ says Imogen.
‘Knee him in the balls,’ says Mak.
‘Great idea,
thanks,’ I say.
If the harassment doesn’t get me the sack then kneeing Henry in the balls will.
‘Tell the union,’ says Imogen.
‘I’m not in the union.’
‘Sounds like you’re fucked,’ says Jasper.
‘Right,’ I agree. ‘Thanks, all very helpful.’
‘Shit Phoebe, this is pants,’ says Imogen. ‘Who do you go to, to complain about Nigel Taylor-Lynworth?’
I shrug.
‘I’d take Henry behind the bicycle shed petal but then I wouldn’t know what to do once I got him there,’ smiles Mak.
‘What bicycle shed would that be?’ asks Imogen.
‘Well, it’s figurative isn’t it?’ says Mak.
‘Thanks Mak, that’s very sweet.’
‘What will you do?’ asks Imogen.
‘Hand in my notice. It’s better than being fired for sexual harassment.’
‘Surely they won’t believe you were harassing Henry. Christ, you only have to look at him.’
‘It’s not Henry I’m worried about,’ I say fishing in my overstuffed bag for my phone. I still keep hoping for a message from Ashby but there’s nothing. I wonder if he’ll believe the harassment stories when they come out. Surely he won’t believe that I sexually harassed Henry and Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. Surely if I was going to harass anyone it would be Ashby.
‘I’ll get a round of absinthe. That’ll sort it,’ says Mak.
‘Not for me,’ says Imogen. ‘I’m on the orange juice. I’ve got to think of the baby. Ooh here’s Malcolm,’ she adds, waving. ‘He might know what to do.’
‘Does he know about the baby?’ I whisper.
She nods.
‘He’s being very supportive.’
I wish I could find someone supportive. Maybe I should have a baby. Huh, you need a man for that don’t you and I’m a bit short on those. Nice men anyway.
‘You could file a harassment complaint,’ says Malcolm, ‘but they will ask for his side of the story. It depends how far you want to take this.’
‘She wants to go all the way,’ says Mak.
‘That sounds a bit wrong,’ I say.
‘You know what I meant.’
I throw back my absinthe.
‘I don’t know if I can face going all the way.’
Whatever all the way is, but it’s likely to get messy isn’t it?
‘Another round?’ asks Mak.
‘Of course, once you file a complaint there’s no turning back. It could go to court. It will be very uncomfortable continuing working there. There’s no guarantee just because you’re telling the truth that you’ll win. He could argue you had some kind of grudge and, of course, if Nigel Lynworth comes forward and supports him …’ says Malcolm.
‘You’re fucked,’ Jasper reminds me.
Christ.
‘Here, have another glass love,’ says Mak.
To think at one time my only first world problem had been to find a date for the Guildhall. I must have more first world problems than anyone I know. Four glasses of absinthe later and I’m still undecided about what to do.
‘Let’s all go for an Indian,’ suggests Jasper.
The last thing I feel like right now is food and that is not a good sign. I must be in a bad way.
‘I think I’ll give it a miss. I might go and visit my parents and check out the spare bedroom,’ I say miserably.
It might just be best to throw myself in the Thames on the way. That will make the fucktards feel bad won’t it? Then again, knowing them it won’t.
I kiss the guys goodbye and walk to the taxi rank. I pass the Zodiac and remember Harry’s invitation. Another fucktard. He must know all about his father contacting my landlord. Shit, there aren’t any cabs. I sigh and walk to the bus stop. Then I see Henry.
Buggery fuck.
Chapter Forty-One
For a minute I think its coincidence but Henry is making a beeline for me. He’s totally hammered.
‘Hey babe,’ he says, in an attempt to be cool.
His alcohol drenched breath wafts over me. He’s as pissed as a newt. The guys have already driven past in a cab waving manically as they did so. I so wish I was with them.
‘I’ve just been to your flat. One of your neighbours said I’d probably find you at that pub.’
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘I checked your file,’ he grins. ‘You’re looking gorgeous.’
‘Is that right Henry? Sorry I must dash, I’m meeting a friend.’
I dive through the doors of the Zodiac and see Harry performing onstage. The place is not as packed as I’d hoped. I hurry to a table in the far corner and stare at the entrance. Henry walks in a few seconds later. I shrink in my seat as he looks around. I must stand out like a sore thumb because Henry spots me right away.
‘So what shall we do?’ he asks squeezing in beside me. ‘You’ve got me for the whole evening.’
I can’t imagine anything worse.
‘Get lost Henry. I’m serious. This is harassment and I shall report you to the police if you don’t stop.’
‘What are you talking about? We’re just two work colleagues having a drink. What’s wrong with that?’
‘You’re already drunk. You’ll regret this in the morning.’
‘Let’s wait until the morning and we’ll see,’ he laughs, stroking my thigh.
I slap his hand away roughly.
‘I don’t want to have a drink with you Henry. Not now, not ever,’ I say more loudly than I mean to. I so wish I’d gone to the Indian with the others. I could be enjoying onion salad and poppadoms at this very moment. Instead I’m going to spend the evening fighting off this prick. Maybe Mak is right, a good knee in the bollocks is what is needed. I really don’t know why I hesitate. I get up to leave and realise I have to squeeze past him. Stupid Phoebe, how sensible was it sliding along the seat to the wall?
‘Excuse me Henry,’ I say firmly.
His hand reaches for my bum and I squeal.
‘I know a nice place where we can have a little privacy,’ he says.
I slap his hand and continue past when he grabs my wrist.
‘Just a drink, one drink. Come on, stop being coy Phoebe. We can have a good time you and me.’
Clearly Henry and I have different ideas of what a good time is. Scrolling through Tinder with a couple of Besties in my hand is my idea of a good time. I imagine Henry’s idea of a good time is holding a couple of something in his hands too but I don’t think they’re pork pies.
‘Take your hands off her, now,’ Harry says. His eyes are hard with anger and his lips are tightly drawn together.
‘This is nothing to do with you mate,’ says Henry. ‘Just move on.’
I’m pulled out of Henry’s grip as Harry grabs him by the shirt, forcing him out of his seat. This is dead embarrassing. The band stops playing and the audience turn to look at us. Henry’s face turns red as Harry pulls on his shirt collar
‘I said take your hands off her. I didn’t want to have to say it again. The door is over there, I suggest you walk through it or would you prefer I throw you?’
‘Christ, keep your hair on,’ Henry says.
Henry frees himself and punches Harry in the chest. I gasp.
I’ve never had men fighting over me. I’d like to say it feels nice but it’s mortifying. Harry seems unruffled by the punch.
‘Look Phoebe and I are together,’ gasps Henry, struggling to get his breath. ‘And I’d watch who you’re pushing about if I were you.’
‘I’m not with you Henry,’ I say shakily.
The last thing I want is for Harry to believe him and leave us alone. I’d most certainly have to knee him in the nether regions if he does, Henry that is, not Harry, and then it will certainly be goodbye to my job. It’s probably goodbye job anyway but I’d rather not put the final nail in the coffin until I absolutely have to.
‘Do you know this guy?’ Harry asks.
‘We both wor
k at Lynworths but he has been harassing me at work and now he’s followed me from the pub. I’m certainly not with him.’
‘Right,’ says Harry.
Blimey, he’s a bit different to Ashby isn’t he? I watch as he drags Henry to the exit and physically throws him out. Oh dear, this does not bode well for me. I’m grateful to Harry and all that but he’s just another dickhead isn’t he? He’s throwing me out of my home. He seems good at throwing people out doesn’t he?
‘Sit down,’ he orders. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
The truth is that’s all I can do. I flop into the seat and try to calm my beating heart. What’s happening? I try to untangle the crazy mess in my head. I know one shouldn’t dwell on one’s own problems but Christ, on a scale of one to ten I’d say my problems were an eleven. I must try and see the positive in all this. There has to be one but I’m just struggling to find it. I so wish I was back in my cosy little flat cooking myself spag bol followed by a couple of blueberry muffins and with Coronation Street on in the background. I’d much rather watch a drama than create one.
‘Here.’
He places a glass of white wine in front of me.
‘Thanks. I didn’t ruin your set did I? I didn’t even notice if you’d finished.’
‘Don’t worry about it. How long has that creep been harassing you?’
‘Too long.’
‘Why don’t you report it?’
‘Because,’ I say hotly, ‘he will deny it and then I have to try and prove it. I’ll lose my job and the whole thing will follow me around. Some of us have to work to pay our rent.’
I stand up. I’ve just about had enough of all this crap now and I’ve certainly had it with men. I was cruelly dumped by Ashby and he still hasn’t given me an explanation. I must be mental to still have feelings for him. I’m holding on to my job by a thread, thanks to that cock Henry and that other dick Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. I’m going to have to leave my flat because of Harry Bloom’s father. How dare they all put me in this situation? Bugger the lot of them. I don’t need a man. Women need to understand that. We can have casual sex just like them and it doesn’t matter if you’re not married when you’re almost thirty-four. In fact when I want a baby I’ll go out and have one. I’ll choose the father. I’ll take control. I don’t need a man. Well, maybe for the Guildhall ball but that’s all.
