by Lynda Renham
‘No favouritism,’ laughs Mak. ‘Seriously though, congratulations.’
‘I’m still shocked.’
‘Are you going to the Guildhall ball with Ashby?’
I grimace. Any mention of Ashby makes me think of Harry Bloom. I listened against the wall this morning but there was no sound. I’m almost hoping to hear his drums. God, I hope he’s okay.
‘I don’t know. Ashby keeps texting me. He wanted to meet tonight but I said I was busy.’
‘You should take notice of what the psychic said,’ Mak reminds me.
‘What did the psychic say?’ asks Imogen.
‘Ooh, let me just get another round and then we’ll tell you,’ says Mak excitedly.
‘It’s a load of rubbish,’ I say dismissively.
Didn’t she also say I had no reason to worry about my home? She got that one wrong.
‘What did she say?’ probes Imogen. ‘Tell me.’
‘Nothing really …’
‘She told her that Harry Bloom was the man for her …’ Mak says, wagging his finger at me.
‘She did not say that,’ I argue.
‘She said there were musical notes around her. We went to The Blue Note, where Harry plays. It couldn’t be clearer.’
‘That’s amazing,’ says Imogen.
‘That’s where Phoebe would find what she’s looking for,’ adds Mak. ‘And the only thing she’s been looking for is a date for the Guildhall.’
‘You do like him Phoeb,’ says Imogen.
‘I threw him out of the flat after the party.’
Mak falls into his seat.
‘What for?’
‘He gave you that lovely present,’ says Imogen.
Honestly, aren’t friends supposed to be on your side?
‘After you left, he stayed to clear up and then said he wanted to talk to me about the flat and how someone was coming to talk to me about my new tenancy.’
‘And you threw him out because he said that?’ Mak says, his eyes almost popping out.
‘It’s not his fault,’ says Imogen, frowning.
‘Of course it is,’ I snap. ‘He works for his father.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘Not much, that’s when I asked him to leave. I do feel a bit guilty now though because his mum’s ill apparently.’
‘Oh Phoeb, don’t you think you should knock when you get back. Just check his mum’s okay.’
‘We could pop to The Blue Note, see if he’s there?’ suggests Mak.
I shake my head.
‘I’d rather not. I really need to get an early night and be fresh for my Besties interview tomorrow.’
‘Who’d ever have thought you would be the face of Besties,’ laughs Mak. ‘Even I want to try one now, and I hate pork pies.’
Who’d have thought it indeed? Surely if that psychic was the real McCoy then surely she would have seen something as big as this. My face on the billboards is no small thing. Either Great Aunt Maude missed that one or that psychic was just a charlatan. I rather think it was the latter.
ChapterFifty-Three
I’m thirty-four and I don’t feel any different to when I was thirty-three, or when I was twenty-three, come to that. I’ve upped the night cream just to be safe. Imogen said one should use an anti-wrinkle cream after thirty. As well as a good eye cream and if possible wheedle some retinol cream out of one’s GP. I’m not sure anything cosmetic can be wheedled out of my GP but I can try. Maybe once I’m the face of Besties it will be easier. Doctors are swayed by celebrity status aren’t they? You only have to look at Michael Jackson to know that. Not that I want what Michael Jackson had. Just some retinol cream will do me.
I’m at Besties in Canary Wharf. They have plush offices with pictures of Besties pork pies decorating the reception area. A door swings open and a long-haired man walks in, trailing a vapour of smoke behind him. He takes a few more puffs on the electronic cigarette before pushing it into his pocket.
‘Rock Johnson,’ he says and salutes me. ‘I’m the marketing director for Besties.’
Seriously, his name is Rock?
‘Hello.’
‘Right,’ he says, clapping his hands. ‘We’ll do the tour of the factory later. Not that there’s much to see these days as it’s all automated; pigs in one end and pies out the other. But first, let’s get down to business. Do you want a drink? We’ve got wine, beer, spirits?’
It’s ten in the morning.
‘Do you have coffee?’ I smile.
‘Yeah sure, we can get you that.’
He walks to the door and shouts.
‘Tish, can you get two coffees? And then get your arse in here. I’d like to start this meeting before lunch.’
I fidget in my seat.
‘Got a lot on today,’ he explains.
‘You must be very busy,’ I say.
‘You could say that. Let’s get started.’
He pulls a bundle of paper from a drawer and throws it on to the table.
A pretty blonde woman hurries in with a tray.
‘I’ve got the box too,’ she says and smiles at me.
‘Hello, I’m Tish, and I’m a big fan. I wanted to come to the protest but I had to work.’
Rock takes the box from the tray and places it at my feet.
‘Pork pies. There’s two dozen in there. A little thank you from us here at Besties.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
Blimey, two dozen packets of free pork pies. You don’t get that every day do you? I’ll need to have a pork pie party to get rid of this lot.
‘Loved the blog,’ Rock grins, pulling a hip flask from his drawer.
‘Who’s for a little top up in their coffee?’
‘Not for me,’ I say quickly.
Blimey, they start early here at Besties don’t they?
‘Let’s look at the contract,’ says Rock. ‘As the face of Besties you’ll be paid £1,000 a month. There’s no negotiating on that I’m afraid.’
Wowzers, I hadn’t thought about what I would be paid. That’s amazing, I try to keep a straight face and nod nonchalantly.
‘And we have no problems with your other activities, Celebrity Big Brother, Strictly or whatever.’
‘Strictly?’ I echo.
Bloody hell, I never realised that being the face of Besties was that influential. Ooh, just think, me, Phoebe Smith, partnered with Brendan Cole. I’d be able to wear some great costumes on Strictly. I wonder how you get nominated to go on. I expect Besties would nominate me. I can’t help wondering how much they pay you to go on Strictly. It’s a hell of a lot I imagine.
‘All we insist is that you mention Besties at some point, something like I wouldn’t be here if it were not for Besties pork pies, you know the sort of thing. We will give you a Besties pork pie T-shirt to wear for your public appearances.’
I’m not sure I want to be dressed in a pork pie T-shirt for Strictly, but I nod and try to smile.
‘Local radio too, whatever,’ says Rock dismissively.
‘She’s done local radio,’ says Tish.
And has no intention of doing it again. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back to that studio.
‘Write a fucking book, whatever. We don’t care if you make money as long as you mention Besties.’
‘So,’ he continues, slurping his coffee. ‘Welcome to Besties, we’ve got a strong team. You’re the first face of Besties, so we’ve got to do a good job.’
‘I’m keen to do a good job,’ I say, feeling I need to say something.
‘We’ve got the contract,’ says Tish, pushing it across the desk. ‘You’ll need to sign here, and here.’
She points to a space on the contract and hands me a pen.
‘Our target audience is age forty-five to sixty. The punters will listen to someone slightly younger than they are, so we’ve said your age is forty,’ says Rock as he points to part of the contract.
I grip the table. This is seriously getting out of hand. I’ll be
fifty before I know it, on paper anyway. I’ll have to make an announcement on Facebook. ‘Phoebe Smith would like it publicly known that she is aged thirty-four.’
‘But I’m thirty-four,’ I say sternly. ‘I turned thirty-four a few days ago.’
They both look at me.
‘Of course you are thirty-four, it’s just how you will be introduced in the media,’ Tish says in a patronising tone.
Rock studies my face and makes a few notes. He leans forward and strokes my cheekbone. It’s like being sized up for a facelift.
‘You’ve got high cheekbones and you’re quite thin in the face aren’t you?’
A compliment, thank Christ for that.
‘She needs to be fuller in the face,’ says Tish. ‘More rounded cheeks, and a rosy complexion.’
‘Yeah,’ says Rock, studying me. ‘More fitting for the product.’
Tish leans forward and snaps a photo with her phone in my face.
‘You want me to look like a pork pie?’ I say, mortified.
This is unbelievable.
‘That kind of roundness,’ nods Rock. ‘You’ve heard of the saying, never trust a skinny cook.’
‘Our boys can do wonders with Photoshop,’ smiles Tish.
‘Right,’ Rock says handing me a pen. ‘If you could sign the contract.’
I grab the hip flask and empty the contents into my coffee.
‘Can’t you just photograph me as I am?’ I say, while hating myself for sounding so meek.
The whisky hits the spot and I shudder.
‘We won’t sell pork pies to thirty-year-olds love.’
They sell them to me.
‘And the blog, when is it going to be live again?’ asks Rock, pushing the contract closer.
‘We want to make Besties a big part of your love life on the blog,’ Tish says.
‘You do?’ I say, wondering how a pork pie could feature in my love life.
‘Everyone loves a romance, right?’
Including me, if only I could get one.
‘We thought that bit about the kiss with Harry Bloom was great. If you could add something in about how Harry bought you Besties pork pies as a gift. That’s what brought the kiss on,’ says Tish excitedly. ‘We’d really like for Harry to fall in love with Besties pork pies too.’
What the fuck has Harry got to do with this?
‘You want a romance with Harry to be pork pie orientated?’
They both nod eagerly.
‘Didn’t you read the blog?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Tish.
‘I’m not having a relationship with Harry Bloom.’
‘You can juggle that,’ says Rock.
I can juggle my love life? Have they seen my juggling?
‘We’ll tell you what to feature each week. I think the first one is going to be the health benefits of our pies.’
‘You want me to write about the health benefits of pork pies?’
Rock nods and gives the contract another shove my way.
‘I didn’t think pork pies had any health benefits, they’re full of lard and salt,’ I say.
‘We know that darling, but we’re not going to sell any pork pies if the punters know that are we?’ Rock says indignantly.
God, I wouldn’t like to imagine how much lard and salt are in two dozen pork pies.
‘We thought you liked the pork pies?’ Rock says. ‘I didn’t imagine I was going to have a confrontation about them.’
Oh dear. The thing is I really don’t want to mislead people do I? I’ll have Jamie Oliver and all sorts coming at me. I don’t want to be known as the woman who endorses bad food.
I stand up.
‘I need to think about this. I don’t want to mislead people on my blog,’ I say.
‘But …’ begins Tish.
I pick up my bag and step over the box of pork pies.
‘I’m not too thrilled at being Photoshopped, and I want to be Phoebe Smith aged thirty-four.’
‘Will you be in touch?’ asks Tish, looking disappointed.
‘We could drop down to thirty-eight if that helps?’ offers Rock, puffing on his electronic cigarette.
‘Shall I put the pies in your car?’ asks Tish.
I shake my head.
‘I’ve given them up,’ I say and walk to the door.
Who’d have thought, me, Phoebe Smith, would walk away from two dozen free pork pies? I get to my car and reach for my phone with shaky hands and see there is an email from Bloom Properties. I click into it nervously.
Dear Miss Smith,
As your new landlord we are delighted to have you as a tenant of our recently acquired flat. We would like to visit at your earliest convenience to discuss some minor changes that will be made to your tenancy agreement. A representative from Bloom Properties will visit this evening at 8pm. If this is inconvenient then please call our office to arrange another time.
Regards
Tim Mayhew
Rentals Manager.
There is a phone number at the bottom of the email. I suppose I might as well get it over and done with. There’s also a text from Ashby:
Take you to dinner tonight. We can celebrate you becoming the face of Beasties
Great, Ashby can’t even get the name right. I know it’s just a typo but hey ho, he’s most likely right. Perhaps Besties are beasties. I sigh. I wonder if Harry Bloom knows that someone is coming to see me tonight.
Chapter Fifty-Four
I run a hot bath, add some lavender essence and soak in it while sipping a Dubonnet and gin. I texted Ashby and said I felt quite knackered after the interview and that I had someone coming from Blooms to discuss my tenancy. He’d offered to come round and support me but frankly Ashby’s support is proving to be a bit feeble. I’ve decided that as lovely as it would be to have an escort to the Guildhall, I think it would best for me to go alone. I don’t want to give Ashby the wrong signals. The truth is I don’t feel anything when I see him. I wish I did but I can’t pretend I feel things when I don’t.
There has been no sound from Harry’s flat. I had listened at the wall but there was silence. I hope his mum is okay. I really should knock and ask after her.
I can’t believe life has changed so much since SHAG stormed the store. I get loads of emails from women asking for advice about harassment and the SHAG forums are very hopeful I will find love. I’m not as hopeful. I closed down my Tinder account. I’m sure there a lot of nice men on there. The problem is, I don’t seem to attract them and I really can’t face any more disastrous dates. I imagine there would have been more interest in me had I decided to become the face of Besties. Not that I would have necessarily attracted the right man. Most likely I would have been overcome with pork pie fanatics. Mum has resigned herself to the fact that I can’t get a man and consoles herself it’s now because I’m a success.
‘It’s hard for a woman to find a man who isn’t threatened by her success,’ she’ll tell anyone who listens.
I check the time on my phone and climb from the bath. The flat is really cold today. I wander into the bedroom and look through my clothes. I need something warm. I don the thick sweater my mum had knitted me last year when she’d joined a knitting group. It’s got a white rabbit on the front with orange ears and pink eyes. Still, it’s good for winter and beggars can’t be choosers. I can’t afford to keep the heating on at this level all night. I pull on some jeans and socks, and light some candles in the living room before throwing a Birds Eye shepherd’s pie in the microwave. Much healthier than a Besties.
I press my ear against the wall again and hear the sounds of music. My heart leaps. He’s home. I debate knocking and asking about his mum but the thought of leaving my warm flat and stepping into the cold landing stops me.
I turn on the TV and watch the news as I eat my shepherd’s pie. I must text Ashby at some point and tell him that I’ll be going to the Guildhall on my own.
My phone trills. It’s Imogen.
‘Malcolm and I
are going to get a takeaway and watch a film. I can’t wait to tell him about Besties,’ she says. ‘Do you want to join us? I figured you might be feeling a bit low after having turned down such a huge offer.’
‘And play gooseberry, I don’t think so.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘And it won’t be if I’m there. No honestly, I’ve got this guy coming at eight and then I’ll probably tuck myself into bed.’
‘Okay. You never know Besties may make a better offer.’
I somehow doubt it.
I hang up, check my messages and then watch some rubbish on the tele. I’m just dozing off when there’s a knock at the door. My heart jumps into my mouth. It can only be Harry, unless I slept through the door buzzer. I jump up and open the door.
‘Hello,’ says Harry.
He’s all smart in a suit and carrying a briefcase.
‘Hello.’
‘We have an appointment,’ he says looking at the rabbit on my jumper.
‘We do?’
‘To discuss your tenancy with Bloom Properties,’ he says in an official sounding voice. I detect an undercurrent of anger in it too.
‘You’ve come to talk to me?’ I say surprised.
‘I work for Bloom Properties. You do keep reminding me of that.’
Oh God, this is so uncomfortable.
‘Do I have to deal with you?’ I say without thinking.
‘No, we can get someone else,’ he says indifferently.
Why is he being so horrible to me? Oh bugger him, what do I care?
‘No, you’d better come in. I’d actually much rather you did your own dirty work.’
He steps into the flat and exhales.
‘It’s boiling in here.’
He takes off his jacket and I point to the couch. He looks adorable as usual and smells gorgeous.
‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘I’m fine thanks. Nice jumper,’ he comments.
‘My mum knitted it.’
I can’t believe we’re talking about my jumper.
‘Right,’ he says.
He opens his briefcase and pulls out a folder.
‘How’s your mum?’
His head snaps up.
‘My mum?’ he asks.
