by Lynda Renham
‘But no one got back to me about the last will and testament, and who owns Driftwood,’ I say stupidly.
‘That letter was sent to you, let me see, yes just over two weeks ago. I’m sorry if you didn’t receive it. Shall we send you a copy?’
For Christ’s sake, I don’t want a bloody copy. I want to know if I own the sodding house.
‘Who owns Driftwood?’ I ask.
‘Mr William Ellis. I’m so sorry we thought you had that notification.’
I hang up.
I drop my head onto the desk and burst into tears.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I sit in the kitchen with my suitcase beside me. The chocolate teapot is in front of me with just one penis and two nipples left inside. I have had more penises in the past few hours than I have ever had in my life. In fact, I’ll probably never have that many penises again. I have had a chocolate penis orgy. Frankly, I don’t think I ever want a penis again, chocolate or otherwise. I had removed the family-size M&Ms and left them on the kitchen counter. I had ripped off all the labels in my frenzy and almost yanked a cupboard door off in my anger. Fortunately Andy had been around to fix it. Poor Andy, he just couldn’t get his head around how Mrs Ellis couldn’t own Driftwood, and it just got too complicated to explain. I’d opened a bottle of William’s whisky and left twenty-five pounds by the bottle, figuring it couldn’t have cost much more than that. I want nothing from him, nothing at all except the truth.
I’m back where I started. I have no home and no job. I came close to phoning Luther to see if he had filled my position but couldn’t bring myself to do it in the end. I fiddle with the little diamond bracelet that Nathan had brought back from Dubai and idly wonder how much I will get for it on eBay. I hear the sound of tyres on the gravel and take a large swig of the whisky. A car door slams and I hear his key in the lock.
‘Anyone home,’ he calls.
The front door slams and he is opening the kitchen door. He stops at the sight of me.
‘Hey, how you doing,’ he asks walking to the fridge.
He opens the door and I see his shoulders tense.
‘What’s happened to the …’
He turns and sees my suitcase. He bites his lip and flops into the chair opposite me.
‘Who told you?’ he asks simply.
‘Nathan. He said you told him about Roche and …’
‘I haven’t spoken to Nathan today,’ he interrupts.
‘And I am supposed to believe what you tell me. You’ve done nothing but lie to me,’ I say, my voice breaking.
He sighs heavily.
‘It’s the truth. I haven’t spoken to him. He must have seen it in the Financial Times. I don’t know why he is so upset or why he’d want to take it out on you,’ he says removing his tie.
I sniff and pull a tissue from my bag.
‘Because he wanted that deal for Lansdowne, you see he owes Charles Lansdowne a lot of money, gambling debts apparently. He’s been stealing from you too. I was going to talk to you about it tonight but …
He takes my whisky glass and finishes the contents.
‘What an idiot,’ he mumbles.
‘How could you tell him about the house and not tell me?’
‘I never told him about the letter. It came to the office and as it wasn’t marked personal it was opened and given to him. He wouldn’t have known otherwise.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me William?’
He sighs and pours whisky into the glass.
‘What was the point? You didn’t want to go back to the flat did you, and the wedding is only eight weeks away and …’
‘But I had a right to know that this wasn’t my house William.’
He sighs.
‘And what happened to the letter my solicitor sent me?’ I say quietly reaching for the glass the same time as he does and our hands touch. I want to scream. How can he have this effect on me by just touching my hand? I am so angry with him but as soon as any part of his body touches me I totally lose it. I pull my hand back sharply. He throws back the remaining whisky in the glass and says, ‘I hid it from you.’
‘What! Why did you do that?’
He leans across the table to reach for my hand but I pull back.
‘It was wrong. I’m sorry. It’s just everything was going so well, you were working here and … Oliver would have demanded you left and …’ he breaks off, lowers his head and mumbles, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ve lost everything William, everything,’ I say, starting to cry.
‘Binki, please don’t,’ he says softly, getting up from his chair.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I snap, holding my hands up. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’
He flops down in his chair looking dejected.
‘You don’t have to leave the job …’
‘Of course I do. I’ll have to look for another job, go back to the flat where … I lost trust in everyone William, but I thought I could trust you,’ I say barely able to see him through my tears.
‘I thought you were my friend.’
I grab the suitcase and head for the door.
‘Binki, I am your friend,’ he says quietly.
‘I’ll never understand why you did it,’ I say.
I sense him behind me.
‘Because I didn’t want you to leave,’ he says bluntly.
I turn to face him and his eyes meet mine.
‘I’ve never had so much since you’ve been here. It feels so natural being with you and I can always be myself. There was never any pressure and I honestly thought I was helping by having you stay until the wedding. Why can’t you stay? What would you have done if the house was yours? Were you planning on kicking me out of the offices?
‘Of course not, I was thinking you could rent them,’ I say, sniffing and fumbling in my handbag for a tissue.
He fetches some kitchen towel and hands it to me.
‘Don’t leave,’ he whispers.
‘I can’t stay here. I can’t lie to Oliver, and once he knows he’ll want me to leave. I’m an engaged woman. Give this back to Nathan when you see him. I don’t want his presents.’
I hand him the bracelet. He opens his mouth to speak but his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and I see Andrea’s name light up the screen. He clicks it off. I turn to the door but my legs feel like jelly and I wait for him to say something, anything but he doesn’t.
I lift my suitcase into the boot and climb into Kandy and without glancing back I pull out of Driftwood’s driveway.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Hey guys how are you getting on?’ I swear this bed salesman’s smile is stuck onto his face. He even talks with his mouth in a smile a bit like a ventriloquist. I bet he has jaw ache at the end of the day. I suppose things could be worse, I could be doing his job.
Actually us guys have not been getting on too well for the past few days but I’m not going to tell a bed salesman ventriloquist that am I?
‘Yeah okay, this one seems nice,’ says Oliver, glancing for the umpteenth time at his watch.
‘It’s a great bed this one isn’t it?’ says the smiling salesman.
‘This mattress does wonders if you have back problems,’ says the salesman.
‘Perfect for you then,’ I quip to Oliver.
‘My back’s fine now,’ says Oliver wearily.
Yes, well it would be wouldn’t it? Seeing as he isn’t the one sleeping on a blow-up bed that slowly deflates overnight, usually coinciding with me needing to pee. I find myself rolling around like a beached whale trying to get off the bloody thing just to go to the loo. It’s like doing bed Pilates. I then have to switch the pump on to blow the thing back up and of course, that wakes Oliver. So we’ve both been walking around like zombies for the last week. Trying to have sex on the damn thing is a feat all of its own. We’re fine until Oliver gets a bit frantic and then the thing deflates in one big massive whoosh, as does Oliver’s erection, leaving us both flaying around like beached whales
trying to get off the goddamn thing. I swear getting out of quicksand would be easier.
‘Well mine isn’t,’ I snap.
The salesman coughs softly.
‘These orthopaedic mattresses are the best things invented if you ask me. My mother-in-law, right, she had this crippling back problem, spent a fortune on podiatrists …’
‘I thought they did feet,’ says Oliver, absently glancing at his watch again.
‘No, they massage your back,’ says the salesman, looking puzzled. ‘Her feet are okay.’
Like we need to know this, I mean for Christ’s sake. I want to tell him I don’t give a shit about his mother-in-law’s feet or her bloody back. I just want a decent night’s sleep in a bed that Amanda sodding Rowland hasn’t slept in. In theory she shouldn’t have slept in any of these beds, but knowing that little trollop who can say? God, I’ve become such a bitter woman since Christmas, and this is without a pending period. I dread to think what I’ll be like then. I only hope Oliver survives.
‘She’s not looked back since she bought this mattress,’ he says nodding enthusiastically.
‘Right,’ says Oliver.
The salesman continues to smile at me as a child pulls his trouser leg.
‘Hey mister, my mum said you’re giving out lollies.’
‘Yes, in a minute son,’ he replies the smile still pasted on his face.
‘I want it now. If you don’t give it to me now I’ll tell my mum I hate these beds and want to go somewhere else.’
Little sod. I’m determined that our kids will never turn out like that.
‘I’ll leave you guys to try it out, be back in a sec,’ he says, walking away with the little sod clinging to his trouser leg.
‘Why you can’t sleep in the bed we have is beyond me,’ Oliver grumbles.
‘You know why?’ I snap.
He just doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. Even if he had the bed fumigated I still couldn’t get in it.
‘Anyway, we’ll need a bed when we move into the new house,’ I say.
‘If we get the mortgage offer, that is. We hadn’t planned on taking out such a large mortgage, remember? We were banking on your inheritance weren’t we?’
‘Well I’m sorry that you’re not marrying a millionairess.’
He shakes his head.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I only meant we may not get the house. We may have to rent somewhere first, which means we’ll be stuck with two beds if it comes furnished. Of course if you hadn’t have been so pedantic about the flat we could have stayed there, now of course it has new tenants.’
How is it everything is my fault? I wasn’t the one caught screwing someone else, I’m the one out of a job and sleeping on a blow-up bed. I swear my core muscles are the strongest they’ve ever been though. Maybe I could start a whole new exercise craze called Bed Pilates. I could do a good line in faulty blow-up beds.
‘Are you trying this one?’ asks a lady behind us.
‘Oh no, we’re just talking about it. Please go ahead.’
Christ, how many people have lain on these beds. I shudder at the thought as my eyes wander to an overweight sweaty woman. Christ, I bet these beds are full of bed lice and all kinds of bugs. I watch the sweaty woman fall onto the bed I had been coveting and cross that one off the list.
‘Look Binki, I’ve got to get back. As great as it is lying on beds with you I really can’t afford to put my job on the line can I? Not now.’
I roll my eyes.
‘Is that another dig at me?’
‘Of course not, look you choose the bed and I’ll see you tonight. Good luck with the interview, let me know how it goes.’
He quickly kisses me on the lips and flies from the shop. I sigh and look around at the beds.
‘Any luck?’ asks the smiling salesman worriedly, his eyes following Oliver’s fleeing body.
‘He has to get back to work,’ I say.
I glance over at the four-poster bed in the far corner of the room and point to it. It’s totally impractical and way too big, but I’ve always wanted to see what a four-poster was like to sleep on.
‘I’ll try that one and then I’ll let you know which one I’ve chosen,’ I say walking towards it and not really hearing his response. I fall onto the bed, stretch my body and close my eyes. My mind drifts to the interview. God, I hope I get this job. The agency seemed very keen to get me an interview with this company. Let’s hope Ben Newman hasn’t been on the blower to them. I remember Piers Roche saying leave him to me, and I think back to the night of our Chinese dinner and sigh, and then remember my emotional departure from Driftwood. William and I were due to have dinner with Piers tomorrow to celebrate his birthday.
‘I hate celebrating alone,’ he’d said.
I sigh and turn over on the bed. Oliver had been thrilled when I’d turned up at the flat although his face had dropped when I’d told him that the house didn’t belong to me. In fact he had banged on about me taking legal action as surely I was entitled to the house. But of course I was no more entitled to that house than anyone else. Aunty Vera left it to William and I am in do doubt that he did more for her when she was alive than I did. It’s been over two weeks since I left and I haven’t heard from him. Well, there is no reason why I should is there? Some days I miss him so much though. I’m still doing my washing on my designated washing days as it seems somehow comforting, and I miss his whoosh-whooshing sounds in the morning and the smell of his whisky. I even miss the bloody builders. Now that is a bad sign right? My phone rings and I pull it from my bag.
‘Hey it’s me,’ says Muffy brightly. ‘I thought I’d phone and wish you good luck for the interview. I’ll see you at one at Georgia’s brasserie. Are you still up for lunch?’
‘Yes, looking forward to it.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, what the hell would we do with a four-poster bed?’ says a voice beside me.
I turn to see the fat sweaty woman studying the bed with her husband who is less sweaty, but just as fat.
‘I thought it might be romantic, you know,’ he replies in a dull voice.
‘Romantic, what the fuck is wrong with you?’
Yes, things could always be worse. I could have been born her. God, what an awful thought.
‘Where the hell are you?’ asks Muffy.
‘In a bed shop,’ I say in my most depressed tone.
‘Nice class of people you mix with in bed shops,’ she giggles.
‘Yes, fortunately one doesn’t have to get into bed with them.’
‘Save that for the job interview darling,’ she laughs.
‘Muffy,’ I exclaim.
‘Only kidding, see you at one, and I’ve got an extra hour to go for the fitting with you. See you laters.’
I get up with a sigh and approach the salesman.
‘The special back one over there,’ I say pointing. ‘How long does it take to deliver?’
‘Delivery on that one is two weeks,’ he says whipping out the paperwork.
Two weeks. God, I’ll need a hell of a lot more than an orthopaedic bed by then. I’ll probably be looking at a new hip. Why does everything take so long in this country?
‘Is that the earliest?’
He looks pained.
‘That’s a very good delivery time, most shops don’t …’
‘We’ll take it,’ I say, pulling out my credit card making a mental note to get a puncture repair kit on the way home.
I leave the bed shop and realise I only have an hour before my interview. I dash into Debenhams and check my make-up. I’d chosen to wear a smart navy suit with a pale blue blouse on Muffy’s advice.
‘The last thing you want to do is walk in looking like the most fuckable woman ever.’
‘What does that mean?’ I’d questioned.
‘It’s just with your reputation and everything …’
‘What reputation? I didn’t bloody do anything …’
‘No, but the way the rumours have spread you
may as well have done and don’t wear flats. Make sure you have heels okay? That way you’ll look sophisticated and chic.’
Isn’t it bloody sod’s law? Ben Newman makes the pass at me and somehow I’m now the biggest slapper in town. ‘Honestly, it comes to something when I have to dress down so people don’t think I’m the slapper I never was.’
‘All I’m saying is, you don’t want to walk into an interview dressed like you’re clearly up for it.’
Yeah right. My reflection looks back at me and I grimace at myself. I look about as unfuckable as a woman can look. I can’t imagine any man wanting to sprawl me over a desk. Not that bosses spend their time sprawling their sales assistants over their desks of course. I think it was just my bad luck to work for Ben Newman. I run a brush through my hair, reapply my make-up, tell myself I can get this job and leave Debenhams. It’s a twenty minute walk to the offices of Alpha PR, and I’m fifteen minutes early which is perfect. I stroll in and stop when I see a line of women sitting in plush leather chairs in the reception area, and they all look very fuckable. In fact they are so rosy cheeked they look post-coital, post-orgasmic and fuckable. Christ, I must look like some prim snooty spinster who’s never had sex in her life and would faint at just hearing the word. Shit and no time to change or have a quickie with Oliver so I at least look a little post-coital. Oh bugger it, another job down the drain. I approach the reception desk feeling all the other women’s eyes like little daggers, in my back. Just wait until I see Muffy. She’ll get it in the neck for sure.
‘Hello,’ I say quietly to the receptionist. ‘I’m here to see Martin Lucas. My name is Binki Grayson.’
She looks up and smiles at me.
‘Ah yes, Binki, do take a seat.’
Do I have to? Can’t I just hide in the loo until this lot have been in? After all, my chances are zero aren’t they? No one will hire me when they have all these glamour pusses to choose from. Oh, what am I thinking, not all men are like Ben Newman.
‘Are you here for the receptionist job?’ the girl next to me whispers.
I sigh with relief.
‘No, I’m here for the senior sales assistant position,’ I whisper back.
