Date one: Andrew In spite of the fact that I had recently acquired a broken heart and a stalking habit, I felt my heart lift as I walked into Soho. The cold February air smelt of garlic and seafood while the chink of pint glasses and carefree laughter spilled from behind steamed-up windows, reminding me of what normal, sane, happy people sounded like. Out-of-towners screamed as their tuk-tuks hurtled the wrong way down the one-way system and gay men in designer parkas drank coffee at pavement tables. A pigeon sat fatly on the first-floor windowsill of Little Italy, deciding who to take a shit on. It chose me. I stood, frozen, as the white blob slid delicately off my shoulder and landed on the front of my left bosom. What the flaming Jesus was I doing? Why was I standing here with shit on my tit when I should be at home crying over my ex-boyfriend? Who on earth would put themselves through this horrible, gut-wrenching experience of going on a date with a total stranger? I ran into Little Italy and begged the maître d’ to allow me to wash my breast. I emerged back on to Frith Street a few minutes later with a top so wet that my entire bra was visible. It was light grey and, now, completely transparent. To compound the situation, I was wearing a T-shirt bra so you could even see my nipple if you looked hard enough. The maître d’ looked hard enough. Dammit! Nellie Daniels wouldn’t turn up on a date with her nipples showing. I had been playing our conversation over and over since last night. I was now more obsessed with her than a child with Father Christmas. Feeling rather conspicuous, I cowered in a doorway next to a chef who was having a fag break, shouting into his phone in an unidentifiable language. He broke off mid-conversation and stared at my breasts with great wonder. Where was Andrew from the Internet? I briefly pondered the possibility of escaping. It wasn’t too late to call him and say I had fallen down a drain and fractured my leg. Or unexpectedly given birth. But I knew I had to go through with it. I was missing Gin Thursday for this date and, in an act of solidarity, Leonie had gone on one too; while I was sweating it out in Soho she was on some trendy urban date in Spitalfields with a man who was probably wearing Victoriana. As I scanned Frith Street once more, I wondered what the hell had happened to us. Only five minutes ago we were two little girls holding hands at the gates of Chiswick Park Primary on our first day of school. At what stage did it go so badly wrong that we’d ended up Internet dating together aged thirty? My phone rang and I hoped it was Andrew, calling to cancel the date. It wasn’t. ‘Mum,’ I whispered, even though I was on a noisy street. Nothing. Just what sounded like a gale-force wind. ‘Mum?’ Louder this time. Still nothing. ‘MUM?’ Now I was shouting. Finally, she replied. ‘Ah, Frances, hello.’ She sounded as if she was in the middle of a hurricane. ‘I was just having a melancholy moment on Wandsworth Common and I felt I should share it with you.’ ‘What? Why are you on Wandsworth Common?’ ‘I am pondering my relationship, Frances. I am wondering how Nicholas and I will survive the new-found fame he appears to have acquired for himself. I have seen that repulsive wife of his twice on television now. She is a very unpleasant piece of work.’ ‘Mum, you’ve been having an affair with her husband for the last seventeen years,’ I said gently. ‘You can hardly write her off.’ I kept an eye on Frith Street. ‘OK, Frances. Well, I shall leave you to it. I don’t know why I expected you to understand. I tell you what, you get back to your Internet date and don’t worry about me.’ She hung up. Bollocks. I kicked a step. My expensive boots scuffed immediately. ‘Fucking BOLLOCKS,’ I said, louder. ‘AND COCK.’ The chain-smoking chef was studying me with renewed interest. I texted Leonie: Bird shat on my tit. Had Mum on phone telling me I wouldn’t understand being unhappy. Date not even started yet. She ignored me. Knowing Leonie, she was probably naked already. At first, I had had little enthusiasm for this date. Stefania’s message to him on Sunday had been pretty bad: Hello ANDREW thank you for DATE OFFER Yes I will date with you we will date on Thursday, thank you from Frances XXX – and out of pride, rather than interest in Andrew, I’d had to send another message explaining what the hell was going on. He’d been reasonably understanding and, if I was honest, quite funny about it. So eventually, looking at his smiley photo, I had decided that a date with him wouldn’t be all that bad. But I’d woken up this morning and nearly crapped my pants with fear. Whoever had invented Internet dating deserved to be strung up: it was a terrible idea. ‘Fran?’ said an Australian voice on my right. Andrew wasn’t Australian. ‘No,’ I said briefly, fiddling with my phone. ‘Are you sure? You look just like her!’ Oh, my God. Seriously. Was I out of my mind? Why shouldn’t Andrew be Australian?! ‘FUCK! Andrew!’ I shouted. ‘Yes! I’m Fran!’ Andrew was every bit as nice as he seemed in the photos. He kissed me on the cheek, drawled, ‘Nice to meet you at last,’ and smiled easily, appraising me from underneath long eyelashes. He was really good-looking. (A brief scenario ran through my head: we went out, fell in love, he asked me to marry him but I had to say no because I couldn’t move to Oz and leave Mum here. Then I’d settle for a bald ex-con and spend the rest of my life whispering tragically that I had once allowed the love of my life to get away because blood was thicker than water.) Andrew grinned at me, waiting for me to say something. In an attempt to seem fun and friendly, I started gabbling about the fact that (a) I was really nervous, (b) I had had no idea that he was an Aussie and © that a bird had just taken a shit on my shoulder so I’d had to go and wash my top and it was now so wet that he could probably see my bra. ‘AND EVEN MY NIPPLES!’ I finished off in a yell. Andrew began to snigger. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered lamely. ‘Just nervous.’ He was doing a heroic job of not looking at my tits. Maybe I would fall in love with him. Maybe he would be the one to take all the pain away. He would heal me with guitar songs and trips to the beach where he would teach me to surf and we’d eat kangaroo. Andrew (the real-world Andrew, rather than the fantasy Andrew) gestured towards Old Compton Street. ‘Well, I think all of this can be solved by a beer. Do you fancy the French House? Oh, and I’m a Kiwi. Totally different accent. But never mind.’ I smiled gratefully and we wove off along Old Compton Street. He was nice. And he was hot. And he didn’t seem to mind that I was borderline mental and that I was wearing a wet top that showed my M&S bra. Maybe I’d only need to go on one Internet date, because Date One was actually The One. As I dreamed about our future together, we were buffeted by a swarm of Japanese tourists en route to Mamma Mia. Andrew smiled at me, moving into Dean Street. And then I saw it. Oh, please, God, no. It was gigantic. It was monstrous. It was … oh, help. Jiggling softly along in front of me, Andrew’s bottom was the most enormous, wobbly, womanly, wide-hipped ELEPHANT of a backside I’d ever seen. I was transfixed with horror, hypnotized by its gentle left-right sway. I looked at his upper body: normal, nice, blokish; not too wide, not too narrow. And then my gaze travelled back to his gigantic hips and huge, marshmallowy bottom. Cursing myself for being so utterly shallow, I knew immediately that it was all over for me and Andrew. Men were meant to have muscular hinges, not billowy bottoms. While Andrew queued at the bar, Leonie phoned me. ‘How is it?’ she whispered furtively, sounding like she was holed up in a toilet. I sighed. ‘It’s terrible, Leonie. His backside is bigger than me.’ She screamed with laughter and I smiled grimly as her howls reverberated round the cubicle. Eventually, she drew breath. ‘Fran, I don’t know which is worse. Mine is six inches shorter than me and he’s got two spiky front teeth like fucking Dracula! I’m terrified he’s going to lean over and suck blood from my neck!’ ‘Shit,’ I said, aghast. ‘I thought he was taller than you?’ ‘He lied. But here’s the best bit: he’s got plucked eyebrows.’ And with that we were reduced to helpless laughter, me crammed into the corner of a steamed-up pub in Soho and Leonie crouched in a toilet in Spitalfields. As Andrew wobbled back over to me I pulled myself together, preparing myself for an evening during which I must do everything in my power to avoid talking about bottoms. I resolved to murder Stefania. Chapter Twenty
FRAN, YOU HAVE A NEW
MESSAGE FROM JAMES! HERE’S WHAT HE HAD TO SAY!
Hello, Fran. I was rather taken by your profile. You write yourself up well with a most enjoyable turn of phrase. About me. I have a rather pretentious-sounding job but don’t be put off; I’m really quite normal underneath it all. I do not spend my life arguing about Nietzsche. I like wine, cake and eggy toast soldiers (although not together). I like my steak rare and tend to over-cook pasta. I downloaded Shakira and Shostakovich this week. Do I pass muster? Yours respectfully, James ‘Are you going to tell me what the fuck you were up to with that girl’s phone?’ Dave said, picking at a scab on his forearm. It was the following Wednesday and we were in the Union Tavern, where I was having an impromptu Wine Wednesday. ‘No,’ I replied, sipping my wine as quickly as I could. Alex had had at least three ‘mystery’ phone calls today and I had had to spend a large part of the afternoon with Max Clifford. This glass of not-quite-cold-enough Chilean white was the undisputed highlight of my day. ‘Tough tits, Fran. If you don’t tell me, I’ll go back to Meditation tonight and tell her I saw you reading her phone.’ ‘DAVE! Where’s your loyalty? Can’t you accept that I’m heartbroken?’ He blinked, unimpressed. ‘That’s true. But you’re not mad, Fran. Well, you are, but you don’t need to be. So come on, spill.’ ‘I … I thought she was really hot and I was trying to find out if she had a boyfriend. I think I’m having feelings for another woman.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Stop wasting my time. Tell Uncle Dave why you’re being such a psychopath.’ I sighed. ‘Oh, fuck it. The girl, the one with the brown hair –’ ‘Oh, aye, I’d give her one.’ ‘Shut up,’ I said, hurt. ‘That girl is called Nellie Daniels.’ I watched him try to work it out. His eyes widened. ‘Michael’s new bird? Fuckin’ HELL, Fran, what the fuck are you playing at? How did you know she’d be there? Jesus!’ He downed the rest of his Guinness. I didn’t say anything, just fiddled with my non-Mulberry handbag sheepishly. It finally dawned on him. ‘Oh, fuck, you invited her, didn’t you? You mad fucking pervert. Oh, my God.’ He started chuckling, then broke into a full-scale roar of laughter. ‘Barman, another drink for this fucked-up wench, please’ he called, slapping the bar with one of his big paws. ‘No, I can’t. I have to go. It’s time for Meditation. Which, for the record, Stefania is organizing from now on. I don’t even know if Nellie will be there,’ I said primly. I wasn’t in the mood for being laughed at. Dave stood up and put his coat on. ‘Well, I sure as fuck am coming. I wouldn’t miss this for the world!’ He threw his satchel over his shoulder and offered me his arm. ‘Come on, you bell end. Let’s meditate.’ Stefania had forgiven me for lying to her, partly because I’d agreed to arrange another date for this week and partly because Renaissance had asked her to stay on, offering the room to her for twenty-five pounds per night after a whole load of my media bitches had signed up for club membership last week. But although she had forgiven me, I hadn’t forgiven myself. The Nellie-stalking was bad enough, but to lie to Stefania was unforgivable. Had she not spent three weeks putting meals through my cat flap and cleaning my disgusting flat when Michael had demanded this hellish separation? What kind of a repayment was this? ‘Vhat the holy hell is zis outfit, Fran?’ she asked, as I walked in. ‘Vhy are you dressing like a banker zese days? And vhy are you so thin?’ She turned on some Zen music. ‘Nellie here today?’ I asked, with a face of burning shame. Stefania came over and touched my head. ‘Come on, my silly child, stop thinking about her. You do not know she is banging viz Michael. She left a message to say she is at running club tonight. She is running ze marathon in April.’ Of course she was running the marathon. Of course. Mona Carrington’s friend, the hot bloke, had turned up in a suit today. I wondered if the suit was part of an effort to show Nellie he was one of her number. As Stefania started the class he glanced disappointedly at the door, as did Dave. Frigging Nellie. Frigging men. At home I had a lonely gin and tonic with Duke Ellington, who abandoned me to go and kill birds. Desperate to get out of my own head, I scrolled back to a message Mum had sent a few hours ago while I was in Meditation. It yelled drunkenly, I have heard nothing from Nicholas in 48 hours. Mum. It broke my heart to think that she might be about to be dumped too. But how could Nick possibly continue the affair if he was about to become a big cheese in British politics? Mum seemed to be permanently drunk now, from what I could tell. And, I realized, if she was going to be dumped I would need to be prepared. I downed my G and T and – heart pounding a little faster – called Nick. ‘Er, Frances,’ he said hesitantly. It sounded like he was still at work. ‘How may I help you?’ I swallowed. ‘Hey, Nick. I, erm … well, I sort of wondered if we could talk about Mum.’ Nick said nothing but I heard the sound of his leather-soled shoes clicking out into an echoey corridor. ‘Frances, are you out of your mind? Why are you calling me about this? It is none of your business.’ He sounded quite terrified. I held my ground. ‘Nick, I’m not calling to make trouble. I’m asking because I’m worried about Mum. If you’re about to dump her so you can go off and be a big Tory star I need to know. I need to be prepared.’ I watched Duke Ellington emerge through the cat-flap and march over to my bed, where he took a spot right in the centre. ‘I don’t know, Fran,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t know what to do. I must keep my family and the Party safe but you know I care about your mother.’ ‘You promised you’d always look after her,’ I said dully, accepting the inevitability of what would happen next. ‘Things were different then. I need you to guarantee me your discretion,’ he said shortly. I nodded sadly. ‘Of that you can be very confident. The last thing Mum needs is some sort of press scandal. It would kill her, Nick.’ Someone called his name from further down the corridor. ‘Like I said, it’s difficult for me. But I have to go, Fran. Please don’t call me about this again. I’m doing the best I can.’ ‘Well, this is all just great!’ I said brightly, to an empty room. ‘Life is wonderful!’ I turned the TV on and made a cheese sandwich with some rock-hard yellow Cheddar. Dave texted: Just checking you’re not thinking of calling Michael. No I replied, truthfully for once. I was eating a mouldy sandwich. But thanks for your concern. Good girl. I couldn’t believe that Dave – of all people – was getting involved with this crazy Eight Date thing too. What the hell was going on? Chapter Twenty-one
Greatest Love Story of All Time Page 11
