The plate was raised again. ‘Another?’
Jools shook her head. It wasn’t good to come across as greedy. As a distraction from the lure of the doughnuts, she jerked her head towards the canteen: ‘I don’t suppose they have a computer in there they aren’t using?’
Wide-eyes stared back, unblinking.
Shit. He thinks I want him to steal one. ‘No, I don’t mean nicking one,’ Jools spluttered. ‘It’s just, I need a computer to make money and if I could just pop in and use one… ’
Hunk of No Fixed Abode didn’t reply, just smiled and passed her the plate once more. ‘Have another.’
I’ll take that as a no. Unable to resist, she grabbed another high-in-every-kind-of-fat no-no and sank back onto her dirty little sofa to enjoy it – and to contemplate the hobo’s bum as he wandered back towards the canteen.
How did he manage to make those manky old combats look so bloody sexy?
Chapter 4
Dear Mr Fortescue,
I’m sure an intelligent man such as yourself appreciates that in order to make money, one must spend money. Therefore, I can assure you that should you allow the cheques I have written to a number of establishments during the last week to be added to my overdraft, you can expect a speedy and swift payment in the very near future.
Fondest regards,
Julia M. Grand
TWO DAYS LATER, as Jools was preparing a delicious supper of instant noodles and white chocolate mousse (virtually free from Handimart since they were well past their sell-by dates), she heard a soft thump outside, right by the front door.
Fearing Rocco, she held her breath and hid in the shower until receding footsteps could be heard, then opened the squeaky laminate door to investigate.
There, sitting neatly on the step, was a dirty old laptop with a power cord taped to the base. A scrappy note attached to the screen said:
fond in scip, al yours. Bus intnet works.
Hunk of No Fixed Abode had come through for her. Jools’ heart skipped a beat. He went skip hunting just for her. For her! There must be some feelings there.
Then reality set in. Feelings or not, any laptop found in the rubbish by a hobo ran the very real risk of not working. There was a reason such things were in skips in the first place. Jools grabbed the cord, plugged it in and turned it on. There was a whirring and a dainty ‘ping’ and the familiar PC logo sprang to life. Yes! It actually worked. Hunk of No Fixed Abode deserved a medal. Well, he probably deserved a good meal and a decent roof over his head but Jools was in no position to offer that, was she?
More miraculous still, upon clicking the Internet icon, the connection launched immediately. The bus garage must have unsecured access – not extremely wise. (Someone who lived within spitting distance of Mrs Pho’s had downloaded the entire Beatles back catalogue, courtesy of Julia Grand Cleaning, and BT had hit Jools with a huge bill which, as she recalled, she had yet to pay.)
Quickly putting aside thoughts of her ever-mounting debts, Jools thought about the hot hobo and wondered how to thank him. Maybe make him a meal? But what did she have to offer but close-to-the-sell-by-date beans? Still, he was a hobo, so maybe he wouldn’t mind risking salmonella for the chance to eat? Yes, when she saw him again she would ask him over for a spicy date of beans and cider. At least she didn’t have to be embarrassed about her paltry circumstances, did she?
Jools was longing to shift her online sales career into high gear, but she’d arranged to meet Mel in a nearby café to hear all about her trip. She reluctantly trundled down the stairs from her flat and out onto the damp pavement. Outside, buses coughed and mumbled exhaust that made the garage look like a grim nineteenth-century mining town. Through the haze, she narrowly avoided a newly deposited pile of vomit just outside her building. Flip-flops were a little too precarious for this neighbourhood.
After her latest job rejection – from Lucky Loo ‘We Want You’ Cleaners of Willesden Green (who told her ’we no want you type of clean’) – she’d grabbed the closest thing to hand and lobbed it out the open window into the street. Problem was, it was the left shoe of her only decent pair of flats. So now the choice was between too-small Adidas trainers (which she planned on selling anyway) or £1 Primark flip-flops.
She checked her watch. Shit, better get moving – Mel didn’t appreciate being left alone around here. She flipped and flopped with determination to Mama Blue’s Café, buoyed by her gift from the hunky hobo and the possibility of making enough of a living to avoid being unceremoniously evicted and/or bashed by the evil, kebab-hoarding Rocco.
Mel was already waiting inside, hands warming around a steaming double-shot café latte, feet cosily encased in expensive Uggs that were kicked up on a chair. Jools waved and headed to the counter – no such thing as table service at Mama Blue’s.
She was starving, as usual. She checked the menu for the cheapest item: a coffee and plain-toast combo for a quid.
‘That‘s supposed to be for retirees,’ scowled the barista as she took Jools’ money.
‘Well, as it happens I’m currently retired.’ Jools held her head high. ‘And put some whipped cream on it.’
‘The toast or the coffee?’ the barista snorted.
Jools shrugged. ‘Both.’
She lifted Mel’s feet off the chair and squeezed herself into it.
God, she was only 28 but she felt about a hundred. She deserved that retiree deal.
‘Alright?’ asked Mel, looking pointedly at her feet. ‘Bit cold for flip-flops, isn’t it?’
‘Doing great, thanks. And I can‘t afford new clothes, or shoes, so don’t start.’ replied Jools more snappishly than intended. Hunger did that to her.
‘How’s the job hunt going?’
‘Still looking, but, you know, I have a few ideas.’
‘Your ideas are what got you into this mess. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from social services yet?’
‘Still waiting for my appointment, but I’m sure it’ll go well. They say they’ll back-date the payments.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Mel bit into her pricey-looking almond croissant. Jools couldn’t take her eyes off the flaky goodness.
‘Thanks. You’re very supportive.’
Somehow, Mel missed the sarcasm. ‘That’s what I’m here for, Jools, to cheer you up.’
‘I think you must be mistaking these convulsions for laughter. I’m actually suppressing the biggest anxiety attack you’ve ever seen.’
‘You can always crash with me if things don’t pick up. There are people who love you, you know.’
‘Well, one person. You.’ Jools took a big slurp of cream to make her life seem less pathetic.
‘What about your dad? I know you hate talking about him, but if things got bad I’m sure you could stay with him couldn’t you?’
Jools bit into her slice of burnt toast. It was so black that its origins as bread were hard to discern. At least the cream tasted good. ‘Last resort, Mel. That hovel in Tooting is definitely the last resort.’
‘Well, like I said, you’re more than welcome to move in with me. Ever since Michel left . . .’
Jools interrupted the start of her routine lament with a wracking cough barely masking an underlying ‘Arsehole!’
Mel frowned. ‘I know you think he’s no good and I agree, he was then. But not anymore.’
Jools dropped her charcoal toast. ‘What? Anymore? Don’t tell me . . . Have you talked to him?’
‘Just once. He called, I answered, he apologised and… ’
This wasn‘t looking good. ‘You slept with him, didn’t you?’
Mel was affronted. ‘No! Are you insane? After he left me for a fifty-year-old stripper? What kind of sucker do you think I am?’
Quite a large one – literally and figuratively, if you could believe Mel’s boasts. ‘You’ve taken him back twice before.’
Standing up, Mel grabbed her stuff. ‘Look at the time. I’ve got a meeting to defend some misguided youths. Poor things, they�
�ve been accused of a laptop scam or something. I’d better get going.’
Jools was immediately reminded of Hunk of No Fixed Abode and his computer. She was definitely not telling Mel about his gift now. She’d only force her to report it to the police, and Jools needed that particular piece of equipment to survive, at least until the dole kicked in.
Mel gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, alright? Hang in there.’
‘Have fun at your important job. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the walk back to my rat-infested flat whilst my kneecaps are still intact.’
But Mel just smiled and raced off.
Jools watched her tiny frame walking briskly towards her car. Was Mel hiding something from her? Whatever it was, it better not involve that cretin Michel Matthews. Jools clenched her jaw thinking about what a true arsehole he was – the kind who changed names from Michael to Michel and put on a fake (and frankly, terrible) French accent to seem more exotic. The guy was about as exotic as her burnt toast.
Mel, being Mel, had fallen for his bullshit. But there were things Jools knew about him that made her blood boil. If Mel decided to take him back yet again, Jools wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold her tongue – or stop herself from attempting to suffocate him with one of her rapidly disintegrating flip-flops.
*
It was relatively easy to get started as a seller online. Seller! Much better job title than cleaner. Jools was surprised at how efficiently her rubbish-esque laptop managed all its functions – it was faster than her old business computer, and it seemed to have loads of memory. Funny that someone should throw out a gem like this.
There were no photos to upload, but as decided she could make do without – how hard could it be to write a few pithy enticements instead? Considering the state of the merchandise on offer, keeping the offers mysterious might entice more interest.
In a few moments she managed to list the items.
Near new Adidas trainers, size 4. Slight brown stain to canvas. Only adds to the trendy grunge effect.
Pristine iPod. Hot pink. All you need is the charger and battery and you’re ready to go!
Prada trousers. White. Size 10. Still with tags. Paid £800. Massive bargain. Don’t miss out.
Toaster. Slightly temperamental. Might work for patient handyman. All offers accepted.
Finally, she keyed in her credit card details to pay the fees, crossing her fingers the card would be accepted with the unrealistic hope of a two-headed cripple at Lourdes.
Buoyed by the possibility of a sales career that could be carried out in close proximity to the telly and HobNobs – and the fact that her card hadn’t been immediately rejected online – Jools set off for the supermarket in case the miracle of available funds could be repeated at Sainsbury’s.
When she returned to her flat an hour or so later, the little red light on her answering machine was flashing wildly. The phone bill was about five months overdue. It was a wonder they hadn’t cut her off yet.
‘Joolsy, baby! Alright? It’s your old dad! Listen, I need to talk to you. Somethin’ important.’
Jools rolled her eyes. In the background she could make out a woman’s shrill voice yelling: ‘Just ask her now! Ask her!’
‘Huh? Alright, uh, honey, listen. Suze and I – hey have you met Suze? Right little looker!’
‘Hieeee Charlie’s daughter!’
Christ, she sounded about 17.
Jools hoped she was at least 17.
‘Suze and I are going to Ibiza. Remember how I went there last year with, uh, thingy, the 26-year-old? Amazing pins.’
‘CHARLIE! I knew you still thought about her!’
Charlie Grand continued unabated: ‘Well, anyways, we had such a good time I want to show Suze how great it is. But the thing is, well, remember how I loaned you money for school all those years ago? Well, I know you paid it back but maybe I could get a loan from you this time around . . . You know, ‘cause I’m your dear old dad and you love me and . . .’
BEEP.
Thankfully, the answering machine had decided enough was enough.
Jools staggered to the window, wrestled it open and leaned out, taking deep breaths of stale, petrol-scented air. She’d thought maybe her dad had grown up a bit since the fiasco with the 26-year-old, but no. He was onto a new vacuous bimbo.
The thought of him dating anyone at his age was obscene. That he was dating women even younger than her was enough to put her off HobNobs.
Well, nearly enough.
When her mum died five years ago, Jools’ hopes of her parents ever getting back together were finally laid to rest. She’d assumed her father would follow the usual route of acceptance, sink into a fading armchair somewhere, and live out his life watching Countdown with the odd pint down the pub for fun.
But her dad had other ideas, the only path he had committed to was growing old as disgracefully as possible. Jools shook her head. He could at least find someone his own age. Or at least within twenty years of his age.
In an attempt to forget the message, she settled down to watch the A Place in the Sun marathon, but the lobster-red holidaymakers only reminded her of Charlie Grand. The nerve of the miserable bastard. To ask for money when he knows I’m dirt poor. If she continued to ponder the mysteries of her dad, her head might explode, so she decided to check her online shop. Maybe the sight of all that soon-to-be-available cash would perk up her afternoon?
A host of messages were waiting in the inbox. Brilliant. Her sales patter must be doing the trick. Eagerly, she clicked onto the first one.
Question from GinaBuys09: Used trainers? How do I know your feet aren’t covered in fungus?
Evil troll. If you don’t want them, just move on.
Question from NickySize36. Hi, I’m interested in your sweaters. I am a size 36 and I wonder if they might fit?
What was wrong with these people? She wasn’t a size 36. Well not yet, anyway.
Question from Techdude899: Hey lady. if u want to do a online scam try something less dum than selling a shitty old ipod without the cords. U must have nicked it. u can’t even buy that shit new anymore so whats n it fur us?
WERE R NOT IDIOTS.
Clearly. Jools didn‘t bother replying. What was the point? Christ. She scrolled down. The only item that anyone had bid on was the new Prada trousers. They were already up to £200! If the auction kept going at this rate, those trousers alone would cover her rent and maybe her telephone bill.
Jools went to the kitchen to find some alcohol to celebrate. Ah, Latvia’s finest. Opening the bottle of red wine and taking a large swig, it crossed her mind it might have been a good idea to sell the wine along with the trousers, but the cork was already pierced, so never mind. Grabbing a glass and the 10p custard tarts from the clearance section of the supermarket, she sat down to watch a group of feral foodies slag each other off in Come Dine with Me.
Two glasses later, Jools heard a knock on the door. Who the hell would visit at this hour? Maybe Hunk of No Fixed Abode looking for a bed for the night? I’ll give him more than a bed, Jools sniggered through her alcoholic haze.
She arranged her features into a sexy, come-hither gaze and swung open the door to find her worst nightmare. Rocco ‘Pay the Rent or Die’ Martucci was leaning against the chipped frame, eating a kebab.
‘Rent, Joolsy, rent. You only gave me two weeks. I need a month, in advance.’ Some red sauce dripped down onto his chin. Jools watched it trickle, repulsed. Even in her current pathetic state she wouldn’t go there. Well, not immediately. Maybe if he bought her dinner and . . . Stop! She told herself to pay attention, she was in mortal danger! There wasn’t any money to give Rocco until the auction ended on Thursday.
‘Really lovely to see you, Rocco. You look like you’ve been working out.’ In fact, he looked like something out of a mattress factory reject shop, but whatever.
‘Yeah? I never work out.’
Quelle surprise. ‘Hey, can I offer you a glass of wine?’
; ‘Got beer? Wine don’t go great with my kebab.’
‘Sorry, just wine. Come on, try some, it’s great. From Latvia.’ Jools went into the kitchen to get him a glass.
Rocco poured it down his throat and a second later said: ‘Where the fuck is the rent, innit?’
‘Oh, the, ah, the rent? Oh, uh. Yeah. I have it, just not in cash right now.’
Rocco cracked his knuckles, not an easy feat considering he was still holding half a kebab. ‘That’s bullshit, Jools. Then how do you have it?’
Jools shook her head. ‘It’s not bullshit. See those white trousers over there?’ She pointed at the Pradas thrown over a solitary dining chair. ‘Those are worth three weeks’ rent alone. Trust me. When my online auction ends tomorrow, it will provide plenty of cash by Monday at the latest. I guarantee it.’
Rocco grabbed her chin, kebab grease sliding down onto the only unstained top she had left. ‘You’d better, because if Monday comes and there’s no money, there will be trouble. I guarantee that.’
The next morning Jools woke with a splitting headache. She vaguely remembered drinking wine and distracting Rocco from violent acts by showing him the trousers. God, she felt rough. Promising never to drink again, she dragged herself out of bed to get some water. On the kitchen counter was a pile of white material, decorated with a large, surreal-looking red patch. What the – ? She squinted, making out the squat silhouette of the Latvian plonk lying right beside the white heap.
‘Shit!’ Jools snatched the white pile off the counter, catching sight of the telltale gold button fly. The Prada trousers! Her legs gave out and she sank to the grimy kitchen floor.
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 3
