With a brain that pounded with the bass of a malfunctioning speaker, she shakily picked up the phone. Maybe Mel could help, suggest something to get wine out of white trousers without washing them. Maybe – oh God, Jools was going to be sick.
After emptying her stomach of Latvian wine and HobNobs, she dialled Mel. Perhaps it was okay to let the auction ride, then blame the Royal Mail when the trousers ‘mysteriously’ never arrived? No, that wouldn’t work. miSell, the online auction store, said you had to get proof of postage or you were liable. Shit. Shit. Shit. Mel would know what to do. And if not, at least Jools could stay with her when Rocco broke both legs and threw her carcass out onto the grubby Willesden Green pavement.
A male voice answered the phone, groggy.
Jools recognised that voice. None other than that pretentious twat Michel Matthews.
‘You!’ she spat. What else could you say to the deviant who had crushed her bestfriend’s heart by running off with a rusty whore from Bada Bing. And not just any rusty whore. Jools couldn’t tell Mel the truth about that, could she? It would kill her.
‘It’s been too long, Joolsy! You should come over for dinner tonight, to celebrate!’ He tried to give the word ‘celebrate’ a French twist but it sounded Indian, which made him an insult to Indians as well as the French. Tosser.
‘Celebrate what?’ Jools felt her stomach twist again in revulsion at the thought of seeing him again.
She had already seen far too much of him.
‘Mel did not tell you? I’m moving back in! We are tres, tres excited!’
Feeling tres, tres sick (again), Jools hung up without replying. So much for the option of crashing with Mel. There was no way. Not if that bastard was there too, especially after – yuck, it didn’t bear thinking about.
She logged back onto the auction. The Prada trousers were now at £500.
Why was life so insanely unfair? Idly, she clicked about the site. Exercise bike for 10 quid. Rip-off! Antique Hush Puppies without a heel about to go for 4 quid. Honestly. The trash people sell. Then it struck her. If people were willing to pay that much for last season’s Prada, how much would they cough up for a whole person?
What if she sold herself?
Not in the prostitute sense, of course, but weren’t there thousands of illegal immigrants running around London looking for a way to stay? Surely one of them would be willing to part with some cash to marry a fully-fledged English girl like herself? What was it called, a marriage of convenience? There might be enough to pay off Horace Fortescue and the very insistent Commercial Bank.
At least she should be able to give Rocco enough to ward off eviction through the rest of winter and some of spring.
However, hand poised over the ‘Start Selling’ key, Jools came to her senses. What if some nutter decided to bid? There were plenty of weirdos out there; the papers were full of them. She didn’t fancy finding herself bound and gagged in the dungeon of some rancid place in New Cross, or even worse, Slough.
Seeking solace in her HobNobs, Jools went back to the telly and tried to forget about her money woes for a few hours.
Or at least until the HobNobs ran out.
Chapter 5
Dear Miss Grand,
Following our letter of 14 days ago, we write to remind you of your obligations pursuant to the contract you signed with our bank last year. As you know, we have been extremely lenient with regards to the extra expenditure on your account, but as you are now £5872.11 over your agreed overdraft we ask you to contact our offices with a plan for payment as soon as possible. In the meantime, you will have noticed your account and credit cards have been frozen and no further withdrawals will be possible.
Yours sincerely,
Horace Fortescue
Commercial Bank London
JOOLS WAS DREAMING of the Hunk of No Fixed Abode. In her dream, he had a fixed abode – several, actually – and he rode to her door on a white Vespa, offering unlimited accommodation in a white Georgian terrace in Chelsea. Even better (well, almost), she fit perfectly into the pristine white Prada trousers, which bore no signs of stain.
Ring, ring, went Hunk of Many Fixed Abodes on her doorbell. Ring, ring.
RING RING.
She sat up. Shit, that wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t her doorbell. It was the telephone. The answering machine clicked on, and a voice like gravel rapped her ears with unintelligible syllables. All she heard was ‘RENT! RENT! RENT!’ Even in a partial state of unconsciousness it didn’t take much to realise who it was. Rocco. The creep. What did he want now? Hadn’t they decided it was due on Monday? Today was only . . . Monday. Shit. Tucking her head safely under the pillow, she decided to stay in bed until a brilliant idea came to mind.
Another hangover, the second in a row, wasn’t helpful in trying to formulate plans to prevent her eviction. Well, it was punishment for agreeing to go to Mel and Michel’s last night. That particular episode was excruciating on so many levels, not the least because of Jools’ massive, national-deficit-sized resentment towards fake-Frenchie for scuppering Plan B to keep her from the ranks of the street scourge. If not for that manipulative arsehole, she’d happily be packing her humble possessions right now, telling Rocco he could stuff his vermin-infested hole.
But whenever Jools looked at Michel’s face, all she could picture was the rather saggy backside of an all-too-familiar woman. What had he been thinking? As for the woman – it was disgusting in the extreme!
Mel was a successful lawyer, and exactly twenty-two years younger to boot. The greater injustice, though, was on Mel’s part, for forgiving him. Again.
Jools’ reflections were cut short by the second phone call of the morning. Popular girl, Jools thought, expecting Rocco’s threats to resume momentarily. The machine picked up again, which was good because it’d offer a friendlier greeting than she could muster.
‘Jools here. Tell me your troubles and I’ll call you once I fix mine! Cheers!’
‘Horace Fortescue, from Commercial Bank London Limited. Calling for a Miss Julia Grand. We need to speak to you regarding your loan and overdraft repayments. Please call me back on the following number as a matter of great urgency.’
Jools deleted the message before the machine saved it. Like that was going to happen! When she finally got her moment in the sun at the dole office – in approximately two hours – all her newfound money would be going on rent and food. That bank would have to wait until she was employed again. Banks had plenty of money anyway, didn’t they? Why hassle temporarily insolvent but entirely innocent people?
The nearest social security office was conveniently located just a few doors from the bus station. Jools pulled on her tracksuit bottoms, added what seemed to have become her ‘going out top’ – the furry green jumper – and set off for a date with destiny (or at least a meeting that ended with the presentation of a cheque large enough to appease Rocco).
The waiting room was like a leper colony – what was that weird weeping sore disease the old guy by the loos was sporting? Hopefully abject poverty wasn’t catching. She didn’t plan to be on the dole for long, so just enough money to survive a month or two would be perfect. After all, she wasn’t greedy.
Taking a number from the slick, automated machine, she found herself sitting next to a mentally-deranged woman who said she liked Jools’ jumper. ‘I have one just like it,’ crooned the hag, smiling through a set of teeth with more gaps than Jools’ CV.
‘Julia Grand.’ A prim woman with hair in a bun (a bun!), wearing a tight fawn cardigan with matching acid-wash skirt (like that was ever in fashion outside Texas), led her into a tiny grey cubicle. ‘Miss Grand, we won’t keep you long.’
Excellent. Hopefully they had the cash in an envelope, ready to go. In two hours, she’d be living it up in Sainsbury’s, buying proper food. And more HobNobs.
Jools sat down on an itchy grey chair and smiled.
The woman plopped down opposite and fumbled with some papers.
Looking
for that envelope, I expect, thought Jools.
‘As you know, this department sued you for fraud a few years ago.’
Oh-oh. Not exactly a promising start. Jools squirmed and the chair edge bit into her soft thighs.
‘And at that time, you were informed that the prosecution would stop at the plea stage, on the condition that you would repay all the sums defrauded.’
‘But I did. Every penny.’
‘Yes, but you also agreed to have no further recourse to public funding for twenty years.’
Jools stared at her in horror. It was just as Mel had said. ‘But how will I survive? I’m going to be homeless if I don’t pay my rent. Can I at least get a council flat?’
‘I’m afraid that comes under the umbrella of obtaining public funding.’
What the hell did that mean? ‘Is that a no?’
‘Yes, Miss Grand. That’s a no.’
‘But what am I going to do? Live on the street?’
‘There are charitable organisations that can help you. I’ve made a list for you to take away.’
And with that, Jools was bundled out of the grey cubicle and back out into the waiting room, a single sheet of useless paper in hand.
‘I think I’ve got those trackies too,’ squawked the deranged woman as Jools lurched to the door.
‘Terrific,’ Jools snarled. ‘I’m so glad for you.’
And the old bag would probably get financial aid, no problem. Probably offer her a Porsche instead of a bus pass. Life was so unfair.
Back home, Jools consumed the last remaining packets of HobNobs and washed them down with past-sell-by beer in an effort to try to cheer up. But nothing could mask the fact that all options for survival had been neutered. No Mel – and no dole. What the hell could she do now?
Logging on to miSell, the bittersweet results of the Prada auction taunted her: they had sold for £600. That would have been enough to shut Rocco up for ages, had she not been such a clumsy lush. Looking at the now-familiar website, the idea of a few days ago resurfaced. Maybe she should try to sell herself – in the nicest possible way. An auction for a quickie marriage to some poor sod who had his own, entirely above-the-navel reasons for wanting a wife – fast.
This could be a golden opportunity for both her and the highest bidder too – she was almost a catch, right? Previously unmarried. Young-ish. Sure, desperation wasn’t necessarily attractive, but they said men liked damsels in distress, didn’t they?
Down to practicalities. Going down the asylum-seeking route probably wasn’t advisable – offering marriage for money and residency in a public forum might bring Immigration to her door faster than she could say ‘highest bidder.’
Pretending her motives were purely for love rather than money might attract nutjobs with dungeons.
Maybe taking a fun angle would do the trick – call it an ‘experiment with fate’. Yes, that seemed the best option. Make out she was sick of dating the wrong men, so was playing with fate to find a perfect match.
Obviously, there would be no sex involved. She would make that very clear. Okay, maybe she would make it clear that the choice would be hers. Once the money was in bank, the deal would be a marriage for at least three months. If someone wanted more, they’d need to get approval before bidding. And they’d need to provide a photo.
What about a photo of Jools? She might be a slight disappointment to the buyer in her current state, but without it, she might be breaching some sort of trade misdescriptions’ Act for failing to give an accurate rundown of ‘the goods’. The auction Ts&Cs could say ‘no refunds available’ – but if the bids rocketed (one could dream!), emotions and expectations would be running high and the winner might complain.
Jools told herself she could handle it. It was better than being homeless. Taking a deep breath, she considered the ‘Listing Your Item’ section of the handbook.
Right, which category to list in. ‘Dolls & Bears’? ‘Other Real Estate’? No. The only category that seemed appropriate was ‘Everything Else’, which wasn’t exactly complimentary but as least it was generic. Why restrict the clientele? She clicked and a secondary list appeared with ‘Adult Only’ at the top.
How depressing. I’ve sunk so low, Jools sighed, I’ll probably get bought by Charlie Grand. She shuddered at the thought.
In the end, Jools settled on ‘Other’ in the ‘Everything Else’ category. Even if no one found her there, at least she could hold her head high in the knowledge that the ‘Adults Only’ label did not apply.
Right. Now to fill in the form. Descriptive title: Girl to Marry. Excellent Condition. Jools relaxed a little, encouraged by how straightforward the whole thing seemed to be.
Next. Insert photograph. Hmm. No so easy. Perhaps Mel could take a photo with her fancy phone and Bluetooth it to Jools’ laptop? But looking down at her hips – difficult to miss with all that HobNob padding – it might not be a good thing to send prospective buyers running before they’d had time to fully contemplate the offer. What about posting a photo of beautiful, refined Mel? Her gorgeous mug would go for at least £20,000. But no; imagine the fallout once the buyer saw Jools’ lumpy bod after fantasizing about Mel. Anyway, her friend would throttle her for even thinking of it.
The best idea was to upload a photo from five years ago. It was her phone screensaver, the one from a boozy vacation to Spain. In it, a brown, fit and relatively slim blonde girl with a beer in each hand laughs nonchalantly at the camera. A far cry from who she was now – well, except for the beers.
Now, describe the item for sale. Hmm. Should she be vague, or extremely vague?
Girl. 28. Never married.
Or maybe just leave it open?
Ask any and all questions before bidding. No refunds.
The first option could limit the number of bidders and keep the price low. The second might attract an unholy number of creeps and psychos. But the less specific she was, the more buyers might fantasize – and the higher the bids would go. It was a huge risk not to agree on stipulations beforehand, but so was becoming homeless and completely devoid of HobNobs.
At the last minute – thoughts of mad men with whips and chains running through her head – she added:
Young woman till death do us part, or at least a season, to the highest bidder. No sex. Perverts need not bid.
Leaving the starting bid price and auction length at the default setting to stop any red-flags being raised, Jools had the uneasy feeling that maybe this sort of auction wasn’t exactly legal. Maybe she should ask Mel before embarking on the adventure — but Mel would only try to talk her out of it, and Jools didn’t want to listen to a lecture right now. Anyway, it could be argued, both to Mel and miSell, that the auction had a noble purpose.
Yeah, as a scientific experiment, to examine human nature or something.
Having convinced herself of the legitimacy of her actions, Jools moved on.
Form of payment: PayPal. Definitely PayPal. The faster I get the money, Jools thought, the better. Finally, the money-making masterpiece was reviewed. Rubbing her hands together, she clicked ‘List’.
For the next three days, Jools stayed close to her laptop, monitoring her auction. At first, very little happened. On the second day, there was a flood of emails, asking for details, informing of her status as a whore, a sinner, crazy, hot, courageous, desperate (all fair enough, Jools thought) – every manner of insult and compliment.
The good news was that the total was climbing. By the end of the third day, the bid was up to £1000. Even if it didn’t go any higher, she’d at least buy some time. And if she were lucky, she might even fall in love – or at least find a new, flush roommate. Scrolling through the inbox, there were a few sincere messages. Two bidders wanted to meet before they continued to take part.
Not a bad idea, actually. It would be nice to see who was bidding, but she didn’t want to put them off. After all, once the auction ended and the highest bidder paid up, whether they liked the merchandise or not wasn’t her
problem. But now that the auction was underway and there was a large amount of money involved, Jools was curious to see who these people were. It might be best to make sure they weren’t totally insane (although some allowance should be made for marginal insanity, given the situation). Maybe there would be a bit of free grub in it too? Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
She quickly emailed the two bidders and arranged back-to-back meetings at Mama Blue’s the next day.
‘On you!’ she added cheekily at the end of each email, just in case they were planning on leaving their wallets in their cars.
Not being completely barking, Jools thought an objective opinion on her prospective husbands might be in order. And who better to ask than her best friend? Sure, Mel had taken up (again) with the biggest loser ever, but Jools trusted her judgment on anything non-Michel related.
*
Her best friend’s reaction was not altogether unexpected. ‘Are you completely out of your mind? Do you realise what kind of psychos are running around out there, drooling onto their keyboards all night long, just waiting for some naïve idiot like you to step right into their trap? Jesus, Jools. Use your brain. People go to court to protect themselves from crazies, and here you are teasing them into your own flat. Christ!’
That did it. Jools couldn‘t sit by and be insulted when Mel was shacked up with the human form of excrement. ‘Like you’re any sort of example of purity and good decision-making! You and your so-called boyfriend – or should I say, boyfiend.’
They both sat and stared angrily at each other. Mel caved first. ‘I’m sorry, Jools, I just care about you, and this, well, venture of yours isn’t safe. You can still move in with me, you know.’
‘I can’t. Not while Michel is in residence. Anyway, I think my new online career is going to be a great source of income for me.’
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 4
