‘Oh, I didn’t think that for a minute,’ said Jools as seductively as possible.
‘See, I was browsing online for women’s life preservers, looking for one for my mother who is coming out on my, ah, yacht for the weekend, and accidentally deleted the word ‘preserver’ and your profile was the only result that showed up. Naturally, I had to click and . . . Anyway, I’m so sorry to ramble on like this. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
So far so good, thought Jools. He sounded just as gorgeous as he looked. ‘Oh no, no. I was just, I was just getting some Hob . . . er, fish. For dinner.’
‘Oh, well, be careful you don’t overcook it! There’s nothing like a perfectly moist trout fillet with a touch of lemon and dill. But I suppose you folks prefer the battered and fried variety?’
‘Right, that’s what you all think of us over there, isn’t it . . . ’ Jools laughed awkwardly. Was dill food? ‘No, I’m actually just going to broil a nice fresh Scottish salmon with butter, pepper, and you said it, lemon.’
‘Ah, my second favourite fish!’
Jools was charmed by his ability to take anything she said and make it sound like the most interesting thing he’d ever heard, particularly as Mel once said she could bore for Britain when she was nervous.
Blushing deeply, even though they were thousands of miles apart, they chatted for another twenty minutes – about what, she had no idea – she just loved listening to his accent.
‘Well, the way your price keeps going up, I’d better not spend all my cash on international phone calls.’
Because it was going so well, and Jools didn’t fancy any grim incidents involving cardiac arrests and ambulances at Heathrow should Brad eventually make it to the UK, she decided to come clean about the rather out-of-date photo.
‘One last thing, Brad. Would you like me to send a photo of myself, besides the one that’s on miSell? I have, um, changed a little.’
‘Don’t be silly! I’m not a superficial guy. A bit of weight, a darker hair colour, who cares? You’re still you; the same person.’
Busy thinking what an outstanding chap he was to appreciate a girl’s inner beauty, Jools failed to note how he somehow knew she was darker and heavier.
Hanging up, she forgot all about her HobNobs and longed to call Mel but she suspected her friend was camped out in Boujis at South Kensington with Michel, who in turn was no doubt ogling women old enough to be his great-grandmother the minute Mel turned to take a sip of champers.
If Mel was busy ruining her life, who was Jools to interrupt her, even if she had the best news ever!
*
Rodney Wetherspone was greatly relieved the miSell girl wasn’t the old slapper he’d imagined – just a normal, if slightly overweight, woman. Smart but not too smart, pretty but not memorable and generally a forgettable wife – the ideal consort for a gay politician trying to look straight.
What he wasn’t happy about was the price. His yearly ‘Fun and Entertainment’ allowance didn’t include a wife – and besides, he had been saving for a brand new Aston Martin.
What other desperate fool had racked the price up to £5000, with days still remaining in the auction? Surely not his arch-enemy and other candidate for preselection, Roland Harris? What were the odds of both of them being gay? Okay, quite high, given who graced the bars and clubs of London’s homosexual community, but still.
Maybe he should just give up on the whole thing. He asked himself just how badly he wanted that preselection, and the answer, as always, was more than anything. He needed to show his unsympathetic and slightly bonkers parents he could do something worthwhile with his life.
The phone rang and he answered without enthusiasm. After hanging up, he felt even worse. His hands were shaking and a headache was building at the back of his skull. Some woman from the Party had requested the presence of himself and his fiancée at a boring Family Values symposium to promote his view that stronger families equal stronger countries. If he won the preselection in Kensington and Chelsea.
Bleeding hell. He needed a wife – fast. Logging back onto miSell, he upped the bid to the amount equalling the down-payment on his coveted Aston Martin: £20,000.
The car was preferred, of course, but the wife was much more of a necessity.
*
Jools headed to a nearby soup kitchen for breakfast, mouth watering at the thought of a scrumptious full English dripping in grease. But when she turned up at 10 am, the grumpy volunteers were just cleaning up and wouldn’t even give her the last charred bits of bacon she could see still clinging to the grill. Worse, they told her they had other jobs to go to and if she wanted charity, she needed to get off her lazy backside and turn up before nine.
Shamed, Jools trudged home, looking forward to taking a hot shower and climbing into bed to watch TV. Nearing her block, she saw a mountain of dingy, wet junk on the pavement at the bottom of the stairs leading up to her building. God, people were pigs. London was really going to the dogs.
Then she saw a note, wet and barely legible, pinned to some familiar white trousers stained with wine.
You was warned, Jools. Now you know I men busness. I took laptop and telli as payment for the rent. And here is the bill for the money it cost to cleeen your shithole flat.
Rocco! The bastard.
Chapter 7
Dear Julia Grand,
On the 31 March you made the following purchases in our store: two bottles of Pretende Beaujolais, five half-pint bottles of cider, one case of Heineken and 48 packets of crisps (mixed flavours). We agreed to let you pay by cheque because you are a long-standing customer and you told us your wallet had been stolen, along with your cheque guarantee card. We now find that your bank refuses to authorise the £59.20 you spent, and we ask that you make restitution immediately, to avoid further action.
Yours sincerely,
John Haines
Johns Liquor Limited
Willesden Green
JOOLS SAT ON her sofa. Somehow Rocco had managed to shove it through the flat’s narrow bathroom window. It had landed upright in a hedge, and was serving as a very effective sponge for the rain. Already wet from head to toe and not knowing what else to do, she’d climbed up onto it to wait for a brilliant idea to eventuate. A few people passed by and politely looked away. Jools didn’t blame them. She must be a sorry sight on her grubby, soaking throne, and her predicament must be fairly obvious to the general public – especially after last night’s news broadcast about homelessness being on the rise.
The rain had now subsided to a light mist, and Jools tried to remain optimistic. Life was a wild and crazy adventure! Who needed material goods? But she couldn’t deny her longing for a warm shower, cosy bed and a sofa that didn’t double as an absorbent. Earlier that morning, Jools couldn’t imagine pining for her nasty little flat. But now it seemed like the Promised Land. She even missed the farting bus drivers.
She plastered a big fake smile on her face – hadn’t someone said smiling made you feel better? – and lifted her head only to find Hunk of No Fixed Abode staring at her from across the street.
Great, thought Jools. What’s he going to think of her now? Sure, he was homeless too, but if you evened the playing field and she was minus a roof over her head, she wasn’t exactly a hobo’s young dream. There must be loads of hot, newly homeless girls with bendy bodies and eager lips who were looking for a clean, handsome vagrant like him.
‘Hey, they get you, too?’
Jools wasn’t sure how to respond. He was right! They got her. Rocco. That cow from social services. The bank. Mrs Pho. Michel Matthews. Yeah, they’d definitely got her, and got her good.
‘Look, you can‘t live in a hedge, not in this weather. Come to my place. It isn’t much, but I’m happy to share.’
Jools’ heart jumped. Living with the Hunk of No Fixed Abode? Now that would be a treat. Maybe it would be just like in her dreams – the Chelsea terrace, the white Vespa. Then she reminded herself that his accommodation cou
ldn’t be much better than the hedge. And she really didn’t know anything about him. He could be a complete psycho, like that Niles Crisp. ‘I don’t know. I need some time to think.’
He picked up a handful of her stuff and started walking away. ‘What’s to think about? I offer you a rent-free home and you have to think about it? I’ll tell you something – if you stay out here all night you’ll freeze, be murdered or worse. Come on. I promise, I’m harmless.’
Yeah, that’s just what Niles Crisp said, Jools thought. ‘There’s something worse than being murdered?’ she asked to buy some time.
He grinned. Perfect white teeth. So the hobo flossed. Interesting.
‘Believe me, there are lots of things worse than being dead. Now are you coming or not?’
What choice did she have? It was past noon and the wet sofa was freezing. It was either go with the hobo, or get on a bus to Mel’s where she’d have to live in the same space as the cretinous Michel. Jools knew who was dirtier, and it wasn’t the man who probably hadn’t bathed in two years.
Jools jumped down off the sofa. ‘Alright. Let’s go. Are you going to help me with this or not? It’s half yours now, anyway.’
He held out his hand. ‘Skuttle. Pleased to officially meet you.’
‘Oh, uh, Jools.’ She took his hand and he pumped it up and down. His grip was strong but his hand was soft.
Skuttle lifted the sofa up onto his right shoulder and told her to load the rest of the stuff onto it. When all but some rubbish she didn’t want (like letters from debt collectors) was on board, they carried the little sofa towards the back of the bus garage. Jools admired his biceps. For a hobo who probably didn’t eat much, he was certainly strong.
They squeezed through a small alley – barely wide enough to accommodate Jools. With one hand Skuttle pushed away a flattened refrigerator box, revealing a small door that looked like the entrance to a black hole.
‘Is this it?’ Jools was worried all over again. Living in a dark hole was about as low as you could go. Well, unless you were begging for kitty litter in front of a Tesco.
Skuttle smiled. ‘No, this is the way into it. Let’s push the sofa down in front of us.’
They manoeuvred the soggy rectangle into the square hole and with a slow tilt downward it disappeared into blackness.
Skuttle stood aside. ‘Okay, now you go.’
‘Me?’
‘No, not you. I was talking to Harvey.’
‘Harvey? Who’s Harvey?’
‘My mate, Harvey. He‘s standing right beside you.’
Jools looked around but there was no one there. Christ, the Hunk of No Fixed Abode was a nutter. She was ready to politely excuse herself and find her own doorway to sleep in when she saw the cheeky grin forming on Skuttle’s face.
‘Brilliant! Gotcha!’
Jools punched him on the arm. ‘Nice one. Real funny. You know, you don’t have to pretend to be crazy to be homeless.’
‘I agree. Being drunk, poor and smelling like rotten potatoes does the trick perfectly well.’ Skuttle looked up. ‘Get in the hole, it’s starting to sleet.’
‘Right.’ Jools entered head first.
‘Other way round!’ Skuttle called, just as she started to free-fall into the humid, dirt-smelling space.
*
Niles Crisp was more than a little annoyed with the bidder who kept raising him by thousands of pounds. The bloke must be loaded – or really desperate. Problem was, Niles was running out of savings. If the bidding war continued he might have to take out a second mortgage on his dumpy semi-detached in Slough. He didn’t mind doing that, as long as he got his wife. He told himself that if the amount went to £22,000, he’d pay a visit to the bank.
There were other details to worry about too, like how to keep Jools in his possession after winning her. It was one thing to convince her online that he was Brad Brown, but it was another to trick her in person. No way could Niles pull off a transformation of that magnitude. This would have to be an unconventional relationship – that’s for sure. Maintaining this marriage might have to involve force.
And given that Niles had a penchant for force, he didn’t mind that aspect of this little game. Not at all.
*
The next night, Mel searched online for Jools’ auction. She hadn’t heard from her friend in awhile and she was worried an Internet psycho had got to her. As the only item in her category, Jools certainly wasn’t hard to find.
‘Bloody hell!’ £22,000 and four days left? That was more than Mel earned in a year! What kind of person bids that high? From what Mel had seen at the café last week, only insane lunatics and perverts.
Picking up the phone she dialled Jools.
‘I’m sorry, the number you are calling has been disconnected,’ was the only response she could get.
‘Oh Jools,’ Mel whispered to herself. ‘I hope you’re okay.’ She’d go over to Jools’ flat later to check on her. Right now, she and Michel had an anniversary dinner to commemorate the old days, before their love had run amok – or to be accurate, before he’d run amok with an old bag and his todger.
The dinner had been Michel’s idea, and Mel was touched. Jools couldn’t believe that Michel had changed, but their renewed relationship was living proof – he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since they’d rekindled their love.
Mel put on the old but still elegant red dress she’d worn on their first date, and the strapless gold heels she’d bought in Harvey Nicks a few years ago but had never had the chance to wear. It was getting dark out, but she decided to walk to the restaurant. It wasn’t far, and besides, the rain had finally stopped. She and Michel had planned to meet at the restaurant, as if they were just meeting for the first time all over again. God, he was so romantic, she thought.
By the time she got to the west corner of Kensington Gardens, there were blisters down the sides of both toes. Stopping at a bus shelter, she sat and rubbed her feet. Dim street lighting cast narrow pools of yellow on the pavement, but the enclosed space in which she sat was shrouded in black.
Just as Mel decided she better get moving, two figures moved towards her.
She slipped her shoes back on, stood and turned towards the street with the intention of hailing a cab for the rest of the journey. But before she could, footsteps came up behind her and a female voice whispered: ‘Not a woman, leave her alone.’
Mel turned, her heart racing and face hot with fear. A heavyset woman in an oversized coat and a misshapen figure with a beard were standing right behind her.
‘I can’t do this. It’s wrong. We can’t take people’s money!’
Mel should have sprinted away but she was transfixed by something familiar about the woman. Mel stared hard at her until the woman turned her face up and the light from the streetlamp illuminated it.
‘Jools?’ Mel shrieked. The woman’s mouth dropped open and she sunk to the ground The man jumped the fence and ran off into the park.
Mel pulled her up and onto the bench. ‘Good God! What are you doing out here in the dark, and why are you wearing that hideous mac?’
‘I, I, I’m . . .’ Jools trailed off and looked at the ground.
‘No! Don’t tell me . . . don’t tell me you were about to mug me?’
‘Of course not.’ Jools was indignant. ‘I was just going to ask for money. I’m homeless.’ Mel rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what homeless people do.’
‘You’re not bloody homeless, you fool.’ Mel pulled her off the bench. ’You live with me now. You’re coming home with me, and you’re going to live in my flat until you get back on your feet. Listen, I’m on my way to dinner with Michel. I’ll just go explain things to him. Then we’ll get a cab home. Tomorrow, we can go get your things, wherever the hell you put them.’
Jools didn’t say a word as Mel flagged a cab. She never should have agreed to wander in the park at night with Skuttle. He’d insisted there was lots of good food – and other expensive stuff – just lying around. When
they’d seen Mel, he’d suggested Jools ask for some booze money. Initially refusing, the thought of a nice Cab Sav to go with their rubbish-bin dinner was so alluring she’d finally agreed.
Where the hell had Skuttle run off to? Some friend he’d turned out to be. It really was dog eat squirrel on the street, wasn’t it?
The thought of eating made her stomach rumble.
*
Night-time for future MP Rodney Wetherspone meant one thing: clubbing. He loved to dance and he loved the anonymity of club-land. Either people who followed politics didn’t go to clubs, or people just left that all behind when they were out. Or maybe he just looked so different in his tight, silver-spandex leggings and snakeskin boots that no one recognised him as Rodney Wetherspone. In any case, he could slough off his professional image and just be himself. He had to be careful, though, because he was liable to forget all about politics and do things that would not impress the party or his parents – especially if they read about it in the morning papers.
For instance, tonight, over by the water fountain in the shape of a huge penis, was his ideal man. Even more tempting, the guy was staring him down like a piece of meat. But should he risk it? An isolated flirtation was one thing, but he’d hooked up with this guy – Mike, he’d said his name was – a few times over the past few weeks, and his internal alarm was sounding. Rodney longed to go the distance with a male friend, but the risks were too great. Maybe once he had a wife, the press wouldn’t be so interested in him. Eligible single men from aristocratic families over a certain age attracted rather too much attention.
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 6
