So he dragged himself away from the club – and Mike’s overly suggestive eyes – and went home to engage in the increasingly important sideline of upping the bid on his prospective new wife.
*
When Jools and Mel reached the restaurant, Michel was already inside swigging wine from an expensive bottle of something rare on the table.
‘Look, Jools. Do you mind waiting outside for a bit? This is kind of an important night and I should just go inside for one little drink.’
Jools shrugged, which Mel interpreted as ‘no problem, go and live it up drinking your fine Merlot while I wait out here in the cold,’ and she disappeared into the warmth of Chez Françoise.
Jools turned on her heel and walked north towards the bus station. It was the height of rudeness to expect her to sit and wait for them to finish their fancy dinner. Besides, seeing Michel’s smug mug reminded her there was no way she could live with that useless idiot. Someday Mel would have to be told exactly why Michel was such a tosser, but even in her current state of annoyance, Jools knew that it would kill her friend to discover the truth. Right now, it was easier to stay away and say nothing.
Besides, Jools was surprised that the thought of spending another night with Skuttle in his basement hole wasn’t exactly awful. After almost drying out her sofa with a nearly new hairdryer he’d apparently found in rubbish behind ‘Hairs That’, he’d provided some sheets and a pillow (which also seemed brand new – another miraculous find!). She’d slept comfortably in the main living area, and even though it was damp and chilly despite the small heater Skuttle had hooked up, and rats could be heard skittering around inside the walls all night, she was so happy to be rid of Rocco (not to mention the money-grubbing bank) that she’d slept solidly for ten hours.
When she slid back down the chute to the basement squat, all was quiet. There was no sign of Skuttle. Not that surprising, considering the desertion at the park. She’d lie low too if she were him.
But he’d obviously come and gone, for on top of the pile of scrappy items that had once hung in her wardrobe was another laptop. Like the first, it was dirty but remarkably modern. It even had a sticker on it saying ‘Wi-Fi’.
Jools tapped the keyboard, and the screen came to life with the message: TO JEWELS FRUM SKUTAL.
She logged on and the MSN home page appeared instantly. The power and speed of the wireless connection amazed Jools, even – especially – since she was living deep in a basement. Quickly logging on to miSell, she was delighted to discover the bids were all the way up to £30,000.
Absolutely bloody brilliant! What a great couple of days. Her new home was dry and safe-ish, plus thanks to the auction’s success, a decent home was on the horizon. And there would be enough so that Skuttle could move too.
I knew things would work out, Jools thought as her eyelids dropped. Falling into a deep sleep at the small kitchen table Skuttle had rescued from the tip (she could have sworn she had seen it in Harrods; her hobo friend certainly had a good eye), Jools only woke when she heard someone coming down the chute.
She opened one eye to find Skuttle looking at the screen of the laptop intently.
Shit. She’d forgotten to log off.
Chapter 8
To whom it may concern at the Willesden Green Post Office,
I am writing to complain about my mail delivery service. Despite my best endeavours to stop you (please tell the postman I apologise for threatening him with a day-old baguette), you continue to redirect my mail to the basement of the bus garage. Whilst it is true that I am currently living at the garage, I have never instructed, for my mail to be redirected here. I am quite happy for my mail to continue to be sent to my previous address, and hope I will receive no further unauthorised redirects.
Yours,
Julia M. Grand
RODNEY BLAMED HIS parents for the conflict between his political career and his true desires. Everyone outshone him, no matter how hard he tried. He’d graduated with a first from Cambridge, but that particular feat was about as exciting as an M25 traffic jam to a family like his. His father was a retired High Court Judge, his mother a former model and muse of Yves Saint Laurent. His cousin Harry finished Cambridge, then built the UK’s biggest Internet provider, marrying a bright but mouthy girl from a horrendous soap opera. His nephew Ronald managed to win a coveted scholarship to Oxford, despite his dyspraxia and Ecstasy addiction, while his aunt wrote a book that fascinated half the world’s population, including a fair few Booker Prize judges. And what had Rodney done? Nothing, he thought glumly. At least nothing that would impress his family.
He was branded the family underachiever. His mother loved to tell the story of how the doctor had left him in a drawer an hour after birth and mistakenly set a heavy, jumbo-sized box of wooden tongue depressors on top of him – certain proof that poor Rodney’s brain wasn’t all it should be. It didn’t matter that Rodney’s ideal image of his future involved dancing on tables in seedy little Soho clubs, dressed in stilettos, black fishnets and a red patent leather halter dress. He had to achieve something that would make his family sit up and take notice – something that didn’t involve stilettos. Becoming prime minister might just do it.
Of course, for that he needed to be a minister – and for that, he needed a wife. Now, thanks to Jools and miSell, he might be finally moving closer to his dream. Not only that, the marriage would also appease his parents. They’d been on at him for years, saying how embarrassing it was that their 38-year-old son was still a bachelor; that it was a sure sign of loose morals and a lack of substance.
God, loose morals was an understatement. Imagine if they knew the truth! Unlikely, now, as Rodney calculated that if he won the auction on Friday, Jools would be sitting in his parents’ overly-opulent Eaton Square living room by Saturday evening, celebrating their engagement. He had even hinted as much in that morning’s weekly interrogatory phone call with his mother.
Moving to his state-of-the-art, home-office ensemble, Rodney voice-activated his computer and checked the progress of the auction.
*
‘That’s an extremely simplistic view of the complex man I love!’
Jools felt ill. She hated when Mel used her lawyer voice to defend stupid Michel, he wasn’t worth an ounce of her intelligence. How could Mel be so blind? ‘Mel, I can honestly say that I’m better off homeless and selling my soul on miSell than you are sticking with that loser.’
‘You’re selling more than your soul, Jools. And how you can compare the mess you’ve made of your life with my relationship with Michel is beyond me.’
They were standing outside the bus garage, screaming at each other. When Mel had tracked Jools’ down in the middle of the night, calling pitifully outside the garage until Skuttle told Jools to go and chase away the waiting cats, she’d assumed it was to apologise for abandoning her for her twat of a boyfriend.
But Mel had other things on her mind. She’d been near hysterical with anxiety because Michel had disappeared. She’d woken up and he was gone. So she’d started driving around, fearing the worst, and ended up near the bus garage. Even though Jools was trying to comfort her, secretly she was glad the pinhead had finally made a wrong move.
But a few minutes later, Michel had rung Mel’s mobile, wondering where the hell she was. He’d just returned from a ‘drive’ and was craving a good bacon butty. He needed her to make him one.
Jools told Mel that ‘I just felt like driving around’ was no excuse – particularly as Michel didn’t even have a car. Jools couldn’t fathom tolerating a man so pathetic he couldn’t even be bothered thinking of a valid excuse after pissing off to traipse around with strippers. But when it came to Michel, Mel had her blinkers securely fastened.
Maybe she should finally spill the truth about Michel, Jools thought. But looking into her friend’s eyes, Jools saw the relief in her eyes. God, Mel really did love him. How could she break her heart?
Instead, she hit her up for a tenner (well, she was a hobo now) and told he
r it was time they got some sleep.
*
Niles had finally formulated a plausible plan for his future wife. As soon as he won the auction, he (as Brad) would tell her to meet him at Heathrow, just outside whichever terminal housed flights from Wisconsin (where the hell was that, anyway?). Once he got her to his hire car (a van with blackened windows would do the trick nicely), he’d tell her they were going to a romantic location for a meal. Then he’d smuggle her to his house in Slough and lock her in the basement until she agreed to be his wife – forever.
The plan meant he had to get busy enhancing the windowless room under his kitchen so that she would be cooperative and eventually warm to her circumstances. Then she could live upstairs, cook his meals, clean his mess, and behave just like a real wife.
Going downstairs he investigated what needed to be done to make the cellar a pleasant home. The scratching claws of rats scurrying into the walls greeted his ears. The floor had a large puddle in the middle, surrounding the drain. He walked through the thick sludge water and kicked at the pile in the middle. A spray of pellets the size of raisins skidded to the opposite wall.
‘Rat shit,’ Niles muttered. He was going to have to give this place a good scrubbing. He’d need to unclog the drain, replace the broken window, paint the cement and get some furniture. A bed and a chair, at least – and maybe a TV, if she was a good girl. His lips lifted in a smirk. He’d have to hook up some plumbing for a bathroom too, since she wasn’t going to be leaving the room much. He’d better get working right away. There wasn’t much time until the auction ended.
Niles went back upstairs to gather supplies. He stopped by the breakfast nook, where he’d stuffed his computer, and checked the auction. To his dismay, the bid had been bumped way beyond his means!
£75,000?
Who had £75,000 to throw around?
Niles wished he could find out who HotRod38 was. He would pay him a visit with a truncheon and force him to retreat. However, that wasn’t an option. He had tried to get miSell to release personal details before and was given short shift.
£75,000. That was over twice as much as his last bid. Even with his re-mortgage he couldn’t afford to better that. Or could he?
Niles gathered his credit cards. He had four, with varying limits. He tallied the remaining balances and discovered he had just enough to make one final bid and buy the supplies he needed. There would be a small amount left after that to stock the pantry with food to prepare for Jools’ arrival, although losing a few pounds wouldn’t do her any harm.
He placed a bid of £76,000. If the other arsehole outbid him again, the quest for a wife would be over for Niles and the wholesome American Brad.
Maybe he could convince Jools to drop the other bidder? Maybe win her heart with a phone call? If Brad turned on the charm, she might be willing to go outside of miSell and pull the bid. He could offer her a small tempter – say £20,000 – and then carry out his original plan.
Finding the old email with her phone number, Niles made the call, but a robotic voice said that the number had been disconnected. Niles broke into a cold sweat. Where was she? Had HotRod38 lured her away? He called once more, only to get the same message. Finally, he sent her an email as Brad, trying to sound cool and asking where she’d gone off to, and was she alright?
Now the ball was in her court, and Niles didn’t like it. But he’d be the one in control soon enough.
*
Rodney now regretted mentioning the ‘special someone’ to his mother.
She’d been calling him twice a day, changing the dates they were available for dinner. If he didn’t give her final confirmation soon, she would start thinking it was all a lie to impress her (which, to be fair, it was). If he didn’t win this auction . . . God, it didn‘t bear thinking about. To shut his mother up, he told her that he and his new fiancée would come to dinner as agreed Saturday evening. That was a day and a half after the auction ended; hopefully plenty of time to makeover Jools and present her as eligible marriage material, with a little help from an old flame.
Once the auction was over with, he could work out how to combine married life with his newest attachment – Mike from the club.
Rodney had raised his bid to heights that would surely drown the competition: £75,000. All hope for the Aston was gone, but who was he kidding – his career rode on the auction, and considering the very tasty lump sum he would inherit from his parents (if they continued to think he was mentally stable and heterosexual, that was), money wasn’t an issue.
*
A day before the auction ended, Mel found Jools near the bus stop around the back of the high street, rooting through the skip behind Bounty Bakery. Skuttle had taught her well – you could find entire loaves of bread early morning when the bakery replaced the old loaves with fresh ones.
‘Jools! Jesus! Are you insane? You’d rather eat out of skips than live with Michel?’
Well, frankly, yes. Jools was surprised her new life was not totally horrible. She was beginning to function almost normally, short of having to forfeit a daily hot shower. It was possible to keep fairly clean by bathing under the powerful hose used to wash the buses, which did the job but was far from relaxing.
She felt like an elephant being hosed down before the circus. She imagined she looked a lot like one too.
When she wasn’t looking for food, Jools was window shopping, in preparation for when she actually had money. With the bids way up past the £75,000 mark, it wouldn’t be long before her life changed dramatically.
Until then, Jools felt life wasn’t half bad. She was a little lonely during the day, given Skuttle’s mysterious daytime life. Always up early in the morning, despite having stayed up late with her, laughing and talking and occasionally going upstairs to spook the nightshift. She was certain there was more to him than he let on, but he seemed to respect her privacy and so she respected his, too.
He’d obviously seen her auction, but he never once mentioned it to her. She still found him very attractive but as the days wore on and he made no move in the ‘more-than-friends’ direction, Jools had to concede he clearly didn’t feel ‘that way’ about her.
‘Look, I’ve got to go, but will you at least come for dinner and a shower?’ Jools looked up. She had forgotten Mel was there.
‘Okay, maybe tomorrow.’ Jools blew Mel a kiss.
‘Try to stay out of jail unti then,’ quipped her friend.
Hilarious. Bread for the day secured, Jools returned to her squat and her makeshift desk, an old refrigerator box with one side cut off for her legs to rest under the tabletop.
She logged onto miSell to see what numbers the bidding war had reached.
£76,000!
There were still only two bidders (Rodney and Brad) battling each other, up-bidding back and forth. Go boys, she thought gleefully.
Then she noticed a message in her inbox – Brad, wondering why he couldn’t reach her by telephone. He said he missed the sound of her lovely voice, and the charming lilt of her English vowels. Jools giggled, and looked around, embarrassed, hoping Skuttle hadn’t returned to find her laughing to herself.
Writing to Brad, she thanked him for the kind words, and told him not to worry, she had recently moved and would call him as soon as the phone was hooked up (but that it would be a couple of days due to an unexpected and violent storm that had destroyed all of the telephone lines in her neighbourhood).
She couldn’t very well tell him she’d been evicted and was living with a homeless bloke in a basement squat, could she?
Jools still couldn’t believe her good luck. She was definitely going to share her money with Skuttle; he’d been so kind and generous to her.
Turning to back the computer she saw there was a new message. Perhaps Brad again?
Her heart beat faster, but when she clicked on the message the subject line almost put her into cardiac arrest.
Administrative Message: Auction Terminated.
With shaking hands,
Jools opened the message.
Important message to Jools700
We regret to inform you that due to a conflict with miSell’s legal policy, your auction has been terminated. miSell does not support the sale of human life. miSell hopes that you will continue to use its services only for the sale of items such as inanimate objects and plants. You will not be charged for your listing. Thank you for your understanding.
Jools sat, frozen into place. All she could do was stare at the screen. She didn’t even hear Skuttle slide down the chute and walk into the room behind her until he started singing Girls on Film. She turned and as soon as he saw the expression on her face, he stopped.
‘What happened?’
Jools motioned towards the computer screen and burst into tears. ‘What am I going to do now?’
Skuttle quickly read the message. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get on fine, you and I.’
Jools stared at him. Christ, he looked good – her very own hobo in grubby, third-hand, business suit. She took the back of his head (how did he get his hair so soft without proper conditioner and hot water?) and clamped her mouth on his.
But Skuttle’s lips stayed deathly still under her frantic ones. Slowly, he pushed her away. ‘Jools, I don’t think you’re thinking straight.’
Shit. Double shit. Jools’ chest heaved and sobs escaped like snorts – she’d never been a lady-like crier; just one more thing to add to her loser list. ‘I know you know what I’ve been doing. You must think I’m such a freak. You’ve been so nice to me. I’m sorry I was keeping a secret from you but I was going to share the money with you, honest.’
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 7
