Chapter 10
Dear Miss Julia M. Grand,
As representatives of Commercial Bank London Ltd, we have been asked to bring proceedings against you for the amount of £25,681, plus interest and costs. As you have not contacted the bank, despite numerous letters and phone calls from Mr Horace Fortescue at the Business Lending Division, it can only be assumed that you have no intention of paying this amount voluntarily. If you wish to formulate some sort of payment plan, however, please contact me as soon as possible to discuss this option. If we don’t hear from you within seven days, we will lodge a claim in court for recovery.
Sofia Andersson
Associate
Little, Barry and Morton Solicitors
ON THE WAY TO Percys, Jools couldn’t shake the image of Skuttle’s sad eyes from her mind. Rodney was rambling on about his job, the upcoming election and the expectations people would have of her now that she was to be his wife, but she was still in that basement squat, thinking about Skuttle and those blue-grey eyes. Rodney glanced over and realised she was a hundred miles away.
Jools,’ his voice bordering on sharp, ‘have you heard a single word I’ve said?’ Jools returned to the present, turned to her new fiancé and nodded.
‘Of course,’ she told him. ‘Dinner at eight and I get to meet your parents.’
Rodney rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. The caring man by the bread bin seemed to have vanished – along with that olive loaf, come to think of it. At the thought of food, Jools’ stomach began to rumble, but the look on Rodney’s face told her there would be no eating until she’d been transformed from lump to stick.
Or as close to stick as she could get, anyway.
‘That was the first part, but you missed the rest.’ His voice was calm, but when Jools looked his way she saw his teeth were clenched and a muscle was jumping in his jaw.
‘Listen, you’re going to have to shape up and get serious if this is to work. I’m not just handing over £76,000 so that you can ruin things for me. There is a lot of press interest in me and my family, so we have to watch out. You’re entering a whole new world now, Jools, and in this world there is a code of conduct. We’ll have to concoct some sort of love story and you’ll have to be able to retell it on demand to anyone who will listen, including the press.’
The press? Shit. Jools didn’t particularly like the idea of being in the public eye – at least, not without going on a major starvation detox. Her stomach rumbled again – this time with nerves. Surely it would be extremely difficult to sell any new life story to the people who had known her since she was young.
Like Mel.
What on earth would Mel say if the press questioned her? She was so angry at Jools she might tell the truth. Then Rodney would demand his money back, and she would be homeless once again. Only this time, Skuttle might not take her in. Why would he? She’d pretty much deserted him.
‘What if someone finds out about us?’
‘People will believe what you tell them to, Jools.’ Rodney was back-combing his hair with one hand, and trying to negotiate a corner with the other. ‘That’s the first rule of politics. And the second rule of politics is to pay off whoever refuses to believe you.’
Interesting. Jools had assumed the first rule of politics was to flip a non-existent second home. This bloke was even dodgier than her, and that was saying something. Then again, he didn’t know about the debts, the fire, or her letch of a father.
Maybe now was the best time to let Rodney in on her chequered past. Even though she was terrified it might be the end of their arrangement, she’d always (okay, sometimes) thought honesty was the best policy – not that it had served her well with Mel. But she didn’t want to be the centre of any potential scandals down the line – and judging by Rodney’s desperation to marry her, she sensed he didn’t want to be, either.
‘There are some things I should tell you about me,’ she said, trying not to look at him.
‘Let me guess, you‘ve got a few credit card debts?’
‘Well, more than a few but that’s not . . . ’
‘Look, as long as you’re not committing bigamy by marrying me, I don’t really care what you’ve done in the past. People forget.’
Mrs Pho was extremely unlikely to forget, thought Jools, and she tried again. ‘But you see, I had this business and . . . ’
‘You went broke. So what? That puts you in the same league as half the self-employed in this city. It’s just good tax practice to go bankrupt occasionally.’
‘Well, some people weren’t exactly happy with the way things turned out.’
‘Relax, will you. People are greedy and can be easily appeased. It’s simple: I need a wife, you fit the bill, so just don’t act up and we’ll be fine.’
As hungry as she was, Jools smiled. For the first time in a very long while, she felt things might be actually alright.
‘Now,’ Rodney said as they pulled up to Percys with a screech, ‘the only thing you need to concern yourself with is getting rid of that toxic body odour, and that moustache.’
Her hand sprang to her top lip. God, living with Skuttle she had forgotten all about the rudiments of feminine hygiene. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to kiss her. Who would? Upper lip bum fluff was hardly going to entice a man, even a homeless one.
Rodney reached over Jools and opened her door for her. ‘Go on, they’re waiting for you. I’ve got an account, so buy whatever the personal shopper tells you and toss what you’re wearing in the bin. Just give them my name and tell them you’re the woman I rang them about.’
Jools crept out of the car, clutching her bag of meagre belongings to her chest. Standing there on Oxford Street she felt like a garden gnome in a sea of Vogue models.
‘Jools!’ Rodney pointed to the bag in her hand. ‘You won’t need any of that. Tell them in there to burn the lot, will you. I can’t have a stinking pile of festering hobo clothing in my house.’ Obediently, Jools took her sad bag of dirty possessions and headed inside.
The beauty salon was on the fourth floor. It took Jools a while to find it – no one seemed to want to give her directions. Alright, so she was a bit smelly and her hair was tangled around her face like a bird’s nest – she certainly didn’t look the sort who’d frequent Percys – but you’d think people would at least point her in the right direction instead of sniffing rudely and asking each other where security was.
As Jools approached, the salon receptionist’s eyes bulged. She dropped the phone and her mouth sagged open, then twisted with disgust. When she could finally speak, she told Jools that if she took one step closer, she’d call security.
‘Rodney Wetherspone sent me. He said he’d called.’
Christ, she didn’t look that bad. Jools wanted to deck the prissy bitch but somehow managed to restrain herself. She was supposed to be a lady now, and for £76,000, she could definitely begin behaving like one.
‘Rodney Wetherspone sent you?’
‘Yes.’ Jools stared her down. Gleefully she noticed the receptionist’s left eye twitching.
‘You are Julia? His, his, fiancée?’
‘I believe that’s the term used when one is to marry, yes.’ God, this was exhausting. Strange how your body got used to hanging about doing nothing but eating. Which reminded her, she could do with a nice muffin or two and a latte. They should be complementary in a place like this.
But the snooty cow was still unconvinced.
‘Oh, well, then, you won’t mind me calling Mr Wetherspone to confirm that you are who you say you are?’
‘Go right ahead,’ Jools told her. ‘I don’t suppose I could get something to eat while I wait?’
Asking for food seemed to confirm the suspicions bouncing around the salon bimbo’s tiny mind.
‘Why don’t you spare yourself the humiliation of being revealed as nothing more than a derelict street person with absolutely no right setting foot in an establishment like Percys, hmm? If you walk away right now, no har
m will come to you. I might even give you a free sample or two for use in the bath — that is, if you can find a bath to use.’ She laughed at her pathetic joke.
Suddenly, a muscular bald black man with flawless skin and glowing white teeth appeared alongside them. His periwinkle blue muscle tee hugged his body and the fabric of his white linen pants strained over his legs. A belt around his narrow waist held all manner of beauty implements, which looked to Jools like a set of medieval torture devices.
Maybe she should run before they got near her with those things, she thought, eyeing a particularly evil-looking pair of pliers. But Rodney hadn’t given her his mobile number. She would have to hang about on the street and wait for him, and she guessed that seeing her loitering in front of Percys in the same state he’d left her wouldn’t exactly thrill him.
‘Ivory,’ he barked at the receptionist. She turned away from her nail file and, seeing him, shrunk to the size of a dried plum in her seat.
‘This woman is Mrs Rodney Wetherspone-to-be. How could you speak to her like a common hobo?’
‘How was I supposed to know?’ Ivory asked, on the verge of tears. ‘She looks like she just crawled out of a bog!’
‘Enough,’ he commanded. Ivory snapped her mouth closed and scurried away.
‘Julia, yes?’ the man asked, stepping forward.
‘Jools. Um, yes.’ Jools was tired of all this now and hungrier than ever. If they didn’t give her something to eat soon, she was going to start gnawing the bamboo sticks in the corner.
‘I’m Debonaire, head stylist and make-up artist to the stars. I am also a very good, er, friend of Mr Wetherspone.’
Debonaire extended a hand for Jools to shake.
She reached out but shrank back the minute she caught sight of her own gnarled fingernails, overgrown cuticles and dry, scaly skin. But Debonaire didn’t seem to mind. He grabbed her hand and kissed the top of it. Jools smiled. Finally, a little respect.
‘Rodney has spoken very highly of you,’ Debonaire said, ‘and since Rodney is one of our most valued clients, you are more than welcome here at Percys.’
Debonaire led Jools to a small changing room where she was given a soft, fluffy white bathrobe and a pair of black sandals with tiny massaging bubbles on the insoles — it was as though she was standing on a bed of marshmallows. Bliss.
In the limited days she’d been homeless, she’d almost forgotten this sort of thing was possible.
A small Asian woman appeared at the changing room door and made a disgusted face when Jools stepped out.
‘Stinky, stinky!’
She led Jools to a shower room and pushed her inside. Normally Jools would be offended, but right now she was so excited by the prospect of a real shower, with piping hot water, that she didn‘t give a second thought to being called stinky – frankly, it was the truth.
She turned on the water full force and let it run until she nearly burned herself. Her muscles loosened and she felt her whole body relax. An assortment of expensive lotions, shampoos and face washes were stationed on a small shelf in front of her. She tried every single one of them, particularly enjoying a jasmine-scented body scrub. It smelled great even if it did take off an extra layer of skin along with the dirt that had accumulated on her body over the last couple of weeks.
The Asian woman appeared again and handed Jools a giant bath towel. Jools didn’t have time to even dry off before the tiny lady was buffing, clipping and polishing the nails on every single toe and finger. Then she led Jools to a chair in a small room. Three other women entered, all staring at her like she was some kind of puzzle they needed to decode.
‘No idea what to do with those brows,’ one said.
‘Brows?’ another laughed. ‘What about the upper lip? You’re going to need a tanker of wax just to get started.’
‘The poor girl’s ends are more split than me and my ex-husband,’ the third woman cackled as she examined Jools’ hair.
Lucky they were beauticians not comedians, thought Jools, as she rolled her eyes.
‘Pretty eyes, though.’
‘Yes, very pretty, eyes.’
They all looked down.
‘Too bad about the feet.’
‘Ew, yes. Even with the pedicure. Maybe some more polish?’
‘Maybe some socks?’
‘And sandals? Seems like her style.’
They all laughed.
‘Hello!’ Jools waved a hand in front of them when she couldn’t listen any longer. ‘I’m right here!’
‘We know.’
‘We know.’
‘We’re not stupid.’
‘Or blind. We can see you there.’
‘Couldn’t really miss you, could we?’
They all sniggered.
The big one, the leader, Jools reckoned, leaned over and grabbed Jools’ face in her hands. ‘You have to understand, darling, we’re like doctors. But instead of making you feel better, we make you look better and in order to make you look better, we have to first diagnose what’s making you look bad, which, in your case, is everything. Don’t take it personally. We’re on your side, after all.’
Jools’ chair was whisked around suddenly so that she was facing the opposite direction. Then, before she knew it, the chair-back dropped and the seat pushed out so that she was flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Someone put a steaming towel on her face and pressed down. What was this? Were they trying to kill her? She opened her mouth to scream but the towel came off, and Jools found herself looking up through a round, lighted magnifying glass at the big woman’s huge, distorted face.
‘Dear Lord, look at the pores. Moon craters, they are.’
‘Let me see, Maude,’ the littlest one said, pushing her way over to the magnifier.
‘Oooh,’ she cooed, ‘I’ve never seen them like that. Cool.’
‘Lola, you’re a little sicko,’ Maude told her, backing away. Suddenly, and without warning, Lola was going at Jools’ face, squeezing and popping and smashing her pores. It was excruciating and Jools screamed.
‘Now, now,’ Lola said, ‘don’t be such a drama queen. It’ll only hurt for a minute and then we’ll get you some steam.’
Lola continued her torture until Jools could stand it no more and announced she might faint. The woman took mercy on her and brought over a small steamer. Then came a soothing cucumber and aloe rub, then a citrus peel followed by an apricot exfoliate. All that fruit reminded Jools she was starving.
‘I don’t suppose you have any food?’
They looked at each other in bemusement. ‘Food? In here? No one’s ever asked for food.’
‘We don’t have food here, do we?’ asked Lola.
‘Only in the foodhall,’ said Maude.
So no food then. Well, they must be nearly finished in any case, and then Jools could investigate that foodhall.
Before Jools’ stomach could even think to rumble, Maude returned with the hot wax and tweezers. Every single hair on Jools’ face was systematically ripped off or plucked out without one word – kind or otherwise — from Maude, who went about her business like an assembly line worker.
The third woman (called Tangerine, no doubt in honour of the colour of her fake tan) descended on Jools. She dragged her off to a sink to work on her hair and scalp: scratching, massaging, washing, conditioning and finally towelling dry. Then she pushed Jools towards a chair and mirror. She could barely make out the fast blur of Tangerine’s hands as the woman snipped and clipped.
The whole process took the better part of three hours and when Jools finally made her way back out to reception, she was completely spent. The Terrible Trio had kept her well away from the mirrors, and she was too exhausted to even care what she looked like now. All she wanted was food and sleep. She sank onto a plush sofa and closed her eyes.
‘No napping, darling,’ Debonaire told her as her eyes began to droop. ‘I need you awake and alert.’
‘No, please, what are you going to do to me now? Give me
a nose job?’ Jools asked.
‘You have a perfect nose, lovely. No, I’m going to do your makeup. I’m going to give you an overall look that you’ll be able to recreate. With a little practice, of course.’
‘But I’m terrible with makeup,’ she told him. Working as a cleaner hadn’t really called for Jools to excel at foundation and lipstick. She hadn’t even excelled at cleaning!
‘Well, you’re going to have to get good, baby, because Debonaire can’t be there for you every time some pap jumps out of the bushes and snaps a picture.’
Oh God, Jools thought. This is my life now. Paparazzi and TV appearances and photo ops. For a moment, she thought she’d made a terrible mistake. Maybe she should have stayed in the basement squat with Skuttle.
‘Don’t be scared,’ Debonaire told her. ‘We’ll find a way to make it all work.’ Jools smiled. She felt the same warm, safe sensation sitting in Debonaire’s chair that she had in Rodney’s Benz. And with Skuttle.
When Debonaire finished working on her face, Jools pleaded with him to let her have a look. But Debonaire told her there was one final thing she had to do before the grand reveal. He led her to the changing room, where she found a garment bag hanging from one of the wall hooks.
‘We took the liberty of choosing for you. Rodney told us the sort of thing you prefer.’
She unzipped the bag. Inside was a very classic – but very boring — Chanel suit and a string of pearls. She’d been hoping for more Posh Spice and less royal garden party. Never mind, maybe she could get the skirt taken up? Jools put on the suit and the pearls and exited the dressing room to where Debonaire was standing with the Terrible Trio. They all gasped when they saw her.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? I look like somebody’s grandmother.’
‘Tangy, give her your shoes,’ Debonair commanded.
‘But… what? Why?’
‘You’re about the same size. Come on, Tangy, you’ve only got fifty pairs exactly like those.’
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 9
