Naked in Knightsbridge

by Schmidt, Nicky

  Jools heard a noise coming from the bedroom. She couldn’t place it at first. There was something animalistic about it but at the same time mechanical. A grunt and a clank, a buzz and then someone screaming – Christ, was that a man or a woman? She walked hesitantly towards the noise, wondering if Mel had been stricken by some horrible stomach flu.

  ‘Mel? It’s Jools. Are you all right?’ Jools was about three feet from the bedroom when the door swung open. Michel appeared, red-faced and wearing only a giant smile and nothing else.

  ‘Gross.’ Jools slapped a hand over her eyes.

  ‘Jools! How’d you get in here?’ he asked, jockeying to block her view of the bedroom. Unfortunately all that jiggling attracted her eyes to his nether-regions.

  ‘The door was unlocked. Is Mel here?’ she asked, quickly moving her eyes to his face again — not that it was much better. She tried to look behind him into the bedroom.

  Michel shook his head. ‘Nope. Just me. Just me here in the apartment all by my lonesome.’ He stretched to block her view again. ‘I’ll tell her you stopped by.’

  Right then, Mel’s voice called out from the foyer.

  ‘Babe?’

  Mel came down the hallway towards them. Her mouth dropped open as she took in the sight before her. Why was Jools there – wearing Chanel and Prada, to boot? And why was Michel naked and panting?

  ‘Um, hello,’ Mel started, her eyes moving from Michel to Jools and back to Michel.

  ‘Hiya, darling. Jools popped by for a chat – I was just doing some, er, push-ups. Why don’t you two go out for a late feed, on me?’

  Jools glared at him. She was sure there was someone in that bedroom, but the last thing she wanted was to upset Mel all over again.

  ‘Sounds great.’ Jools linked her arm with Mel’s. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you.’

  Not sure what else to say, Mel allowed herself to be led away.

  Soon after, Jools and Mel were seated at their favourite cosy booth in a fabulous but cramped Polish eatery in a tiny Kensington backstreet.

  ‘So, given that I have no choice but to forgive you for saying those unforgivable things about mummy, will you explain how you came to look like this?’ Mel popped half a cheese and spinach pierogi into her mouth.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jools responded. There was a bowl of thick hot borscht in front of her but she wasn’t interested in eating. Not after the meal she’d had to endure with Rodney’s parents. ‘Don’t I always look like this?’ She thought it better not to mention Michel again – ever, if she could manage it.

  ‘Yeah, right. So let’s have it. Who did you mug?’

  ‘No one,’ Jools said, trying to hold back a smile. ‘And don’t worry about dinner. This time it’s on me. Well, maybe not this time, but after tomorrow, definitely.’

  ‘What have you done?’ Mel was almost afraid to hear the answer.

  Jools explained everything. She told Mel how Rodney had appeared at her squat and taken her to Percys; about the Wetherspone house and Rodney’s parents; and lastly, that all of her financial worries were over. Finally finished, she waited for Mel’s response.

  Mel ate another pierogi, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. ‘I suppose it’s better than dumpster diving and living with a hobo. But I still can’t condone you selling yourself like a geisha.’

  ‘Geishas are very well taken care of, Mel. Besides, the joy of this arrangement is that Rodney is totally and utterly into men. I’m completely safe from any unwanted advances.’

  Mel’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not attracted to him, are you? First a hobo, now a homosexual. You really have great taste, my friend.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Jools asked.

  ‘What? That your taste sucks?’

  ‘That I’m your friend?’

  Mel shrugged. ‘You’re on probation.’

  Jools grinned. ’That will do.’

  *

  While Jools enjoyed dinner with Mel, Niles was staring at his computer screen, anger growing with each passing second. Why hadn’t that little bitch responded to any of his emails? It was a monstrous affront to his dignity and there was no way that she was going slip through his fingers without a fight.

  Niles had an idea. He dressed in black and scurried out of his flat. He knew where Jools lived, or at least he knew where she’d been living when they’d first met. If he could find her, he’d just need to gag and smuggle her back to Slough. All his careful planning need not go to waste.

  After an hour on the M4 he arrived at her flat and buzzed. No answer. He walked around to the other side of the building, found what looked to be her kitchen window – in fact, the only window – and heaved a large chunk of concrete towards it. But his aim was poor and he missed. The concrete chunk ricocheted off the brick façade and came crashing back down towards the pavement, narrowly missing Niles and landing, instead, on the head of a tatty hobo who was making his way down the street.

  ‘Ah!’ Skuttle cried out when the concrete chunk hit him. ‘The sky’s falling!’ He fell to his knees and covered his head with his hands.

  ‘The sky isn’t falling, you idiot wino!’ Niles barked. ‘Get up.’ Skuttle carefully removed his hands from his head and, sensing no immediate threat, stood up and dusted himself off.

  ‘You look like a regular on these streets,’ Niles said.

  Skuttle eyed him suspiciously. ‘Maybe I is and maybe I ain’t.’

  ‘I’m looking for a girl. She lives here. Jools. Plump. Blonde. Pretty. Do you know her?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Cut the crap!’ Niles shouted, offended that a wino dared to question him. ‘You tell me where she is and you tell me now.’

  ‘I don’t know nothin’ about no Jools,’ Skuttle said, sneering at Niles as he moved towards his chute.

  Alright, then. Niles thought. If Jools wanted to play hard to get, that was fine. But he would get her eventually. And when he did, he won’t ever let her go again.

  Which reminded him, he needed to get to Homebase for some rope and masking tape.

  Chapter 12

  Dear Miss Julia M. Grand,

  We refer to your application for Jobseeker’s Allowance. Unfortunately, as was made clear to you during legal proceedings three years ago, committing benefit fraud renders you unsuitable as a candidate for government assistance. However, we have attached a list of shelters and groups that provide free meals in various locations throughout London, should you require them.

  Shakeriana Pemena

  Ombudsman for Social Services

  STUPID, SANDAL-WEARING dole people. Jools tossed the letter aside. Never mind. It wasn’t as if she needed them anymore. Serves her right for giving Skuttle her new address.

  ‘Are you listening, Jools? You’ll come?’

  Rodney and Jools were sitting down to breakfast and he was rabbiting on about some neighbourhood meet-and-greets he had to do. She took a giant bite of her toast, spread thickly with juicy strawberry jam, and considered his request.

  ‘It’s my duty now, I guess.’ She tried not to speak with her mouth full but failed miserably. Bits of gooey toast fell onto the glass table.

  ‘You have free will, Jools. I certainly can’t force you to come.’ He sipped his tea and flipped through the pages of The Times.

  But after everything he’d done for her, she really couldn’t say no. He’d paid her all the money as promised, and when she’d returned to Knightsbridge after dinner with Mel, a stunningly furnished bedroom, in various tones of white, was waiting. The balcony overlooking the small garden made her feel like Juliet. Unfortunately, given Rodney’s sexual orientation, that’s as far as that analogy went.

  She couldn’t believe how lucky she’d been to find Rodney – or rather, how lucky she’d been that Rodney had found her grazing by the bins that day. Not only did she have someone to take care of her now, but she didn’t have to share a bathroom with him, fend off his unwanted sexual advances, or deal with his loud snoring and cold feet at
night. Rodney was the best boyfriend she had ever had. Well, apart from a brief fling with a fast-food manager from Birmingham, it was the only relationship she’d ever had.

  Occasionally she let herself fantasize about Brad and possibly enticing him to London for a little fun and games – a man to satisfy her physical needs without losing the man who was taking care of her material ones. Then life really would be ideal.

  She had no idea what Rodney did to satisfy his own physical needs. Some nights he would disappear around ten and she wouldn’t see or hear from him until the following afternoon when he called from the office to check up on her.

  That morning, though, they were enjoying a small domestic moment, dining on tea and toast, the newspaper spread out on the table before them, engaging in the kind of customary conversation that one would expect from a couple in their situation. Would she accompany him on a campaign meet-and-greet around Knightsbridge this week? Would she play the happy, supportive political partner? Would she smile and shake hands and tell his constituents what a wonderful man he was?

  ‘Sure, I’ll do it,’ Jools said. ‘I suppose that means I’ll have to wear that awful suit again, though.’

  ‘That awful suit,’ Rodney snapped, ‘is classic couture.’

  Jools had to remind herself she was living with a man who actually knew the names of top designers. To Rodney, Chanel meant a history of couture. To her it was a perfume you sprayed under your arms for free at Boots.

  Jools emerged from the shower the next day to find a large white gift box, wrapped with a bright red bow, on her bed. A grin lifted her lips – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a present (well, one that was new, anyway). Skuttle had been generous but his presents looked like they’d fallen off the back of a lorry, which they probably had.

  Pushing Skuttle and the memory of his sad face to the back of her mind, she tore at the silky bow and lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in delicate gold tissue, was a stunning new suit – Armani, this time. She gasped as she stroked the rich fabric. It was gorgeous. Pulling it on, she was chuffed to see that it fit her perfectly. It was a bit annoying, though, that Rodney had correctly managed to estimate her size.

  Size 14 was hardly a compliment.

  Gliding down the stairs in her sleek suit, she found Rodney was waiting at the bottom, dressed to the nines in his own impeccable steel-grey Hugo Boss ensemble. He held a pair of perfect black Jimmy Choo stilettos in his well-manicured hands.

  ‘I figured you should have at least two pairs of heels in your collection,’ he said. Anyway, he hadn’t been able to resist buying them. He eyed them covetously as he handed them over.

  Jools squeaked and clapped her hands together, then chided herself for becoming so materialistic so quickly. Come on, who was she kidding. She’d always been materialistic, she’d just never possessed the financial means to satisfy her clothes cravings sufficiently. Now, she had a man who was not only keen to buy her all the things she wanted, but was also fully capable of selecting them himself. Having a gay husband was definitely the way to go, Jools mused as she climbed into the Benz. This time the driver Louis was present, and Jools waved to him happily as she launched herself into the backseat.

  Louis winked and Jools blushed. She was certainly enjoying the attention the makeover was causing.

  ‘You might want to pull your skirt down,’ said her fiancé dryly.

  En route to their first destination, Rodney briefed Jools on what he expected. ‘You are there to support me; to make me look good. You must make it obvious that you adore me, but don’t fawn. Hold my hand and gaze at me as though I am your one true love. But do not, by any means, speak on my behalf.’ Jools nodded as she admired a manicured toe through the peep-toe of the Jimmy Choos.

  ‘If anyone asks how we met, tell them that I caught your eye in a café, and had an espresso and chocolate biscotti sent to your table. You were intrigued by me but not immediately smitten. It wasn’t until I came over and we started discussing our favourite book that you realised I was the man you would someday marry.’

  Rodney was speaking at lightening speed and Jools almost wanted to take notes so she would be certain to get everything right if anyone asked.

  ‘So what’s our favourite book?’ she asked.

  ‘We both adore Tolstoy.’

  ‘Don’t know that one.’ Sounded boring, though. Give her Heat or OK! any day.

  Sighing, Rodney replied: ‘He’s an author. You know, Anna Karenina?’

  It still wasn’t ringing any bells.

  ‘No one’s going to ask you for a book report, Jools!’ There was more than a hint of annoyance in his voice.

  Jools wasn’t stupid – she’d gone to uni, after all, but she was by no means an intellectual. Did she mind that Rodney might look down on her? No. What did it matter, really? This was a business deal. All she had to do was act like a loving wife. And for all that money, she could surely do that.

  *

  The car dropped them off at the end of a long street and together, arm in arm, Rodney and Jools started to knock on doors, shake hands, allay fears and fill the hearts of the good people of Knightsbridge with hope for a brighter future. Or at least more tax breaks.

  All was going very well. Jools was a natural actress and therefore, she decided, the perfect candidate for a politician’s wife. She even managed to remember the entire story of their first meeting and so delighted an elderly woman with her dramatic retelling of the event that Rodney thought for a moment she might actually believe it had really happened.

  When asked if Rodney was a good man, she answered sincerely without gushing. When asked if her political views were similar to Rodney’s, she was self-deprecating enough to yield the spotlight, but smart enough to seem involved. It finally dawned on Rodney that Jools was so good with the hoi polloi because she was one of them. She had all the characteristics that Rodney was lacking – an earthy, simple spirit – and without even trying, she was winning over his constituents-to-be.

  Then they got to a small house in Petersham Place.

  Rodney rang the buzzer and the front door swung open to reveal Mrs Pho – like a scene from one of those American horror flicks. And keeping with the theme, she took one look at Jools, did a double take and started to scream.

  ‘Not you! How dare you touch my doorstep after what you do? You have no shame?’

  ‘Let’s go, let’s go now, please!’ Jools begged Rodney, yanking on his jacket sleeve and tugging him away.

  He held his hand out. ‘Wait a second, Jools. What’s going on?’

  ‘I tell you what going on,’ Mrs Pho shouted. ‘I living here, in this dirty, rented little craphole because this girl she burn down my beautiful house.’

  Oh shit. Jools edged backwards, trying to drag Rodney along with her.

  ‘Is that true, Jools?’ Rodney shrugged her off.

  ‘Sort of.’ Jools gnawed her fingernails. A hunk of sour-tasting polish slid off into her mouth and she tried to spit it out. ‘I’ll explain everything back in the car.’

  But heading to the car was not on Rodney’s agenda. He made a beeline for Mrs Pho and extended his hand. ‘My dear woman, let me introduce myself.’

  Jools had never seen him smile so brightly. Someone had done a good job on those teeth.

  Mrs Pho, blinded by his charm and good looks, held out her hand, whilst her beady eyes darted between him and Jools.

  ‘My name is Rodney Wetherspone and I want to be your MP.’

  ‘I am Clare Pho,’ she told him, ‘and if you with that evil woman I never vote for you. Ever! Your career – your reputation – be ruined. Just like my beautiful house.’ She added a small wail for effect.

  Rodney thought for a moment.

  ‘Mrs Pho, it sounds like you might be having some problems with your builders?’

  Mrs Pho nodded vigorously. ‘Problems, yes but not with builders. The council. They won’t let me rebuild to five storeys. They say my top floor illegal. How can that be? Mother
-in-law live there for ten years. Are they saying she illegal too?’

  ‘Is she?’ asked Jools innocently.

  Mrs Pho and Rodney stared at her as if she had a bomb strapped to her waist.

  ‘Why don’t you wait for me in the car, Julia?’

  Shit. He had never called her that. He must be pissed. Jools trudged off and leaned on the car, only a few feet away.

  ‘Mrs Pho, can I call you Clare? What if I said I can help get your five storeys back?’

  Her round Botoxed features relaxed as much as they could. ‘You call me Mrs Pho. If you get me back into my house like it was, I not pass word around you are with that nasty witchy girl.’

  Uncalled for, thought Jools.

  ‘I think I can help, Clare,’ Rodney said, flashing the smile again. ‘But you need to promise not to cause any problems for my fiancée.’ He nodded towards Jools.

  ‘You joking! You marry that? Since when?’

  ‘Since we both recognised our shared affection for the great novels of Harry Tolstoy!’ Jools shouted from the hood of the car. She strode back over and took Rodney’s arm with a bit more force than she intended.

  Mrs Pho sneered at Jools and sucked her teeth. ‘I sure.’ She turned to Rodney. ‘Tell you what, Wetherspone. You get me out this rat trap quick and I no tell press you engaged to known arsonist. You decide.’

  Chapter 13

  Dear Julia Grand, Arsonist,

  We no friend, I despise you, but I please to accept invitation to your wedding, got today. But as you burn down my house no wedding gift for you!