by Becci Fox
I was a bit scared he’d stick around after he’d bought all that booze, but he just went off back to his table. Everything seemed to right itself, so me and the girls turned to the dance floor to assess the talent. I’d seen better days. The floor is actually lit up, but it’s proper small and the bouncers have a go at you if you dance with a drink in your hand. You can’t even walk across it if you’re clutching a glass. Since I don’t like to leave my drink behind, there’d have to be a pretty amazing bloke to get me dancing out there. Fortunately there wasn’t, but that was fine because I was quite content sipping my Moscow Mule.
Just as I was applying more lip gloss and feeling pretty der-runk (lip gloss maintenance needs to be done every twenty minutes however wasted you are), my buzz was instantly killed by some staggering skank of a girl. If I was the suspicious type, I’d swear she done it on purpose. Tia Maria and orange all down my back. All I could think of spluttering was, ‘What the fuck?’
‘Don’t cry about it, darling,’ this bitch laughed back. The red mist descended and it was just instinct to chuck the dregs of my Mule in her face. What a waste, but worth it. She flipped and started going, ‘Don’t you know who I am? I’m Johnny Fawkes’s daughter.’
I have no idea who this is. When I do find out, no doubt it will be with Johnny Fawkes’s gun against my head.
Charlie turned to me and went, ‘Do you want her removed,’ so obviously I didn’t spare her. He dragged her off kicking and screaming as her tragic mates followed. Buh-bye, ladies. Hate to say it, but it is pretty satisfying to wield a smidgeon of power. I’ve worked hard to make my mark socially, and that is just one of the pay-offs.
After that, I tried to enjoy myself but I so wasn’t feeling it. We’d had a laugh, we’d drunk the drink, and my heels were giving me grief. I got talking to Jade Goody at Nu Bar once and she told me she’d soak her feet in vodka before going out so her feet never felt a thing. God rest her soul, but really?
Just as I was getting the girls to finish up their drinks, that Gino bloke comes back over.
‘My friend over there likes you,’ he said, pointing at the racing driver.
‘Good for him,’ I replied dismissively. I’d honestly had enough of this weirdo.
‘He asked me if I thought you like to have a good time, so I came over to check. And you do. So here’s the good news. He’s asked me to ask you to come back to ours for an after-party. What you say?’ asked Gino.
I was proper gobsmacked. What the hell was going on? Was it this Gino’s job to herd up girls for the Jenson Button of Essex? How insulting . . . how cheap . . . how exciting.
I’d heard of this happening before. Years back, Cleo went to see this Essex comedian who’s a fucking big deal now. She was sat in the front row, and during the interval a man came up to a few brunettes in the audience, including Cleo, and said the comedian had requested their company backstage afterwards. Mr Comedy was actually picking out girls during his act and giving his personal shopper the list as soon as he walked off stage. I thought it sounded humiliating at the time, but then it did make Cleo’s year. It was pretty grubby what those two got up to, and she was at his beck and call for months.
So the way I saw it, I could either go back home and carry on with life, or I could take a risk and see what hanging out with a racing driver was like. I’d never done one of them before. After my sister’s David Beckham non-incident, she did end up dating a guy who played for West Ham in the late Nineties. That’s actually not one of her tall stories cos I saw the romance unfold with my very own eyes. Back then, everyone called him Fatty, so he really wasn’t a catch. He used to go down the Horse &Well in Woodford with his West Ham mates and have legendary nights of debauchery. Fatty’s a big star now, but scandalous pictures used to get circulated when the old landlord got pissed.
It was while Fatty was standing on the pool table with his trousers round his ankles that he first laid eyes on my sister. It’s the stuff of true romance. He was loud and lairy, but he did treat my sister like a princess most of the time, and she still feeds off stories about where he took her and what he gave her. (Genital herpes.) (Not really, it was just cystitis, but I like winding her up.) I suppose when you’ve got a kid and you’re married to the irritant that is Tony Crook, you cling to the days when famous blokes were sniffing around.
I know I had made a vow to quit all that mucking around, but I’m full of it really. It’s not like I had any better offers. It might be the most epic error of judgement, but then again, every Essex girl loves a drama and I truly believe in following your urges.
Oh, and I didn’t follow all the other girls back to his, if that’s what you’re thinking. Bit classier than that, aren’t I? Brooke made a booty call to the fit bloke she’d met in Nu Bar that night, but that’s totally different. That had been her agenda that night. I’m sure the racing driver got his end away with a few of those girls, but I wanted to set myself apart.
Here’s the thing. You don’t go back to his if you want to see him again. As my nan says, ‘Nobody’s going to buy the cow if they can get the milk for free.’ She’s seen a few things, so she’s knows what she’s talking about. And let’s face it, men like the excitement of the chase. It’s how they were hardwired as cavemen, and there’s not been much progress since. So the rule is, have at least one date before you put out.
I thought about Gino’s proposition and I decided I needed to go over to the racing driver to let him know what he wouldn’t be getting that night. He was sat down with two girls either side of him who were laughing like maniacs. I hate girls who use fake laughter as their flirting weapon. So lame. He seemed to be enjoying himself, as any man would if his ego was being fanned, but as I got close he shot me a look and then didn’t take his eyes off me as these girls continued fawning all over him. I suddenly got all tongue-tied. I can’t do him justice in words, but he looked like a tanned Freddie Ljungberg with stubble. And these amazing green eyes. I just stood there like a lemming and it took him to get up and come over to me in the end. That so wasn’t the plan, but at least he’d left those two silly girls behind. I could see they were mad as hell, but I couldn’t help that.
‘I was hoping you’d come over,’ were his first words. I was still struck dumb. ‘I’m Ben and you are . . .’ Thankfully I snapped out of it and rebooted my mouth.
‘Becci. Umm, I was just wondering what sort of person invites lots of women back to his place for a party?’
‘I would say a person that has a good eye for good women,’ he replied.
‘Well, hun, I’d have to agree with you there, but honestly, it’s a bit weird, right? And your mate’s a bit full-on too. I wouldn’t bother getting him to do your dirty work in the future.’
‘Babe, I take your point and I promise to do all my own dirty work from now on,’ he replied, winking. ‘So you going to join us or what?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not really into orgies,’ I said.
‘Who said anything about orgies, babe? It’s a group of people drinking and partying.’
He spent the next ten minutes spinning the usual lines like how fit I was, how all the blokes were looking at him all jel because I was talking to him, and he even said he’d tell all the other girls to do one because I was the one he wanted. And so on. Now if I’d been an amateur, I would’ve been feeling like the most special girl in the room right then. The whole time we were talking, I honestly felt like he only had eyes for me, but you can’t be under any illusion. The West Essex player is a seasoned pro and you’re just listening to his set repertoire. And I’ll admit, it feels good to believe it at the time, but if you turn them down they will have five other girls on speed-dial, all of them thinking they’re equally special. I don’t think this guy even needed speed-dial when there was no shortage of takers in this club. I was clearly playing with fire here, but I was determined to play him right back.
I had my work cut out, though. He nearly drew me in a couple of times, but I managed to negotiate my way o
ut. And believe me, he wasn’t easy to resist. Especially when I found out he’d met Fernando Alonso several times on the racing scene. I’m not fucking kidding you. That was the moment I caved in and gave him my phone number. So cunning. The more he talked about his life, the more I envisioned stays in Dubai in those incredible hotels, us by the swimming pool and us bumping into Fernando Alonso, his brows all thick and that sexy Spanish accent. Sometimes I play out scenarios in my head so well that I’m convinced that’s the way it’s going to pan out. Anyways, before you write me off as a complete delusional wannabe, let me tell you that my game plan paid off. Just five minutes after I’d walked out the club, he called me.
When you hear from them in the taxi home, you’ve just secured yourself a date.
I was majorly hanging at Gemma’s the next day. Such an epic error mixing champagne with vodka. That’s just asking for it. I drove home at old-lady-speed and slept it off for another couple of hours. But there’s only one solution when I’m feeling this delicate, so I pulled on my Ugg boots and made my way over to Jackie and Don’s. Those ten metres on gravel are hard work when you’re all broken.
‘Bacon sarnie and tea?’ said Mum way too loudly. I was too weak to manage more than a nod before resting my face on the black marble breakfast table. Marilyn came running up to my chair but I had nothing to give. Marilyn’s my blonde Pomeranian and Mum looks after him while I’m at work and when I’m out. He’s not good at spending time in his own company.
Oh yeah, so my boy dog has a girl’s name – somebody (Don Fox) got mugged off. We were going to breed her, but by the time we realized Marilyn had a dick, I was too attached to him. Although I do think he’s a gay, as before he had the snip, he’d always hump Jake’s leg. My brother’s scent attracts a lot of dogs.
‘Don’t forget Cheryl and Sue are coming over for Sunday lunch,’ trilled Mum. I let out a despairing groan and looked up to make sure she was getting on with the bacon. She wasn’t. My tear ducts were so dried up from dehydration, all I could do was cry on the inside. Too preoccupied with her bloody First Wives Club to think of the needs of her sick child.
Cheryl and Sue have been divorced since their mid-forties and Mum lives vicariously through them. I don’t know why because Mum gets checked out ten times more than they do. Or maybe people think she’s Jo Wood. Honestly, the resemblance is uncanny. And they all go out on the pull, which is just gross. Well, Mum claims she isn’t pulling, but she sees herself as this wise relationship guru. This is one conversation I heard them have once:
SUE: ‘I got this text from a mystery number. So I thought it’s either Neil or that tennis player.’
CHERYL: ‘Oh yeah, that tennis player was fit.’
SUE: ‘So I texted back and I’ve not heard a word since.’
MUM: ‘Right, next time we’re in the Vault, you send him a text saying, “We’re out, let me know if you’re about too.”’
SUE: ‘Yeah, I will do. But to be honest, I’m too busy, what with the business and the kids, so I don’t know when I could fit in a date.’
Doesn’t that sound like a conversation you have when you’re fourteen? Except the bit about the business and the kids. Seriously, though, at their age, why are they so confused about men? She couldn’t understand why the tennis player bothered to text her in the first place. Because, Sue, he is texting lots of other women. Plus I bet he’s just a tennis coach down David Lloyd club.
I sometimes think I should teach a class at Epping Forest College on how to play the players. Mum’s an old romantic so never bought my theory on this tennis player, but then I’ve grown up using texting as a dating weapon. They’re all naïve to think this guy’s been waiting years to meet a woman like Sue and this text is the start of the most amazing relationship. People hide behind texts. It’s like dipping a toe in the dating water but you don’t have to commit. Eurggh – imagine in the olden days when the only option was calling their home phone? You’d have no time to think up your excuse if you were on the receiving end. I can’t say no to blokes if they ask for my number, but at least I can ignore the text when it comes. But you got to love Sue’s storytelling, which in the end makes out that she’s the one who hasn’t got time for the tennis player. A classic switcheroo.
It’s quite disturbing, the amount of cougars out on the prowl in West Essex, but they stick to their places so I rarely have to see it unless Mum insists we start the night off together for some mother–daughter bonding. I’m always pretty proud to be seen out with her because, like I say, she is a serious stunner. Blonde, a tiny figure, good legs, and she does have this rock chic thing about her, but maybe that’s just her love of cropped leather jackets. Hate to use this word, but she’s a total MILF. Back in the Seventies, Don and Jackie were a seriously hot couple. While she looked like the wife of a Rolling Stone, my dad was the spit of Harrison Ford, so that’s how he bagged a classy bird like Mum. Unfortunately, Dad doesn’t look like Harrison any more, but he does have a lovely head of salt ’n’ pepper hair on him and he’s in really good shape. He’s on that rowing machine of his almost every day. I honestly think they’re motivated by wanting to look good for each other, which is pretty sweet after thirty-two years of marriage. As long as Mum still thinks he’s the most handsome man in Buckhurst Hill, that’s all that matters.
The Vault Champagne and Wine Bar in Woodford is a favourite haunt of the First Wives Club and it’s as creepy as it sounds. I mean, imagine you’re sat there enjoying a cold glass of fizz and you clock this woman who’s got her back to you – an amazing body, all toned, hot black dress, thick glossy hair. She turns around and it’s a whole different story. Body like Baywatch, face like Crimewatch. It would be nice if the doorman stopped any disturbed-looking people as they left the Vault to say, ‘Please don’t have nightmares.’ Honestly, images of Sue grinding up against various white-haired gangster types will be with me for life.
With shaky hands I managed to pour myself an orange juice, then gave Mum what for on the bacon and tea front. She said something about not being a mind reader. I would have thought it was obvious that it was a yes to the food and drink, looking at the state of me.
While I was waiting for breakfast, I managed to climb the stairs to find Jake. No surprises, he was sat there in his pants playing Grand Auto Theft or whatever it is. I swear that game’s made him more disrespectful towards me, what with all that running over of women.
‘Alright, Jacob?’ He nodded in my direction, which meant I was allowed into his bedroom. I didn’t go all the way in since the room was ripe with an aroma of sweat and tramp wee. I honestly don’t know how he does it. It does my head in because all my mates are completely charmed by Jake. I’ll admit, he’s a good-looking boy if you like the Matt Damon type. I just wish they could see the golden boy in all his glory.
‘What you get up to last night?’
‘Football club dinner and Sugar Hut,’ he went.
‘Oh yeah? See anyone interesting?’
‘Pretty much the whole lot from TOWIE. And that nutcase Sascha.’
Sascha’s this girl he’d been trying to shake off. Or as he put it, he was ‘winding down the relationship’. I can relate to that. You’ve got to do stuff in stages, otherwise it’s a bit of a shock. Sascha is a complete psycho when it comes to blokes. We actually call her ‘Legs’ to her face, which she takes as a compliment, but it’s because she’s guaranteed to leg it out of a bar so her boyfriend chases after her. How controlling is that? I was well surprised when Jake started seeing her. He hasn’t got very high tolerance levels, and the first time she did a runner, he just shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the bar. I mean, it’s a risky game for her to play because once you’ve run out, then what? Go home. Only person you’ve hurt is yourself, Sascha. Luckily she’s now found some mug who actually plays along and seems to enjoy the chase. It’s reassuring to know there’s someone for everyone, however unstable you are.
A girlfriend isn’t high up on Jake’s agenda. I would say this is h
is list of priorities from top to bottom: his mates, football, sex, swindling innocents, his clothes, white-collar boxing, family. Yeah, we’re definitely at the bottom. He doesn’t swindle much, but he’s always got some money-making project under way. He went to Thailand on his gap year (not that he went to university, so that’s a gap from Essex), met some Thai business guys and comes back claiming he’s going to import Chinese lanterns. Well, my baby bro was spot-on – they literally took off the moment he brought them back here. If you see one floating in the sky at a wedding, just remember that’s Jake Fox’s doing.
He’s also a carpet fitter in one of Dad’s businesses, so eventually he’ll have to choose between his dodgy Thai deals and running the carpet shop. His motto is ‘Do something dangerous every day’. Sometimes that really works out for him, and sometimes it doesn’t. He could have been fleeced by those Thai lantern blokes, but the risk paid off. But then he once decided to ride his BMX at high speed under a road barrier and ended up skinning his entire back. That risk didn’t pay off. But Jake says if his head had been an inch higher he’d have knocked his block off, so he was lucky. That’s a major understatement.
‘So what time did you get home?’
‘About six a.m.’
‘What? So where’d you go after Sugar Hut?’
‘Back to Mick’s gaff. Drank some more and stuff.’
I really wasn’t getting much out of him but I had no interest in finding out what he’d been up to there. Since Mick Norcross got notoriety through TOWIE, I’m always hearing about after-parties going on at his. That family know how to have a good time and Mick’s got to be the most eligible granddad in Essex. If it’s not Mick people are drinking with, it’s Kirk or his brother Dan. I swear every bloke round here knows a Norcross.
