by Becci Fox
Just as I was starting to feel a bit emotional with my meteoric rise, we rocked up at Sheesh’s gates in record time. He wasn’t all talk – he really could drive fast. In the end he just walked round to my door and pulled me out without asking. Smooth.
‘So how did you get a table here on a Friday night anyway?’ I said, finally breaking the silence.
‘Know Dylan, don’t I?’ he replied.
If you’re smart in West Essex, you should get to know the owner of every elite establishment. I made a mental note of the name cos there was no way I was going on a four-month waiting list again.
Just the outside of the restaurant was pure glamour. There were flaming torches at the entrance, a couple of huge metal statues and Ben’s Mercedes looked the business in a car park full of Lambos and Ferraris. When we walked in, there was the usual Essex-bloke greeting. A lot of shouting, followed by a lot of hugs where they pull each other in violently and smack each other’s backs, and a lot of mate this and mate that. One thing they never do, though, is tousle each other’s hair. It’s majorly disrespectful. I’ve seen fights break out if that line has been crossed.
Despite my initial anger towards Sheesh, I was totally blown away. It used to be a well ancient pub called the King’s Head, but what old man Shugs had done was pretty special. I’m doubting Alan chose the classy colour scheme, but it oozes ‘man’, if you know what I mean. Dark wood, cowhide furniture, imprinted leather chairs, dark booths, gilded mirrors, open fires, a cigar cabinet. And in the corner of the bar, there was one thing that makes an Essex establishment a real winner: a piano. I don’t know what it is about a piano, but round here we can’t get enough of it. If it’s a joint where you can actually get on the piano, then the bar will be packed. It’s a simple secret to Essex success. That’s why we love a crooner like Arg – a crooner comes with a piano. There must be some deep psychological meaning to all this, but I can’t work it out. And the final ingredient in an Essex restaurant is noise. We like a bit of a din going on because then it feels like we’re all having a good time. And obviously everyone in the restaurant looked the nuts. Dressing up’s not just for clubs and bars, you know.
We got shown to our table, which was very cosy. We were in the Leather Lounge, but I had a quick nose around the place and it was all lush. They even had a Love Lounge, but it’s pretty intimate and you’d have to be in there with other couples. I’d be earwigging the whole time, so I was pretty glad he hadn’t booked us a table in there. In these plush surroundings, I’ve got to say he looked even better looking. Dark wood must make green eyes stand out or something because I was transfixed. I honestly felt like the luckiest girl in the room, but I had to remind myself that this was just a bit of fun. Even the waitress was openly flirting with him, but he didn’t bite. He did everything right. He was really relaxed, smiley, attentive, and I was a bit confused, to be honest, because he didn’t seem like the same cocksure bloke I’d met before.
When I first saw him in One9Five, I think I was put off by girls salivating all over him. I don’t do dribbling. But take him out of that setting and here was a better-looking, more genuine bloke. I wasn’t going to pretend that I’d forgotten all about his indecent proposal from the club, though. I’m no mug. So I lulled him into a false sense of security. I let him order a bottle of Cristal and explain what the Turkish grub options were and then I went in for the kill.
‘So I was just wondering, did you have that party in the end?’
He laughed, which wasn’t the response I’d been after.
‘It’s not a crime to enjoy the company of girls, is it?’ he said. ‘I only invited you because I thought you were a bit of a sort and you might have had fun there. And before you ask, that guy wasn’t a pimp, he’s my manager. We both got taste is all. I don’t know why you’re all suspicious. People have parties. And girls go to them.’
‘I’m surprised I’m even out with you, to be honest,’ I said. He didn’t even look offended.
‘Well, I’m glad you are, because I’d have been in bits if I’d been denied the pleasure of your face one more time,’ he said. ‘You’ve got something about you, Becs, and I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.’ There he went with the sweet-talking again, and if he thought I was going to let my guard down after that, he had another thing coming.
‘I’m flattered, but you should know this: I’m not like the other girls round here,’ I said, leaning into the table. ‘I’m not needy and I have never put up with blokes that mess me about. Yes, I like to be taken out nice places and bought expensive presents, otherwise I won’t feel appreciated, but know this. I am my own person and my career goal is not to marry a rich man or become famous. I am an independent woman and you can take it or leave it, hun.’
I took a breath and awaited a reaction. He was seriously frowning and I suddenly felt really nervous. I genuinely thought I’d blown it, which would have been a first.
‘That’s all very nice, babe, but your menu’s on fire.’
He wasn’t wrong. Why do waiters leave fucking candles on a table? I panicked and just started banging out the flames with my beautiful Chanel bag. Everyone including my date was pointing and laughing.
How can anyone pick themselves up from this, I hear you ask? Let me share something very special with you. This will shock you, but at Essex Hogwarts I got an A level in Classics. And I’ve watched a lot of Gerard Butler films. Yep, ask me anything about Aphrodite – the original fun-time Essex girl. She rocked the one-shouldered white dresses long before Essex came along. I think she cheated on her simpleton husband with Adonis (who wouldn’t?) but her big love was Greek bad boy Ares. I can’t even list how many times she got up the duff. I think she got up the duff with Achilles, didn’t she? Anyways, what I learnt was that the gods seriously fuck with humans like they’re playthings. Sometimes old Hermes would sink ships just because he was bored. Major dickhead. If you picture these arseholes mugging you off, you can overcome any situation, however brutal it gets. So at school, Gem and I decided we’d make these gods our own and renamed them BHQ – that’s Bastards Headquarters to you. So when menus are set on fire or I fall off my wedges and twist my ankle, we just say, ‘Up your bum, BHQ,’ and totally own it. Never let BHQ see you’re upset or they’ve won.
With my charred Chanel in one hand and my dignity on the floor, I knew what I had to do. Laugh harder. Everyone says I should go into acting and this moment totally proved it. Everyone was now laughing with me. Yeah, fuck you all.
‘You’re a right laugh, Becs,’ Ben said, still laughing. I wiped a tear from my eye and hugged my splitting sides with more vigour. Then I held up my menu and bag to show the whole restaurant the remnants. Yeah, I am a sport.
‘You gotta laugh or you’ll cry, right?’ I said, regaining some composure.
‘I think we’re going to get on just fine, babe,’ he replied, and looked so deep into my eyes I felt like he was reading my mind. All I could think to say back was, ‘Can we get some lamb shish in now?’
Thankfully, my blunder was immediately forgotten when all eyes turned to a birthday girl who was complaining about cold food. They were arguing with this Martina Cole-type woman and basically her attitude was either eat it or fuck off. Just a word to any TOWIE tourists thinking of going here – a lot of our establishments have the West End gloss with the East End attitude. Don’t get lulled into a false sense of security as it can kick off at any moment. Imagine you’re enjoying yourself in the Ritz but Grant and Phil Mitchell are your waiters. That’s the kind of danger I’m talking about. Lovely entertainment if you’re watching the drama, though.
I was a bit uptight after my incident and then I felt consumed by fear that I’d have to complain about my food. I couldn’t relax until the first course arrived, but it all turned out to be amazing. I was practically having food orgasms at the table. That’s when I realized I’d drunk way too much. Epic error. So I don’t know if Ben was funny or everything was funny, but we laughed a lot and I felt so hot for h
im every time he talked about cars. It’s like porn to me.
‘So what’s the deal with the driving? Are you Alonso level or what?’ Since I didn’t really know the sport I was finding it hard to establish whether he was semi-pro or pro.
‘It’s going that way,’ he said pretty casually. ‘It’s my main job, if that’s what you’re asking, and yes, I do make a decent living from it. At the end of the day, I’ve got quite a few years left in me yet.’
‘Hun, how old are you exactly?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious.
‘Twenty-three. Why? How old are you?’
Fuck, I was well shocked. I never go out with someone younger than me, not even a month younger. A three-year difference! I am all up for women having toy boys if that’s their thing, but it’s just so ageing. I mean, Madonna looks like her boyfriends’ nan. And I don’t want to be all jel of my boyfriend’s youth. I tried not react and just said calmly, ‘Twenty-six.’
‘Nah, fuck off you are! I thought you were twenty-one. Well, babe, if Lewis Hamilton could screw an older bird like Nicole Scherzinger, then I don’t see what’s stopping us.’ Awww, he was already comparing us to racing royalty! Let’s face it, there was now a vacancy.
He then told me what he raced, where he raced and when he raced. Don’t ask me any details cos I haven’t a clue – I know that he wasn’t F1 yet, but that was his ambition, which he believed he was very close to securing. It’s funny, though, how racing is all about supercars and podiums and champagne, and so is Essex. The inventor of motorsports must have been a local. But I picked up everything he said about his income. Basically, he was already minted cos he had minted parents. But he still had to get sponsorship, which meant charming the arse off rich people.
Don’t go thinking I’m a gold-digger, because I really don’t need to be. It’s the sweet smell of success that draws me in every time and money just happens to be a by-product of that. Did I mention he did part-time modelling? All in all, this was shaping up nicely. In my head I was rubbing my hands together, then rubbing those hands all over his ripped bod.
After dinner, we went upstairs where there was some woman singing by the piano. Only saw bloody Ray Winstone and his wife up there! Ben ordered me another glass of Cristal, but he stopped drinking because he was driving. This happens a lot on Essex dates, believe it or not. Our love for arriving and leaving places in a flash car outweighs our love for alcohol. Now, I can’t remember much else from that night apart from pure lust. We couldn’t have been sat any closer unless I’d been on his lap. I kept touching his leg and his eyes kept flickering down to my boobs.
Eventually, he went, ‘Babe, are you going to kiss me or what?’
I would love to say our first kiss was sensual and romantic, with the champagne, the music and Ray Winstone eyeballing us, but it was more like an erotic explosion rippling through my body. I wanted him so bad, but I was not going to break my own first date rule. I’ve come too far in life to start doing that. So despite his best attempts, I told him I had to get up at 6 a.m. the next morning. Like I’ve ever gotten up at 6 a.m. So when he dropped me off, we got it on a bit more in the car, but I dragged myself out after twenty minutes.
Always got to leave them wanting more.
I managed to give everyone a breakdown on the previous night’s events as I was getting ready for work the next morning. Brooke was as modest as ever and claimed her styling had made me irresistible. She made me go into details such as did he pay (he did), did he have a hard-on in the car (he did), and did he have a hot mate for her (he didn’t). Then I phoned Gemma, who gushed about what my wedding would be like. Then I called Ryan, who just put fear into me.
‘So he’s hot, yeah?’ asked Ryan.
‘Yeah.’
‘But he’s not got a home gym, no?’
‘No.’
‘Oh good, so you can tell me what gym he goes to and I’ll check him out for you, yeah?’
‘Yeah. I mean no!’ It’s so confusing the way he ends questions with the answer he wants to hear.
‘Well, don’t say I don’t do you any favours, hun.’
While we were talking a text came through. Ben had sent me a topless picture of himself from some magazine shoot and he’d written underneath, Just in case you’d forgotten me. Amazing night babe, we’ll do it again soon xx. Now, this picture was like something you see on the front of Attitude magazine.
‘Oh my God, Ryan. He’s just sent me such a fit picture of himself, but it’s pretty gay. Hang on, I’m just going to forward it to you. Tell me what you think.’
There was an X Factor-type pause until Ryan broke the tension by screaming, ‘Oh my God, he’s so hot, especially with his hand reaching into his pants like that. I’d totally do him.’
‘That wasn’t actually what I asked you to comment on. Do you think he could be a bit gay?’
‘A homoerotic picture don’t make him gay, hun. And if he is bi, then two can play that game.’
That’s mine and Ryan’s dream, that we find some bloke we both fancy and he’s like our love slave. It’s so rare we fancy the same bloke that this will never happen. Let’s just say that as Ryan gets older, the boys he does don’t. He loves his twinkies. And because he’s hot in a Herculean kind of way (dark blond hair, ridiculously good cheekbones, biceps as big as my head), he can totally get away with it. When the age gap starts to look too weird, I’ll take him aside and have a word in his ear. Like he’ll care.
‘I honestly don’t care if he is bi,’ I continued, ‘but I’d just want him to tell me if he was. I blame you for putting thoughts in my head. Everyone who fancies you on Grindr always seems to have a wife or girlfriend. You’ve messed with my head, babe.’
‘Hun, if it makes you feel any better I will totally tell you if I spot him on Grindr.’ Isn’t it so cool that there’s a GPS to find your nearest gay?
Grindr is well necessary because there are so many well-dressed, tanned pretty boys walking round West Essex, it’s really hard to work out who’s what. Grindr just cuts out the crap and goes, ‘This one’s up for it.’ And because of Ryan’s antics with the ‘straights’ he finds on Grindr, I’ve realized there’s a lot of men out there who keep telling themselves that loving cock is a fetish instead of an orientation. And I totally get that it’s hard to come out. I mean, at one point Ryan was so far in the closet he was practically touching Narnia. Whenever we were walking down Loughton High Street as teenagers, I’d innocently say to him, ‘Do you fancy any girls here?’ Guaranteed he’d point one out who was wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, a white vest top and tight jeans. So basically the boyishly dressed girl whose face you can’t see behind the hat and shades. But like all Essex men, Ryan still loves boobs. He claims it’s ‘not in a sexual way’ but in a ‘comforting way’. That’s worse, if you ask me.
‘Hun, I don’t mean to worry you, but this bloke is ripped. If you want to hold on to him, you’re going to have to match him in the body stakes,’ Ryan blurted out, just as I was starting to feel more positive about Ben.
‘What d’you mean, you bitch?’
‘I get these types in the gym all the time, and they’re always moaning that their girlfriends don’t work out and that it’s a turn-off. And I’m not just saying that because I’m a body fascist. If you want to hold on to buff blokes like Mark Wright, they need their physical match, don’t they, yeah? That’s why he could never marry Lauren, yeah?’
‘I go to the gym,’ I said defensively.
‘Using the sauna doesn’t count, hun. You know you’ve got an amazing body, but I’ve always said a little bit of toning would take you to Jennifer Aniston’s league.’
Ryan is a personal trainer and has got many Z-list celebs in shape, but I’d always knocked back his offers because I’ve never enjoyed pain. But I couldn’t fight it any longer, not if I was playing with the big boys now.
‘Fine. I’ll lift some weights if it makes you happy.’
‘Hun, this will be so exciting! We’re going to totally trans
form you,’ Ryan screeched. ‘Meet you at Virgin Active after work, yeah?’
Before I knew it, I’d become Ryan’s special project. He’s so convincing sometimes. But see, this was the problem. I totally started listening to other people like they knew what I needed if I was going to go out with a racing driver. But thinking about it, why would they?
We’d only dealt in premiership footballers before, and they’re a piece of piss.
*
I hardly heard from Ben in the next fortnight, but it’s not like he was my boyfriend. He wasn’t even around Essex because the racing season was about to begin, so he’d gone off with his team to do meetings and test races somewhere fancy. Didn’t matter to me because I was selling the shit out of wedding dresses. The only reason Tash and I work well together is because we now respect the different strengths we bring to the business. Mine is shopping and selling, hers is customer service. I’m in my absolute element at a wedding fair. I swear it’s like working a market stall. You just got to look glamorous and keep talking to someone until you’re best mates. If things are quiet, I’ll put on a dress and pretend to be a customer prancing around in front of the mirror. I’ve got a gift for making clothes look good so I may as well use it. Tasha gets well nervous in case customers feel they’ve been tricked, so she makes me say that I work for the shop but this stunning dress is new in and I just had to try it on. Whatever. Tasha used to call it my ‘dummy’ act, but she soon shut up when sales rocketed. Giving me commission for each sale was the smartest thing she ever did.
I’d been giving up every single Sunday to flog her wares recently, and as a result I’d beaten my quarterly PB (that’s Personal Best to you). When you have success like that, you really don’t give a shit about a bloke you’ve had one date with. Instead, you go treat yourself to a new dress and your boss gives you a bottle of bubbly because your mum told her to.
