Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Is that the gorgeous vicar on our table?’ hisses Fiona.

  I nod.

  ‘And several ponces,’ I groan. ‘As long as they don’t think my scarlet dress entitles them to a quick grope.’

  The men scrape back their chairs and stand up. Alistair quickly follows and our eyes go to his flies.

  ‘We must seem desperate looking at his crotch,’ whispers Fiona. ‘Not that I can see it from here. Nothing’s hanging out is it?’

  ‘We must seem desperate just looking at Alistair, period,’ I quip. ‘No, nothing is hanging out, at least nothing worth looking at.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ retorts Fiona, fumbling in her bag and producing the bottle of Valium.

  ‘One more won’t hurt,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Ladies,’ says one of the men in an upper-crust voice as he pulls back a chair.

  ‘Ta very much,’ I say, sitting down and smiling at the vicar who sits next to me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ snaps Alistair.

  ‘I’ve been snorting coke in the loo and having sex with a waiter,’ Fiona slurs, taking a sip of Merlot. ‘I thought it might ease my tension.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ says a pompous looking man opposite me, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Duncan, otherwise known as the government chief whip,’ he adds proudly.

  ‘Ooh, I should have brought my leathers,’ I smile.

  ‘I thought your performance in church was excellent,’ I tell the vicar. ‘In a non-kinky way of course.’

  He coughs uncomfortably.

  ‘Thank you very much but it’s all in a day’s work.’

  I stare fascinated at his dog collar. Fiona fights back a giggle. There is a tapping sound from the mike and a deep booming voice bellows from the PA.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, please stand for Mr and Mrs Hugh Cramphorn-Williams.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ mumbles Fiona.

  ‘Don’t you mean puke?’ I say, discreetly removing a small Febreze spray from my clutch bag.

  Silvia wafts along the grand hall, leaving a wake of baby vomit fragrance as she goes. I madly pump at the spray as she passes. Alistair lifts his hand to his nose but Fiona stops him.

  ‘It’s rude,’ she tells him.

  ‘It’s bloody rude swanning by us in a vomit smelling wedding dress too,’ groans Alistair.

  I have to agree with him.

  ‘Oh no, really?’ says the vicar.

  I nod.

  ‘It was the Antichrist,’ I say and bite my lip. Honestly, talk about opening my mouth and putting my foot in it. ‘Although I’m sure you get it all the time. Not the Antichrist vomiting all over you, obviously. Crikey that would be a bit like the Exorcist wouldn’t it? I mean babies vomiting on you, obviously. Not the other …’

  You know that feeling when you’re just in too deep? He smiles warmly.

  ‘Indeed. Babies tend to puke over me a lot I’m afraid, especially at christenings.’

  ‘Downside of the job I suppose. You’d think God would protect you really,’ I say, looking around for Julian.

  ‘I expect he has bigger fish to fry.’

  I nod thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, I’m quite sure he has. I can’t imagine why he would want to be here today with all these posh pricks. Far more people needing his attention I would think. Although there are a few perverts here I imagine.’

  Good heavens, is he blushing? Oh dear, I hope he doesn’t think I mean him.

  ‘You know, in the government,’ I say attempting to remove the foot from my mouth.

  I turn to the man the other side of me and fight back a gasp. God, he’s so handsome, perhaps just a little too handsome if there could be such a thing. I need to come to these kinds of weddings more often. His sensuous eyes sparkle and I feel my legs weaken. Shame about his arrogance, which seems to emanate from him even more than his aftershave. His full mouth widens in a smile and he clasps my hand in his. He is immaculately dressed and I know for certain that his clothes aren’t off the peg from the local charity shop. I self-consciously pull the strap of my dress back onto my shoulder and check the diamante slide is still in place.

  ‘Hello, I’m Hamilton Lancaster,’ he says in a manner that presumes I already knew that. I can’t say I do, although the name sounds vaguely familiar even if it does sound like a cigar.

  ‘The Hamilton Lancaster,’ Alistair yells, wagging a finger at me.

  Who the bonking hell is Hamilton Lancaster when he’s at home?

  ‘He’s only one of the richest men in England,’ Fiona whispers in my ear.

  ‘An honour to meet you Mr Lancaster, I am pr-pr-pr-pr-pr- …’ says Alistair.

  ‘A prick,’ whispers Fiona.

  ‘Privileged,’ gasps Alistair eventually.

  I stifle a giggle and Fiona slurps some wine.

  ‘Thank you, but …’

  ‘I f-f-f-follow all that you do. I’d like to start my own b-b-b- …’

  ‘Brothel?’ mumbles Fiona.

  ‘Business,’ he blurts out, grabbing an orange juice.

  ‘Faggot?’ says a waiter, leaning over Alistair.

  Alistair blanches.

  ‘How d-d-d- …’

  ‘Divine,’ finishes Fiona.

  ‘Dare you,’ explodes Alistair.

  ‘Or traditional Haggis sir?’

  ‘He’ll have the faggot,’ laughs Fiona.

  I realise I am still holding on to the Hamilton Lancaster’s hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m the Harriet Lawson,’ I say.

  ‘That’s some grip you have there,’ he says, pulling his hand away.

  ‘So, what do you do Harriet?’

  Shit. I consider lying but change my mind.

  ‘I work in a laundrette,’ I say proudly.

  ‘But she’s studying health and social care. She wants to work with the underprivileged,’ slurs Fiona.

  ‘Because it will make her feel more at home,’ Alistair smirks.

  ‘A laundrette?’ he repeats, making it sound like a strip club.

  ‘That’s right,’ I reply primly, dropping my serviette into my lap.

  He nods thoughtfully.

  ‘How long have you owned a laundrette?’

  Alistair scoffs.

  ‘Harriet doesn’t own her own b-b-brain, let alone anything else.’

  ‘Oh b-b-b-bugger off,’ I snap.

  ‘Do you want a Valium?’ Fiona asks.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I fume, wiping my mouth with a serviette. ‘I don’t own the laundrette. Meet the poorest woman in England. I don’t own anything actually. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you. I expect you own half the country if you’re anything like that Richard Branson bloke. Is Hamilton your real name?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, and I suppose I am a bit like that Branson bloke but without the balloon.’

  ‘Your ego is inflated enough is it?’

  ‘Christ,’ moans Alistair. ‘She’s a bl-bl-bloody embarrassment.’

  ‘It could always do with a bit more inflating if you’re offering,’ Hamilton says seductively. ‘But you may find me a little out of your league.’

  What a rotter, trying to make me feel stupid. I move my chair towards the vicar and turn my head from Hamilton Lancaster. I hate people who think they are better than everyone else. I’ll be happier when Julian gets here. I discreetly glance at my phone but there is still nothing from him. To think we’ve got to put up with this stink for hours. Alistair leans towards Hamilton and a button pops from his waistcoat and lands in Hamilton’s champagne glass.

  ‘When I get married I will hire a classy p-p-p- …’

  ‘Prostitute?’ I query. ‘Do you think Hamilton may know one?’

  Alistair glares at me.

  ‘Pub,’ he finishes. ‘There would be lots of tit-tit-tit- …’

  ‘Christ,’ moans Fiona.

  ‘I’m not even going to try to help him on that one,’ I say.

  ‘Tit-titbits. Nothing formal like this w-w-w- …’


  ‘Wanker,’ Fiona mumbles.

  I glance at the poker-faced waiter.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ I say. ‘He can’t help it, runs in the family you know.’

  ‘Harry shut up,’ hisses Fiona.

  ‘Wedding,’ finishes Alistair.

  ‘I’ll sue this bloody hire company,’ he moans as Hamilton fishes the button from his glass.

  ‘Is there any danger of you being naked by the time we get to dessert?’ I ask. ‘It’s just I would prefer not to be around.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ moans Fiona. ‘I think I’ve drunk too much.’

  I stand up and edge my way through the tables. I make my way to the foyer to see if there is any sign of Julian. This is ridiculous, is he bleeding walking here? Come to think of it, he most likely is if he was bombing it down the A40 in the Pooch. No way is my little car going to survive that thrashing. I try his phone again but it goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to Fiona, as I reluctantly return to my table. ‘I was desperate to phone Julian. I can’t think where he can be.’

  ‘Talking of desperation, Alistair tells me that money is a bit tight for you at the moment,’ pipes up Hamilton.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say.

  What a git. Alistair, that is. I can’t turn my back for five minutes. Although this Hamilton is turning out to be a bit of one too isn’t he?

  ‘I could maybe help with that. I’ve got a proposition I’d like to offer that would be beneficial to both of us.’

  Well I never. My eyes widen and for a second I am at a loss for words, and let me tell you in the world of Harriet Lawson that rarely happens. I’ve never been propositioned by a millionaire in my life and I’m not starting now. Honestly these aristocrats, what bloody arrogance they have.

  ‘Thanks very much but I'm sure that whatever you have in your pants pales in comparison to the variety of battery operated boyfriends I have in my drawer at home, but thanks all the same.’

  He places his hand on my arm.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘It never is. Amazing wedding this isn’t it? There seems to be a staggeringly high number of wankers present. Anyway, if you’ll excuse me I need to get back to my mansion where, amazingly, there will be another wanker awaiting me.’

  ‘I’m off,’ I say loudly.

  ‘I w-w-wondered what that smell was,’ says Alistair. ‘W-w-we all thought it was the bride.’

  He laughs at his own joke.

  ‘Why did you tell Hamilton-bloody-Lancaster that I was strapped for cash?’ I hiss.

  ‘I thought you c-c-c-could use the money.’

  ‘He just propositioned me,’ I say, glaring at Hamilton.

  ‘God Alistair,’ Fiona snarls, ‘what’s wrong with you these days?’

  ‘He needs a w-w-w- …’

  ‘Yes, well I don’t care how much he needs a wank I’m not giving it to him, no matter how much he’s offering. I’m leaving,’ I say, standing up.

  ‘Just a minute …’ says Hamilton, trying to grab my arm. I push his hand off and begin walking to the foyer.

  ‘Christ,’ gasps Fiona, ‘we’ll drive you home Harriet, won’t we Alistair?’

  Buggeration. I will murder Julian for not being here. What the hell is he playing at?

  Chapter Four

  The closer we get to Marlborough Mansions the more my stomach knots. I had tried Julian’s mobile almost continuously since we left the reception but all I get is his voicemail. We are just a few minutes from the Mansions now. It sounds posh doesn’t it, Marlborough Mansions, but I can assure you that the only posh thing about Marlborough Mansions is the name. Our street isn’t the roughest in the area but it’s in the top five. I cringe as we turn into Marlborough Terrace. Fiona and Alistair have a lovely semi just fifteen minutes away. Fi is always in Ikea or John Lewis, buying lovely shabby chic stuff to hang in the rooms. You know the kind of thing, white painted hearts and photo frames that dangle from silk ribbons, and pretty beaded curtains that separate the rooms and have been known to separate me from my body parts before now. Their house should carry a public health warning. I was practically garrotted on the damn beaded curtains when my necklace got tangled in one once. Luckily, after a frantic search for the scissors, I was saved in the nick of time. I have no idea what I expect when we turn the corner into Marlborough Terrace but I am convinced it will be something horrific and sigh with relief as everything looks perfectly normal. There are the yobs in hoodies snorting cocaine in their usual spot by the garages, Indian rap music blaring from the flats opposite, and the youngsters kicking around a football. Everything seems perfectly normal. No blue flashing lights, or cordoned-off buildings, no ambulance or neighbours standing anxiously outside the Mansions. There is no sign of anything amiss. In fact, there is no sign of my little Pooch, or Alistair’s new white van, come to that. He can’t possibly be driving both at the same time can he? I look at my nails and the Scarlet Vamp chipped nail polish.

  ‘The Pooch has gone,’ says Fiona, stating the bloody obvious as only Fiona can. I look at the graffiti-streaked building that is my home and force myself out of the car.

  ‘You don’t need us to come in too, do you?’ asks Alistair while leaving the engine running.

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you Alistair?’ snaps Fiona. ‘Anyone would think you were in the East End of London. It’s not like the place is full of gangsters.’

  He looks disdainfully at the cracked glass in the communal door.

  ‘A football,’ I say by way of explanation.

  ‘Of course we’re coming in,’ says Fiona while glaring at Alistair, ‘It’s quite safe.’

  ‘Famous last w-w-w-words,’ mumbles Alistair.

  ‘Take another Valium,’ Fiona snaps.

  ‘I’m not a bloody drug addict.’

  I pull a face and drape my shawl around me as one of the hoodies walks towards us.

  ‘Oh great,’ mumbles Alistair, ‘now we’re in West Side Story.’

  ‘Ya wanna go out then darlin’? ‘ave a good time?’ shouts one of the lads with bulging eyes.

  ‘Thank you very much but I’m already going out this evening,’ replies Fiona politely.

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Piss off wanker. She’s used to real men,’ I say dismissively, heading to the entrance.

  ‘I bet she ain’t seen one like mine,’ laughs the youth, unzipping his fly.

  ‘No, she’s seen better,’ I say nodding to Alistair’s undone flies. ‘And far superior underpants.’

  ‘Alistair,’ hisses Fiona, ‘zip up for God’s sake. What’s wrong with you? There’s a school playground opposite. You’ll end up on a list.’

  ‘It’s these b-b-b-bloody trousers.’

  ‘No need to show off mate,’ laughs the other youth.

  ‘What about you darlin’? Gonna let me treat you to a kebab and a bottle of cider. I could die for you babe,’ he says sidling close to me.

  ‘Oh really, can you prove it? I’ll lend you a knife.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  ‘How can you live here?’ asks Fiona.

  ‘Easily, I can’t afford anywhere else.’

  I look up at the window of our flat and cock my ear. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to hear but everything sounds fine. I enter the tatty hallway and bypass the out of service lift and climb the stairs with Fiona and Alistair following, stepping around empty sweet wrappers and discarded cigarette butts as we go. Mrs Mollard appears in her doorway, her paisley scarf knotted tightly at her throat.

  ‘You're a wee scunner girlie. I'm going ta skelp yer wee behind I am. I’m not canty. Bucking music.’

  Fiona looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Is she foreign?’ she whispers while nodding pleasantly to Mrs Mollard.

  ‘She hasn’t got her teeth in and can’t say her ‘f’s, and yes, she’s Scottish.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ groans Alistair.

  I’m starting to think that all Alistair ca
n do is moan and groan, and I’m thinking he does that very well.

  ‘Bucking pervert’, says Mrs Mollard with her eyes lowered to Alistair’s crotch.

  Fiona yanks up his flies and he yelps.

  ‘I’m so sorry Mrs Mollard, what music was that?’

  ‘Bucking racket,’ she repeats. ‘Yer deaf are yer?’

  ‘Have you seen Julian?’ I ask.

  ‘‘ooligan, what ‘ooligan?’

  ‘No, Julian,’ I shout. ‘Have you seen Julian?’

  ‘He went oot with th’ motor.’

  ‘Oh thanks so much Mrs Mollard.’

  I bounce up the next flight of stairs hearing Fiona’s heels clattering behind me and Alistair’s heavy panting, sounding every bit like a bucking pervert. When I reach my door I see it is ajar.

  ‘Your door is open,’ says Fiona in a breathless raspy voice.

  ‘I know,’ I say

  ‘That’s not right is it?’ she whispers.

  ‘Why do you keep stating the bloody obvious?’ I hiss.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles.

  Okay, I must calm down. There is absolutely no need to panic. Just think of all the obvious sensible things that most people would think when faced with their front door ajar and both their cars gone, not to mention a missing boyfriend. Oh God, I can’t think of one sensible thing. Julian said he was coming home early to get changed, that explains why he was home this afternoon and playing music. He probably hurried and rushed out. Yes, that must be it. Good theory, whispers a voice in my head, but how do you explain him driving two cars at the same time? And he must have been in one hell of a rush to not even close the front door, let alone lock it. I sigh, oh well it was a good theory while it lasted. I decide that now is the time to panic.

  ‘I think we’ve been burgled,’ I whisper.

  ‘I bet it was those buggers downstairs,’ says Alistair shakily. ‘They’d probably slit our throats for our mobile phones.’

  ‘This isn’t Africa,’ hisses Fiona.

  ‘Feels like it.’

  ‘Don’t be racist.’

  ‘How is that racist?’

  I take a step towards the door and am about to push it open when Fiona says,

  ‘Nothing makes sense. If you’ve been burgled then why has Julian gone, and why has he taken your car and why hasn’t he phoned you?’