by Lynda Renham
A few? I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the hundreds. And where was everyone from our block?
She introduced me to a guy named Rupert. Apparently they were trying to take his block in Battersea. Rupert was hidden beneath a Liverpool football team scarf and a Liverpool parka. He shook my hand with his Liverpool glove.
‘Awright,’ he’d said. ‘Good cause, we can’t take this sitting down.’
Was surprised he didn’t have a Liverpool accent too. Jenny introduced me as Phoebe, who lived next door to Harry Bloom. Not quite how I want to be introduced. She then went on to say how Harry couldn’t be blamed for anything as no one was sure he felt the same as his father. Clearly she hadn’t googled him. I don’t know why I’d bothered to be honest. Was quite surprised to see him on Wikipedia.
Harry James Bloom. Born in 1980 the eldest son of property tycoon Arthur Bloom. He was educated at Oxford and championed many children’s causes raising a million pounds in 2010 after taking part in a charity swim. He is a chartered surveyor and has worked for his father at Bloom Properties since 2012. He is also a competent musician and played professionally in the band ‘Prozac’ in 2008. He now plays in clubs in and around London. He is thought to be a friend of Prince Harry.
Competent musician my arse, not from what I hear through the walls of the flat, and I’m sure he isn’t paying rent like the rest of us.
I was given a placard with the words ‘Hoot if you support us’.
‘Right let’s go,’ a very masculine looking woman instructed. She managed to lift three placards in one hand. I felt quite the weakling but consoled myself that at least I looked feminine. I asked if we should wait for the others to arrive. Call me naïve but I seriously expected there to be more than six people and I really didn’t feel only six of us protesting was worth freezing my nipples off. Thought we should wait for Russell Brand, the press and the other tenants from our block. I was optimistic if nothing else.
‘Ah Russell can’t make it,’ Jenny had said, sounding like she knew him personally. Frankly I wouldn’t own up to it even if I did. Apparently his advisors had said there were only so many projects he could support at one time. Couldn’t believe I was the only one from our block too. It seemed all the others had considered it too cold. Rupert, who had spent the whole time stamping his feet, had assured me that the press would be waiting on the Embankment.
Miss Masculinity ushered us to get going again. I suggested rather nervously that maybe we should call it off and postpone it for another day. She totally lost it and yelled ‘that was exactly what the bastards wanted.’ I was desperately wishing I had bought my muffins at this point. She had turned on Jenny who had then got all flustered.
‘Are we going or not?’ Miss Masculinity had demanded.
‘Well, I think we should carry on,’ Jenny had replied, while giving me an apologetic look. Really couldn’t believe I was going to stand like a lemon with five other people to protest against Bloom Properties. But there was no way out of it so I followed meekly behind Miss Masculinity, whose name turned out to be Bernie. Very fitting I thought.
Jenny offered around some TUC biscuits from her picnic basket, along with some soup and French bread. I rather think she was trying to make me believe it was worth freezing to death. Frankly no amount of soup and TUC would appeal more than my central heated flat. It had been the thought of my central heated flat that had goaded me forward with my placard. After all, in a few months I might not have a central heated flat at all. Anyway, at least I can say I tried which is more than can be said for the other tenants.
Was quite exciting when we reached the Embankment as there were about ten more people waiting, along with photographers from the local paper and even one from The Sun. Thankfully, I only had to hold up one placard which I did with pride. Felt like I was making a difference, like the suffragettes. It was all going very well, apart from being unable to feel my extremities but I suppose one has to make sacrifices if one is to make a difference. And then I saw Harry Bloom and my heart sank.
He must have done it on purpose. It was too coincidental that he happened to be on the Embankment on the same day as our protest and with horsey mouth Jilly too. Oh, the humiliation. I knew we should have cancelled it. What an embarrassment. Sixteen of us and three of those were in motorised scooters and were only there for the ride, so to speak. They didn’t even live in a flat, let alone one that was being taken over. It was just a good day out for them. I never want to be eighty.
Jilly pointed at us like we were specimens in a zoo. Could have killed Jenny at that point. Why hadn’t she listened to me?
‘Down with Bloom Properties. Save affordable housing,’ we’d shouted.
‘Show the bureaucrats they can’t push us around,’ Bernie had yelled.
I tried to hide behind Rupert but the bugger was so animated in his protesting that he kept moving.
Then Jilly pointed to me and asked Harry if I was the woman who lived next door to him. The cow damn well knew I did. She had a triumphant look on her face while Harry just seemed keen to hurry on. Unfortunately for him one of the photographers recognised him.
‘Isn’t that Harry Bloom?’ he’d shouted.
‘Hey Harry,’ The Sun reporter had yelled, ‘what ‘ave you got to say about the protest?’
‘No comment,’ Harry had replied before glancing my way. Jilly had laughed and I seriously wanted to punch her lights out. I have never wanted to punch someone’s lights out, not even Essex Earring’s. But the patronising way she looked at me, just made me see red. It was all right for her in her huge house with stables, no doubt. Not at all sure why Harry Bloom lives at Marylebone Towers. Most likely spying on us to report back to his father. Hate the bugger. He’d grabbed Jilly by the arm and propelled her across the road with Bernie shouting ‘fascist’ at them. Seriously wondered if Bernie knew what we were actually protesting about.
Fifteen minutes later the oldies moved on.
‘To bleeding cold,’ they’d complained
I couldn’t disagree and was grateful when Jenny called a halt to the protest. She said we had made an impact and looked all smug. I rather think she was the only one who thought we’d made an impact, but frankly with frozen fingertips and toes I was more than grateful to go home. Felt proud I made the effort though. After all, one must do one’s bit to fight injustice. Hope I look good in the newspaper.
Chapter Three
‘Have you heard?’ Sasha asks excitedly, her rose-coloured lips all a tremble.
Sasha works on the beauty counter. She has backcombed to death platinum blonde hair, which sticks up stiffer than a meringue. You can smell her Elnett hair lacquer a mile off, and when she shakes her head you get showered with a snowstorm of dry shampoo.
‘I don’t imagine it will be much,’ scoffs Imogen. ‘Lynworths never put on anything.’
I stuff a custard tart in my mouth and try to forget my bulge.
‘There was that quiz night,’ says Mak.
It’s my lunch break and I’d forgotten my lunch. Mak had given me half of his BLT sandwich and Moira from haberdashery had offered me a custard tart. I couldn’t very well say no could I?
‘Oh yeah,’ says Imogen. ‘That was a gripping event … Not.’
‘The fish and chips were nice,’ says Mak.
‘This do has a three course meal. It’s going to be special if it’s celebrating Nigel Taylor-Lynworth taking over,’ sighs Sasha.
‘You’re friends with him aren’t you?’ laughs Mak.
‘Very funny,’ I smile.
‘What’s he like?’ Sasha asks, looking at me keenly. ‘I heard you measured his collar size. Lucky you. I’ve only seen him at a distance but I know he’s gorgeous. Did you see that piece on him in Tatler?’
‘We don’t read Tatler,’ says Imogen.
‘He’s very private,’ says Sasha.
I open my invitation.
Lynworths invite you to a
Celebratory Ball
&nbs
p; at the Guildhall
Dinner and Dance
Saturday 9th March at 8pm
Join us in welcoming Nigel Taylor-Lynworth
as the new owner of Lynworths.
Dress formal
Oh God. I hope Ashby isn’t taking Essex Earring. He’s bound to go and he won’t want to go alone and he certainly won’t be asking me, or will he? If only I could think of a reason to pop up to Human Resources to see him. I can’t go to the party alone. I’ll look a right sad bitch if I do.
‘Daniel’s going to take me,’ Imogen squeals, staring at her text messages.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Lovely darling,’ agrees Mak.
We all know the little prick won’t turn up on the night and Mak and I will spend the evening trying to coax her out of the loo. Why she doesn’t lose the little shit I will never know. At least then Mak and I could relax.
‘Who will you go with?’ Imogen asks with that satisfactory look on her face that women have when they have their date sorted.
‘Aren’t you going with Ashby?’ Sasha asks, pouting her pink lips at me.
‘Well …’
‘He broke up with her,’ Imogen answers for me.
‘And unfriended her on Facebook,’ adds Mak.
Sasha’s pink lips widen and she shakes her head, showering me in a cloud of Batiste.
‘He unfriended you?’ she gasps. ‘Does he still follow you on Instagram?’
I feel myself turn red.
‘He never did follow me on Instagram,’ I say.
‘He follows me,’ says Sasha, with another pout. ‘And he comments.’
Why would he follow Pink Pout Sasha? It probably has something to do with the skimpy bikini photos she is always posting. I’m so depressed. How can I go to a fancy party at the Guildhall on my own without looking like a saddo? I might as well wear a big badge with ‘Sad Spinster’ on it.
‘You’re not going to go to the party alone, are you?’ Sasha asks, like I’m going water rafting without a lifejacket.
‘Of course not,’ I say, forcing a smile and making it stay for the duration of lunch. I feel like I’ve got lockjaw by the time I go back on to the shop floor.
‘I’ve got a date. I’m seeing this real hottie,’ I lie.
Imogen gawps at me.
‘You are?’ says Mak.
‘I am.’
Well, I will be by the time of the party. There’s hundreds of dating agencies out there aren’t there? Surely there is a hottie to be found in time for the party. After all, it’s a few weeks away yet. I really must stop worrying about not having a boyfriend. I’m only thirty-three, there’s still plenty of time. Anyway, who wants marriage, screaming brats, dirty nappies and two tits leaking breast milk? Not to mention the baby vomit and swollen post-pregnancy tummy. Forget the country club and weekend spas with friends. Not that I do that anyway, but if I did, I’d have to swap that for school runs, lattes on the go, heaps of housework, piles of ironing and no doubt a demanding husband expecting sex as soon as I crash into bed, and I haven’t even mentioned the cystitis, cranberry juice and alcohol free Boots remedy. Crikey, it doesn’t bear thinking about. What I need is a filthy rich, handsome boyfriend. Yes, wonderful plan. All I need is to put it into action.
Chapter Four
I have a blind date with Roger aka housing association friend of Jeremy’s.
‘He’s dead keen to get sprogged up,’ Rita had said over the phone.
That’s not what I need to hear.
‘He’s got a lovely semi too, so Jeremy says.’
What more can a girl ask for?
‘What are you wearing?’
‘I can’t decide,’ I say, trying not to panic and failing miserably.
‘You don’t want to be too dressy. It’s only a first date. What about your blue Zara dress?’
Oh God, where is that? My little bedroom looks like a war zone with shoes, tops, bags and dresses strewn everywhere. I found a Jaeger suit I’d totally forgotten about though, which was a bonus.
‘What shoes are you wearing?’
‘Not sure,’ I say in a high-pitched voice. ‘I thought my new Chanel’s.’
‘You’ve shaved haven’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Jem said Roger has a thing about body hair.’
Bugger, now she tells me.
‘He does?’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t matter.’
Why is she bloody telling me if it doesn’t matter? Clearly it does matter. Oh shit.
‘It’s probably facial hair he means. I wouldn’t worry.’
‘I didn’t do my legs. I figured tights would cover it.’
‘Ah.’
Shit again. I have twenty minutes to dress, shave and put on make-up.
‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s a first date. You’re not likely to get past the snog stage.’
‘What if he’s a fast worker?’ I say rummaging through the bathroom cabinet for a razor blade. ‘And, you know, we end up … oh my God, you don’t mean, shaving my, you know what? I’m not doing that, not at this late notice. I don’t want to give myself an injury in the nether regions.’
I hurry and shave my legs to Harry Bloom’s drumming accompaniment to Black Sabbath’s Iron Man. Every time he thumps the cymbals I nick myself. I seriously want to kill him. I hurriedly apply my make-up and grab my handbag before flying out of the flat to the waiting cab.
*
Roger is forty-five if he’s a day. How Rita could have palmed him off at thirty-seven is beyond me and horror of horrors he’s carrying a man bag. He ushers me into the restaurant the second I alight from the cab.
‘We’re five minutes late,’ he says anxiously.
‘Sorry, I got held up.’
Obviously I don’t say it was because I had to shave my legs.
‘Anyway, we haven’t ordered,’ I joke. ‘The food can’t get cold can it?’
He gives me a stony stare.
‘I like to be on time. It’s rude to be late.’
‘Right,’ I say, handing the waiter my coat.
My phone bleeps and he gives me another sharp look.
‘Don’t you turn your phone off in restaurants?’
Like no, who does?
‘Well, my mother is unwell.’
What a nerve, telling me when I can have my phone on. I hope things improve.
He waits while I sit down and then surveys me.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Your mother.’
Oh shit, I forgot about her.
‘Oh, do you mind if I don’t talk about it. I don’t want to ruin the dinner.’
He studies me and then says.
‘Rita said you were late twenties.’
‘She said you were thirty-seven,’ I shoot back.
‘I am thirty-seven,’ he says.
‘Oh, this menu looks good,’ I say.
If he’s thirty-seven then I’m Elizabeth Taylor.
The waiter pours us a glass of wine and I sip it gratefully.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ smiles Roger while somehow managing to twitch his nose. Oh gross, he has nasal hair. I thought he had a thing about body hair. ‘I’ve got a few questions.’
I stare in horror as he pulls a black notebook from his bag.
‘Questions?’ I repeat.
‘Do you rent a property?’
It’s like being interrogated by The Sweeney. I nod. To be honest I’m quite speechless.
‘You’re not on housing benefit. Obviously I’m interested in that.’
‘I have a job,’ I say meekly.
‘What do you do?’
‘I work in Lynworths department store.’
He puts his pen down and looks at me.
‘By choice?’
I down some wine.
‘No, they usually kidnap me from the flat, handcuff me and bundle me into the back of a Lynworth delivery van. I’m taken there blindfolded and
forced to stay until I make my bid for freedom at six o’clock when the guards go home,’ I say. ‘It’s horrendous; someone should do something about it.’
I’m seriously going to murder Rita. I’ll make sure she suffers first though. I sneak a look at my phone. Text message from Mak.
‘How’s it going? Is he hot?’
‘As cold as a corpse,’ I text back.
Our food arrives and I sigh with relief. But it doesn’t stop Roger. He’s multi-tasking in a big way.
‘What are your political views?’ he asks, cutting into his steak.
‘I suppose you could say I lean a bit to the right.’
‘Ah.’
More wine needed I think.
‘Do you approve of child slave labour?’
I flex my neck.
‘Absolutely not,’ I say firmly.
Don’t mention Primark make-up bag.
We eat silently and I feel the stirrings of wind in my stomach. I must not get anxious when eating.
‘I want four children, I plan to adopt two from Somalia,’ he says suddenly.
I choke on my sea bass.
‘What’s your view on Somalia?’ he asks, taking me by surprise.
Do I have a view on Somalia?
‘Erm …’
‘What charities do you support?’
Does he have any idea what shop assistants earn?
‘Well … you know.’
God, this is awkward.
‘I give to Save the Children when they come round, and I only use Christmas cards from a charity.’
I don’t add it’s the freebie cards Oxfam pop through the letterbox.
‘Right,’ he says, clearly unimpressed. ‘So what are your hobbies?’
I open my mouth to speak but he gets in before me. I hide a sigh and pour more wine into my glass.
‘I paint in my spare time,’ he says, ‘not that I have much spare time.’
Honestly, you’d think he was the prime minister.
‘You probably know that I’m very high up in the housing association. It’s very difficult to find time for hobbies, but I do exhibit. What about you?’
Not many men would openly admit to exhibiting on a first date.
I shake my head.