by Lynda Renham
I am about to say no when I see Henry striding towards me. Oh no, the last person I want to be on the dance floor with is Henry. I take Harry’s arm and before I know it I’m dancing a mean salsa. Of course the Dubonnet and Harry’s great leading helps. I totally forget the long line bra and sturdy pants which have been sticking into my navel and arse all evening. I can’t deny it’s very nice, not the sturdy pants sticking in my arse obviously, but the dance with Harry Bloom. He smells divine too.
‘You’re a good dancer,’ he says, spinning me.
‘You’re a good leader that’s why. I’m normally crap.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
I must admit the dance does seem rather effortless. Maybe I’m a better dancer than I think I am. My eyes land on Ashby who stands with Essex Earring. Is that a jealous expression on his face? I do hope so. The band finish and everyone applauds.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That was very nice.’
Oh God, what a dumb thing to say after a dance.
The band begins playing Ed Sheeran’s ‘Photograph’. Oh no, I don’t need a smooch with Harry Bloom. That’s too much.
‘You’re leaving so soon?’ he says.
‘Yes, I …’
And then I see Henry. The leering look on his face makes me feel sick. I really don’t want a scene at the Christmas party.
‘Okay, one more,’ I say.
My body slots into his perfectly. It all feels very wrong. It is Harry Bloom, after all. Couples take the floor and cuddle up to their partners. Harry’s arms slide tightly around me and I feel myself pulled closer to his strong body. Ashby passes with Essex Earring but I try not to look at them. I rest my head on Harry’s shoulder and completely forget about Ashby. For a second I think I feel Harry’s lips touch my neck but the moment passes so quickly that I’m not at all sure if they did or not. The music ends and I find myself unwillingly pulling myself out of Harry’s arms.
‘I should hand you back to your boyfriend,’ he says.
‘Malcolm’s not my boyfriend,’ I say. ‘He’s just a friend.’
I have no idea why I felt the need to say that. I’m both relieved and disappointed that the dance is over. I have to remind myself that Harry Bloom is my enemy and that I hate him. It’s funny though, because at this very moment, I don’t feel like I hate him at all.
*
Sunday 4th February: 11am
What a night. I felt certain I was dying this morning. My heart was racing faster than a bloody grand prix race car. Seriously drank enough water to sink the Titanic and still felt like crap. Couldn’t believe I got so shit-faced at the party. Had the mother of all hangovers and was dead grateful that Harry Bloom’s drums were no more. Who’d have thought it? Not only is he a paramedic but dancer of the standard seen only on Strictly.
Also have a vague memory of giving Nigel Taylor-Lynworth my phone number. I do remember him saying ‘I’ll call you,’ as I climbed into a cab. I don’t imagine he actually will, but, all the same, me, Phoebe Smith pulling the likes of Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. Blind me, who’d have thought it? Just went online and ordered two more bottles of Paul and Joe Blanc. The stuff is marvellous. Thinking I should do one of those YouTube videos. I could call it ‘Phoebe Smith recommends’. After all, I’m an expert on copies. Why shouldn’t other women know the power of the stuff?
Mak, Jasper and I have vowed to drink only Dubonnet and gin in future. It is the most decadent drink ever. Felt very glamorous drinking it. I also danced so much that my feet throbbed. Couldn’t believe Imogen and Malcolm hit it off so well. They were practically eating each other during the final dance. Only hope she doesn’t have to pay a hundred and eighty quid every time she wants to see him. And there was Ashby. Ooh, needed to scroll through my phone photos first thing to drool over him again. If only he would ditch Essex Earring and ask me out again. I’d say yes in a heartbeat.
Ate a muffin with a yogurt for breakfast and then felt guilty. Really should try to lose some weight especially if I’m going out with Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. The thought of Nigel Taylor-Lynworth reminds me of work tomorrow and bloody Henry. That put me off the muffin. I’d avoided Henry most of the night but I couldn’t avoid him so easily at work. He’d managed to pigeonhole me at the party. Told me how lovely I looked with red cheeks.
‘I bet that’s how you look when you come,’ he’d slurred.
Had been totally disgusted. Feel sorry for his wife stuck at home with the kids while he lives it up. He’s repulsive and I should have reported him there and then but everyone was bantering and no doubt that’s what he would have said it was. I can’t believe it. Wonder if it’s too late to join the union. Was about to look into becoming a member when Mum phoned, squealing down the phone and asking if I’d seen it. Seems I was in the paper. Got very excited and forced myself down to the lobby to see if I could find one. Page three, Mum had said. Huh, page three. That’s ironic with what’s going on with Henry. Mind you, had to struggle to find it on page three, it was such a short piece. Couldn’t believe there were no photos. They’d been snapping away so much you’d think Beyoncé had been there. Read it slowly. After mentioning the protest and the reason behind it the reporter went on to say that a close neighbour of Mr Harry Bloom was present, ‘Miss Phoebe Smith age 37’ Thirty-seven! Who told them I was thirty-seven. Blimey, I hope they didn’t take a guess from looking at me. I know I was tired and cold but blimey. Couldn’t believe it. What if the Tinder men saw it, or even worse what if Nigel Taylor-Lynworth saw it? God, I don’t want people thinking I’m three years off forty. Bloody Harry Bloom. It’s all his fault. If his father hadn’t been trying to buy my block I wouldn’t have protested and I then wouldn’t be in the local paper aged thirty-seven. Mum said that no one would notice it. Feel sure they will. I read somewhere that people today are obsessed with age.
*
Sunday 4th February: 2 pm
Felt so much better after a couple of pork pies. Scrolled into my Instagram account and checked out Imogen’s photos. Most of them were of her with Malcolm, and cosied up they were too. There were several of her with Harry too and then there were the group photos. Uploaded my own and tagged Ashby even though he wasn’t in many of them. Then scrolled into my Facebook account to see Imogen and Mak had tagged me in loads. Found myself staring at the group one where Harry had his arm around my waist. Must not forget his father is trying to make me homeless.
Thankfully my phone rang then and I didn’t have to think any more about Harry Bloom. It was Imogen. She’d been looking at the Lynworths Facebook page where apparently there were loads of photos of me and even some with Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. ‘Getting in with the boss are we?’ she’d laughed. She’d then gone on and on about how fabulous Malcolm was.
I’d logged into the Lynworths page while she was rambling on at the other end of the phone. And there I was huddled close to Nigel. I couldn’t believe it. Was huddled close to loads of men. I almost emailed the pics to Mrs Snograss so she could see that I wasn’t ‘actually’ desperate but ‘actually’ overcome with male attention. Life is finally looking up. If only Ashby would text, Instagram, Facebook or tweet me. Couldn’t believe he hadn’t messaged me at all. Seemed Malcolm had already texted Imogen and had arranged to take her to dinner. Really wanted to be pleased for her but couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for myself at the same time.
Shared Lynworth pics to my Facebook and Instagram pages and then found myself looking for Harry Bloom on Instagram. Really can’t imagine why. Was amazed to find he had loads of photos too. Even more amazed that I spent a good half an hour going through them. There were loads of him in clubs with his mates. Several with Horsey Mouth too. Searched for him on Facebook and there he was. Couldn’t believe the bugger had over 3,000 friends. Stuffed my face with more pork pie while I trawled through Twitter for him. Started to feel like a stalker. Odd though that his Facebook page didn’t mention he was in a relationship. After all, I saw him with Jilly just the other day, although couldn’
t imagine what he sees in her. He’s very forgiving I’ll give him that. Not many men would forgive a woman who wreaked so much havoc. Still, I guess he could afford it and she is his type. My finger hovered over the ‘add friend’ button on his page. Could not believe I even considered it. Stopped myself in the nick of time and went back to Instagram where I tagged him in several photos. Seconds later was followed by him. Sat frozen for a while staring at it. Odd to think we were both online at the same time and sitting just yards away from each other. Stupidly thought of asking him around for a coffee but thank goodness my phone rang at that moment. It was Rita and she needed a favour.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Please say yes,’ she pleads.
How can I say no? She is my sister.
‘Mum said she’d have the girls but she refuses to have Niall too.’
I can’t say I blame her. The last time I had a run in with Brat Face he managed to stitch me up with Lycra shorts Nick, and what a disaster that turned out to be. Oh shit, of all the days too. All I want to do is lie on the couch and watch back-to-back episodes of Game of Thrones while nursing my hangover.
‘It’s this church do. I really don’t want to disappoint Jeremy. The sitter let us down last minute, else I wouldn’t ask. She says she’s got a stomach upset but I bet you any money she was out drinking last night and she wants an early night.’
I know how she feels.
‘I’ll drop him round about six. Shall I bring fish fingers and stuff? I don’t imagine you have any, do you, and Niall doesn’t like pork pies.’
‘I do eat other things,’ I say defensively. ‘Just not fish fingers.’
‘I’ll bring his little sleeping bag but I doubt he’ll sleep without me there. I’ll bring some DVDs too and …’
‘What time do you think you’ll be back?’ I ask.
God, I can’t cope with a late night.
‘Oh, not too late,’ she says too vaguely for my liking. ‘Ooh, how did the Christmas party go?’
‘Brilliant but I have had a terrible hangover all day.’
‘Sod it, I’m so sorry to dump this on you today. Are you sure you can cope?’
Oh well, I suppose if my mum can do it then so can I. By the time he’s had dinner, watched a couple of DVDs and played with his toys, she’ll be back. How hard can it be?
If only life was that simple.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
There is a rap on the door and Rita bursts in carrying two enormous holdalls. For one terrifying moment I wonder if I had agreed to the whole family moving in. Brat Face stands in the doorway kicking my door with his new trainers.
‘Don’t do that darling,’ says Rita. She’s all flushed and harassed with two wet spots on her top. Yuk, I’m never going to breastfeed. I honestly don’t know how people cope with kids.
‘I’ve told Jeremy I can’t do this again,’ she says, dumping the bags in the living room. Brat Face has the cheek to poke his tongue out at me, the little sod.
‘Hello Niall,’ I say pleasantly. ‘We’re going to have a nice time together aren’t we?’
The bugger then kicks my leg and has a tantrum on the living room floor. God, if he carries on like this I’ll murder him. My tolerance level is particularly low in my hungover state. Although I don’t think the police will take my hangover into account somehow.
‘It’s disgusting here, I want to go home,’ cries Brat Face.
‘It’s only for a short time darling,’ consoles Rita. ‘You can stay up late and watch a DVD, and I’m sure Aunty Phoebe will let you play games on her computer if you’re good.’
Huh, I think not.
‘Right,’ puffs Rita, as she pulls stuff out of a bag.
‘Fish fingers, oven chips and there’s a chocolate button pudding, he likes those but only when he’s eaten his dinner. There’s his water …’
‘I have water,’ I sigh. I have a tap full of it in fact.
‘He only drinks bottled water. I wasn’t sure you’d have enough and he prefers Perrier. I brought a spare bottle. Make sure you keep up his fluids.’
Has she not noticed the weather recently? It’s sodding freezing. He isn’t exactly going to dehydrate.
‘DVDs, toys and a change of clothes. I’ve brought his potty too.’
‘Potty?’ I repeat.
‘He doesn’t always want to use the loo.’
He’s given a choice?
‘I hope I haven’t forgotten anything. I’d do anything to get out of this sodding do. Phone me if there is a problem won’t you?’
‘You’re going to be a good boy for Aunty Phoebe aren’t you?’ she says, as Brat Face kicks the coffee table. I wipe up some spilt water before it stains the wood.
‘I could kill the sodding babysitter,’ she moans.
I was beginning to have bad feelings about the sodding babysitter myself.
‘Right, I’d better go,’ she says as she heads for the door, at which point Brat Face screams his head off.
I check the time. It’s only been an hour since I took the painkillers.
‘Oh darling,’ says Rita tearfully.
I shove her out of the door.
‘It’s much better if you just go,’ I say.
I close the door and then Brat Face and I have a stand-off.
‘You’re disgusting,’ he says and kicks my shin.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My head thumps so much that I can barely see straight. What’s worse is that I think I’m seeing two Brat Faces. God knows, one is hard enough to cope with.
‘Right, here’s your dinner,’ I say, pushing him into a chair at the small dining table.
‘The chips are burnt,’ he says, pulling a face.
‘They’ll be crisp though won’t they? You said you liked them crisp.’
‘Not burnt. They’re disgusting,’ he says, pushing the plate away. ‘I hate fish fingers, they’re disgusting too.’
‘Your mum said they were your favourite.’
‘I only like chocolate buttons now.’
‘Well you can’t have that until you’ve eaten your fish fingers,’ I say firmly.
I’m going to be a stricter mother than Rita if I ever have kids. Honestly, he is such a spoilt little brat. My phone bleeps and he reaches out a grubby little hand to get it. I grab it before him and see it is Rita again. Honestly, she’s spent more time texting me than anything. Well, that’s not strictly true, I imagine she has texted my mother more.
Is everything okay? Did he eat his dinner? Has he had his water?
‘He’s had loads,’ I text back while shoving the water bottle under his nose.
‘I don’t like water, it’s disgusting. My mum says I can have Coca Cola now.’
I swear the little sod has had training in how to manipulate the grown-ups.
‘I’ll only give you Coca Cola if you eat your fish fingers.’
That worked. Two minutes later and he’s almost finished his dinner and half a bottle of Coke.
There was another bleep and I sigh.
‘He might ask for cola, don’t give it to him. It makes him hyper and I’ll be up all night with him.’
Fuckity Bollocks.
Brat Face grins at me as he tucks into his chocolate pudding. I bite into a Besties and check the time. Thank God, I can soon take some more painkillers.
‘Pee pee,’ he says suddenly.
‘Right, come on,’ I say, taking his hand and leading him to the loo.
‘Potty,’ he says, pulling back.
‘You really can do it on the loo. After all you’re a big boy now.’
‘I don’t like your toilet. It’s …’
‘Disgusting,’ I finish.
I pull down his trousers and shove the potty under him. He doesn’t stop fidgeting. I’ve clearly given him too much Coke and have no idea how to get it out of him. Unless Coke is like alcohol and in which case a couple of pints of water should help.
‘Right,’ I say, feeling myself perspiring. Who’d hav
e thought having a child was such hard work. ‘How about a DVD and …’
‘DVDs are disgusting. I like games.’
He points to my laptop.
I hesitate. Still, if it keeps him quiet for a while it’s worth it.
‘I’ll only let you play on my computer if you drink your water,’ I bribe.
He nods happily. I find a suitable game for him to play and settle him on the couch.
‘Aunty Phoebe is going to get something to eat,’ I say.
God, what I wouldn’t do for a large glass of wine, but I probably shouldn’t be under the influence while child-minding. I fall on to the couch with a muffin.
‘What’s that?’ asks Brat Face pointing at the muffin.
Before I can stop him he has jumped up and the next thing I know his face is covered in muffin. He falls back on to the couch and grabs my laptop, smearing sticky fingermarks over the keyboard.
‘Oh Brat … Niall, look at the mess,’ I cry, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the bathroom.
‘You’re disgusting,’ he says, starting to cry. ‘I want my mummy.’
You and me both. With much screaming and protesting I manage to get his hands clean.
‘Why don’t you play with your cars?’ I cajole. ‘You like those don’t you?’
‘I want to go home,’ he cries. ‘I hate it here and I hate you.’
The feeling is so mutual. At that moment there is a knock at the door and my heart surges with relief. Oh thank God, Rita’s back.
‘There’s mummy. You see, it wasn’t that bad was it?’
Except it wasn’t mummy at all, it was Harry Bloom, with two Domino pizza boxes.
*
Sunday 4th February: 10 pm
Couldn’t believe I opened the door to Harry Bloom looking like a night hag, me that is, not Harry Bloom. Not that I cared what Harry Bloom thought of me. He’s the last person I want to impress. All the same, one likes to make a good impression with the opposite sex, even if it is Harry Bloom. Brat Face stopped screaming as soon as he saw the pizzas. Stood looking like a mad crazed aunt with blueberry muffin crumbs all over my top. I was so harassed that I could easily have been mistaken for a mad psychopath about to slaughter their nephew. No doubt Harry Bloom heard the screaming and thought murder was already under way.