Phoebe Smith’s Private Blog: A Romantic Comedy

by Lynda Renham

  ‘I have to keep my energy up,’ he says and flexes his biceps. ‘No one wants to take me on,’ he adds, glancing at the guys on the other table. ‘I can get any bouncer job I want. No one can fucking touch me.’

  ‘Great,’ I say.

  ‘Feel those,’ he says pushing his muscled arm into my face.

  I’m getting quite worried about what he’ll ask me to feel next.

  ‘I really don’t need to.’

  ‘Go on, feel how firm they are.’

  This is all so wrong. And if that wasn’t enough, he then stands up and asks me to punch him in the stomach. This has to be the weirdest date of my life.

  ‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘You can’t hurt me.’

  What a pity. I’m just beginning to think that the torture will never end when, like a miracle, Mak walks in with Jasper. I’m about to punch Bruno in the stomach for the second time when Mak gasps,

  ‘Good God Phoebe.’

  ‘It’s your mum,’ says Jasper as though reading from a script.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Mak, ‘it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Her usual,’ adds Jasper.

  I have no idea what they’re talking about but I’ve never been so happy to see them.

  ‘Oh no, not that,’ I say, playing along. ‘So sorry Bar … Bruno, but I really must go.’

  Bruno stands with his muscle vest up, waiting for another punch.

  ‘What the?’ asks Mak.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I say. ‘Just get me out of here before we end up line dancing.’

  ‘I like line dancing,’ says Jasper.

  Mak grabs him and we hurry outside to the car. A great escape, but a shame I didn’t get the chocolate fudge cake.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I check my diary and groan. I’d forgotten about the psychic evening I’d promised to go to. I really don’t know what possessed me, excuse the pun, to agree. I don’t consort with dead people. They make me very nervous. Imogen, on the other hand, is dead keen, excuse the pun again.

  ‘I need advice. I’m at a crossroads,’ she said.

  I rather think a therapist would have been the best person to talk to rather than her dead grandmother. It’s not like Facetiming heaven is it? The psychic is the famous Karolina Karlsson-Creech from Sweden, not that I would have heard of her.

  I’ve only ever seen psychics on TV. It all seems a bit vague to me. Seriously, if it’s that easy for them to communicate with us, why don’t they just send us an email or text message? Imogen says it’s not as simple as that. I don’t like to argue but I figure if her grandmother can move things around her flat as Imogen claims she does, then why can’t she press the keys on her laptop?

  Mak and Jasper are keen to go so I’ll look bit of a wet blanket if I don’t. I’m not even sure if I believe in life after death. To be honest I’d rather hoped to get a bit of peace and quiet when I die. I certainly don’t get much down here. I really don’t understand how everyone can be somewhere else. Surely it would be a bit overcrowded wouldn’t it? Do all the Saxons and cave people go somewhere different to us? After all, what can a caveman have in common with me? I can’t discuss the latest technology with them can I? No point discussing with them how the iPhone 7 is superior to the iPhone 6. And what about men like Henry? He’s the last person I’d want to see when I’m dead.

  But more urgently, I have no idea what you wear for a psychic fair. Something spiritual and airy fairy I suppose. I have a fabulous colourful cape that I bought in Glastonbury so I guess that would be perfect.

  After searching through my drawers I find a flowing boho dress that I had bought years ago. All I need are a pair of long dangling earrings and I’ll most certainly look the part.

  Mak had said we’d go for a drink first.

  ‘A few spirits before meeting the spirits,’ he’d joked on the phone.

  I had told Imogen that I don’t know any dead people, apart from my gran, and she didn’t talk much when she was alive so I doubt she’ll be talking any more now she’s dead.

  I wonder if they’ll have a bar there. That would certainly help.

  I pull my hair back and wrap it into a bun. By the time Imogen rings the doorbell I’m ready to face the dead. Who knows I might even meet the man of my dreams. A live man that is, not a dead one. I don’t want to re-enact Ghost and have him jump into someone else’s body every time we want to go on a date.

  *

  The hall is packed. With living people that is. It seems that alcohol is not allowed in the hall. You’re not supposed to mix spirit with spirit a mystic woman had instructed us. The place is full of women. Mak and Jasper are two of the few men there, not that you can class Mak and Jasper as men. I can’t believe how nervous I am. When the psychic is brought on to the stage, I slink down in my seat. I’m not sure what that achieves. I imagine the dead are a bit like God, all seeing and all that.

  ‘I hope I get a message,’ whispers Imogen.

  The room goes silent as Karolina Karlsson-Creech stands up and looks around the hall. I’m sure my eyes are like saucers. I have to fight the urge to giggle when she says,

  ‘I’m being pulled to the right.’

  We all look to the right.

  ‘No, I’m going to the left. Hang on. No I’m in the middle.’

  It’s worse than being at Wimbledon. The spirit who is coming through could do with a compass. Imogen shushes me.

  ‘I think she’s looking at me,’ says Mak.

  ‘I’m getting the initial A,’ she says.

  ‘Ooh, that could be Arnold,’ whispers Mak.

  ‘Who’s Arnold?’ I whisper.

  ‘My cat. We were very close.’

  ‘Your cat can’t give you a message.’

  Unless cats learn to speak after they pass over. God that would be a bit mental wouldn’t it?

  ‘It’s probably to let me know he’s okay,’ says Mak tearfully.

  It turns out she was with the lady in front whose husband’s name was Archie. Suddenly Beyoncé blasts out into the hall and to my horror I realise it is my phone. Heads turn my way and I’m sternly asked to take the call outside.

  It’s my mother. Well, at least I got a message.

  ‘If Great Aunt Maude comes through you must phone me,’ she says.

  I didn’t even know Great Aunt Maude, so I don’t imagine she’ll recognise me but I promise to phone Mum if she does.

  ‘You too?’ says a voice behind me. I slip my phone back into my bag and turn to the voice.

  The man is not handsome or anything but he has a nice smile and good teeth. I’m starting to lower my expectations. All I ask is that they’re not about to embark on an expedition, own a boy racer car or a tandem, like their steak cooked normally and don’t have a list of questions in their man bag.

  ‘My mother,’ I explain.

  ‘Everything alright?’ he asks. He sounds more worried about my mum than I am.

  ‘Oh yes, she just wants me to let her know if my Great Aunt Maude comes through.’

  ‘Ah, it was nothing serious then. Mine was the hospital.’

  Ooh, he must be a doctor on call.

  ‘Are you a doctor or something?’ I ask, although I’m not sure what the something can be. He laughs. He has very straight teeth, they are exceptionally white too.

  ‘No I wish I was. It was my consultant with the results of some tests.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say, trying to sound as sympathetic as I can while wondering if Aunty Maude was coming through. I would hate to miss her. I wonder if she knows I’m out here, chatting up a man in the foyer. ‘I hope everything’s okay?’

  ‘They all seem clear, but well, you never know do you? There’s a few more I’d like done.’

  ‘You have a good doctor. Mine would never phone me at eight in the evening.’

  I’m lucky if the receptionists answer the phone before ten in the morning, and then I have to say that I’m dying before they will give me an appointment.

  ‘I go private,’ he smiles.


  Ooh a rich man to boot. He could be an ideal date for the Guildhall. I don’t have much longer to find someone.

  ‘We should get back,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to miss a message.’

  I nod and struggle to think of a way to see him again.

  ‘Meet you at the teas later,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say and watch him walk back into the hall. It seems the dead have their uses after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I sneak back to my seat.

  ‘Just met this gorgeous guy,’ I whisper to Imogen.

  She shushes me.

  ‘The lady in the coloured cardigan,’ Karolina says.

  I can’t believe how seriously Imogen takes all this stuff. She nudges me in the ribs.

  ‘It’s you,’ she squeals.

  ‘What’s me?’

  ‘The message; it’s for you.’

  I look up to see the psychic pointing at me. Oh shit. I don’t want a message from Great Aunt Maude.

  ‘Erm …’ I begin.

  ‘The lady in the coloured thing,’ she says again.

  It’s a shawl, not a thing.

  ‘Me?’ I stammer.

  Should I say I don’t really know any dead people or dead animals come to that? Great Aunt Maude didn’t know me and my grandmother won’t talk.

  ‘Ooh love,’ whispers Mak.

  ‘She’s standing behind you,’ says the psychic.

  I shiver. I’m scared shitless to turn around in case I see her. I really don’t know why you can’t mix spirit with spirit. If there was ever a time a drink was needed it was now.

  ‘I’m seeing music around you.’

  This must be Harry Bloom’s drumming.

  ‘Musical notes.’

  I shake my head. You couldn’t find anyone less musical than me.

  ‘You’re going somewhere, where there is music, something to do with musical notes.’

  She’s really scraping the barrel if you ask me.

  ‘She’s telling me that’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘I’m getting the initial M, can you take that?’

  Oh God, surely it isn’t really Great Aunt Maude.

  ‘Possibly,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘She’s telling me you’re worried about your home?’

  I nod.

  ‘It’s all going to be okay. You’re not to worry.’

  It’s easy for her to say.

  I’m struggling to work out what the hell she’s talking about when she moves on to someone on the other side of the hall.

  ‘Wow,’ says Mak.

  ‘Amazing,’ agrees Jasper.

  Did I miss something? What a load of crap. There are a few more messages and then we break for tea. At last, this is my chance to chat up the guy from the foyer.

  *

  His name’s Tony and he’s available. Over tea and chocolate digestives I learn that he works at the Park Hotel in London. I can foresee discount dirty weekends. He thinks the psychic is brilliant. I can’t say I agree with him on that one but you can’t agree on everything can you?

  ‘She’s given a lot of people validation,’ he says.

  ‘Validation?’ questions Mak.

  ‘Proof of life after death,’ explains Tony.

  ‘It’s interesting,’ I say.

  That’s the best word I can come up with.

  ‘I think it’s amazing,’ agrees Mak.

  ‘I wish I’d get a message,’ whines Imogen. ‘I’m at a crossroads; you’d think someone would come through to help.’

  I stay at the tea counter after the others return to their seats.

  ‘I’m glad we met,’ I tell Tony.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, scrolling through his phone. ‘Sorry, just checking the test results. My consultant has emailed me.’

  It must be lovely to go private. I can’t help wondering what’s wrong with him. I know it sounds horrible but I don’t want to start a relationship with someone who’s got an illness. I’m not good with illness, that’s the thing. I can’t bear to be around someone with a cold and I can’t stand the sight of blood. I can’t even watch Casualty without getting queasy. I can’t ask what’s wrong with him can I? I guess it can’t be much if the tests came back normal.

  ‘I was wondering …’ he begins.

  I nod encouragingly.

  ‘No, you’ve probably got a boyfriend,’ he says, turning to the door.

  ‘I haven’t,’ I say, trying to hide the desperation from my voice.

  ‘Oh, then perhaps you’d like to come out for a meal tomorrow night?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  God, I hope I didn’t sound too keen. I should have hesitated for a second or two shouldn’t I? It’s just the Guildhall ball is approaching and I really don’t want to go on my own.

  *

  Monday 12th February: 6pm

  I can’t believe Henry followed me to Burger King and actually stroked my bum in the queue. This is getting ridiculous. Told him I was going to report him to the union if he didn’t stop. He just laughed and said he’d put me out of a job if I did. Said he was superior to Brian and I wouldn’t want a bad reference would I? He really worried me. He claimed that everyone saw me flirting with him at the Christmas party. I really don’t remember doing that and said as much. Can’t believe I did. Even when drunk I feel sure Henry is the last person I would flirt with. He also reminded me about the ear-piercing debacle and how that couldn’t be ignored when writing a reference. Couldn’t believe it. Terrified to report it to the union now. What if he says I’ve been flirting with him at work too? I’ve read stories like this in The Mail Online. Oh God, I don’t want to be in the paper. Really don’t know what to do.

  Couldn’t believe Ashby either. He came into the staffroom when I was having my afternoon break. Been ages since I had a break the same time as him. Then Henry came in, (something fishy about how he always takes breaks when I do) and groped my arse when he reached for a mug. Ashby’s eyes had widened but he’d said bugger all. Waited until Henry had gone and asked Ashby what to do. He looked as worried as me. I asked if he saw what Henry did and he stammered that he couldn’t be sure. Feel really upset that Ashby didn’t punch Henry’s lights out, there and then. I got a bit angry in fact and told Ashby how I could lose my job if I didn’t have someone say they also saw Henry harass me. He’d just said it wasn’t likely to come to that. That I wouldn’t actually lose my job and that maybe Henry hadn’t deliberately touched my bum and that it had probably been an accident. Couldn’t be arsed to tell him how many times Henry had accidently touched my bum, breasts and thighs. Instead suggested maybe I should let Henry have me over the staffroom table and be done with it. Ashby had just looked at his watch and said how late it was, and then hurried back upstairs to his office.

  Wonder if Tony will know anything about sexual harassment at work. Seems all wrong to talk about something like that on a first date but feeling a bit desperate now. I imagine it happens in hotels too. I’ll ask his advice. Providing the date goes well.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I see Tony sitting at a table by the window and look around for a tandem, a boy racer or motorbike. I’m relieved there’s no sign of any of them. He waves and I enter the restaurant. I approach the table to see there isn’t a man bag or a list of questions in sight. Thank God for that.

  I could really do with a glass of wine to calm my nerves but the whole Henry situation has left me with a dull ache across my forehead. I really must stop thinking about it.

  ‘Good luck,’ Imogen had texted. ‘He’s a sensitive guy. I think you’ve found a decent one at last.’

  Tony stands up as I approach. Now, there’s a gentleman.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, ‘I’m not late am I? I had some problems at work.’

  That’s putting it mildly.

  ‘Oh no,’ he says, pulling out a chair for me. ‘I’ve been studying the menu. What would you like to drink?’ h
e asks as the waitress approaches.

  ‘Just a diet Coke please.’

  Listen to me, a diet Coke, as if that’s really going to help with the weight loss. I don’t think so. Not the way I’ve been putting away the pork pies.

  ‘I booked a private reading with Karolina Karlsson-Creech,’ he says after ordering my Coke.

  ‘Oh really?’

  I don’t know what else to say. Anyone who tries to tell me I’m musical has to be a charlatan. Even Harry’s dog whines when I sing. Tony is quite appealing. He has bright blue eyes that sparkle when he smiles.

  ‘You said you worked at Lynworths, if I remember.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  I wonder if this is a good opportunity to mention Henry but decide not. Anyway it isn’t the easiest subject to bring up, is it?

  ‘Right, food,’ he smiles. ‘Shall we order and then we can relax and chat as much as we like?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, looking down at the menu.

  I wonder if he’s having a starter. I’m starving but I don’t want to have one if he isn’t.

  ‘Would you like a starter?’ he asks, as if reading my mind.

  ‘Only if you’re having one.’

  Oh, that’s the kind of thing that my mum says. God, I’m thirty-three and I’m turning into my mother.

  ‘No, I can’t eat too much in one go,’ he says.

  Blimey, I wish I could say the same. That’s the starter out then. I don’t want to look like a pig do I?

  ‘I’m fine with just the main,’ I lie.

  ‘I think I’ll have the salmon and haddock fishcakes,’ he says.

  ‘The Beef Bourgogne looks nice,’ I say as the waiter wafts past carrying one.

  Tony wrinkles his nose.

  ‘I don’t eat red meat. It gives you bowel cancer.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I swallow.

  ‘But don’t let me stop you.’

  It’s a bit late now. I’ve gone right off it. It’s probably best not to mention my penchant for pork pies this early in the relationship.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll have the chicken,’ I say.

  I then see it’s marinated in garlic so maybe not. You know, just in case.

  ‘Actually I’ll have the chargrilled chicken salad,’ I say.