by Lynda Renham
‘Fucking brilliant,’ says Mak.
‘We should come again,’ says Imogen. ‘Although I suppose it costs the earth doesn’t it?’
I just want to rush home and tell Harry how fabulous it was and what a brilliant birthday present he’d given me. I miss talking to Harry so much. I look around the bar one last time in the hope that he may be here.
‘I wish I could tell Harry how wonderful it was,’ I say.
‘Why can’t you love?’ asks Mak. ‘He only lives next door.’
‘He never seems to be home and I don’t know how to approach him.’
‘Just take a deep breath, knock on his door and say “Holy fuck, that opera was awesome”,’ says Mak.
Friends mean well don’t they? I couldn’t have better friends than Imogen and Mak but I really can’t knock on Harry’s door and say, holy fuck, that opera was awesome, can I? Oh the trials and tribulations of love.
*
I decide to take Mak’s advice and hurry home in the hope of seeing Harry. I rush up the stairs. I don’t want to lose my nerve. I’m about to knock on the door when it opens and a strange man stares back at me.
‘Oh sorry,’ he says taken aback.
‘I’m looking for Harry,’ I say, feeling my nerves take over.
‘He’s not in,’ says the man.
I look at him curiously. Oh God, he isn’t burgling Harry’s flat is he?
‘I’m his neighbour,’ I say as forcefully as I can.
‘I’m sorry, we should have knocked. I’m the estate agent handling the sale.’
‘The sale?’ I hear myself echo.
A couple appear behind him and smile at me.
‘Hi, I’m Rebecca and this is Lee.’
I can’t speak so simply nod.
‘Mr Bloom said it was okay to measure up,’ says the estate agent.
I gape at him. Harry Bloom is selling his flat? Oh no.
‘Measure up?’ I say, dumbfounded.
‘Perhaps we should give you a knock next time, just to let you know?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say turning away. ‘It’s fine.’
‘They’re very spacious flats aren’t they?’ says Rebecca.
‘Not once you get the furniture in. They’re really only big enough for one person.’
‘Yes right,’ says the estate agent. ‘It was nice meeting you.’
‘Yes, nice meeting you, I think we’re going to have some lovely neighbours,’ says Rebecca.
I turn back to my flat when Mr Tyler calls up.
‘Phoebe, I’ve got a parcel for you.’
I rush back down the stairs, my heart beating so hard I can feel it thump in my chest. Harry Bloom is moving. He said he loved it here.
‘This came today,’ says Mr Tyler, handing over a box.
I grab it and rush back upstairs. ‘Thanks,’ I shout over my shoulder.
I rip open the box to find a Chanel handbag. I gasp. Ooh it’s gorgeous.
‘With thanks for the mention. Love Katie @ Chanel’ reads the card.
I flop on to the couch and hug it. Any other time I’d be on cloud nine but all I want to do is cry. Harry Bloom is moving. Moving where? Why is he moving? I’ve not thanked him for the opera tickets. He can’t bloody move. I’ve got Mr Right on my doorstep and now he decides to move. I’m devastated.
*
I was very tempted to eat a pork pie or two. Instead I opted for a glass of Chardonnay and a tuna sandwich. It really doesn’t work. Healthy eating and comfort eating just don’t go hand in hand. Celery stick versus a pork pie? It’s a no-brainer.
I hate Harry. He’s totally ruined my excitement at receiving the Chanel bag. Now I sound really shallow. I can’t help thinking that Harry is moving because of me. Now I’ve gone from shallow to narcissistic. I pull my laptop towards me and click into the forum update page.
‘Anyone know when the blog is going to be live again?’ Pinkchick is asking.
I click into my Facebook account and then into Ashby’s to find he has unfriended me already. Just as well, as it saves me from unfriending him. I click into Harry’s Instagram account and see there have been no updates. He hasn’t updated for a while now. I check his Twitter page and see there have been no updates there either. No good checking his Facebook page as I’m not his friend. I’m most clearly not a friend of Harry Bloom’s and feel tears prick my eyelashes.
I have several new emails. My eyes widen at one from Tish at Besties.
How about if we say you’re a mature thirty-seven? She asks.
An email from Wordpress; your readers are missing you. Come back to Wordpress.
I exhale and click into my texts.
Hi there, I’m Moira, features editor at The Camden News. Your number was passed to us by Radio Camden. We’d like to feature you. Can you let me know a good time to get hold of you?
And become Philippa Smithson aged fifty-five? I think not.
Hello, this is Gary Tweed, interior designer. When is a good time to pop round and have a look at the flat?
Text from Sasha:
What are you wearing to the Guildhall? I don’t want to clash.
I’d totally forgotten it was the Guildhall ball next week. I push the laptop to one side and WhatsApp Imogen,
Harry is moving, don’t know what to do.
The phone rings seconds later. I click into Facetime and look at her shocked face.
‘Oh, bugger Phoeb, that’s pants. Why is he going?’
‘I don’t know. I met the estate agent tonight.’
‘You didn’t see Harry?’
‘No, he was out.’
‘Oh Phoebe,’ she says sympathetically.
I sniff and feel tears well up.
‘I don’t want him to go.’
‘You can always see him at The Blue Note.’
‘I don’t know what to say to him. I was so horrid when we last saw each other.’
‘What about a text?’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t think he wants anything to do with me.’
She sighs.
‘I think he’s my Mr Right,’ I say.
‘Then you’ve got to try everything,’ she says.
She’s right, of course. Once you’ve found Mr Right, you really shouldn’t let him go that easily should you?
I hang up promising to text Harry.
I spend the next twenty minutes drafting a text on my laptop. How crazy is that? I want to get it exactly right. I delete it three times and am ready to pull my hair out. By the time I’m ready to send it, it’s almost midnight. Damn is it too late to send a text? I grab my phone and type it in.
Dear Harry, I haven’t seen you for a while and wondered if everything was okay with you and your mum. I’m so sorry you’re moving. I went to the opera this evening with Imogen, Mak and Jasper to see Tosca and it was fabulous. Thank you so much for the tickets. Will you be around in the next few days? Phoebe. x
I read it over several times and then take the plunge and hit send.
Immediately I get a message did not send alert. I check my phone signal and try again. The same message comes up. I feel a churning in my stomach. I click the call button and wait only to get a computerised voice saying, this mobile number is unattainable.
I don’t believe it. How can my Mr Right be unattainable?
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘This is it?’ says Imogen, looking up.
I don’t know what I imagined the offices of Bloom Properties would look like but I envisioned something a bit grander than this. The offices are in a Georgian building close to Leadenhall Street.
‘I can’t do it,’ I say, feeling myself tremble.
‘I’ve given up my lunch break for this, you’ve got to do it,’ says Imogen pushing open the door.
What do I say to him? I’d planned what I was going to say and even rehearsed it but it just sounded hollow. I was going to start it with, what an amazing place to have an office. But it’s not in the least amazing.
<
br /> A grey-haired lady looks over her spectacles from behind the reception desk and I silently panic.
‘Go on,’ urges Imogen.
Oh God. I try really hard to look dignified and calm.
‘Good afternoon,’ says the woman.
‘Hello, I’m erm ….’
‘Is Harry Bloom about?’ asks Imogen.
Oh no. In my rehearsed speech I’d said, I wonder if it would be possible to have a quick word with Harry Bloom.
It’s just as well Imogen got in first as in my nervous state I most likely would have said, I wonder if it would be possible to have a quickie with Harry Bloom?
‘Oh, I’m sorry did the memo not reach you?’
‘Memo?’ I repeat.
‘We didn’t get a memo,’ says Imogen with a shrug.
‘Oh, that’s strange,’ the woman says clicking into her laptop.
‘What company do you represent?’
‘Oh, we’re friends,’ says Imogen.
There’s no holding her back now.
‘Oh,’ says the woman looking up. ‘Harry Bloom no longer works at Bloom Properties.’
I gasp.
‘He doesn’t?’ says Imogen.
‘No.’
‘Can you tell us where he is working now?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
I feel tears well up yet again.
‘Thank you,’ I say and hurry to the exit door.
Imogen quickly follows and we stand outside as the wind whips at our faces.
‘I’m not going to be able to get hold of him,’ I say miserably.
*
I pop to the local Sainsbury’s on my way home and check the aisles for Harry, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
I wander to the flat with my bag of groceries and try Harry’s door again. The woman, Rebecca, that I’d met the previous evening opens the door.
‘Oh hello,’ she says with a big smile. ‘We’re just cleaning up a bit.’
‘You’re moving in,’ I say, trying not to sound too unwelcoming.
‘Yes, Saturday. It’s all go.’
‘Right,’ I nod. ‘You don’t have a forwarding address for Harry Bloom do you?’
She shakes her head.
‘I don’t. Have you tried the estate agents?’
‘No I haven’t. I can’t remember their name?’
‘It’s Rightson. They’re in Camden High Street.’
‘Great thanks. Have a good moving in,’ I say stupidly and hurry into my flat.
I pull my mobile from my bag and google Rightson Estate agents.
‘Rightson’s Limited, Emma speaking, how can I help?’
‘Oh hi,’ I say. ‘I live next door to a flat that you’re handling.’
‘One sec, can you give me the address.’
I give her the details and say hopefully, ‘The previous owner, Harry Bloom is … was my neighbour. Do you have a forwarding address for him?’
‘No, he didn’t give one to us. To be honest we couldn’t give it out even if we did have one.’
Bugger, it seems I’m destined not to be with my Mr Right.
I’ve never felt so sad in my whole life.
*
‘Not sure how to tell you this petal, but we popped to The Blue Note. It seems Harry has no bookings arranged for the near future. At least not at The Blue Note.’
I’m starting to think I dreamt up Harry Bloom.
*
‘It’s like a light bulb lit up in his head,’ says Imogen, snuggling up to Malcolm.
‘I’m not sure I want to hear this,’ I say.
‘It’s perfect, you can tell Harry exactly how you feel and you don’t have to look him in the eye.’
‘Sounds too good to be true.’
‘You write to him on your blog,’ says Mak excitedly.
Imogen claps her hands.
‘It’s a fab idea isn’t it?’
They’ve clearly given this a lot of thought. Not.
‘I don’t have a blog any more,’ I remind them.
‘We resurrect it,’ explains Mak.
‘Then we all share the posting,’ adds Imogen. ‘It’ll be brilliant.’
‘It’ll probably go viral,’ says Jasper, clinking glasses with Mak.
‘I think you’re all mad. I’m not going to tell the world how I feel about Harry. I’ve had enough trouble from the blog already. I’m not pouring my heart out on there.’
They gawp at me.
‘Why not?’ asks Malcolm.
‘Because it’s too public.’
‘That didn’t stop you before?’ Mak reminds me.
‘It wasn’t live to begin with. That was all Brat Face’s fault. Anyway, I don’t want to discuss it any more. Do you have any ideas who I can go to the Guildhall with?’
They all nod.
‘Oh sod off,’ I snap.
*
I turn the corner into my road and see Harry. He’s walking ahead of me. My breath catches in my throat. I take a deep breath and call out to him, he turns but it isn’t Harry at all. My heart feels like lead. How can Harry Bloom have disappeared? Will I ever see him again?
*
‘Are you sure it wasn’t him’ asks Mak.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, but I’m seeing him everywhere. I’m having a breakdown.’
‘We’re on our way. You need to do that posting.’
‘But what if he’s got a new girlfriend?’
‘So, the worst that could happen is that he spurns you.’
‘Well …’ I say hesitantly.
‘We’ll stop by Gem’s on the way but if she’s eating pickled gherkins again and drinking ginger beer then I can’t bring her.’
*
I stare at the laptop. All I can hear is Imogen crunching gherkins and Mak tapping the table with his fingers.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I complain.
‘Just make out we’re not here and rabbit on like you used to.’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t know if I can do this.’
‘You have to do it,’ says Imogen. ‘Harry will never know how you feel otherwise. The worst that can happen is nothing will change.’
‘You might as well petal. Make it your final post. The end of Phoebe’s Smith’s private blog, and in a week’s time we’ll delete it. He’s bound to have read it by then.’
I look out of the window at the estate agent’s ‘Sold’ sign and then back to my laptop. I suppose they’re right. I’ve got nothing to lose.
*
Monday 5th March: 7pm
It’s been a while since I have posted anything on this blog and a lot has happened to me in that time. I’ve had to apologise for the things I’ve said about certain people and I ask all of you to forgive my thoughtless ramblings. This will be my last post on the blog, so before signing off I would like to give a few messages. To all of you, who have read the blog and supported me, thank you.
To Rock and Tish at Besties, thanks but no thanks. I am turning down the offer to be the face of Besties pork pies. As flattering as it would be to have my face, albeit a Photoshopped more rounded version of it, on the wrappers of your products, the truth is pork pies are not good for you. My Christmas bulge is testimony to that fact. Also, I am age thirty-four and not thirty-seven, thirty-eight or even thirty-nine.
Burberry: thanks for the offer of a genuine handbag. Over the last few weeks I have come to value my friends more than my things. I have enough handbags and I would feel happier if you were to give the bag to someone more deserving.
To my sister Rita, you are the best. Thank you for putting up with me. If you need me to babysit, I’ll have ‘Brat Face’ any time.
To Imogen, Malcolm, Mak and Jasper, who know me better than anyone else. Without your support and friendship I could not have got through the last few weeks. And it was you that suggested I write this final message.
You probably want to know who I will be going to the Guildhall with. The fact
is, it’s just a few days away and I still don’t know. I know who I want to go with and would do anything to put right all of the stupid things I’ve done and the horrid things I have said to him.
Finally, to Harry Bloom. I’m so sorry for being so obnoxious to you. I couldn’t believe it when I discovered your flat was on the market. I was wrong about Bloom Properties and totally wrong about you. I know that you helped me to stay in my flat and I never even thanked you. I can now see that you are everything I ever wanted in a boyfriend. You’re caring, sensitive, fun, handsome and intelligent. I only realised what I felt for you when Mak, Imogen and I went to see Tosca with the tickets you gave me for my birthday. I so wanted to tell you how beautiful it was but, of course, it was too late. I can’t imagine never seeing you again. I have tried to find you. I’ve looked for you in all the places where you used to be. I’m not even sure if this blog posting will reach you, but one must make a declaration of love if one feels it. And that’s the point really, I feel that I have fallen in love with you and I’m terribly sad to have lost you. You were right when you said you can’t judge a person on what the internet says. I miss your drum playing and smile at the memory of the sound of your drums through the wall, but most of all I miss you. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me for all the silly things I said? I understand that you might not want to see me but it would mean so much to know that you have read this letter. I’ll end here. Thank you for being such a wonderful friend.
Goodbye everyone. Thanks for reading my blog. See you on the other side. Love Phoebe Smith (age 34) xx
Chapter Fifty-Nine
‘Jeremy thought your blog posting was very touching,’ says Rita. ‘He said he’d be very pleased to take you to the Guildhall. After all, you wouldn’t want to go with anyone else. Have you heard anything?’
‘Not a dicky bird,’ I sigh.
‘Oh, that’s a bummer.’
She’s not wrong. I’m in a pretty diabolical state. I suppose I thought that Harry would come charging to the flat like a knight in shining armour. The truth is he hasn’t. Come to that no one has come charging to the flat aside from Imogen and Mak.
The post went down very well. It had the highest number of hits that the blog has ever had. Tish phoned from Besties in tears. She said it was so moving, and then tried to get me to change my mind about being the face of Besties.