by Lynda Renham
I could go to the loo I suppose. It’s as good an idea as any. Maybe they have a window I could climb out of.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say vaguely.
In fact, I’m not sure about anything. A month ago I was a normal person. I’m still a normal person but you know what I mean. I had a normal job and a normal boyfriend. Well, he seemed normal, and a normal flat, and yes maybe I had a weird boss but I didn’t know that until Christmas Eve. In fact, come to think of it maybe I don’t have a normal boyfriend either. What kind of normal boyfriend sleeps with his boss to get a promotion? I guess the only thing I had that was normal was my flat. Mind you, all that was much more normal than what I have now wasn’t it? Now I share a house with a man I don’t know and I work in a sleazy sex shop, and live where strange men come up to me in cafés and ask if their porn movies have arrived right in the middle of my boyfriend’s marriage proposal. I have a big bag of chocolate penises in my fridge. Okay on my shelf in a shared fridge, but the point is I have them. How normal is that?
‘I’ll pop in and check, shall I?’ asks the man.
I nod and look at Oliver. We sit in silence for a time and I nibble at my cold bacon sandwich. The waitress watches us from behind the counter.
‘Well, what do you say? I love you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I was foolish. I forgive you for Ben Newman and …’
‘Forgive me?’ I say stunned. ‘I wouldn’t shag Ben Newman if he was the last man on earth.’
‘That’s not what …’
‘I don’t care what Muffy heard. I didn’t shag Ben Newman, but you did shag Amanda Rowland. I saw you remember?’
‘And I was a fool and I know that, but be fair Binki, I’m putting up with a lot too. How do you think it looks you sharing a house with some guy you hardly know, and working in some sleazy sex shop?’
‘I don’t care how it looks,’ I say defiantly.
‘And you have let yourself go,’ he says looking at the waitress who nods at him supportively.
‘Let myself go?’ I echo.
I don’t believe what I’m hearing. He coughs uncomfortably.
‘Well, your hair looks … well it doesn’t look as nice as it used to.’
God, Wesley said he had taken twenty years off me. I’ve a good mind to ask for my money back.
‘And you’ve got a pimple on your chin. You never had pimples before.’
I feel the pimple self-consciously. Yes well, I’ve never been this stressed before have I?
‘And I couldn’t help notice …’ he hesitates.
How much more? I’m beginning to feel like Frankenstein’s sister.
‘In the sex …’ he glances at the waitress and lowers his voice. I’m starting to wonder if something is going on between these two. ‘Shop,’ he continues, ‘that you haven’t shaved your legs.’
I don’t believe this. He pushes the ring towards me.
‘But for all that, you’re the only woman I want,’ he finishes.
Well that’s wonderful isn’t it? Oliver loves me despite my scarecrow hair, pimples and hairy legs
‘Please Binki, let’s start again. There’s no one else for me. We can put all this behind us, please say yes,’ he says, taking my hand.
‘Oh congratulations,’ squeals the waitress. ‘It’s so romantic. We’ve got fresh custard tarts. I’ll bring two, on the house.’
Well I guess it makes a change from champagne. The truth is I want to say yes, I really do, but it’s not only the memory of Amanda Rowland that haunts me but I can’t get William Ellis out of my head. It’s not like I fancy him or anything, it’s just I can’t get the memory of that almost kiss out of my head. I know I should, he probably kisses women all the time. You only have to check the contents of the bathroom cabinet to know what he gets up to, but anyway, I’m not his type, isn’t that what he said? But he has also said he wouldn’t kick me out of his bed. Then there is also the question of Driftwood. Kiss or no kiss, I can’t trust William Ellis. He could be nothing but a con artist for all I know, but more importantly, can I really marry a man who cheated on me? I could try and forget Amanda Rowland, although that is easier said than done especially if Oliver carries on working under her, do you see what I mean? I can’t shake off that vision of her sprawled on top of him. I must try and put it all behind me and get back to my lovely life in Notting Hill, and have my lovely dream wedding and my lovely 2.4 children, whatever 2.4 children means. I always wanted children. At least I’d have big breasts for nine months. Come to think of it I could have big breasts all the time, although of course that would mean having 10.4 children or something like that. On reflection, maybe breast surgery would be easier. And not to mention after having all those kids I’d end up with such a huge vagina that Oliver would disappear inside there and end up finding someone else like Amanda Rowland, not inside my vagina obviously, that would be a bit gross and it would never be big enough for Miss Brown Nipples but you know what I mean, and there we would be, full circle. So how can I possibly agree to marry him? Apart from anything else, how could I possibly marry a man who proposes first in a sex shop and then again in a café over egg and chips? It’s no good. I push the ring back.
‘I really don’t know,’ I say.
His face drops and he looks so miserable that I have to fight back the urge to say Oh alright then. Sometimes I am so stupid. Fortunately the waitress returns with our celebratory custard tarts before I can say anything.
‘Congratulations,’ she says cheerfully, unaware of the gloomy atmosphere. ‘I’ve brought two orange juices on the house.’
Yes well, custard tarts and orange juice just about sums up Oliver and me doesn’t it?
‘But why?’ asks Oliver.
‘Because you just proposed,’ says the waitress with a big smile on her face.
‘Why don’t you know?’ he says ignoring her.
I grimace.
‘I said no,’ I whisper to the waitress.
She looks at the custard tarts as though debating whether to take them back.
‘Don’t worry we’ll pay for everything,’ I say, wondering why the hell I am discussing custard tarts and orange juice at a time like this.
‘Because it is so sudden and …’ I continue, talking to Oliver.
‘Sudden? You were bloody expecting it Muffy said.’
Muffy? Whose bloody side is she on now? Honestly, you can’t trust anyone.
‘Yes well, that was before you balanced Amanda Rowland on your balls,’ I say.
He stands up and snatches the ring from the table.
‘I’ll let you think things over. I can’t apologise for ever Binki. I said I’m sorry. I’ve got a good job now and we can have a nice life together, have kids and everything.’
So, bonking Amanda Rowland got him the promotion did it? That’s just great, isn’t it? I must remember to tell our kids that we owe their good fortune to Daddy’s great ball-balancing act. I can hear our children now,
‘Is Daddy balancing again, Mummy?’
I’ll spend half my life pretending to the children that Daddy is in some kind of circus act and the other half rubbing Deep Heat into Oliver’s back.
‘Wonderful,’ I say, ‘I’ll let you know, must dash, leg waxing and all that.’
I storm out of the café, brushing past the open-mouthed waitress and leaving Oliver with the complimentary custard tarts. I hope he leaves a tip.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I arrive home to find the house in darkness. The office lights are off too so I assume that William must be out. I fumble nervously with the keys and as always, feel relief as the key turns. I really should trust William when he says he won’t change the locks. I head for the bathroom and stop in the doorway. What the hell? William has moved my candles from around the bath and left them in a pile on the floor. They were bloody expensive Wax Lyrical scented candles. Has he got no taste? A wet towel lies in a heap beside them and the bathroom cabinet is wide open. He was no doubt in such a rush to grab
his condoms he had no time to shut the door. Honestly, why can’t he be just a bit tidier? I scoop his razor from the sink and put the top back on his shaving gel, and shove them back into the cabinet. I slam the lid of the loo back down and then glance at myself in the mirror. Ugh, Oliver wasn’t far wrong. I am a physical disaster. I pull open the cabinet again and fight the urge to look on William’s shelf to see if the condoms have gone. I shake my head and reach for my razor. I close the door, replace the candles and run a bath. I guess Oliver is right, I have gone to pot a bit. My skin is most certainly saggy. God, when did that happen? Can you get facelifts on the NHS? Surely if you’re depressed to the point of suicide they’ll help. Mind you, with the state of the NHS waiting lists I’ll be bloody ninety by the time they get round to it. I peer at the pimple on my chin and curse when I see another looming at the side of my nose. Great, I’m starting to look like Ben bloody Newman. That expensive face cream Mum bought me hasn’t done much has it? Twenty minutes later I am relaxing in a lavender-scented bath with nicely shaved legs and a green clay face mask on my skin. That should see to the pimples. The more I think about Oliver as I soak in the warm water in the flickering light of the candles the more certain I am that I still love him, but I’m also certain that I cannot marry him. At least not while he works with Amanda Rowland. But if he gives up his job at Mansill Enterprises then what? Supposing Amanda Rowland refuses to give him a reference? What if he is doomed to work at Mansill for the rest of his life? God, what if he has to bonk Amanda Rowland for the rest of his life just so we and the children can eat. You’ll never work again Oliver. Why throw away a good career, when all you need is to be nice to me every now and again, I can hear her drawl in that low sexy voice of hers. I so hate the bitch. Although I suppose she couldn’t have had sex with Oliver unless he had allowed it could she? Was he sexually harassed? She probably said he wouldn’t get the promotion unless he slept with her like in the Disclosure movie.
I reluctantly step out of the bath and put on my towelling robe. I’ll need to give Oliver an answer soon. It’s ironic that after waiting all this time Oliver finally proposes and I didn’t even get a good look at the ring. I wander into the kitchen and sigh. The sink is full of the builders’ mugs and used teabags. I open the fridge and take out a chocolate penis. I’m in serious need of a chocolate fix. I notice a bottle of whisky on the counter and wonder why it is there when I turn and bump into William. I almost jump out of my skin.
‘God, no wonder you get hairsprayed,’ I say, feeling my heart race.
‘You’re a bag of nerves,’ he says. ‘Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. Do you want a drink?’
He is wearing a striped shirt. The top button is undone and his tie hangs askew and I’ve never seen him look sexier. His hair is tousled where he has obviously been running his hand through it, and his eyes are heavy. He looks tired. He must have made good use of the condoms this evening is all I can think. God, if Oliver was at it like William he’d spend half his life in traction. I feel a little pang of jealousy at the thought of William with another woman and then tell myself it is just hunger pangs, after all, I didn’t eat my bacon sandwich did I? The memory of lunch reminds me of the engagement ring and I sigh. I spot William’s phone on the counter and see to my amazement that it is turned off. He looks at me and smiles. His breath smells of whisky and it occurs to me he has had more than one glass already. How long has he been home? It can’t have been that long.
‘I wish you wouldn’t move my candles from the bath,’ I say, taking the glass he offers.
‘Okay, next time I won’t. I’ll just fill them full of water when I shower.’
Sometimes he can be so irritating.
‘Also, do you have to leave wet towels on the floor? There is a towel rail in the bathroom you know.’
‘You’re not my wife,’ he snaps.
‘Thank God,’ I retort, feeling stung by his words. ‘Maybe you can tell Andy and the cleaner that too. It insults me to be called Mrs Ellis.’ I down the whisky and shudder.
He leans across me to the freezer and removes some ice.
‘Whatever,’ he says walking back into the living room.
‘And perhaps you can ask them to wash up their mugs too,’ I say. ‘And …’
He thumps his whisky glass down onto the coffee table.
‘Look, I’ve had a really crappy day. I’m not blaming you but I don’t want to come home to a nagging woman. So can you back off please?’
What a nerve.
‘How dare you,’ I say angrily. ‘You move my things and leave a mess for me to clear up and now you call me a nag …’
‘It was only a towel,’ he protests.
‘Shaving gel with tops off, and razors and …’
‘No wonder your boyfriend had another woman,’ he snaps nastily.
I stare at him stunned and feel tears prick my eyelids. How could he? What a hurtful thing to say. What a bastard.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quickly, ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m a bad-mouthed pig when stuff goes wrong with the business.’
I stiffen and back away from him.
‘I’ll have you know that Oliver came here to propose to me today,’ I say proudly while not feeling in the least bit proud.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘Yes. He proposed in the shop.’
He smiles.
‘Original, you have to admit,’ he grins. ‘Did you accept?’
I grimace.
‘I’m still thinking about it?’
‘Ah.’ He picks up the whisky glass, downing the contents in one. ‘Seeing him later are you?’
‘I might be,’ I say. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘No, of course not, I just thought you might want to take that green stuff off your face before you do.’
Oh my God, oh shit and bugger. I’ve had the bloody face mask on the whole time. I feel my whole body grow hot. What must I look like getting all huffy with him with green muck all over my face?
‘You look like Shrek.’
‘Shit,’ I exclaim. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I just did,’ he laughs.
I dash to the bathroom, gaze in the mirror and groan. Buggery bollocks. I scrub the mask off and stare at my flushed face. Oh, well at least the pimple has gone. There is a light tap on the door.
‘I’m sorry Binki, I didn’t mean to mock. If you’re not going out do you want some nachos? I’m sticking some in the oven? I’ll share mine.’
‘Okay,’ I say softly.
I pop some dangling earrings in and smooth down my baggy smock top. Maybe William will be able to give me some advice about Oliver. After all, it’s always good to get a man’s perspective. Perhaps he will be able to explain how Oliver got into that position with Amanda Rowland, I don’t mean underneath her of course, although I am sure William does that all the time but not with Amanda Rowland, of course.
As I enter the kitchen he is grating cheese onto the nachos. I notice the whisky bottle is almost empty.
‘So, did he go down on one knee over the vibrators?’ he asks.
He takes a bottle from the wine rack and I’m tempted to say that he has already drunk enough but bite back the words. William Ellis is not someone to be lectured.
‘Not exactly, and anyway it was hard to hear him over Debbie Does Dallas,’ I smile.
I glance at his phone and see it is still off. He rubs his eyes and sips from a glass of wine.
‘I would make a side salad but I’ve only got a cucumber, but it’s yours if you want it.’
Ooh what an offer. I stifle back a giggle and realise the whisky has gone to my head.
‘Well, if you’re offering,’ I say before I can stop myself.
Our eyes meet and he winks.
‘Okay you can have my cucumber if I can have your cherry tomatoes.’
God, this is more sexual than the videos in the shop. I stretch across him to my shelf in the fridge. He doesn’t move and I have to
lean against him to reach into it.
‘I have an avocado,’ I say shyly, conscious of his body. ‘No salad dressing though.’
‘I’m happy to have an undressed salad,’ he says huskily. I feel my hands tremble as I take the avocado. He moves away and my heart is racing. It never raced like this when I was with Oliver. I watch him chop the cucumber. I open my cupboard and take out a French stick. He looks at it and pulls a face.
‘Ah, I just have a stale roll, but if I had a French stick it would be all yours.’
God, he is seriously flirting with me.
‘You can share mine,’ I say.
‘You’re a very sharing person,’ he says clinking our glasses. ‘To your future engagement, you’re saying yes I take it?’
‘I’m not sure; there is still the matter of …
‘The bonking bimbo,’ he finishes for me.
I nod. He turns to the oven and says softly.
‘He was a fool.’
I have no idea how to respond so say,
‘It seems really odd not having your phone bleeping every few minutes.’
He lifts the nachos from the oven. I put two plates out and we sit at the kitchen table.
‘I’m not in the mood to take calls tonight. I lost a big contract this afternoon. Not only a contract but a hell of a lot of my own money too. It’s a complete disaster.’
‘Oh William,’ I say, taking his hand. ‘What happened?’
The warmth of his hand sends a surge of sexual desire through me and I know I should move it but I can’t. He takes a gulp of wine.
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs. ‘It was a sure deal. I had an investor who was keen to put five million into a company I recommended …’
‘Five million,’ I gasp, almost choking on my wine.
‘The company is called Optimun and they are doing really well. It’s not that unusual to invest that much money in a company that’s flourishing. They’ve just landed a big international order but they needed capital to expand. I brokered a good deal for them and the investor. It was a sure win-win for everyone. I even put money in myself. Then today out of the blue my investor pulled out. It’s a disaster. The company will lose the order and will probably go under. At best there will be a lot of lay-offs; a lot of people will be made redundant.’ He stops and sighs heavily.