‘Well, I for one salute you. I’ve kissed a lot of frogs and they just turned into dirty toads. It really annoys me that there’s the whole industry built around women being slaves to their body images. Men can get away with being fat sloths and still call the shots in relationships. Why shouldn’t they obsess over their butts – sorry, bums – just as much as us? I appreciate a good behind, and I’m not afraid to say it. But so far UK bums have been saggy to say the least. And British men have such bad teeth.’
Molly thought about this briefly. ‘I’m not sure I can run to dental advice, but John could do with a bit of toning, as much for his self-esteem as anything. He could do with a big shot of endorphins, right in the butt.’
‘Bum!’ Josie giggled.
‘That too. Fancy scheduling a few extra lessons? I’m not sure he could mentally deal with being a lumpy lad in a sea of fiercely sexy women.’
‘Plus, there’s the problem of John running into Melissa. Perhaps literally.’ Rach added with a knowing look.
‘Christ, yes. Good call, Private Fab. So, Jose, what do you say? I’m offering you a willing victim – and who knows, he might bring friends.’
‘Hell, yes!’ Josie held up her hand for a high five across the table with Molly. Hand slapped, she then swung it round to Rachel who gleefully obliged. ‘I have two conditions. One: I promise to show no mercy. They have to be broken so we can put them back together again.’
This was met with stereo nodding from the two South London ladies.
‘And two?’ Rach asked.
‘I want a ‘Private’ name! Oh oh oh, can I be Private Kick-Ass?’ Josie gave a happy squeal that was surprisingly girlish for a woman who looked like she could crush a Cadbury’s creme egg between her thighs.
Molly laughed. ‘Absolutely! And I’ll be Private …’
‘Nope, you’re the brains behind the operations, so you’re The Colonel.’
Rachel seconded Josie’s nomination.
Molly looked sheepish for about twenty seconds before breaking into a grin. ‘Well, if you insist. Here’s to the bootcamp.’ She held up her mug to be chinked.
‘The Boyfriend Bootcamp,’ Josie added, holding up her tea.
Rachel gently touched her latte to the two other mugs, not wanting to spill a drop of precious post-work-out caffeine. ‘We should really be charging the poor sods!’
And as the cafe light came on to battle the early-evening gloom, Molly had the most fantastic idea.
Chapter Thirteen
That night, Molly was delighted to see an email in the Say It With Cacti inbox that was titled Your services, rather than Naughty Russian girls need spanking!!!! or Grow your Ppenis. Cheap Vviagra. (To take up both offers was surely greedy and just asking for trouble, she mused.) Maybe all’s not lost for the potted plants, Molly thought as she clicked open the email from [email protected]. Sounded like just the sort of organic-loving, top-price paying customer she’d been waiting for.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Your services
[Email File Attached]
Hey sis!
Me and Iris (S and I, gettit?) have set up this joint account to keep in touch while we’re away. See, I’m doing just what you said! Shocking, I know.
Anyway, the sun is shining, the waves are crashing nearby. I have a cold beer on the go and a beautiful woman next to me. In other words, I’m miserable. Ha ha. Seriously, I hope it’s not too cold in London and the rain isn’t soaking into your shoes as you wait at the bus stop and Mum isn’t on the phone every other day about wedding stuff. Gutted. Sugared almond bouquets and antique lace chair covers or whatever. Iris has just read that bit and told me I have to say not to worry, her mum and sisters are helping our mum out with the arrangements. But maybe step in on my behalf and make sure I’m not trotting down the aisle in a big pink cravat and top hat, sis. Pleeease. I was hoping for more of a rock and roll, laid back wedding.
So, I did have a point to this email, rather than just rubbing your face in it. But that was so fun I got distracted. I don’t know if I ever mentioned Kurt, a guy from the IT department at King’s Hospital? Really sound bloke, lovely. He came to the leaving party but you might not have met him because he gets a bit shy around new people. Women especially. The thing is, ages ago I told him about how you helped me meet Iris and he’s only just worked up the nerve to ask if you wouldn’t mind telling him the same things as you told me. He really wants to meet someone nice and settle down. I tried to explain The Lean in the pub, but he just fell over on his first attempt.
Would you go for a pint with him? I’ll bring you back a possum if you say yes. Iris has just pointed out that possums are actually vermin here, nasty rat things. Sorry. Not sure I can fit a koala in my rucksack, but I’ll try.
I’m attaching his email so you can get in touch – he doesn’t say much on the phone, so an email is best. You are the most amazing sister EVER (guilt trip guilt trip guilt trip).
Love,
Sam & Iris
X – Iris put the kiss in, not me. Just so you know.
Molly’s brain cells whirred. Was the universe smiling on her at last? A new lost boy for her to adopt. At this rate she’d happily change her name to Wendy and invest in green tights. Kurt sounded like a sweet guy that just wanted a steady girlfriend, the perfect candidate for her help. The poor lamb. She double clicked on the attachment.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Cheers
Hey Spam,
It would be wicked if you could pass my email on to Molly, thanks. And I’ve got three pretty full-on aunts, so I’m well adjusted to being bossed about by women, but thanks for the warning!! They’re trying to help me find someone too, but their method is to send me to Pakistan to find a nice ‘homely’ girl there. I think I’d rather just meet someone and hit it off, someone who likes me for who I am. But obviously don’t tell that to anyone at work – especially not Dave. He calls me ‘gay’ for washing my hands after I go to the loo.
Hope it’s all good times for you and the future Mrs Spam. Whatever Jedi mind tricks you used to get a normal girl to agree to marry you, I need to know them. Quick.
Laters,
Kurt.
As Molly copied Kurt’s imaginative Yahoo address into a new email, John came into the living room wearing marigolds, his forearms up in front of him like a surgeon about to perform heart surgery, rather than a bloke doing the washing up. A small splash of Fairy foam hit the carpet underneath his feet.
‘I’ve done it. All. Just like you said. And now I need a drink.’
‘Excellent! Let me just have a quick check of what you’ve done before you take those rubber gloves off.’ Molly leapt up and nipped to the kitchen. The surfaces were spotless, the dishes were clean and arranged neatly on the draining board, the splash back was without one little splash. Perfect. Just one more thing …
‘John?’ Molly called out. ‘Did you do inside the oven?’
John appeared behind her, looking very much like a man who’d matched up the yellow side of the Rubik’s cube and now realised the other colours had to do the same.
‘But surely the inside is self-cleaning? What with the high temperatures and baking trays under everything.’
‘You would think so,’ Molly conceded. ‘But we wouldn’t need this,’ she opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a lime green bottle of Grime Attack! oven cleaner, ‘if it did.’ She pressed the bottle into John’s weary hands. ‘Spray it all around the inside, wait ten minutes. Then come back and be prepared to rub off what can only be described as the devil’s milkshake – black, thick and smelling like old hamburgers and cabbage. You need to give it some elbow grease as well as all these awful chemicals. You’ve done sterling work so far though, John. Keep it up.’ Molly merrily patted him on the back and sauntered back to her waiting laptop. But the open door to John’s
room distracted her. She poked her head round the doorway.
‘Good job on your bedroom too!’ she raised her voice so John could hear from his job-at-hand in the kitchen.
John managed to smile meekly at himself for at least getting something right.
‘But did you Hoover under the bed? And did you dust the window sill? Looks a bit grey still …’
After letting out one slow, calming breath, John got down onto all fours and approached the open oven with all the trepidation you might need when entering an Afghan insurgent’s cave. He was going in. God knows what he might find. Offering up a silent prayer to all the women who had ever done this job on his behalf and had never uttered a word of protest, he started to squirt. As the fumes hit the back of his throat like paint stripper and his eyes watered, he lifted his apron up to muffle his mouth and said into the Cath Kidston chintz, ‘This one’s for you, Liss.’
* * *
An hour later, after Molly had heaped on the praise and John had been deemed fit to release from cleaning duty to watch some big match in the pub, Molly ambled about the flat, taking in the clutter-free surfaces, crumb-free kitchen and stray-hair-free bathroom. Lovely. Just lovely.
She dug her mobile out of her bag and went straight to the recent call list.
‘Private Fabulous? Phase one is complete. The target has run the course successfully. Time for phase two. Oh, and bring some Hob Nobs, if you pass the shop.’
Molly hung up, put her phone in her back pocket, and rubbed her hands together with glee.
* * *
John hung his coat up on the rack by the front door, a little woozy from the Magners but still coherent enough to know this was one of the new rules he had to stick to if he was ever going to hold on to a good woman again. Not that you came across many as good as Melissa that often. He mentally shook himself. Thinking about exes was specifically not on the rule sheet. John wondered if Molly was serious about typing it up.
He turned to creep into the living room. It looked like Molly was out or had gone to bed, but he didn’t want to risk assuming wrongly after that Domestos-soaked marathon this afternoon – he was only just getting the sensation back in the tips of his fingers. Without warning, his feet stumbled over something on the floor and he nearly tripped.
‘Bollocks!’ he muttered, bending down in the dark corridor to find what it was. Molly’s gym bag. That’s odd. He hung it on the hook next to her coat and continued into the kitchen. Might need a little toast to soak up my tipsiness on a school night, he thought.
But on the kitchen counter he saw that the bread was already out. And half-eaten. And half-stale. Crunchy crust crumbs littered the work top that just that afternoon he’d wiped so clean you could eat your organic quinoa off it.
That’s annoying. Why would she do that?
John chucked the hard heel of bread into the bin and went in search of the Sports section instead. But the newspaper seemed to have been transformed from a collection of crisp broad sheets left on the coffee table into a crumpled grey paper throw for the sofa – Culture was draped over one arm, Travel was disappearing between the two seat cushions and Sport had quite obviously been sat on a fair few times. John tried to smooth the pages flat with hands but was rewarded with a smeary imprint of David Beckham’s face on his palm. Giving up, he folded up the other errant sections and left them on the coffee table once again.
In front of the bathroom mirror, John reached with one hand for his toothbrush in the pot and with the other for the light chord. As the strip light blinked awake above him, John was so shocked by what he saw that he didn’t notice he was just about to put his thumb onto a razor. Left standing up in the toothbrush pot, it was at the exact angle to cut open a long shallow sliver of his skin.
‘Holy arses!’ John squealed before sticking his thumb in his mouth, still wide-eyed with disbelief at taking in the bathroom he’d been nose-to-porcelain with that day. There were flecks of stubble in the sink that he knew weren’t his – so that must mean they were … ugh! A brown foamy ring crowned the bath and smudges of toothpaste and mascara adorned the mirror. Just as this was all sinking in, John realised something very literal was sinking into his socks. The floor was flooded with shower water. Great.
Having put the bathroom back into some semblance of a place that could make you cleaner, rather than dirtier, John retreated to bed. Though he was new to this tidying malarkey, he did feel pride at the job he’d done earlier that day and it was just frustrating to see it messed up again so soon. At least his room was looking just the same as he’d left it. Dropping his jeans and jumper over the back of his chair and throwing his socks into his brand-new first-ever washing basket he mentally applauded himself for continuing to follow Molly’s rules, even when she’d completely forgotten them tonight. She was being a bit thoughtless and selfish actually, when he thought about it. It was just bloody-minded to make all that mess and expect someone else to either put up with it or clean it up for you.
John slipped under his duvet in just his boxers. The lesson Molly had been teaching him tonight surprised him just as suddenly as the damp sheets now clinging to his naked body.
Towels on the bed, leaving it all damp and cold. Just like Liss complained about. All right, Molly Cooper, I now officially know what my own medicine tastes like: it sucks.
Chapter Fourteen
Molly realised it was time to say goodbye to the Say It With Cacti stock, especially now this new idea was quickly fermenting away in secret. She hadn’t told a soul yet – she was waiting till the time was absolutely right and till she absolutely knew she wasn’t temporarily going crazy with desperation. A few old people’s homes and hospices happily took up the offer of free flowering cacti if they’d like them and Molly spent a busy day dropping off boxes of untouchable and unsellable ornamental plants to bemused recipients. Dan the greenhouse man was also very happy to get enough space back to start his tomato seedlings off. Molly brought him some luxury compost soil to make up for overstaying her welcome.
Before too long it was time to head off to The Clockhouse to meet Sam’s friend Kurt the IT guy. He was a Brixton dweller so didn’t mind hopping on the bus to meet Molly in East Dulwich. In fact, in his email reply he’d said that if it meant having more luck in love, he’d stay on the 37 till it reached another dimension. Molly had emailed back: There’s no need to go as far as Peckham Bus Station, Kurt. See you at 7 p.m.
Kurt was every bit as shy as Sam had described: he didn’t look Molly in the eye for the first fifteen minutes, as she probed into his romantic history. She wanted the full background picture before she tried to give any hints and tips: she’d watched Jeremy Kyle this morning. Hopefully Kurt wouldn’t have three kids and a criminal record in his past, but you never knew.
Kurt stammered a little and methodically ripped up a beer mat into tiny equal squares as he talked.
‘I had a girlfriend at university: Catherine for three weeks. Then I had this thing about a girl called Sophie, but she said she only thought of me like a brother when I finally told her, because we’d been friends for so long.’
‘Hmm.’ Molly processed the information.
‘There was Manpreet, who worked in the office when I first joined. But she left before I worked out what to say. Got a job in Slough.’
‘Poor girl. And since then?’
‘Nothing. Bit scared of starting new things, what with my past attempts being, er, short-lived and my lack of experience. I mean, I could never do that.’ Kurt gestured with the last corner of his beer mat to where a blonde girl at the bar had just been approached by a very cocky young guy with a goatee.
‘Why not? I’m just going to lay it out on the table for you, Kurt. From what I can see in the twelve minutes we’ve known each other, you’re good-looking, intelligent and sensitive. Let me put it this way: all the components of the circuit are there, you’re just not connecting them properly.’
‘Like when I fix a motherboard?’ Understanding gleamed in Kurt’s
eyes.
‘Um, yes …’ Molly considered secretly taking back the ‘intelligent’ bit. ‘It’s more a state of mind thing. That guy over there probably doesn’t have, er, um, a bigger hard drive than you … wait, that sounded gross. Back to normal speak: he won’t be the funniest, most attractive bloke in the world,’ they both looked over to where the guy had successfully persuaded the girl to have a drink with him, there at the bar, ‘judging by the goatee, definitely not. But he just found the balls to do it, and confidence is sexy. How do you think Peter Stringfellow keeps pulling? There’s no other explanation. Just try it out right now. Don’t think about it. Don’t over-analyse. Just do it.’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘No.’ Kurt’s white fingers gripped the pub table. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say, how to stand, when to laugh, how to give her my number. How not to look like a creepy stalker.’ A bead of sweat held at Kurt’s now-pale forehead, definitely giving him the air of a stalker. Molly surmised that if he just relaxed and eased up, he’d let his really quite pleasant features do the work for him – clear, dark skin; thick black hair, good smile – but wrinkled up in anxiety they weren’t going to float anyone’s boat.
Molly could see now that Kurt wasn’t going to be easy to point in the right direction as Sam. This could be a problem. Especially as she wanted to finish chatting and get back in time for Glee.
‘This is where you come in, Molly. Sam said you were the catalyst that helped him meet Iris, and look how happy they are. I need you as my Proton Acid.’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s a type of catalyst. A commonly used one, especially in chemical equations involving water, for instance the process of hydrolysis.’
The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp Page 10