‘If he’s fully dressed, that is,’ Simon chipped in.
Molly laughed unnecessarily loudly. ‘I’d love to. Just give me one second to change into something less, you know. Ha.’
‘Yes, less Guinness-y, if you could,’ John called as Molly nipped into her bedroom.
* * *
Before the poppadoms had even been karate chopped, Molly realised that as lovely as Lovely Simon obviously was, he wasn’t – underneath the loveliness – ticking her boxes. He’d gone on and on about the latest adventure he’d had travelling the world with friends and Molly quickly switched off. What was it about the well-travelled that made them so, well, boring? Yes, yes, the sunset moved your soul and you felt you really connected with the old woman selling onions who couldn’t speak a word of English. Hmm? Oh yes, I simply must find this tiny beach hut that sells guavas still warm from the sun if I ever get to that impossibly remote beach on my next holiday. You have photos? Joy, deep joy.
Simon was a good guy, she could see that. Perfectly polite and harmless: a trader who didn’t bray or brag. Just not really making her knees wobble past the ten-minute mark. She’d mentally file his image and details, though, just in case he might do for a friend.
Molly was trying to speak discreetly to John as she spooned out her tikka masala from the warming tray in front of her. He seemed to be up for Josie’s exercise regimes but was petrified Melissa might see him at the park and accuse him of stalking. It was bad enough when she found him looking shifty in the cat food aisle of Sainsbury’s last week. She knew he didn’t have a cat. But he knew that she did. Melissa had stormed away, shaking her head. John had tried to protest that he was lost on the way to frozen foods, but in truth he’d caught sight of her near Jams and Spreads and in a complete panic took refuge in the quietest aisle. John still had some moving on to do. Aisle 23 to aisle 25 wasn’t quite far enough, it seemed, to leave Melissa behind.
As much as Molly murmured quietly to John, Patrick seemed determined to interrupt with his own observations. ‘Why are there so many curry houses on Lordship Lane, Molly?’ he asked, his gaze levelled at her as if she’d OK’d the planning permission or something.
‘I don’t know, Patrick. Or will you be answering to Patty tonight?’
‘I certainly will not. I counted seven though, out of about twenty premises on just this little stretch alone. I think it must have the highest curry-density of anywhere in the UK.’ Patrick, happy with his declaration, tore off a strip of a Peshwari naan in a triumphant fashion, his brown eyes glittering.
‘They should put up a plaque,’ Molly said.
‘Hand out rosettes and refreshing lemon wipes in celebration.’ Patrick nodded in agreement.
‘And have a parade on Curry Day each year – they could name the Curry Queen and she could ride on a giant float of poppadoms.’
‘She’d throw bhajis like shiny pennies to the local East Dulwich urchins.’
Molly laughed, digging into her pilau rice and then loading up a forkful of everything on her plate. ‘You could only call children in East Dulwich urchins if your definition runs to wearing Boden wellies and being called Hugo.’
‘Obviously the most densely curry-house populated road is much more likely to be found on Brick Lane or somewhere in the curry district of Birmingham. You’re just getting a bit carried away,’ John chipped in.
‘Ah, John, ever the king of crazy table banter. And you wonder why you’re single.’ Patrick threw a beer mat at him across the table. ‘Anyway, what’s all this I’ve been hearing about military fitness sessions?’
‘You mean, what you’ve been eavesdropping on just now?’ Molly asked, finishing with a close-lipped smile.
‘Yes, that’s it. Are you joining the SAS, mate?’
‘No, Molly’s just … pointing me in the right direction with a few things. She said this might be a good outlet for me at the moment.’
‘To cheer him up,’ Molly broke in, ‘and get him out there and buffed up, ready for the next Mrs John. In good time, of course.’ She caught John’s eye and his determined message therein. He’d made it clear that he’d take her direction, but only in his own time.
‘So you’re kind of training him up?’ Simon asked, his blue eyes twinkling over a crumbly piece of naan.
‘Well … at the moment he’s a diamond in the rough. He needs a bit of polishing. That’s all.’ Molly wasn’t quite ready to share the fledging bootcamp with these guys just yet – not until she had some impressive stats to show off, anyway. She had the distinct feeling Patrick would find the whole thing hilarious.
‘Coming from someone who lived with Johnny Boy for three disgusting years, whatever it is you’re doing – keep doing it. I’ve never been able to identify the colour of John’s carpet before. He’s a domestic goddess all of a sudden,’ Simon chuckled.
‘It’s very gracious of you to donate your time to the cause of mankind,’ Patrick said, his eyes on Molly’s slightly irritated face.
‘I did it more for womankind, actually,’ she shot back.
‘Hmmm. And how are the cacti? Sam told me about your latest enterprise.’
‘That’s dried up, sadly.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to do that?’ Patrick needled.
‘Ha ha. I meant financially rather than … herba— geo— soil-ly.’
‘What you mean is pedology – the study of soil.’ John interlaced his fingers as he sat forward at the table.
‘I have to agree with Patty on this one, dude – your table banter needs some refining.’ Molly heard the tone of her own voice getting sharper. She was rattled that Patrick had reminded her of the yawning financial hole that waited just behind her, ready to swallow her up at the next stumble. Still, it gave her the drive to really make a go of her new scheme.
‘I wish I had someone to show me the way,’ Simon admitted, thoughtfully, and Molly’s ears pricked up like a Springer Spaniel getting the scent of a limping pheasant. ‘I think it’s about time I found a relationship that lasts. Everyone else at Dewbert and Crawthew is married, or at least engaged. My office nickname is Hugh, as in Grant. Well, I just hope they didn’t mean Heffner. But anyway, it’s not good for me to stay single.’
Molly nodded, her opinion of Simon softening a little and preparing to bend, like warm toffee. ‘For one, I’m likely to make Hedge Fund Manager more quickly if I’m engaged. The partners like that stuff.’
And then it hardened back into peanut brittle. But she conceded and gave him a tiny point for honesty.
‘There should be an iPhone app or something for understanding women,’ Simon suggested. ‘I just keep getting lost in a maze of sullen silences and arguments that flare up out of nowhere. Clara, my last girlfriend, was totally great until I went home to see my rents for the weekend. When I came back, it was all, “I’m fine, I’m fine” when she blatantly wasn’t.’
‘Ugh, I hate the “I’m fine” thing.’ Patrick rolled his eyes.
‘Excuse me: a woman is usually only un-fine when her other half has done something to upset or annoy her. Maybe Clara wanted to be invited to go with you, to meet your parents? How long had you been going out?’ Molly asked gently.
‘Oh, ahhh, about two months.’
‘Well there you are, then.’ Molly raised her palms to the curry house ceiling. ‘If you’re serious about a woman, two months is a very respectable relationship length to take her to meet the parents. She was obviously disappointed and freaked out that you didn’t.’
‘But it would have been so boring for her! All my parents ever do is talk about my nieces and show off their riding rosettes. That, and play bridge, drink sherry and fall asleep before the news.’
‘Clara won’t have seen it that way, trust me. She would have seen it as a sign that you weren’t planning on making things permanent between you two. Her take on it would have been that you weren’t investing in your relationship now because you were inevitably going to end it.’
‘Then why did she dump me,
the week after? If she wanted it to last, why end it?’ Simon’s eyebrows knitted, but Molly had to admit to herself that it did nothing to impinge on his loveliness. This man was handsome enough to be a Disney prince, or Madonna’s next model boyfriend. Quickly and guiltily, Molly put all thoughts of Simon strutting around in designer underwear far from her mind.
‘Classic tactical dumping,’ Patrick interjected, just as Molly opened her mouth to speak. ‘She thought you were lining her up for a sacking off, so she made a pre-emptive strike. I’ve done it – once or twice – because if you know you’re for the chop, you can at least retreat with some dignity intact.’
‘Yes, what he said,’ Molly said, looking at Patrick with bemused wonder. A man that can analyse? What will they think of next? Perhaps that hoverboard that Michael J. Fox promised us.
‘Wow. Now it makes sense!’ Simon ran a hand through his thick, shining wheatfield of hair and blinked rapidly. ‘Could I just get one of those spy ear wires and have you explain this stuff to me all the time, Molly?’ He gave a good-natured laugh. ‘Or maybe I’ll just install you in my wardrobe to whisper things, Cyrano-style. Up for that?’ Simon laughed again and shook his head, clearing his plate of the last of his super-hot curry.
Molly momentarily lost herself in a very lustful, shallow reverie of what she would actually do in Simon’s bedroom with him if she was more of a very-short-term relationship person.
‘Hellooooo? Do you want another Tiger?’ Patrick peered into Molly’s eyes and waved his now-greasy napkin at her.
‘Hmm, sorry. Just thinking about … other things. Another beer, yes please. A big one.’ Molly dabbed at a tiny drop of sweat on her upper lip and went back to her tikka.
Molly said her goodbyes to the boys outside the curry house, but as they walked away she nipped forward and gently held Simon by the wrist.
‘Simon?’
‘Um, yes?’ he fell out of step with the others and let them continue down the road. Patrick looked over his shoulder with a frown when he realised Simon was missing.
‘You know what we were talking about in there – girlfriends, tricky women, all of that – I think I have the answer for you. Give me a call tomorrow, OK? It would be great to see you again.’
Simon furrowed his lovely eyebrows but pulled out a business card with his work line, mobile, home phone and Twitter account listed. ‘It’s probably easier if you call me, but I’ll look forward to it.’ He smiled a Nescafé advert smile, with an almost audible ‘ting’ as his white teeth flashed, turned and loped artlessly off to meet the others.
Chapter Seventeen
‘I love that you never waste time – a new bootcamp member already,’ Rachel said with a touch of awe as she strung a length of mini-chandelier fairy lights over a hat stand made from polished driftwood. Martin had said not to get carried away and put festive decorations up too soon in the shop – it went against their ultra-minimalist, ultra-expensive image – but Rach was allowing herself this one little pick-me-up on an otherwise dull Monday morning. She loved Christmas so much she was tempted to actually move into the John Lewis Christmas department each November. A nice winter tog duvet from Home Furnishings, a gift hamper from the deli and a massive plasma screen TV: just what Jesus would have wanted.
Molly jumped from foot to foot, wiggling her hips and desperately trying to do the zip up all the way on a bold purple pair of size tens. ‘My youth is officially over,’ she muttered darkly, turning back to the changing rooms. ‘But Simon’s not officially in yet – I’ve just got a good feeling about him. Which reminds me, I’d better lure him in sharpish,’ she said from the other side of the midnight blue velvet curtain.
Just then the front door bell chimed and two very sturdy ladies in green macs entered the shop, faces prepped to sneer at the prices. Rachel called them the Ne’er Spend Wells. She’d long ago given up the hope of selling them anything and preferred to gently and rather facetiously usher them out before they could totally poo on her parade.
‘Hello, ladies! Can I interest you in some Cath Kidston bicycle clips today? No? Moleskin suspender set, perhaps? Ahhh, leaving so soon. See you next week!’
Rachel gave up on her fairy light draping (which had become more like entangling) and poked her face into the changing room. ‘Nice spotty knickers!’
‘Err! Get out you pervy Peter! I know you want my body but your infatuation must remain unrequited. Until we get to forty and our pact kicks in. Hand me my mobile, please, when you’ve composed yourself.’
Rachel fetched the phone and slid it under the curtain. ‘You’re phoning him in your knickers? That’s rather saucy. It’s the kind of thing I’d only do for someone I really liked. Or a long-distance thing.’
‘Dirty girl,’ Molly replied. ‘He’s not going to know that I’m in a changing room. And I didn’t really need to know that you were into phone sex. So you and Tony from Carlisle—’
‘Every Monday night at eight, baby. Just in time for Glee to start, when our glee had finished.’
‘Ewww. Right, I’m calling him now. Not a peep, Heidi Fleiss.’
Rachel shook her head and went to sort out the drawers under the till space. Today was dragging already, but at least she had Molly to tease now.
In the changing room, Molly sat cross-legged on the little upholstered pouf provided for elegant shoppers to cast their dry-clean only outfits onto. She tapped in Simon’s mobile number.
‘Hello?’ The clipped, but still dreamily deep, voice of Simon answered quickly.
‘Hi, it’s Molly. John’s flatmate. I was just calling—’
Simon cut her off. ‘Hang on, will you?’ There was a loud bustly sort of noise in the background, with lots of shouts and mutterings, like he was in a busy train station or a Subway queue on meatball special day. The background noise suddenly faded. ‘That’s better. Sorry, I was on the floor.’
‘Oh, god! Are you OK? What happened?’
There was a baffled pause. ‘On the trading floor.’
‘Ahhh. I see.’ Molly pressed her fingers into her forehead until it hurt. Not the best professional start she had hoped for. Time to pitch. ‘Now, I wanted to suggest something—’
‘Aha.’
‘I think you and I could really help each other. Seeing as you’re single right now, what with things with Clara not working out …’
‘OK, I catch your drift. Well, I had no idea, Molly, but this is all very interesting, I must say.’ Simon’s charm trickled down the phone like treacle.
‘Great, well what I’m offering at the moment is a unique service, completely affordable, but perfect for those temporarily unlucky in love.’
Simon’s tone suddenly went as lumpy and rocky as pebble dash. ‘What?! You want me to pay? Molly, what sort of a—’
‘Think of it as an exchange of services,’ she replied coolly, remembering her successful pitch to Kurt. ‘We’d help each other. You’d get my expertise and I’d get your financial … er, support.’
Simon spluttered some more. ‘I don’t know what John’s said about me, but I would never pay for a … date, Molly, and I’m completely shocked you’re selling yourself like this. I mean, how long has this been going on? Does John know this is going on in the flat? There are people that can help you.’ Simon’s voice fell to a concerned hush.
Molly’s face went marble white, then warmed up to a pink blush. Many pennies dropped great distances. This pitch had gone horribly, horribly wrong. She’d steamed ahead, a little too excited about pitching her business, and had pitched herself instead. She heard Kit from Pretty Woman crooning ‘Work it baby, work it!’ in her head. Molly gulped and tried to salvage this big mess. Cadet number three wasn’t escaping that easily.
‘Ooops, er, no. No! That is not what I’m saying. I don’t mean services as in … I meant, I’d liked to help you date. Other people. For a small, small fee. That’s my new service – a dating consultancy.’ Molly uncrossed her legs and looked at herself in the changing room mirror. She’d f
orgotten to put eye liner on this morning and her socks didn’t match. Hardly Business Woman of the Year material right now – she’d need to pull her odd socks up. ‘I’ve just been helping out John and another friend but I’m expanding into a professional operation. I thought you seemed like the kind of focused guy who objectively assesses his strength and weaknesses and learns from his mistakes – so maybe I can help you avoid any future mishaps in love. It’s win win. And the upside is you might just get the girl of your dreams, and the promotion too.’ Throwing in some good old business speak and a flash of promised success to get Simon off the ropes and into her corner, Molly hoped her persuasive skills would do the trick.
There was a pause and Molly heard Simon exhale slowly. ‘So how much would this cost me?’
Molly looked into the mirror again and The Colonel looked back.
Chapter Eighteen
Molly would have locked herself in the flat, boiled several buckets full of water for a constant tea supply and thrown every smidge of energy into planning her bootcamp website launch had she not specifically promised Cleo that she’d come home early for Christmas. Early like the sixteenth of December early. The Cooper women were rarely prone to emotional outbursts that they couldn’t control after a deep breath and a deep measure of gin, but they both felt a bit sad to spend their first Christmas with Sam absent. They’d speak to him on Skype, of course, but it wasn’t the same. To make up for it, Cleo and Molly had bought in enough luxury M&S ready meals to last them a fortnight, Sky Plus-ed every cheesy movie that ITV could schedule and prepared to veg with each other in style.
True to her word, Cleo kept the shutters to the Bank of Mum firmly down during the whole holiday and didn’t try to fish for financial details even once. A big part of Molly wanted to share her big idea with her mum and see what she thought, but there was a tiny voice in her head that said, Cleo is not going to get it. She’s not going to like it. You’re going to be washing paint brushes out for the next twenty years if she thinks you’re just arsing about. Molly chose to ignore that voice and believe in herself. She gave herself the holidays to chill her beans and build up her energy reserves. 2011 was going to be the year of bad boyfriends turning good. The Molly way.
The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp Page 13