Mel interrupted. ‘Actually, isn’t Inland Revenue chasing you too?’
‘Whatever.’ Mel was such a stickler for the law. ’All that preggers stuff was ages ago. Surely they can’t hold a grudge that long?’
Chapter 2
Dear Mr Fortescue,
Thanks for your letter. Horace is a unique name. You must be a very special man. As I recall, you’re extremely buff as well. Alright, well, to the issue at hand. I can assure you I am doing everything I can to bring down my overdraft. In fact, I hope to hear of a new, secure income stream in the next few days. Meanwhile, I don’t suppose you would consider extending the overdraft by an extra £2000 to cover my out-of-pocket expenses in establishing this vital new addition to my business model?
Kind regards,
Julia M. Grand
APPARENTLY THE unemployment office was busy catering to those even needier than Jools, and she couldn’t get an appointment for two weeks.
The nice man on the toll-free number assured her they could pay from the moment she’d lost her job, as long as she had all the relevant paperwork and she met the criteria for Jobseeker’s Allowance.
Relevant paperwork? Jools wondered if a copy of the call log to the Fire Brigade would do the trick, and if so, how could she get one. Maybe call her insurance company or even Mrs Pho? No. That might attract further expensive lawsuits and old Horace at the Commercial Bank would definitely hang tight on future advances if he discovered there was yet another negligence claim on the horizon.
She sank onto her musty little sofa and stared out at the brick wall of the bus garage. The cleaning business had imploded. There was no way to get new clients – she couldn’t even advertise with the local rag since her account was 120 days overdue. How on earth could she pay for the little necessities in life, like rent, water and HobNobs? Hopefully, her dear friend Horace would continue to expand the overdraft until the dole kicked in. But right now the cash point was being most unhelpful. Jools had to make some money.
In desperation, she tried other cleaning companies, but the moment she gave her name, the response was the same.
‘You’re not the Julia Grand of Julia Grand Cleaning?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
CLICK.
‘Didn’t you burn down a client’s house?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
CLICK.
‘You give cleaners a bad name. I’ve lost three clients because of you.’
CLICK.
Mrs Pho had been busy. How had one small woman managed to spread the word so quickly? Clearly there was no chance of working as a cleaner in London again unless Jools changed her name and invested in that extreme makeover – which in turn required the rapidly vanishing generosity of her bank.
Hand creeping towards her second pack of HobNobs that day, she considered Mel’s Handimart suggestion. If not Deepak, maybe one of the shopkeepers on the high street would consider giving her work?
It was time to make some money and keep the bank and her landlord from her slightly warped door.
Standing up, she shook the crumbs off her tracksuit. It felt a little tight under the arms.
Must have shrunk in the wash. She couldn’t have put on that much weight, could she? After all, she’d been running around Knightsbridge cleaning houses until a week ago. Or, at least, her cleaners had.
Jools stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Maybe she should change first? Shellsuit-needing-wash was hardly a great look when one was on the hunt for employment.
She turned to her wardrobe, a rickety contraption with a missing leg supported by old textbooks. But when it was impossible to get a leg through one of her skirts – let alone her sizable bum – it soon became apparent nothing suitable would fit.
When had she stopped wearing normal clothes? How long had it been since she’d been to Topshop? Or even Primark? The one pair of jeans that did fit had a nasty stain right near the crotch from a ketchup incident at Sticky Finger’s in Kensington two weeks ago.
Jools had been meaning to do a load of laundry, but depression and lack of coinage had scuppered that particular plan.
There were some vaguely attractive knickers and bra combos, but she could hardly mince down the high street in those, could she?
There was no choice but to wear her only clean pair of trousers: navy tracksuit bottoms with ‘Living It Is Large’ written in neon across the derriere, purchased as a joke from a market stall in Chinatown after a rather merry evening with Mel and Gracie, another uni chum.
Sighing, Jools tugged on a clean but furry, lime-green jumper, adding a string of faux pearls she’d bought with a dress that now wouldn’t go further than her thighs. At least she was clean. That had to be a plus point.
She set off on her mission.
A few doors down the high street, a squiggly handwritten sign in A La Mode boutique beckoned:
Assistant Wanted Sat and Sun.
Saturday and Sunday? Working on weekends would definitely curb her social life. Hang on, apart from Mel, she didn’t have a social life, did she?
‘Can I ‘elp you?’ The pristine girl behind the counter looked Jools up and down.
She took a deep breath and tried to look confident, motioning towards the front window and the sign. ‘I’ve come about the job.’
‘Oh.’ The Carla Bruni lookalike took in Jools’ trainers, tracksuit bottoms and rather tight-fitting jumper.
‘Do you ‘ave ze experience?’
‘Well, I’ve recently run my own company and . . .’
‘What was zis company?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What do ze company do?’
Shit. Jools was hoping she wouldn’t ask that. ‘Um, cleaning.’
Silence, then: ‘What ‘appen to your company? Did you zell it?’
Double shit. Jools was hoping she wouldn’t ask that either. ‘No, I had a bit of trouble.’
‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’
Shit, shit, shit. She was really hoping she wouldn’t ask that.
‘Well, one of my employees burned down a . . .’
Carla had heard enough. ‘Well, maybe you zend in the CV and we call you for interview. Maybe.’
There was no doubt that response translated as: maybe if hell freezes over and the devil skates over to me wearing a leotard, does a triple twirl and offers me a double chocolate mocha with cream and Baileys.
Leaving the boutique, Jools longed to run back to the comfort of her HobNobs, but forced herself to wander up and down the high street.
The only other place that needed help was the Goldilocks Theme Pub. Steeling herself to inquire, she discovered employees actually had to wear themed outfits – either the shortest skirt known to man (obviously a male interpretation of what young girls wear on a morning hunt for porridge), or a bulky bear suit. ‘You’d make a great bear,’ the manager said enthusiastically, eyeing the tagline on her tracksuited bottom. Jools wasn’t sure if going from a chicken costume to a bear was a step up or a step down. Either way, she certainly wasn’t going to find out.
Suddenly, a firm hand gripped her shoulder. Hoping for Hunk of No Fixed Abode, she turned to find her landlord, Rocco Martucci, eyeballing her, arms full of kebabs. Jools’ stomach leapt at the delicious spicy smell.
‘Joolsy, Joolsy,’ his voice betraying the fact that a tracheotomy wasn’t far off.
‘I been looking for you, innit? You owe me £1,349.’
Oh-oh. She couldn’t run or hide – Rocco knew exactly where to find her and besides, he had a set of keys. Not to mention that in her current state, Jools could neither run nor hide. She feigned surprise. ‘Really? Didn’t you get my cheque? I sent you the full amount.’
Rocco was having none of it. ‘No. I want money, Joolsy. Now!’
‘Well you know how the Royal Mail is, Rocco. I’m sure it’ll turn up soon.’ She licked her lips. ‘I don’t suppose you have an extra kebab?’
Grabbing her arm, Rocco began dragging Jools to the near
est cash point. ‘How about you cancel the cheque and pay me now? Make things easy.’
She tried to squirm free but his grip tightened. Jools thought fast. ‘Maybe the cheque was stolen and cashed? The money won’t be there.’
‘That’s your problem.’ They were in front of the cash point now. ‘Money please. £500 will do – for today. I’m a reasonable guy, innit.’
Promising God she’d convert from carbohydrates to a proper religion if he commanded money out of the machine, Jools cupped her hands at the slot of the cash point and prayed.
But like the rest of London, God must have been watching a repeat of EastEnders. The stupid machine ate her card, a message told her to contact her branch immediately, and Rocco began clicking his knuckles in anticipation.
Chapter 3
Dear Miss Grand,
Thank you for your undated letter, which we received on 3rd March. Whilst I appreciate the exuberant compliments, unfortunately Commercial Bank London cannot extend further overdraft privileges to you, no matter how attractive you perceive me to be, until the balance is brought down within the agreed limit. We look forward to receiving such sums within the next week, and urge you to contact us immediately should you experience difficulties making payment.
Yours faithfully,
Horace Fortescue
Commercial Bank London
WAITING FOR THE response to her plea, Jools glanced around Mel’s roomy Kensington pad. The luxury flat stretched across the second floor of a Victorian mansion block in the rich heartland of W8. It was so far removed from Jools’ smelly little flat near the bus garage she expected someone to tap her on the shoulder and ask if she was lost and lead her quickly along the posh streets to the tube.
Taking in the slick interior, the familiar pang of jealously gnawed. Why couldn’t she have been born into money, instead of a home where everything was quite literally broken, stolen, or – like her father – so far past its sell-by date it was practically worthless. Everything here was so glossy; even the people seemed to shine with wealth. The pristine tree-lined streets doubled as Maserati or Porsche dealerships, with almost every car worth more than the two-bed, South London semi she’d grown up in.
Picking at the scabbing Chihuahua bite, Jools wondered how to approach the money issue with Mel. She’d shed what little pride she had left to beg Mel for money to pay Rocco. If Mel refused, there would be the kind of trouble that ended with a visit via ambulance to the local NHS pit. Rocco had agreed not to bash her face in if she paid in full, plus two weeks in advance, by the next morning. The deal expired in exactly two hours.
Mel wasn’t exactly thrilled at being hit up for cash. ‘I’ll lend you money, but in the meantime, be proactive. Sell something, make something. Anything.’
‘I tried to get a job,’ Jools protested. ‘Absolutely no luck. And I did ring up to apply for the dole.’
Mel sighed. ‘That was a waste of time, I told you, remember?’
‘Well, I managed an appointment, so it wasn’t a total loss.’
Mel told her she needed to grow up. ‘Jools, you always take the easy way out. You fell into cleaning because you didn’t want to bother with a proper job, then you didn’t vet your employees properly, and now you’re hardly even making an effort to get a job. I mean,’ she pointed at Jools’ tracksuit bottoms, ‘I hope you didn’t go job hunting in those?’
Jools looked shifty.
‘Jools!’
‘But I don’t have anything else.’
‘You have loads of clothes.’ Mel launched into high-gear ticking off. ‘That’s why you’re broke. You wasted too much money on designer gear. £800 for Prada trousers, if I recall correctly. What about them?’
She pouted. ‘Too small. Everything is too small.’ All those HobNobs have taken their toll. It wasn’t fair. Comfort eating shouldn’t make you look worse. Where’s the comfort in that?
‘You need to pull yourself together. Maybe it’s time to ask your dad for . . .’
Shaking her head furiously, Jools wondered how could Mel even suggest that?
The last anyone had heard, her dad was living with a 26-year-old lap dancer – the very thought put Jools off HobNobs. Well, for about five minutes, anyway.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I just thought that . . . Oh, never mind. Why don’t I take you out for breakfast? We can get cash for Rocco on the way. How much is it again?’
Deep down, Mel was a sweetheart and couldn’t resist a charity case, even though Jools was about as close as Mel would ever get to a real down-and-out, unless you counted the bag lady who sat in front of Tesco’s on Kensington High Street asking for money for cat litter.
The thought of food cheered Jools immensely. Maybe they could go to Gladstones, the posh place around the corner.
Mel made a face. ‘Not wearing those tracksuit bottoms. How about McDonald’s? The one up the road does a particularly good coffee.’
‘Forget coffee. It’s all about the hash browns,’ Jools said, linking arms with her friend.
*
Two-and-a-half hours and a bus ride later, Jools was back on her own smelly sofa, thinking blissfully of Bacon and Egg McMuffins just consumed.
Mel’s comments floated through her head. Sell something. Isn’t that what she had said?
How did you sell stuff? Wait a minute – didn’t people make a fortune selling stuff online?
She looked around her shabby little cubicle of a flat. Well, they said one man’s rubbish was another man’s treasure – though to be frank her things were more on the rubbish side of things. What did she have to lose?
A few biscuits and a cup of tea would help give her energy to sort through her stuff. But halfway through a HobNob, Jools fell asleep. She awoke with the soggy remnants stuck to her tongue, wondering what it was she’d planned to do right before phasing out.
Sell her stuff. That’s right. A quick lunch of bread and Nutella and Jools went to work, ferreting through everything in her flat to find sellable items.
One pair of Adidas trainers; slightly used, slightly stinky from a run-in with doggie-do on the way to the chippy.
Four size 14 and 16 sweaters, all with at least one immovable stain located somewhere obvious.
A four-year-old iPod Shuffle that might or might not be working – she’d lost the power cord, box and every accessory that had come with it.
A toaster that had blown up when she’d tried to jam a crumpet into it.
And finally, the item she was banking on to pay this month’s rent – one brand-new pair of size 10 Prada trousers, purchased as an incentive for weight loss, still gorgeous in their original black and white Prada packaging.
Picking up a massive Online Selling for the Mentally Challenged she’d found in the specials’ bin of the local bookstore a year ago (purchased for buying cheap cleaning supplies that turned out to consist largely of water and sugar), Jools skimmed the section on ‘Setting Up Your Shop’. Halfway through the chapter, it was clear making a fortune online might not be as easy as she’d hoped.
Thanks to the fire at Mrs Pho‘s, she was minus a computer and camera.
Great. What was she going to do now? Maybe go to an Internet café but they cost money, and right now, every penny borrowed from Mel was going straight to Rocco to preserve her life. It wasn’t polite to ask Mel for more money – besides, the lucky cow had taken off to New York for a work conference.
Jools stood up and gazed out of the grimy window for inspiration. There, tempting her, was a lovely new computer, sitting in the bus station’s staff canteen.
Ideal. If only she could get in there, just to get the auctions started. Then she could use just the Internet café to check emails, without having to spend too much.
Alright, there was still the camera issue to contend with, but she could be good with words – like those advertising copywriters who entice people with snazzy syntax.
The canteen was empty. It might be possible to jump out the window and sneak into the canteen, but what
if someone noticed. Besides, there were no guarantees she’d fit through the window.
‘Psst.’
What was that? Not Rocco! But after quickly scanning the tiny flat, she was relieved to find it free of kebab-scoffing lunatics.
‘Psst!’
It was coming from outside.
Hunk of No Fixed Abode was standing in the door next to the canteen, eating a doughnut.
‘Want one?’
Was he actually a bus driver? It wouldn’t surprise her. Some London bus drivers did look like a Darwinian dream of the missing link. But Hunk of No Fixed Abode didn’t seem to own a uniform. If he wasn’t a driver, he definitely couldn’t be management – that required at least a shower and some form of hairbrush.
He must have just snuck in there to steal food. Jools hadn’t eaten for at least forty-five minutes and right now a calorie-loaded treat would hit the spot perfectly. Ignoring the little voice in her head that said being an accomplice to doughnut-pinching was just as bad as stealing, she leaned out the window.
‘Yes, please,’ she replied in a whisper, in case someone caught them in the illicit act.
Taking a plate from the table in the canteen, Hunk of No Fixed Abode came over to the window – which was only slightly higher than him. He must be around 6 foot 2, Jools estimated. Impressive!
A plate of fresh, deliciously-iced doughnuts was held up. They sat in a neat pile, begging to be eaten.
‘Thanks,’ said Jools, taking only one. It wouldn’t do if Hunk of No Fixed Abode thought she had no self-control. Luckily, he couldn’t see the contradictory expanding backside from out there.
‘You’re welcome.’ He was surprisingly well spoken. Posh, even. And those eyes! Plus, up close, he looked cleaner than from afar. The hobo outfit was definitely third or fourth-hand, but the skin underneath seemed relatively clean. His cuticles seemed well cared for too, though the hands were grubby. Interesting, thought Jools, a hobo with good personal hygiene. She couldn’t wait to tell Mel. Surely hygiene in a hobo was a major plus point? And he didn’t appear pissed or stoned either. The plus points were stacking up!
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 2