Jools looked at her watch. ‘Oh shit, you have to go.’
Mel got up to leave, but Jools grabbed her arm. ’Wait. No. Stay here and watch so I can say ‘I told you so’. Niles Crisp should be here any second. I bet he’s gorgeous! He certainly sounds yummy.’ Jools felt her tummy leap at the thought of crisps.
‘That’s his name? I can tell he’s a weirdo without even clapping eyes on him. Come on, let’s leave while we still can,’ Mel hissed. ‘Right now!’
‘No, shh. Someone‘s coming in. Quick. Sit over there!’
Mel rolled her eyes and moved to a table in the corner behind the door.
A short, skinny bloke in a long black leather trench coat walked over to Jools. He flashed a grin. One of his teeth was black.
Shit. Jools shot a look at Mel. She had the sinking feeling that she might need fairly prompt saving, but Mel was adding sugar to her coffee and didn’t see.
Niles Crisp sat down and leaned in. ‘Hi, babe. You’re everything your photo hinted at and more, eh?’ He peeked under the table. ‘I like your tracksuit bottoms, darling. I love sporty birds.’ His breath smelled like old cheese and sweaty socks. Jools recoiled.
‘What’s the matter, baby? You scared? I’m harmless. I like it fast, hard and often. I can tell you do, too. I spend my days selling, selling, selling. I spend my nights teaching naughty young things like you how to behave.’
A thin thread of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.
Jools’ heart bumped in her chest. ‘My listing made it clear there’s no sex involved. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind . . . I just need to pay the rent.’ She tried to keep her voice steady.
‘Ooh, baby, let me assure you, we’ll get your rent paid. You just have to work hard – if you know what I mean.’ He licked his lips.
‘No. I mean, yes. I know what you mean. But no, that’s not going to work, alright? I’ve got to go.’ Jools stood up, grabbed her coat and looked hard at Mel who was already halfway to the door.
Niles Crisp wasn‘t the type to take rejection well. ‘You little bitch, where do you think you’re going? You can’t run from me!’
Jools and Mel broke into a sprint and ran three blocks before Mel pulled Jools into an alley and screamed that she was certifiably insane. ‘I should get a doctor and have you sectioned. I’m going to take you back to your flat, you’re going to pack your shit and move in with me. Don’t you dare say no.’
Jools could barely breathe. That was the fastest she’d moved all year. ‘Thanks, Mel, but I keep telling you, I can’t live with the boyfiend. I respect you enough to let you make your own decisions. You need to treat me the same!’
‘Fine. Call me when you’re being tortured by a psycho whilst tied to his bed. I’ll save you, if I can.’
Jools smiled. ‘Is it wrong that the thought of that isn’t entirely unpleasant?’
But Mel just shook her head and stalked off, disappearing into the nearest Tube station. Jools ducked into the loos at the Tube and fixed herself up for Bidder Number Two. Maybe she shouldn’t go through with it. But, she reasoned, the last one was so bad that surely it couldn’t get much worse. Anyway, this next bloke sounded honest and professional: Would be delighted to make your acquaintance with a view to discussing our possible business arrangement. What a gentleman. In fact, he might be extremely refined – and maybe even handsome. With a username like ‘HotRod38’ he sounded promising in one aspect, anyway.
She made her way back to Mama Blue’s. There was no mistaking who was Bidder Number Two, HotRod38. Sporting a navy polo and dark glasses that obscured his eyes, she saw that his jaw was square, his nose straight and his hair shiny and groomed. As she approached, he didn’t stand up or even look at her, just slipped into the chair opposite and launched into a polite speech that had clearly been rehearsed.
‘It is nice to meet you. Let me explain my situation, entirely in confidence, of course. I am a politician about to be preselected as MP for the safe seat of Kensington and Chelsea. I’m gay, but I have told my party I’m about to be married. I must find a wife or any chance of becoming an MP is ruined. I would require a prenuptial agreement, as well as a legal contract from you stating that you will never disclose the circumstances surrounding our marriage as long as we both shall live. The marriage should last long enough to be plausible. I would not expect you to be faithful, just discreet. Think about it. I will be bidding on your auction up until the end. Thank you and have a lovely evening.’ With that, HotRod38 walked out of the café and into a waiting car.
Jools took a deep breath and watched as his car edged along the busy high street, then disappeared around the corner. ‘HotRod38, I like the look of you,’ she said aloud, relieved there was at least one normal bidder out there. Detached, wealthy, and with a strong ulterior motive, he was a perfect candidate for marriage.
She wondered if he lived somewhere nice.
Chapter 6
Dear Ombudsman for Social Services,
I am writing to complain of my appalling treatment at the hands of the Willesden Green Dole Office. As a person who has paid most of her taxes on time (well, when I had the money), I cannot believe that this country, a supposed democracy, would allow me to starve to death on the street over one small indiscretion when I was young. Despite my pleadings, I have been left to my fate. Please see what you can do immediately.
Yours starvingly,
Julia M. Grand
NILES CRISP WASN’T finished with that bitch who’d put herself up for auction online, not by a long shot. Such opportunities didn’t come around often, and he was willing to invest a significant amount of time to get a cute (albeit fat) young wife. Niles had tried conventional relationships, but they bored him. He was meant for something wild, unorthodox, and just plain hot. So the day after meeting Jools, he arrived back home from his job at the call centre and buckled down to hatch a plan to possess her.
Despite the fact that she didn’t seem to fancy him (that could just be a matter of time, couldn’t it?), it was shocking to find she had retracted his bids. What nerve! After all, he was the customer, and wasn’t the customer always right? She didn’t deserve to slither away that easily, and he was more than willing to teach her all about customer service.
Staring at the shagpile carpet that graced his mean little kitchen, Niles finally concocted the perfect plan for ensnaring his future wife.
First, a polite email, acknowledging that their chemistry did seem off and he had no bad feelings about his cancelled bid. However, he wrote, it had been nice to meet her and if she felt like it, perhaps they could be friends. Of course, she wouldn’t respond – she’d already shown she had no customer service skills to speak of – but it would divert any suspicions that might arise when he made his next move.
Which was to become someone else.
Niles Crisp began to create a new miSell user account. Buyer name: Brad Brown. A small smile twisted his lips. Perfect. Innocent and wholesome. Maybe even make him American. Yes. Throw her off any scent of Niles, and make it impossible to meet him, given his location several thousand miles away.
Image upload: Hmm, where to get a convincing picture? Niles Googled manically. Stockphotosmales had a nice one of a tall, lean catalogue model, posing at a lakefront chalet in boat shoes, shirtless, with flat-fronted chinos. A sales assistant had once told him that girls love a man in flat-fronted chinos.
Wait. Perhaps the model was too good-looking? Someone with that poncy floppy hair – the sort of bloke who obviously looked in the mirror a lot – would hardly be shopping online for a wife. Who’d be dumb enough to believe such a thing? Niles sniggered. Probably the kind of girl who auctioned herself online. Besides, once she got a look at that photo, it’d be game over.
Brad, Wisconsinesque hunk, would seal the deal.
Once his new ID and bid were entered, Niles immediately found Jools’ auction, and clicked on ‘Send Question to Buyer’.
I am absolutely taken by your beauty in this photo.
Even more, I find your courage and confidence to put yourself out in the world in such a way totally irresistible. Though I can’t meet you immediately, because I live in Wisconsin, USA, I would love to speak with you on the telephone. I need to find a wife so I can stay in England permanently to look for work in the finance industry. If you’re not interested in a possible relationship, I would completely understand, and would settle for the possibility of staying in a country I know I would grow to love like my own. Please write if you are interested.
Quashing his growing nausea at writing such drivel, Niles started a ‘To Do’ list:
1. Get American phone number – or maybe just a silent UK number that can’t be easily traced?
2. Practice American accent.
3. Start preparing basement.
Excited, Niles allowed himself an hour or so of defacing that day’s paper before he went to bed. He was a happy man. No more dull evenings surfing the web from his mid-terrace in Slough, searching fruitlessly for naughty women to teach a lesson. He had a purpose. He had a goal. And when he reached that goal, he would have a wife.
*
Jools sat at her computer, satisfied with the power granted to her index finger via the mouse. One click and Niles was gone. At least, he had the good sense to understand she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Well, he did mention something about being friends, but hopefully he was just being polite. Her skin was still crawling with thoughts of his twitching, pock-marked face peering under the café table to perve at her tracksuit bottoms.
Luckily, there seemed to be no hard feelings at the deletion of his bid.
Pity she couldn’t delete kebab-squaffing Rocco with one finger – and that twat Michel Matthews too, come to think of it.
Tempting fate by leaning back on the back legs of an ancient dining chair, Jools smugly acknowledged she was now worth £5000. At least. That was a major improvement on the negative £25,000-odd figure that sad little dweeb of a man from the bank insisted she was worth. Horace Whateverhisnamewas.
Flicking idly through her auction statistics, she saw that some wealthy bloke – a Brad Brown from Wisconsin – had helped up the bid to £5000. A more sensible person (Mel, for example) might have asked why someone would try to bid from the States, with no guarantee of clearing Immigration, but she was willing to believe anything at that point, so God bless America. And with a name like Brad . . . well, if a Brad was good enough for Angelina, a Brad was good enough for Jools.
Okay, it was highly likely this Brad was bored, intoxicated or addicted to online fraud, but Jools was unperturbed because there were now two serious bidders again.
Plus, her favourite, HotRod38, was still winning.
Suddenly the inbox pinged, indicating a new message. Wow. Must be telepathy or something. A message from Brad himself.
Jools read it quickly, then looked at the photograph he’d sent. Well, okay, not exactly Brad Pitt, but nearly as gorgeous, and, from what she could work out, heterosexual too. No sign of man bags or makeup.
Feeling carefree, she emailed her mobile number, instructing him to call anytime after 11 am London time. Then, deciding it might be worth getting into shape for a prospective video-cam affair with Brad, she flip-flopped out of the flat for a bus ride then brisk-ish walk in Kensington Gardens, where there was a lot less doggie business than in any park near her.
At last things seemed to be picking up.
As she waited for the number 52 – along with a rancid old man who kept shouting ‘piss’ and a young mother who mumbled ‘off’ each time he did – she felt a dim fear that the bids might be a hoax, or a result of peoples’ alcohol-induced mistakes, or that if Brad won, Immigration would interrogate her using disposable gloves and lie-detectors and expose her highly illegal plot. In any scenario she wouldn’t see a penny – unless the judge was understanding enough to let her keep some money to aid rehabilitation after being released from prison.
The bus arrived as Jools considered another option – Ross was actually a Russian pimp and she would be kidnapped and sold as a sex slave in Thailand, or horror of horrors, Blackpool.
Calm down, she told herself sternly. Precautions have been taken. Sort of.
Rodney Wetherspone (although she preferred to think of him as HotRod) checked out – he even had a grainy mugshot on the Rising Right website.
As for the American, well, he was so far away that he really wasn’t worth worrying about, was he? If she liked the sound of his voice, maybe, just maybe, he might have a chance. If not, one click and he was history.
The sun suddenly made an unexpected appearance, which was slightly eery in a British winter, but Jools was pleased that even the London weather was cooperating today. Finally things were moving in the right direction.
Spying a familiar cross-street, Jools got off the bus one stop before the park, deciding that a short walk to Mel’s flat was a vast improvement on an exhausting trek through the Royal Park.
It was only when she had spent 15 minutes loitering at the front of the building, buzzing at two second intervals, that she remembered Mel worked until at least 5 pm and it was only mid-afternoon. It wasn’t a good idea to hang about – being in Kensington in a rather smelly tracksuit was risky if one wanted to avoid persecution for bad fashion – so Jools gave up on the whole thing and headed for home, where a nice new packet of HobNobs was waiting.
A half hour later, the bus pulled into the garage and the doors swung open. The only upside of living near the toxic bus station was the proximity of the bus stop to her flat – about five metres.
Walking the few steps home, she spotted Hunk of No Fixed Abode heading towards the canteen again. God, had he no shame, carrying on like he owned the place? Although a few of the drivers threw him strange looks, no one actually questioned his presence. Lucky bugger. If Jools tried that they would probably mistake her for a woolly mammoth and shoot her in the bum with a tranquilliser dart.
Jools watched as he rounded the canteen door. As hobos went, he looked reasonably well-kept. In fact, you could clean him up and put him to work in a bank or law firm without too much effort.
Rats. Hunk had caught her staring. What to do? Hide? A wee bit difficult given her girth. Instead, Jools went bright red and waved. Remembering his laptop gift she tried to sign drinking and eating to invite him for dinner.
Thankfully (because she had no food and drink except tea and Hobnobs), he shook his head and pointed at the canteen, then headed inside. In spite of her relief, she was a tad insulted. Was he, a hobo, to good for her, an almost hobo? No. Maybe the bus drivers had offered him supper tonight? God, her love life was officially as dead as roadkill if she couldn’t even attract a hobo with an offer of food and drink.
Before she had a chance to begin scoffing her HobNobs, she saw the answering machine flashing. Must be from Rocco. She deleted it without listening.
‘What can he do, throw me onto the street?’ she muttered, wrestling with the tightly-packed biscuits. ‘Tenants have rights too.’ She’d no idea what those rights might be, but Rocco didn’t scare her. Well not much. Not when she was in here with the door locked and a chair propped up against the door knob and he wasn’t outside jangling keys and kebabs. Plus, there were better prospects than this dingy old flat on the horizon, such as HotRod and a nice abode fit for a politician. And, of course, the gorgeous Brad from America.
The phone rang again. Jools answered tentatively, hoping for Mel. If it was Rocco she’d pretend to be from an overseas call centre and hang up.
‘Joolsy, alright?’
Great. The sponging father. ‘Oh, um, everything’s fine. Are you having a nice time in Ibiza with, uh, what’s her name?’
‘The name’s Tash – er, sorry, uh, Suze. You’ll have to meet ‘er, a right sweetheart. Great boobies on her. Listen, have you found a job yet?’
Jools felt nauseated, which went with the territory when in conversation with her dad. How could she even consider moving in with him? Jeez. Living on the street was
infinitely better than having to slap away his constant hand out all day long.
‘No Dad, there are no jobs out there. I’ve looked.’
There was a pause. ‘How about a new boyfriend? I tell you, it sure is great to have a partner in crime, eh, Suze? What a sweetheart, she’s still passed out from last night. It was a wild one, alright.’ Another pause as he reminisced about his gross and possibly illegal activities with the much-too-young Suze.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘You should look on miSell if you’re lonely. Must be a new thing in online dating. I found this sweet girl, sorta looks like you when you was a skinny little teen. Real cute, a bit old for me, but only going for a few thousand pounds. You couldn’t lend me a few thou to bid, could you?’
It was all Jools could do to stop from losing her lunch then and there. ‘Christ, Dad, you’re sick and I’m still broke. I’ve got to go.’
‘Come on. You know I’m kidding, only kidding. Well about the girl, not the money, I do actually need the money. But the girl wouldn’t hurt, eh . . .’
Jools hung up. If he whined about it later, she could pretend they were cut off, which was bound to happen any moment now. Charlie Grand bidding on her was making her re-evaluate her whole miSell career.
Speaking of which . . . she sat down to check the current auction value when the phone rang again.
She hadn’t been so popular since forgetting to wear a skirt to school after a cider binge in Year 10.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, hi. May I speak with Jools?’
The American! Jools threw a hand over her mouth to keep from squealing out loud.
‘Ahem. Yes. Speaking?’
‘Oh, hi there, Jools, this is Brad, I believe you read my message on miSell? I wanted to call and touch base with you, let you know that I am real, and not one of those weirdos who tend to lurk around online.’
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 5