Naked in Knightsbridge

by Schmidt, Nicky

  Skuttle put a hand on her shaking back. ‘Jools, we’ve all done things we’re not proud of; not told the whole truth. It’s no big deal.’ He handed her a silk hankie with a Hermes logo in the corner. ‘Now why don’t we go and get lunch at that charity kitchen in the West End. The one with the Yorkshire puds you love?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m not hungry. I just want to lie here on my sofa for a while.’ Jools turned her face away. She couldn’t stand for him to even look at her.

  Skuttle looked at her for a moment then stood up. ‘Alright. I’ll let you nap. But you should remember that nothing is what it seems. You might be in the middle of a fairytale and not even know it.’

  Of all the hobos, she had to get stuck with a philosophizing one. She was so not in the mood for cryptic messages. If this was a fairytale, then Jools was one of the ugly sisters. The shoe was never going to fit her size 7 hoofers.

  So this is how people fail, she thought as she listened to Skuttle leave the squat and silence descended. They lose their jobs, lose their homes, lose their friends – then lose their minds from the stress of it all. She was either about to go insane, or she already had. If trying to sell yourself on miSell and thinking it would all be fine wasn’t insanity, it must be the closest thing to it.

  Maybe she could contact Brad and work something out with him. It would seem strange, though, now that the formal aspect of miSell was gone, to actually have him hand her money and then go home with him.

  The whole thing was starting to make her nauseous. But she needed to face the facts: the only way out of this mess was to put herself at the mercy of a stranger and become a kept woman.

  There was nowhere else to turn.

  Chapter 9

  Dear Miss Julia M. Grand,

  It is Royal Mail’s job to deliver the post; if we have knowledge of a correct address, we cannot simply overlook it because the recipient asks us to. May I suggest that if you no longer wish to receive post, you contact those trying to send it to you and ask them to cease. In the meantime, we will continue to deliver to the chute at the back of the bus garage.

  Yours sincerely,

  Edward Blatherwith

  Director, Customer Services

  ‘JOOLS, HAVE YOU completely forgotten that just a few months ago you had a job, a home and a firm grip on reality? What the hell has happened to you?’ The pixie-face was set in a deep grimace.

  ‘I thought you’d be happy that my miSell days are over, Mel. I thought you might respect me again.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re no longer indulging your miSell fantasy. But even that wasn’t by choice! If they hadn’t booted you off you’d still be doing it. No, the real problem is this homelessness thing you’re doing now. It’s not funny anymore. Hell, it never was funny, for that matter.’

  ‘It’s not a joke, Mel! I really am homeless!’

  Mel called over the bitchy guy behind the counter at Mama Blue‘s and asked for two more takeaway coffees. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times to come live with me and Michel. How on earth could Michel possibly be worse company than that wino you’re living with? God, next thing you know, you’re going to be sleeping with him.’ Mel paused and squinted. ‘You aren’t sleeping with him, are you?’

  Jools certainly wasn’t going to tell Mel that Skuttle had rejected her. The bitchy guy returned with the coffees, and they walked outside and started towards the bus garage. ‘You know, Mel, you don’t have to be such a snob. Skuttle is a good man and I’m sure there’s far more to him than we know.’

  ‘Obviously. Broken home, mental institution, stint in prison. Take your pick. And what’s with that name – Skuttle?’ Mel made a face.

  ‘He might look like a hobo, but he knows what he’s doing and he’s been nicer to me than anyone. He brings me food, he warns me about the really dodgy street people, he’s emotionally supportive. And he’s funny! When was the last time Michel did anything nice for you? Skuttle is a better candidate for marriage than anyone on miSell – including your own live-in boyfiend.’

  They had made it to the chute and were standing in Jools’ living room.

  ‘Yeah, Skuttle the alco sounds like a great catch.’

  ‘What are you talking about? He never drinks!’

  Mel pointed to the corner, where a large mound of crushed beer cans leaned against the wall. ‘Then what are those? Your bedding? An art project?’

  ‘Oh. That. Well, you know I have so much time on my hands, and, well, it can be a little cold at night down here and beer is warming. And filling.’

  ‘So you’re the alco? Jesus, Jools, this isn’t good. Come on, why won’t you live with me? It would be fun. We can stay up late drinking, but because we’re having a good time, not because we’re miserable and homeless.’

  ‘I will move in with you.’

  Mel‘s face lit up. ‘You will? Great!’

  ‘But not until Michel is gone.’

  The smile disappeared. Mel plonked herself down on Jools’ sofa. Thankfully, it had finally dried out and no longer made the strange squishing noise.

  ‘Will you just tell me what you’ve got against him? I know about the other woman, remember? That’s why I left him in the first place.’

  Jools was tired of trying to hold it all together. ‘Fine, I’ll tell you.’

  Mel rolled her eyes. ‘Let me guess, you saw him bonking a coat-check girl.’

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘Who then? A waitress? A shop assistant? His dentist?’

  The voice inside her head screamed for Jools to stop while she still could. But somehow her mouth and the words flew out.

  ‘Your mother.’

  Mel’s own mouth dropped open. Then she shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the putrid image. ‘You’re making that up. Just because he made fun of your jiggly arse you’ve decided to break us up. Using my mother is stooping to a new low, even for you.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Jools said, already wishing she hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Really, and you know this how?’

  ‘Because, well . . . I saw them.’

  Even though she’d tried to block the memory many times, her mind flashed back to the vision of Michel with Mel’s mum.

  Jools had Mel’s keys for emergencies, and one day she’d run out of bleach while working at a nearby flat. She decided to run across to Mel’s to grab some. Mel wasn’t home so she’d let herself in.

  And there, on the kitchen table of all places, was pinhead Michel. And underneath him – Jools had to bite back a yelp – was Harriet Smythe-Brooks. Ergh. She was old enough to feature in the Old Testament. Her legs in the air, his pimply naked body on top of hers, grinding away. If there was ever something to propel a person straight into therapy, that was it. Jools had crept out unseen, sans bleach.

  And until today, she’d told no one.

  But Mel was having none of it. ‘You’re delusional, you know. Really, Jools.’

  ‘Me? Well, you’re delusional for not believing me, your best friend. I’ve never lied to you, Mel.’

  They stared at each other. A whole minute passed. Then Mel gathered her things and headed for the chute. ‘All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and this is the thanks I get.’

  ‘Mel, I promise you, I’m telling the truth.’ It was going to be tough to get anyone to verify her story, given that Harriet Smythe-Brooks and Michel were hardly going to offer themselves up.

  She never should have told Mel. She was an idiot. A stupid, homeless idiot.

  ‘Bye, Jools. I do hope your life gets better, even if you don’t deserve it.’

  Jools felt so bad after Mel left that she needed to talk to someone. But who?

  Although it was unthinkable just a short while ago, she rang her father from the phone Skuttle had hooked up – line and call costs courtesy of the bus garage. Maybe she could go to Ibiza for a while? If she could raise enough for the airfare, a nice spell in the sun might be just what she needed.

  The p
hone rang ten times and just as Jools was about to hang up, he answered.

  ‘Who the hell is this? I told you lot to leave me alone.’ A tad aggressive, but maybe that was the way Spaniards answered the phone.

  ‘Hi, Dad. How’s Spain?’

  ‘Joolsy! You’re a voice for sore ears! Listen, I need your help, alright sweetheart? I need you to testify for me. I’m being charged with trying to get it on with a thirteen-year-old. Well Christ, I thought she was nineteen! Now I want to come back home to avoid jail, but the Old Bill over ‘ere says I ain’t going nowhere. To be honest, I don’t really want to leave – the women here are amazing. Thought maybe you should get on a train or a plane and get down here and help me out of this mess. I can’t leave my pretty little Suze here alone! She’s a little angry about the, you know, the teenager. I told her, I said . . . ’

  So much for relying on support from dear old Dad. She should have known better. Jools put down the phone, grabbed a bottle of cider that Skuttle had appropriated from the bins outside a house party around the corner, and prayed that if she actually fell asleep that night, she wouldn’t wake up.

  Or worse, that if she did, she wouldn’t dream of her father molesting girls young enough to be her daughter at nightclubs.

  *

  Rodney was optimistic as he sat down at the computer to check the state of the auction.

  The Party insisted he was a shoe in for the preselection and given he was in a safe Tory seat, in less than a month Rodney Wetherspone would become odds on for the role of MP for Kensington and Chelsea. His chest puffed up with pride as he imagined his parents’ faces.

  Luckily, there was plenty of cash sloshing around his bank account, and no other reason why this wouldn’t work out. Even if that other bidder raised him to £100,000, he was liquid enough to handle it. Rodney took a deep breath, typed in his username and password, and logged onto miSell.

  He had one message in his inbox.

  A MESSAGE FROM MiSELL

  Dear HotRod38,

  The Auction ‘Girl for Marriage’ has been cancelled owing to a miSell policy violation. We apologise for any inconvenience, and advise that all bids have been retracted and are no longer legally binding.

  Rodney read the words over and over again until his vision blurred. Cancelled? Against policy? He stood and paced the room angrily. All this time and effort invested into preparing for his marriage, his career as an MP, and now some idiotic policy was going to ruin it.

  He tried to stay calm. Jools must be in the same position as him. This wasn’t over yet. They could do the deal face-to-face – all he had to do was track her down in person and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Rodney didn’t know much about women, but he was fairly certain they liked money, they liked to feel pretty, and they liked security. He would come up with a package that was irresistible.

  He gathered his coat and car keys and departed on a city-wide search for Jools. He would start in the neighbourhood of that nasty little caf and radiate outwards in concentric circles until he found her.

  Thus keeping his MP dream alive.

  *

  After his initial shock, Niles decided the auction’s termination was not, in fact, a bad thing. It actually put him at an advantage because Jools and Brad had a personal relationship – maybe he could get her to agree on an outside arrangement?

  Better still, his competition had been helpfully scuppered by miSell, giving him plenty of time to get his basement ready and to woo his future bride further. Even better yet, there was no doubt he could get her for less cash now. Maybe Jools wouldn’t even ask for money. He might be able to seduce her with the prospect of a fine cottage by a secluded lake in Wisconsin – before introducing her to the less-than-stellar reality of Slough.

  Drafting his response, he finally had the perfect combination of words. Brad would implore her not to let the trivial laws of the Internet keep them apart. He’d suggest a meeting in London in two weeks. Plenty of time to get the house ready.

  *

  Jools moped about the basement squat, feeling restless. She picked up the phone to call Mel, then put it down again. Mel might be living a lie, but Jools’ truth wasn’t exactly worth boasting about. Okay, Skuttle was entertaining and mysterious, but he wasn’t interested in her, so pining after him was pointless and pathetic. And living down a chute at a bus garage wasn’t adult behaviour either, was it?

  Maybe some hunting and gathering would lift her spirits.

  Scooting out of the basement and up the chute, she launched herself into surprisingly bright sunshine.

  The skip behind the bread shop around the corner was loaded with goodies that morning and Jools took her time seeking out a nice loaf. Digging about, she came across an olive ciabatta, a rare find. Sniffing it and poking her finger inside to make sure it was only from yesterday, she then took a big bite out of the top.

  Accidentally inhaling some of the flour that was heavily sprinkled on the surface, she started coughing uncontrollably.

  God, she needed some water. She was just about to drink from a kerb-side tap when she turned and found herself face-to-face with a tall man in dark shades and a well-tailored grey suit.

  ‘Ah!’ Jools shrieked in surprise, inhaling even more flour and coughing harder.

  Rodney Wetherspone took a couple of steps backwards, holding up his arms in surrender.

  ‘It’s me, Rodney, remember? From the miSell auction? Terribly sorry to startle you.’

  Jools swallowed a couple of times. ’It’s, um, okay. How did you find me?’

  ‘Well, the café we met in is two doors down from here.’ Rodney took in Jools’ appearance. ’I’m sorry, but may I ask, what on earth are you doing? Had I known you were so hungry, I’d have asked you to accompany me to dinner.’

  ‘That’s um, nice of you.’ Jools was horrified. What a sight she must look. ’You’re probably relieved that miSell didn’t let you spend all that money on me!’

  Taking her arm, Rodney led her towards the street. ‘On the contrary, my dear, I am truly delighted to have found you.’

  ‘Really?’

  Maybe she had got it all wrong. Maybe Rodney, not Niles, was the nutjob.

  Rodney turned to face her. ‘Would you be prepared to go through with the original deal, for the top bid of £76,000?’

  For once rendered speechless, Jools opened and shut her mouth like a fish heading for a plughole.

  ‘The plan would be to marry, and then live separate lives. Of course, I would fund a reasonable lifestyle, including food and accommodation.’

  Jools was still doing a good impression of a breathless marine creature.

  ‘Tell me, do you like Percys?’

  The most expensive department store in London? Silly question. She found her voice. ‘I, ah, I guess. Who doesn’t?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Rodney glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t we take you there and have your hair and nails and er, bits and pieces done. Maybe a few new clothes? Then you can come home with me – the guest room of course – and tomorrow morning the instant the bank opens I’ll deposit the lump sum in your chequing account. What do you say?’

  Jools opened her mouth to scream ‘YES!’ but all she managed was another feeble cough. So, she nodded vigorously.

  ‘Well, gather your things, and let’s get going. Do you have to give notice at your flat?’

  Jools couldn‘t quite work up the courage to tell him she was a homeless squatter. ‘Why don’t you wait in your car and I will be just, ah, just a second.’

  Back in the basement she looked around. As usual, Skuttle was absent, which was probably a good thing. Jools might cry if she had to say goodbye to him right now. There wasn’t much of her current life she needed or wanted, but there was the rock shaped like a poodle that Skuttle had given her on the one-week anniversary of her homelessness.

  She went to unplug the laptop, then had second thoughts. What would Skuttle use if he wanted to do a little online surfing? Hobos had needs, too
. Besides, she could use it to leave a note for him. She opened the word processor and began typing, not noticing the tears streaking down her flour-covered cheeks.

  Dearest Skuttle,

  A friend has offered to let me stay with him.

  He wants me to leave right now, so we can’t say a proper goodbye. I really appreciate all you have done for me and I promise I will drop by soon and give you a special gift to say a proper thanks for your kindness.

  Loads and loads of love, Jools

  PS: Sorry for trying to snog you.

  PPS: But I don’t regret it.

  With a final look at the tidy, cosy little basement squat, Jools wiped her cheeks and climbed up the chute towards Rodney and her new life as a wealthy politician’s wife.

  Halfway up, she encountered a familiar boot. She let herself drop back into the dark little room. Skuttle dropped down after her.

  ‘Jools?’ He eyed her bags.

  Feeling more than a little guilty for running out on him, Jools tried to explain. ‘This bloke offered me a home. And money. A chance to start again. Please understand. I’m not cut out for homelessness. I’m not exactly a natural, am I?’

  ‘Who is? Listen, Jools, there‘s something I should tell you –’

  But a loud, insistent car horn interrupted him. Rodney. God, the last thing Jools needed was for him to drive away without her.

  ‘I really must go, but I will be back soon, I promise. I left you a note, over there… ’

  And Jools gathered up her things, gave Skuttle a chaste kiss on the cheek, clocked the fact that he smelled wonderful (where had he found that incredible aftershave?) and raced up to meet her destiny.