‘Superb. Seriously, never better.’
Jools almost believed her for a second. Maybe, despite bonking Mel’s mum, Michel wasn’t the evil user she thought he was.
And maybe her dad would develop a conscience?
No way. Some things never changed.
*
Niles decided if he had any hope of wooing Jools, he’d have to convince her that Rodney was not who he claimed to be. He’d been online for hours, searching every possible source of information. He had a full biography of the man now, but the only relatively juicy bit of information he had managed to drag up wasn’t even about Rodney, it was about Lady Margaret. Apparently, she’d been spotted dozing off during a performance of Hamlet at the National Theatre last spring and the photo of her, drooling onto her lapel, had made the society pages of every tabloid in London. So not only was it a boring news story, but everyone already knew all about it.
Niles was enraged that Rodney was so perfect. He looked perfect and he spoke perfectly – he was always smiling and shaking hands, holding babies like he actually enjoyed it. He had a top-notch education, never had any run-ins with the law, was an intelligent and charismatic speaker and had risen in the political ranks quickly and with the support of his peers. He was everything Niles wasn’t; he’d been given every opportunity that Niles hadn’t; and now he possessed the one thing Niles wanted more than anything in the world.
Niles wasn’t the brightest but he was street-wise. He knew how low men could go if the stars were aligned in the proper formation, and he knew no one could be as perfect as Rodney seemed to be. There had to be something he was hiding; some ancient skeleton in the closet. Everyone had them — Rodney Wetherspone was just exceedingly good at keeping his quiet.
Niles would keep digging until he discovered Rodney’s dirty little secret and when he did, he would use his newfound knowledge to lure Jools away from her betrothed and into his newly-outfitted basement prison in Slough.
*
Jools wasn’t happy to hear from her dad again so soon.
‘Listen, Joolsy. I need some money and I don’t want to hear that you don’t have it because I know you got plenty now, ain’t you?’
‘What gave you that idea?’ Jools responded, applying a dab of her £1000 face cream to the tip of her nose. Weary after a long day on her feet, she’d just stepped out of a very hot bath and was wrapped in several fluffy towels.
‘I know the Wetherspones are loaded,’ he said.
‘So they’re loaded. Doesn’t mean I’m loaded.’ She examined her nose. For £1000, the cream didn’t seem to be making much difference. Surely a few delicious donuts from the gourmet place in Knightsbridge weren’t causing those blackheads?
‘Alright, then I need you to go to the Wetherspones and ask them for a loaner of a few thousand Euro.’
‘For what?’ Jools asked, already convinced that his answer would give her heartburn.
‘A passport.’
God, had he lost his mind along with his passport? ‘But Dad, you already have a passport.’
‘No, I don’t. Not at the moment.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In a safe place, don’t worry.’
‘Dad! You tell me where your passport is or I won’t ask the Wetherspones for anything.’
‘It’s sort of been confiscated by the Spanish government, pending my hearing about that 13-year-old. But it’s all just a formality. And I really want to come home for your wedding, sweet ’art.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Jools said. ‘You want me to ask the Wetherspones for three thousand Euro to pay for a fake passport because your real one has been confiscated by the Spanish government pending a hearing to determine whether or not you’re guilty of statutory rape.’ She took a breath. ‘Do I have that just about right?’
There was a brief pause. ‘Yeah, that’s about right.’
What an interesting (and welcome) turn of events, Jools thought. She’d been looking for a way to tell her father she didn’t want him at the wedding. Now, it had fallen into her lap. Those finicky gods up there had finally decided to smile on her.
‘I can’t do it, Dad.’ She tried to sound apologetic. ‘I can’t ask the Wetherspones to do something illegal. It could jeopardise Rodney’s political career.’
‘No, you’re right. You couldn’t. You’re their future daughter-in-law, ain’t you?’
Jools was stunned. Could her father actually be talking sense?
It quickly became apparent the answer was no.
‘No, you can’t ask them,’ he said, ‘but I can.’
Jools’ jaw dropped.
Her father had finally lost his mind.
‘I’ll call Lady Margaret myself and explain the whole situation. She’s sure to understand that I only want to be by my baby girl’s side on her wedding day.’
Yeah, she’ll understand alright, Jools thought frantically – especially the bit about the confiscated passport. She’ll understand me right out of Knightsbridge and back down that chute to my squat.
No way could she let her father ruin things now. As his excited wheezing came at her down the phone, Jools decided she hated him now more than ever. Of course, she couldn’t allow Charlie Grand to call Lady Margaret – and suspected he damn well knew it.
‘No, Dad. Leave it,’ she told him. ‘I’ll talk to them. But I’m not making any promises.’
‘Who’s the best daughter in the world?’
Jools promptly hung up, letting loose a string of expletives that would do a builders’ convention proud.
*
There was nothing else for it. She’d have to tell Rodney. It was a no-win situation: give her father money and he’d be at her wedding. Don’t give him money and there was the very definite possibility that she wouldn’t be at her wedding.
Towel-drying her hair, Jools threw on a new silk lounge suit (the sales assistant in Harrods told her she looked like a 1940s’ filmstar in it) and padded down the hallway towards Rodney’s room. She tried not to bother him this late at night but she knew she had to talk to him about her father at some point, and now was as good a time as any.
She couldn’t keep this from him any longer, not with her dad making threats about calling Lady Margaret.
She was about to knock on Rodney’s door when a funny noise stopped her. She strained to listen, pressing closer. A low hum was coming through the door, and some other sound she couldn’t identify. Should she knock? Just go in? The little voice in her head – the one that usually failed to speak until after she’d done something stupid – told her to back off.
Just as she moved away, she heard a strangled yell. Good Lord, what was he doing in there? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Maybe the voice was right. She turned and headed back down the hall to her own bedroom.
Jools pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed. She lay there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the mess her father had made of things. She would have to figure this out on her own. The Wetherspones simply could not know about his dalliance with that 13-year-old.
Jools would find a way to keep him away from the wedding, even if it meant telling every lie known to Michel Matthews.
That should give her plenty to work with, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 15
Dear Miss Grand,
Thank you for choosing Carlisle’s of Sloane Square for your wedding gift registry. We have a few queries regarding the initial list you emailed to us. Firstly, we were somewhat surprised to see that you listed several pairs of shoes from our Shoe Department, all in size 7. Shoes are not items prospective brides usually choose to list, nor, we imagine, gifts the groom’s family in particular would be incentivised to purchase. Additionally, there are many other personal items such as body lotions and perfumes which we suggest might be replaced with a nice Le Creuset frying pan set or perhaps some high thread-count sheets. Furthermore, we notice you requested La Perla underwear in size 12, inc
luding white lace crotchless G-strings. Unfortunately we don’t stock that particular style in a crotchless G-string, but in any event, we would advise against listing such items as they may offend some of your more elderly guests. If you would care to review your listings and respond as soon as possible, we would be most grateful.
Jacinta Millani
Wedding Registry Division
Carlisle’s of Sloane Square
THE NEXT MORNING, Jools was working overtime to squeeze herself into a pair of designer skinny jeans for an appointment with the picky bitches at Carlisle’s, who seemed to think her wedding gift list was too unorthodox for guests of the Wetherspones. As she strained and tugged, it dawned on her that becoming Mrs Rodney Wetherspone might just be more work than it was worth.
What the hell was wrong with these jeans? Rodney had bought them, and he was usually spot-on when it came to sizing. Looking at the expanding universe that was her backside in the full length Venetian-style mirror on the back of her door, Jools had to concede that any sizing issue probably wasn’t his fault. In fact, come to think of it, they’d fit last week when she’d tried them on. Somehow she had managed to gain about eight pounds in five days! Was that even scientifically possible? Alright, she may have indulged in one too many Doughy doughnuts on her way to her now-daily interludes at Harrods, but still, that much weight in such a short time? Maybe she had an allergy or an underactive thyroid or something?
Jools had never been skinny, but she’d definitely hit her heaviest weight ever – even including her lengthy love affair with HobNobs when her cleaning business had crashed and burned (literally). She blamed the doughnuts, for sure, but also credited the insane amount of stress she was under these days. Stress, she had read, released cortisol, and excess cortisol led to belly bulge. Her belly seemed to be competing with her bum in the battle of the bulge. She remained small(ish) on top and she never carried weight on her face, so thankfully she could hide the extra pounds if she wore the right clothes (Prada had a line of tents, didn’t they? Or muumuus?).
Of course Jools didn’t go looking for doughnuts, but every time she found herself near Harrods – which was quite often because a) she was bored sitting at home all day and b) she had loads of money to spend – the friendly bloke behind the Doughy counter offered her freebies. Apparently, he recognised her from a photo in one of the numerous tabloids that had decided to make Jools a Z-list celeb.
That was another reason she was getting tired of Rodney’s lifestyle. She hated being followed by the paps almost as much as she hated the now twice-weekly grooming sessions with the Terrible Trio at Percys.
Before meeting Rodney, she’d never once had her bikini line waxed. She really didn’t understand why it had to be a one of the prerequisites for marrying him, anyway. It wasn’t as though he was ever going to see her bikini area, let alone touch it. Although, she supposed, they would probably take a honeymoon, even if it was just for show. God, she hadn’t given much thought to that until this moment.
Jools stared at her muffin-top, wondering how on earth she would ever sausage herself into a bathing suit. She’d just have to talk Rodney out of any sort of water-themed holiday. They could go skiing or to the country but under no circumstances would she set foot on a beach unless it was in one of those countries where you had to swim in a burqa.
Life with Rodney was not exactly turning out as Jools had hoped. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in developing any kind of real relationship with his new fiancée. Jools wasn’t delusional; she didn’t expect Rodney to switch teams and fall hopelessly in love with her. She wasn’t trying for a conversion. But she had hoped they could at least be friends.
Just after moving in, she’d indulged in various daydreams and fantasies that involved shopping together, dining together, watching scary movies together, talking about the boys they both liked . . . the sort of Sex and the City friendship Carrie Bradshaw had with her gay friends.
Rodney, however, wasn’t keen on togetherness – or Sex and the City. He seemed to like shopping, as long as he did it alone. He bought her great designer clothes and had exceptional taste. But she knew full well that the trousers, shoes or spectacular evening ensembles he bought weren’t altruistic gifts – he was merely ensuring she didn’t embarrass him. In fact, when he’d seen some of the things she’d purchased herself the other day, he’d advised her to sue the shop assistants for negligence.
And things would only get worse once they were married. The reality of her situation was really sinking in. She’d sold herself to the highest bidder and was no better than a high-class prostitute – worse, even, given she wasn’t exactly high class. Once from Tooting always from Tooting, no matter how many facials and brazilians she got; no matter how many pairs of Jimmy Choos were stacked in the wardrobe; no matter how much she learned about politics and wealthy families and how to walk and talk and act like royalty. Despite her best efforts to change, Jools would always be a failed cleaner from the wrong side of town.
‘Are you ready yet?’ Rodney knocked on her door. ‘We told Carlisle’s we would be there by ten.’
As she bumped and grinded her way into the jeans, she decided she hated Rodney for having purchased them. It was most insensitive, given the proximity of Doughy Doughnuts to the house, to purchase skinny jeans for anyone who wasn’t anorexic. Maybe he hadn’t been serious when he suggested she wear them today.
‘How do the jeans look?’ Alright, he was serious.
‘Give me a minute, will you?’
Rodney was obviously going to stand by her bedroom door and torment her until she was ready.
‘The jeans, do they fit?’
Shit. ‘A bit long, I might need to have them taken up.’ How on earth was she supposed to tell him that she would certainly have to have them let out – by a whole leg’s worth? Not that it was even possible. At this point, her best bet was to exchange them for a size that actually fit her and somehow fudge the tag so that if he ever peeked, he wouldn’t be utterly disgusted by what a cow she’d become. The fact that they might not make them in a size 16 was an issue she chose to ignore.
She started rooting through her closet, looking for items that would hide her lower body, at least long enough to wean herself off Doughy Doughnuts and onto some sort of amazing diet. There was nothing, though. She could hardly wear a lizard-skin handbag, could she?
‘Do you have anything else decent to wear?’ Rodney was still staked out by the door.
‘Of course.’
Not. In truth, Jools hadn’t actually tried on much during her shopping trips. Most of the time, she’d see something on a mannequin, decide she was in love with it and tell the saleslady to ring it up in a size 12. She just assumed she’d be able to get herself into it when she needed to.
Tuesday’s purchase, a sassy little top and skirt number by Stella McCartney. Fit fine on top, but her derriere appeared to be trying to make a break for it via the zip of the supposedly flouncy skirt.
She couldn’t wear that.
‘Jools! Come on, will you?’
Okay, maybe she could. She looked around for the light beige Burberry trench she had bought, again without trying it on. It was a little tight under the arms but it’d have to do. At least it hid the skirt.
The phone rang. Jools heard Rodney’s booming voice telling someone something was not acceptable, then footsteps. He banged on her door.
‘Half-wits at Carlisle’s double-booked us. Told them to call you to rearrange. I’m too busy for bloody wedding-present lists anyway.’
Jools breathed a very large sigh of relief, and popped a button on her skirt.
*
Later that day, Jools headed out to try to exchange the jeans.
Too late, she realised where she was – in front of Doughy Doughnuts.
‘Hey, politician’s-wife-to-be! Come get your doughnut!’
Her mouth started to water but Jools looked down at the evil skinny jeans in her arms and reminded herself of the sight of
her bum in the mirror.
‘Not today, thank you.’
He gave her a look like she’d just offered to stab his mother with a beigel. ‘No? You don’t like them?’
Jools walked over to him. Being nice to everyone was part of the deal, according to Rodney. Annoying any potential voter was an absolute no-no.
‘Please don’t take it personally. I really do love your doughnuts. It’s just, I’m getting married soon and I can’t keep eating them or they’ll ruin my figure.’
‘You? Never! You are so slim. Like a waif.’
Wondering if the Doughy guy was classified legally blind, Jools insisted it was too soon after breakfast to eat doughnuts, so the Doughy guy bundled up some Chocolate Temptations and told her to take them home for later.
‘You need to keep strength up, for marriage.’
He didn’t know the half of it.
*
A few minutes later, she was unfortunate enough to run into Mrs Pho in the lingerie shop next to Doughy Doughnuts. Jools had stepped inside to try and find some of those magic ‘suck your gut in’ knickers she’d heard so much about.
‘Well, well, weeeell. Fancy you here.’ Mrs Pho’s waxen face peered up at her. ‘With behind that size you no fit anything here.’
‘You should be more concerned with your own saggy butt, Mrs Pho.’ Jools smiled sweetly.
Mrs Pho stuck her face up close to Jools. ‘Take it from someone with plenty experience. Men like hot woman in bedroom. They don’t want make love to lumpy sofa.’ She eyed Jools’ rump.
Jools was already mildly nauseated by the idea of Mrs Pho in a pair of lacy knickers. The thought of her bumping away in bed turned her stomach.
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