Naked in Knightsbridge

by Schmidt, Nicky

  Chapter 19

  Dear Miss Grand,

  As per your recent request in writing we have instructed Julio, our manager in Knightsbridge, to stop offering you free merchandise as you pass his store. We apologise if this has turned you into, and I quote, ‘a rotund and unattractive excuse for a human being’, however, with the greatest respect, all our customers have free will in regards to our doughnuts. As a goodwill gesture we have enclosed a voucher for ten free boxes of Trophy Delight doughnuts from any of our 15 stores.

  Kind regards,

  Reginald Black

  Public Relations

  Doughy Doughnuts Ltd

  JOOLS SWUNG OPEN the front door, expecting the delivery boy with breakfast. Instead, she was greeted with the angry flash of a very large, very expensive camera. Wearing pyjama bottoms and a too-tight tank top, her hair squashed down and her face dotted with spot cream, she was liable to break the lens. Serves them right, she thought angrily.

  The pavement was teeming with paparazzi and the popping flashes nearly blinded her. What the hell had she done now? She slammed the door but it was too late. There were probably fifty paps out there and she was sure they’d all got ample shots of the rolls of soft flesh currently spilling over the elastic band of her flannel pyjamas. Ever since the WhatNOW! cover, she’d been like a sacrificial pig they all wanted a piece of. Well, she thought, there was certainly plenty to go around.

  And according to Rodney, there was little she could do other than simply take the abuse – and lose the excess pounds, of course.

  She hoped the delivery boy would be able to get through unscathed; all this stress was making her hungry. She had a standing breakfast order with the bakery around the corner. Every morning they delivered three cranberry scones, two apple turnovers, a Belgian waffle and a serving of apple crumble.

  Naturally, Jools didn’t eat everything all at once; it took her the better part of the day to make her way through the basket of delectable goodies. However, she had definitely got used to having scones and clotted cream with her coffee. That her breakfast had yet to arrive irked her even more than the knowledge that, at this very moment, there was a photographer trying to peer into the living room.

  Part of her wanted to throw open the blinds and flash the bloke, to give him what he really wanted. But she knew Rodney would massacre her so she drew the blinds more tightly.

  Rodney was just as fed up with the negative attention as Jools, but for a very different reason. He didn’t care that his fiancée was being rubbished by every tabloid in London; he didn’t care that her feelings were crushed; and he didn’t even try to understand why she couldn’t stop eating.

  No, Rodney only cared about the pictures because they were starting to make him look bad, too. His party was beginning to complain. The men he answered to were now pulling him aside to discuss Jools' 'condition', telling him he could not succeed with a cow for a wife. Rodney believed they thought him less of a man because he couldn’t control his wife-to-be – and the last thing he needed was anyone thinking he was less of a man. He was a man’s man. Quite literally.

  Jools knew Rodney was miffed about her weight and the resulting attention. But he didn’t bring it up in conversation — he didn’t bring anything up in conversation – because they had completely stopped talking. Jools wished he would say something, anything, but she didn’t want to risk starting a dialogue. He seemed tense and on edge, and she was terrified he’d snap and call the whole thing off.

  So she decided to wait it out. He would have to speak to her eventually, at least to say ‘I do’. If there was one thing she could rely on, it was that Rodney would put on a good show when the big day finally arrived.

  But for now, she’d have to be satisfied with the narky notes he left her and the silence that filled their sterile house.

  The shrill ring of the phone echoed in the empty room. Jools grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Good morning, Julia,’ said Lady Margaret, in her throaty, cokey voice. ‘Have we greeted the sun yet today?’

  Jools smiled, happy to hear from her soon-to-be mother-in-law. She’d come to rely on the old woman as a means of comic relief, if nothing else. At least she was getting something out of her ‘relationship’ with Rodney.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Jools said. ‘Not only did I greet the sun but I greeted the blinding flash of the paparazzi. They’re camped out in front of the building trying to get a look at my stomach.’

  Lady Margaret laughed and Jools almost felt insulted. Was she providing comic relief to them, too? Sometimes she wanted to tell Lady Margaret the truth about her relationship with Rodney, just to spite the whole bloody family. She suspected Lady Margaret secretly enjoyed Jools’ predicament because it meant that Rodney had failed once again by having a lard-arse for a wife.

  ‘I don’t think it’s very funny,’ Jools sniffed.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ Lady Margaret said, still chuckling softly. ‘You’re their target. Why would you think it’s funny? But as I’ve said, dear, you have the power to change public opinion – and your dress size.’

  Lady Margaret had made Jools’ weight loss her mission. She called every day to tell Jools about the latest in body-modifying surgical procedures, or the hot new drug that was supposed to help you burn fat while you slept. This morning, she’d sunk to a new low by suggesting Jools try crystal meth. It was very big in America, she’d said, and highly effective for working mothers who had to juggle career, kids and housekeeping duties while staying thin enough so their husbands would still want to sleep with them.

  Jools didn’t particularly relish the idea of talking sex with Lady Margaret, nor did she have any desire to start taking crystal meth.

  ‘I have to go,’ Jools said, cutting her off. ‘I have to eat breakfast. I’m starving.’

  ‘I hope you’re not waiting on your baked goods, dear, because I cancelled that little addiction this morning.’

  Jools’ face went red. How dare the old hag meddle in her breakfast affairs? As far as the wedding went, she could meddle in any way she wanted. But Jools would not sit idly by and let the woman make decisions about what Jools ate.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said, trying to stay calm.

  ‘It’s for the best, dear. You’ll thank me the next time they run your backside across the cover of Hi!’

  Jools hung up. She knew she’d probably get in trouble for doing so but right now, she really didn’t care. All she wanted was a bloody scone.

  *

  Niles was at work, wondering if he could tap Rodney Wetherspone’s home phone. He did work at a call centre, but he suspected that asking questions about illegal phone tapping would have him hauled before a disciplinary committee faster than he could say Camillagate.

  Still, things were looking up. He was enjoying a daily drive-by of Jools’ new Knightsbridge home. At least twice in the last week he’d seen her entering the white Georgian terrace, running the gauntlet of crazed photographers. Poor girl was looking a little larger than life, but that didn’t worry Niles. He would soon work it off her.

  Checking his supervisor was otherwise engaged, Niles logged onto his private email account as Brad and sent Jools another message, this one a little more suggestive than the last. Looking the way she did, she was unlikely to be getting much attention from that slick fiancé of hers, so she might welcome the sexual advances of a handsome American, who, as he told Jools, was on his way to London to seal the deal.

  *

  When Rodney made a rare trip home for lunch that day, Jools figured he was going to haul her over the coals for hanging up on his mother. Instead, he hauled her over the coals for her fat bum. Again.

  ‘I cannot have you looking like this anymore,’ he told her. ‘It’s ruining everything. I can still call off the wedding, you know. What possessed you to write to the Doughy Doughnut people? Didn’t it occur to you the first thing they would do is distribute your letter to the press?’

  No, actually, it had
n’t, or she wouldn’t have written it, would she?

  Jools thought fast. ‘If you call off the wedding, people will know you dumped me because I’m fat. How will that make you look?’

  Rodney walked over to the window. He pulled the blinds back just enough to see that the mass of photographers had thinned. There were only five or six of them out there now and they were all absent-mindedly texting or talking on their mobiles.

  Rodney knew Jools was right. The publicity from a break-up (particularly since they were engaged and not simply dating) would be just as bad as any of the publicity Jools’ bum was generating now.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, closing the blinds and walking back to the couch. He sat, crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pasty and grey. Jools wondered if he might be ill. She almost felt sorry for him, but she stopped herself short. Whatever was wrong with him, at least he was talking to her again.

  ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He seemed genuinely at a loss. ‘But it’s not my responsibility to figure that out. It’s yours.’ He was serious. She had gotten them into this big, fat mess and she was going to get them out.

  ‘But I have no ideas,’ her tone pleading. Or willpower, she added silently.

  ‘You’re a smart girl,’ he said. ‘Well, smart enough. You’ve certainly got the capacity for problem solving. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.’

  Rodney’s comment reminded her of another big problem that required sorting out — her father. If he wasn’t removed from the picture fairly permanently, none of this would even matter. Fat or not, Rodney’s public image would be ruined by his teenager-molesting father-in-law.

  Jools’ dad had been calling more and more. And it wasn’t just her mobile; somehow he’d got the house number too. Luckily, Rodney was barely ever home so the chances of them actually having a conversation were slim. Still, the calls were starting to make her nervous. The last thing she needed was for her dad to hit Rodney up for cash.

  Chapter 20

  Dear Miss Grand,

  Owing to your recent purchase of a vehicle, we regret to advise that your balance no longer meets the criteria for a Black account, which as you know included a higher rate of interest, free insurance for your car, travel and mobile phone, commission-free foreign exchange and a personal banker. Hence we have downgraded you to our basic account, which I trust will meet your current needs.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rutherford Smith

  Imperial & Colonial Banking Corp.

  THE NEXT MORNING, as if on cue, Jools got yet another phone call from her dear old dad.

  ‘I told you, the money’s being transferred. Three thousand Euro, just like you asked. The bank said it might take four to five working days.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Joolsy, I might need a little more.’

  Jools felt sick. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ her father said too quickly. ‘Well, nothing new. The copper who arrested me somehow knows about your wedding. Said he was going to lock me up ‘cause I’m a flight risk.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Joolsy, I sorted it, didn’t I? Gave him your three thousand big ones and he let me go. But I need another three thou, pronto.’

  ‘Dad, there’s no way I can give you that sort of money again.’ Little did he know how true that actually was.

  ‘I’ll pay you back, Joolsy. You know my word is good.’

  Jools rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t have it. Besides, I’m sick of having to bail you out.’

  ‘Fine. Perhaps Rodney or his mum would feel more comfortable giving me a loan.’

  Jools bit her lip. He’d been threatening and guilting her into things since she was a little girl. But now wasn’t the time to stand up to him. She needed to keep her father quiet and out of the way just a little bit longer – and the only way to do it was with money.

  The thing was, Jools really didn’t have that much left. In fact, she’d almost run through the entire chunk Rodney had given her at the beginning of all of this. She wasn’t sure how it’d happened – maybe buying that new BMW 1 Series convertible last week had something to do with it?

  She needed a car, she’d reasoned, to make quick getaways when the paps were after her. And why not get one that was completely tricked out? She was going to be a politician’s wife, after all. She needed to get around town in style.

  All that was left in her bank account was the five thousand pounds she had earmarked as a gift to Skuttle. She was dead set on giving him the money as a thank you for his kindness. Now, though, she was forced to choose between the man who had (albeit accidentally) brought her into this world, and the man who had saved her from certain death. Although she hated to go back on her promise to Skuttle, she knew what she had to do. Give her dad the hobo’s money.

  Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck.

  ‘Alright, Dad, I’ll try to get you the money.’

  She quickly hung up and ran into the foyer. There, sitting on a small table by the front door, was a pile of mail for Rodney. She leafed through the envelopes, looking for something she’d seen the other day. Tearing it open, she removed the contents.

  MasterCard had been kind enough to send Rodney a stack of blank cheques. But Rodney never seemed to need the cheques and usually tore them up – when he actually spent enough time at home to bother looking through his mail.

  Jools reckoned what she was about to do would actually help Rodney. It was far better his wife-to-be used the cheques than some identity thief, wasn’t it?

  Making out one of the cheques to herself and forging Rodney’s signature at the bottom, she considered her handiwork. Five thousand pounds would be enough to cover her dad’s dodgy passport and provide a little cushion for unexpected expenses. Dressing in her best neo-noir disguise, she hopped into the shiny new BMW and sped past the hungry photographers – still parked out front and blissfully unaware of her new mode of transport – and drove to the bank.

  Once the funds cleared, Jools would wire the money to Spain and that would be it. Charlie Grand wasn’t getting another penny. And if he made it into the country, he could be stopped before he got to the wedding. (Rocco would no doubt be up for a little dad-napping for a quid or two.)

  Jools drove back to the house. Rounding the corner onto her block, she was thrilled the photographers had left but surprised to see none other than Michel heading unsteadily down the street, smoking a cigarette and looking like a cat who just stocked up on a few dozen cartons of Irish cream.

  Luckily, Jools was in her disguise of black sari and sunglasses. Michel hadn’t seen her new car so there was little chance of being recognised. His lurking about the neighbourhood was really becoming unnerving. He had to be screwing that Spandex-loving geriatric, Mrs Plotrem, who lived in Number 51 and was always coming home with much younger men attached to various parts of her anatomy.

  Jools was so certain of her theory that she pulled an illegal U-turn and headed for Mel’s flat. What additional proof was needed? It was time to save Mel from Michel’s dangerous and heavily after-shaved embrace. Besides, it gave her something to do – other than eat.

  As Jools pulled her car into a metered spot on Mel’s street – cursing as she realised she didn’t have change for the meter – she spied a cupcake bakery up the road, just opposite the pub. It wouldn’t do to show up at Mel’s without a little something to have with coffee, would it? Anyway, maybe she’d be able to score some change for the meter at the same time.

  Unfortunately, Cupcake Heaven wouldn’t give her any change, so she left with only a dozen mixed gourmet treats and the very real risk of her car being towed.

  Sloping back to the BMW, she stood there for a moment. Should she call Mel and ask for change, or should she turn around and head for home, where she could devour the delicious temptations in peace?

  Come to think of it, she could devour th
em right now.

  Just as she was about to tear open the box, Mel appeared. As happy as she was to see her friend, Jools was a tad annoyed she had to share.

  Her friend began firing questions. ‘What on earth are you doing here at ten on a Friday morning? Why are you wearing that sari? And whose car is that?’

  ‘Thought I might have breakfast with you!’ Jools held up the brightly coloured box, ignoring all questions except the first. She was not eager to tell Mel about her hot new BMW. Mel didn’t understand her compulsion to buy nice things – a luxury car to Mel was like a pub lunch to most people.

  Her friend’s serious little pixie face lit up. She held out her arms and gave Jools a tight, sincere hug. ‘Well, it’s so good to see you!’ she said, a bit too enthusiastically for Jools’ liking. Mel grabbed Jools’ hand and pulled her towards the flat. ‘I was actually about to call you. We’re on the same wave length!’

  ‘Yeah, must be,’ Jools said, wondering what was up.

  Mel made some decaf herbal tea but Jools was too fixated on the baked goods to complain. ‘Dig in,’ she said merrily, through a face full of cake.

  Mel launched into a lecture straight out of the Lady Margaret Dietary Harassment Handbook. Grabbing a second cupcake, Jools wished she would shut up. She was completely ruining the cake’s spongy goodness.

  Jools grabbed Mel’s arm with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around cake. ‘Listen, I’ve got some bad news. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but I figure better me than someone else, right?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Mel said, steeling herself. ‘Well, all right, but let me tell you my good news first.’