Naked in Knightsbridge

by Schmidt, Nicky

Jools considered her friend quizzically. A little moment of sunshine before the clouds rolled in was probably a good idea.

  Besides, it gave Jools more time to eat.

  ‘Michel and I are engaged!’ Mel screamed, shoving her left hand in Jools’ face.

  There it was, right where it was supposed to be, a big fat diamond ring that Jools was certain couldn’t be real. There was no way Michel would be able to afford a diamond that big. He’d either stolen it or bought it for ten pence from one of those machines in the paper shop.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Jools said, shaking her head.Surprisingly, the bad news hadn’t put her off food. Her hand crept back towards the plate of goodies.

  ‘I know, isn’t it gorgeous?’ Mel admired the ring.

  ‘No, it’s horrible,’ Jools said through her cake.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Jools swallowed. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Mel’s face fell. ‘You’re not happy for me?’

  ‘Of course I’m not happy for you, Mel!’ Jools shrieked, cake spraying everywhere. ‘He’s cheating on you again.’

  ‘Jools, of course he’s not. You’ve always hated him. What’s your story this time?’

  ‘I’ve seen him in my neighbourhood. Several times, in fact.’

  ‘So?

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘He’s been in your neighbourhood. So what? That doesn’t mean anything. You’re in Knightsbridge, not Mars! It’s just around the corner!’

  ‘Why else would he be there? Early in the morning? Late at night?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s taking a walk.’

  Jools had to laugh. ‘Yeah, like the dog he is.’

  ‘He likes to walk,’ Mel continued, defending her man. ‘He’s extremely health conscious. Besides, have you actually seen him with a woman?’

  Jools hated the fact that there wasn’t harder evidence but she was completely sure that Michel was up to no good. Why couldn’t Mel just give her the benefit of the doubt, instead of lobbing it in the direction of that sleazebag?

  ‘Look, it’s just something I feel in my gut,’ Jools said. ‘Even if he’s not cheating, he’s beneath you. If you marry him, you’re throwing your life away.’

  Mel shook her head and Jools saw her eyes narrow. Mel was angry now.

  ‘That’s just too much, Jools. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.’

  ‘My situation is completely different,’ Jools said.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Because your situation is a joke and mine is real and that just burns you up.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m jealous?’ Jools asked, incredulous.

  ‘Yes. You’re jealous that I’ve found what you can’t: true love. With a heterosexual man!’

  Jools couldn’t listen any more. She grabbed her bag and stood up. ‘You want to make the biggest mistake of your life, go ahead. But don’t expect me to be there in some ugly taffeta dress holding your train as you walk down the aisle.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you there anyway,’ Mel stood too, meeting Jools’ eyes. ‘I don’t want any photos of cows in my wedding album. Anyway, I doubt there are any lenses big enough to capture all of you.’

  Jools smacked Mel across the face. The slap was loud and hard and when Mel turned to look at Jools there was a bright red hand mark where Jools had hit her. Tears were beginning to well in Mel’s eyes and the only thing Jools could think to do was run away.

  Well, walk as quickly as she could, considering the weight and the cakes.

  Chapter 21

  Dear Miss Grand,

  We note that you have asked that your guests spend more money per item, rather than purchasing a single smaller item, or indeed a number of smaller items. Unfortunately, our reputation here at Carlisle’s of Sloane Square does not allow us to dictate the spending habits of our patrons, and we feel it most improper to raise your suggestion with your guests. We hope you understand our position. Finally, we wish to completely reassure you that we will never release details of correspondence between ourselves and our clients to the press. On that note, however, perhaps you would be interested in replacing the ice-cream machine on your wedding gift list with a lovely vegetable juicer? They are in stock and available in the latest fashion colours from only £99.

  Jacinta Millani

  Carlisle’s of Sloane Square

  WHEN JOOLS FINALLY got back to the house she collapsed on her bed, sobbing. How her life had become so rubbish? Only a month ago, things were looking up. Now, she was engaged to a man who seemed to hate her; she’d just assaulted her best friend; and she’d managed to burn through nearly all the money that was supposed to be her future nest-egg. Plus her bum was the size of France. Or even China.

  She had no idea how to fix things. The miSell auction had really been a last-ditch effort to get her life back on track. What would happen to her now?

  Over on her desk, her computer beeped indicating a new email had arrived. Well, at least someone wanted to talk to her, even if was that guy trying to sell her a penis enlarger. Dragging herself up off the mattress and wiping the tears from her eyes and the stream of snot from her nose, she sat down in the high-backed, ergonomic chair purchased online for a thousand pounds and clicked the touch pad of the Mac.

  She had not one, not two, not even three, but five new messages from Brad. Poor man. He’d been emailing non-stop for a week and she hadn’t responded yet. Jools just figured she’d get back to him when she had a firm plan; when she had some sense of how her life might look after the wedding. But at the rate things were going she’d probably never know and if she didn’t sort things out soon, she’d end up blowing both the deal with Rodney and her chances of sexual happiness with Brad.

  Reading Brad’s most recent email only made her even more frustrated.

  Hi Gorgeous. What gives? Did you get my last email re: coming to London on business? You’ve got to stop torturing me like this. Just tell me you’re still out there and that maybe we’ve got a chance. I want to be with you, baby, and at this point, I’ll do whatever it takes. What I can do to hold you in my arms?

  Yours eternally, Brad.

  Jools was shocked by how openly emotional and raw Brad sounded in his email. It was difficult to believe that anyone could be so smitten with her – though to be fair he hadn’t actually clapped eyes on her yet, had he? She was certainly flattered, but Brad was starting to sound too good to be true. Jools was so disgusted with herself now that she wasn’t sure if any man would ever want to be with her again, let alone a man as breathtakingly handsome as Brad.

  What would happen if he saw her in the flesh – a lot of flesh – and was disappointed? It was a definite possibility, if not a sure thing. After all, the one picture Brad had seen of Jools was nearly a decade old. Brad was basing his affections on a version of Jools that no longer fit within the parameters of the original photograph.

  Her new relationship with the paparazzi made things even more complex. If they were stalking her every move – and one of those moves involved a clandestine meeting with Brad – surely someone would be there to snap an incriminating picture.

  Jools had to be extra careful. With the wedding day approaching faster than a toddler to an ice cream van, it was important to protect what was left of her and Rodney’s image. She already had enough problems just trying to stay away from baked goods. Did she really need to get caught having an affair as well?

  It was time to cut things off with Brad. Things were bad, sure, but they would be much, much worse for her if she lost Rodney. Brad was beautiful and he seemed ready to take the plunge, but could he provide for her? Could he really save her from her financial woes? It was too risky and Rodney was a sure thing.

  Marking Brad’s address as spam, she deleted all of his emails and snapped shut the lid of the stainless steel laptop.

  Well, that was that.

  Sighing, she went to take a hot shower, hoping to wash away all of the day’s emotional dirt and grime.

  *

  N
iles was at home in Slough, hoping Jools might finally answer Brad’s email. The read receipt for his latest email to her sat in his inbox, but there was no other communication. He stared at the wavering screen of his decrepit old PC, waiting for a response.

  Three hours later, he decided enough was enough. Clearly the girl was so intellectually disabled a handsome man begging for attention wasn’t good enough. Girls like that needed to be taken in hand.

  Niles got up. It was time to put the finishing touches on Jools’ new home in his basement.

  She’d be there soon enough.

  *

  Jools emerged from the shower feeling somewhat better about her lot in life (with a power shower like that – a definite improvement over the bus-station hose – who could stay sad?).

  What she needed was fresh air. Staying around that computer meant she could backslide and email Brad with multiple apologies for her flakiness over the last few weeks.

  Maybe go for a run? She’d heard rumours that exercise was good for your mental health, although she’d certainly never found it to be. Besides, at her size busting a kneecap or throwing her back out was a definite possibility, so she settled for a nice long fast-paced walk instead.

  Jools still had the ratty old jogging suit she’d worn as a hobo (she managed to save it from the Terrible Trio at Percys). Misshapen and smelly, it would make a brilliant disguise when the paparazzi came a-calling. Adding a visor and a pair of sunglasses, the final touch was a rather pathetic, loose ponytail.

  All traces of the posh politician’s fiancée had vanished; she looked exactly as when living with Skuttle.

  Leaving through the back door, she climbed over the rubbish bins and walked down the dark alley behind her building before hitting the pavement at a brisk pace.

  To avoid Harrods and the Doughy guy, Jools decided to catch a bus back to the bus garage and pay Skuttle a visit. She had been meaning to give him his five thousand pound gift for ages now and today was as good a time as any. Besides, if she waited any longer, chances were she’d end up spending the money on sugar-laden treats or a too-small frock.

  Heading for her bank, Jools kept the pace up so no-one could recognise her. It was a difficult task – she hadn’t used any muscles (except those necessary for the consumption of food) in months, and the extra weight made it feel like she was dragging a spare tire behind her. She twisted to look at her backside. Well, really, it was more than a spare tyre for a lorry.

  It felt good to get moving, but her throat was dry from all the huffing. She almost stopped to catch her breath but the desire to avoid detection was a great motivator and she pushed on, feeling the sweat start to drip down her back, between her now mountainous breasts and over her belly rolls.

  At the bank, she glanced around in case an errant photographer had followed, then popped in to withdraw the remainder of her cash in one hundred pound notes for Skuttle. It was amazing how small a pile the money made.

  Keep moving, Jools told herself. She walked past Burberry, forcing herself not to look in any of the windows in case she spent Skuttle’s money on that amazing evening gown and those gorgeous strappy sandals calling out to her from the glossy window display.

  The number 52 bus stop was just on the corner and luckily, the bus was just rounding Scotch House. She jumped on before the lure of plaid became too strong.

  Despite her recent past as a homeless hobo, Jools was shocked at the quality of low-life on the bus that morning: a group of hoodies playing loud misogynistic gansta rap peppered with swear words that would make even Mel’s boyfiend blush; the stinking drunk who had the sense to stay well away from the rap louts, harassing Jools and a young mum at the front of the bus instead.

  Worried the drunk was about to lose his breakfast of vodka and cornflakes, Jools got off the stop before the bus station. She hadn’t noticed it was pouring rain and when she finally arrived at Skuttle’s squat she was soaking wet and short of breath. Leaning against a phone booth for a moment, she struggled to get her breath back. Her heart was racing a mile a minute and her thighs felt like they were on fire.

  It was all good. The fact that she was in so much pain must mean she was losing weight.

  Making her way to the tiny entrance, she moved the cardboard and slid down the chute, knocking on the door with cheery rhythm. No answer. She waited a minute and then knocked again. Still no answer. Jools gave the door a little push and as usual, it opened without much resistance. Inside, the little squat was dark and empty. No Skuttle.

  Jools sat down on Skuttle’s bed and looked around. Not much had changed. The place still smelled of fumes and slightly-off prawn tandoori. The furniture was still haphazardly arranged around a large gaping hole in the concrete and bags of collected rubbish had been added to the mess, contents spilling out as if part of some esoteric art installation.

  Seeing all the familiar junk, Jools felt strangely nostalgic. Surely she didn’t miss this? But her short interlude with Skuttle had been relatively peaceful, and in retrospect, she had felt safe – in spite of the constant danger of being discovered living down a chute and/or gnawed by rats while she slept. It was easy being with Skuttle, who had a way of making her feel cared for. And that was more than she could say about Rodney.

  Jools waited another twenty minutes before deciding that Skuttle was probably out skip-foraging. Sighing, she dug the cash out of her bag and stuffed it in the small tin box by his bed.

  At first, she had assumed Skuttle kept all his valuable possessions in that box, only to discover it was filled with a natty little collection of buttons to clothing Skuttle didn’t own. Well, counting money was better than counting buttons. Now Skuttle could to do something with his life. Maybe get a new place. Some snazzy clothes. A Vespa. Deodorant. A razor. After all, he’d always been a hobo with potential.

  Replacing the cardboard that acted as a door to the chute, Jools glanced up and down the block to check that no one had seen her. Imagine the fallout if the paps caught her skulking around the back of a bus station, looking for hobos.

  She headed for home, picking up pace in the vain hope that she might be about to burn off a dress size before dinner.

  *

  What Jools didn’t know was that two men had, in fact, spotted her leaving Skuttle’s place. They’d been sitting in the office at the bus garage for about two hours before she showed up, and watched her rather suspicious movements at the entrance to the chute with amusement.

  After she’d descended into the basement, one of the men (short, balding, with a surprisingly lush ponytail and dark glasses), had asked the other (well- built, badly-dressed), if they ought to deal with the trespasser.

  ‘Give her a scare, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Don’t bother. She’s not a thief.’

  ‘I suppose so. What would someone steal from that cesspit anyway?’ The balding man picked at his teeth and smoothed his ponytail simultaneously. ‘I was thinking more terrorist. Or arsonist!’

  ‘It’s okay. I know her.’

  Baldie laughed. ‘You would. With all due respect, boss, you are fucking insane.’

  ‘And revelling in it, my friend. Now, shall we get back to business?’

  ‘Sure,’ Baldie grinned. ‘What’s a tubby little trespasser when you have a multi-million pound empire to run?’

  The well-built man raised his rather bushy eyebrows. ‘Tubby? Really? I think she’s perfect.’

  ‘Yeah, but you ain’t exactly normal, are you?’

  Instead of reminding Baldie who paid his large wage, the boss just laughed. Truth be told he was as odd as a nun at a Sex Pistols reunion concert, but that’s what came from having too much money and absolutely no need for it.

  *

  Niles worked away tiling the makeshift bathroom he had built for Jools — the fact he knew nothing about tiling having no impact on his completing the task.

  As he cut tiles crookedly, he thought, of course, of Jools. She must be the pickiest chick in Britain to reject a look
er like Brad. Even Niles was a little hot for him. And he was him!

  Women were only drawn to attractive, wealthy men with fat wallets and large appendages. That’s what his mother had told him when he was a teenager, right after suggesting he turn gay because there was less competition and that he could definitely attract at least a biker or prison escapee if he put a little lipstick on. He hated well-built, successful men as much as his old slapper of a mum. They ruined everything for normal, if slightly weedy, blokes like Niles.

  Modern women, Niles reasoned, had grown far too accustomed to having their needs met. They’d become selfish and lazy. But Niles was determined to bring back the nice, quiet, subservient woman of yesteryear. The woman who only lived to serve her man; who didn’t ask questions; didn’t ask for equality; and didn’t complain if her husband wanted to stuff a ball-gag in her mouth and probe her nether regions with household objects.

  Yes, Jools could easily be moulded to fit the image perfectly. After some quality time in the basement, of course.

  It was predictable that Rodney had managed to snag Jools. He was good-looking, successful and rich; came from a very well-established family and his future was brighter than Niles’ face after twenty minutes in the sun.

  No, what was intriguing was how Jools had managed to meet Rodney in the first place.

  Seeing her for the first time at Mama Blue’s, Jools seemed like an average, lower-middle-class bird with little going on upstairs. After all, she was selling herself online, wasn’t she? Judging from her looks and social graces, any silver spoon she had grown up with was nicked from the local chippy.

  So how did Jools, the failed cleaner from the wrong side of town, hook up with aristocratic Rodney Wetherspone?