It might have been advisable to check the details with her, but that would have meant bothering to speak to her, and he didn’t much fancy doing that.
He changed into tight leather trousers, clinging wife-beater and black cowboy boots, slapped on a wig and cap, and went out for a night on the town with his special friend.
Jools could fend for herself – as she had done nearly every night since she’d moved in.
Jools was used to spending her nights alone. When Rodney didn’t show up for dinner the Friday before the pre-wedding bash, she assumed he’d gone out to do whatever it was he was so fond of doing at night. She settled in for a quiet, calorific evening by herself.
First, a calming tomato-peel mask which smelt a little like feet – or maybe that was her feet? Next, her favourite ratty pyjamas – about four sizes too small with burping pigs dotted on the front and behind (they didn’t quite make it over her bum, but no one was around to see, were they?). Finally, a position right in the sofa with a box of Celebrations (oh, the irony!) in one hand, a bag of crisps in the other and a glass of Merlot at the ready on the coffee table.
Just as she was starting to get comfortable, the buzzer rang. Must be the pizza man with her extra-large ham-and-pineapple, she thought.
‘Coming!’ she called, grabbing some money from the housekeeping supply Rodney kept for the cleaner. She walked to the front door and threw it open. Her pyjamas gaping open at the front but what the hell, she thought. It’s just the pizza man – they probably see that sort of thing all the time.
But there were no pizzas in sight.
Instead, she was greeted by the horrified faces of a group of people gathered on the doorstep.
Party guests – about fifteen of them, all bearing gifts and dressed to the fifty-nines in the latest designer garb.
Seeing Jools, one woman shrieked, turning away as if Jools’ wayward breasts had burned her retinas.
Other guests began muttering about the right house, the right day, being in the Twilight Zone, or on Little Britain or something.
But the worst was yet to come.
Several photographers pushed their way to the front of the group, snapping wildly and elbowing people to get better shots.
Shit.
Jools did the only thing she could do.
She slammed the door fast and locked it behind her. Then she hightailed it to her bedroom and turned on the shiny laptop, clicking quickly on the e-vite for the pre-wedding party.
Double, triple, quadruple shit.
Friday! The invitation said Friday, not Saturday!
How could she have been so careless? Rodney was going to slay her when he found out.
And to make matters worse, it wasn’t only the friends that had clocked her attire.
How many pictures had the paparazzi managed to snap of her looking like a fishwife on crack?
Once those photos hit the papers, it was most certainly all over between her and Rodney.
She needed to get out. Now. Okay, she probably should go down and face his friends and invent some excuse; she could hear them talking loudly on the front door step. But how? It was just too humiliating, particularly as she only had half a packet of Wotsits and a demolished box of Celebrations to offer them.
Instead, she washed her face and threw on some clothes, racing out the back door as if her Juicy tracksuit was on fire. Hopping into the BMW she sped off into the night.
Dire thoughts pounded her head. What to do? Where to go? Nowhere that had anything above a builder’s dress code, that was for sure.
Then somewhere came to mind – the only place where she wouldn’t be judged, wouldn’t be harassed or mocked: Skuttle’s squat.
Jools parked in an alley a few blocks away and walked, hood up, to the familiar, soot-encrusted chute. She slid down and saw light spilling out from under the door.
Please, please, please, she prayed, knocking loudly and jumping up and down on the spot because she had forgotten a coat (and underwear) and it was bloody cold.
The door opened and there he was.
Jools stared in surprise. Skuttle was clean-shaven, hair neatly clipped, looking like he’d taken one hell of a shower. His skin no longer looked leathery and worn but radiated youthfulness and health.
Had he been on some sort of life-changing reality show? Surely not. She’d watched so much TV lately she definitely would have seen him.
‘Wow,’ Jools said, taking him in. ‘You look . . ., well, like a person.’
Skuttle grabbed Jools by the arm and pulled her into the flat. ‘I’ve been, er, working,’ he told her.
‘Great! So the money helped, then?’
Skuttle mumbled something she couldn’t decipher. Probably embarrassed, thought Jools, deciding not to press the issue.
‘What about you,’ he asked. ‘Are you alright?’
There was no point beating around the bush. She sat down on the lumpy bed. ‘God, I’m in real trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ Skuttle’s handsome brow crinkled with concern.
She told him everything: how her relationship with Rodney was becoming more and more strained as the days went on; how she’d messed up the party and the invitations; how the paparazzi just wouldn’t leave her alone. Recounting the horror of the past few weeks, tears filled her eyes. Her chest heaved and sobs scratched at her throat. Skuttle put an arm around Jools and pulled her to him.
‘Sounds awful,’ Skuttle said.
‘It is.’ Jools wiped her eyes.
‘So why not cancel the wedding?’ he asked gently.
Jools didn’t have the guts to tell Skuttle the whole truth. She couldn’t tell him that the only way out would be to pay Rodney back. She couldn’t tell him that she had blown through all that money. She was so ashamed of how low she’d sunk she couldn’t even be honest with a career hobo. So she lied and told Skuttle that despite everything, she loved Rodney and wanted to do right by him.
‘You’re a good person, Jools,’ Skuttle said, holding her face in his hands. She noticed that his nails were newly-manicured. Plus, he smelled wonderful.
‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘I doubt that more and more each day.’
‘You’re always welcome here. Stay here with me until the wedding on Sunday. I’ll make sure the photographers leave you alone.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Jools said, even though it sounded like a great idea. It would be easy to give up her huge bed and amazing bathroom in exchange for avoiding Rodney’s wrath.
‘At least for tonight?’ Skuttle looked hopeful.
Jools nodded and smiled, curling up into a little (okay large) ball on Skuttle’s makeshift bed. For the first time in ages, she felt relaxed and safe. It didn’t take long for her to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter 23
Dear Miss Grand,
Please find enclosed the ‘BIG LIE’ pants you ordered last week, with the additional elastication you requested. We do hope they help you fit into your wedding dress. However we must caution that whilst they can indeed help you appear one dress size smaller, they obviously cannot perform miracles and there is no replacement for a healthy diet and regular exercise.
Yours faithfully,
Justin Case
THE BIG LIE COMPANY
‘Your Big Problem is Our Little Secret’
LOOKING AT HER new ‘suck in’ knickers, Jools thought it a good thing Rodney wouldn’t see her undressed on their wedding night. These flesh-coloured beauties were enough to bring on impotence in a teenage boy marooned backstage at a Miss World pageant. They’d been on the kitchen table when she’d snuck in after spending the night at Skuttle’s. (Discovering she couldn’t give up on a warm shower, she’d left Skuttle sleeping and had driven back home at dawn.)
‘What the fuck is this?’
Rodney threw the morning paper onto the table. There was Jools in her sleepwear outside the house last night, on the hunt for pizza. Her muffin top was the inspiration for that
morning’s headline: Top of the Muffin, says MP’s Grand Ol’ Bride-to-Be.
Far too early in the morning to fight. Jools hadn’t even had a double espresso yet.
‘That’s it!’ Rodney bellowed. ‘You’ve finally managed to go too far. I didn’t think it was possible. I’m a fair man. But you have proven yourself to be too much for even me to handle. What possessed you to send out invitations without checking them?’
He held up another tabloid. ‘And as for this one, can’t you remember to pull the bathroom blind?’
Jools looked up at the paper in Rodney’s hand. There she was, mask on her face and chocolate smeared over her mouth. She couldn’t even remember eating chocolate now and wondered if it were one of those clever computer tricks. It didn’t matter. She looked monstrous.
‘I’m sorry, Rodney,’ Jools said. ‘It was an honest mistake.’
‘It was an honest mistake that could have been avoided had you just consulted a bloody calendar!’ he barked. It was bad enough having a fat wife with no self-control, but there was no way he could stand a fat, disorganised wife. Jools’ main responsibility as Rodney’s other half was to keep his home clean and his social calendar orderly. Right now, Jools was completely incapable of not only looking the part but also acting it.
How long would he be able to convince the public that this sham marriage was the real thing? Maybe he could find another, more suitable woman; a woman who could at least keep herself under two hundred pounds, look somewhat decent in couture, and pose for the paparazzi without a doughnut hanging out of her mouth.
His friends and co-workers were starting to ask questions. ‘For a pair about to be married, you two certainly spend enough time apart,’ they were all saying.
Rodney tried to laugh it off, explaining that separation, as far as he was concerned, was the key to a happy relationship. It made the heart grow fonder. The time they spent together was richer for the time they spent apart, blah, blah, blah. It was all lies and deception and even though he was a politician and could lie with the best of them, this was starting to turn even his stomach.
At the start, he’d been able to put on a convincingly happy face. Now, his mild disdain for Jools was becoming a full-blown hatred. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to spend five more minutes in her presence, let alone any number of years.
And the money she had cost him didn’t even bear thinking about.
‘It’s over,’ he said harshly. ‘I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t. You are a complete disappointment – nothing like what I imagined when we first agreed to this arrangement.’
Jools’ eyes widened. A pain gripped her heart and her stomach started to churn. Could you have a heart-attack at 28? Swallowing desperately to stop herself from being sick right then and there, she tried to speak but couldn’t. Questions clogged her mind. What will I do? Will he want the money back? Where will I go?
Finally, she managed to speak. ‘You can’t do this.’ Her voice was so weak she barely recognised it.
‘I can and I will,’ Rodney said. ‘You misrepresented yourself.’
Her fear changed to anger. She might not have been everything that he wanted, but Jools had been very up front about herself. He’d known what she looked like and where she came from; he’d found her foraging in a skip for God’s sake. She’d never hid anything from him. Not completely. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to tell the truth! Well, mostly.
‘I was completely honest with you!’ she shouted. Sure, she hadn’t told him about her father (admittedly a pretty big omission), but she’d told him everything else. Rodney wasn’t going to get away with being so cruel. Not anymore.
She stood up now, her breath coming in quick gasps and her cheeks flushing red with anger. Jools forgot she was wearing just a T-shirt and knickers. Rodney recoiled.
That was it!
She charged towards him, backing him up across the kitchen cabinets. At least there’s one advantage to being fat – I’m twice his size, she thought grimly. ‘Believe me, I wanted to live up to your expectations. But no one can! It’s just too much!’ She jabbed a finger in his chest as she spoke.
‘It’s not about my expectations,’ he choked out. ‘It’s about the public’s expectations. My duty is to them, not myself.’
Jools’ anger drained away and she laughed. Rodney really believed his own hype. It made her sick. He didn’t care about people. If he cared, he’d be spending his nights helping them instead of shagging men at seedy gay clubs.
‘Don’t you dare laugh at me.’ His eyes bulged. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘I’ll do whatever I want,’ Jools said, still laughing to spite him. ‘If I’m not going to be your wife, I can say and do whatever I want now. I’m free.’
‘You’re not free,’ he responded.
Jools went a rather unflattering shade of puce.
‘Oh, no. You’re not free until you’ve paid back every last penny of the money I gave you.’
Jools froze. Her chest tightened again and her breath came even faster. Hopefully she was having a heart attack. How else was she going to dig herself out of this one?
Maybe it was time to be honest with Rodney?
‘Look,’ she started. ‘You and I both know that I’ve, um, spent most of the money.’
‘I’m sure that’s an understatement,’ he said.
‘Whatever,’ she told him. ‘The amount is not important. What’s important is that the total is not, er, intact. And you know that I can’t pay you back. At least not immediately.’
‘How is any of this my problem?’
‘It’s your problem if you’d like me to go quietly.’ Jools realised she was holding a trump card. Or two, for that matter. Rodney’s sexual orientation – and his mother’s coke habit.
‘Are you threatening me?’ Rodney’s tone was like steel.
‘No,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’m just suggesting that we give this a little time. The wedding is on Sunday. I can promise you that it will go smoothly.’
‘How?’ He should have seen this coming. Anyone who’d sell themselves on miSell was not above blackmail.
‘Well for starters, your mother is organising it. Not me.’
Rodney was quiet for a moment.
‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, ‘if I can go through with it. To be frank, you repulse me.’
Jools flinched. ‘Well, I don’t feel much differently about you,’ she said with spirit. ‘Once we’re married, you can divorce me and tell everyone how horrible I was. You’ll be the hero and I can just go disappear somewhere. That way we both get what we want. You have a successful political career, and I have the £76,000.’
There was silence. Jools struggled to cross her fingers. Was it possible to put weight on your hands? They did look a bit chubbier than usual.
‘I need to think about this,’ Rodney said. ‘I’ll call you later, once I decide.’
He turned and left, and Jools promptly headed for the fridge.
*
Rodney headed to Barts, the private gentlemen’s club, badly in need of a drink. He knew Jools would never be able to pay the marriage money back. He’d seen the receipts – the Harrods’ purchases piling up in her closet and, of course, the car. She was spending like crazy and there was only one place that cash could have come from from. Him. She wasn’t working and she certainly hadn’t any money when he’d saved her from that roach-infested squat by the bus garage.
He didn’t feel bad for Jools. No sympathy whatsoever. She was exactly the kind of person he’d grown to loathe over the years. Fat, lazy and dumb – with no discipline or will-power. He couldn’t marry her because he had absolutely no respect for her.
Of course, if he didn’t marry her, there was the very real possibility she’d tell the world he was gay. He’d just invested a lot of time and money in his newest male conquest – and he needed Jools for that to work.
As Rodney slugged back the rest of his drink, fellow party member and MP Martin Willoughby
walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. Martin sat down next to Rodney and ordered a scotch and soda. He was a bit sweaty from his tennis lesson and Rodney had to stop himself from leaning over and taking a deeper sniff. He did love the way men smelled after a bout of intense exercise.
‘Shame about the wedding party last night, yes?’ Martin said.
‘Yes, Julia isn’t extremely well-organised. Not sure she is exactly what I need, to be honest.’
‘Look, old chap,’ Martin said, ‘You need a wife. In politics, it’s as simple as that. Nobody trusts a middle-aged bachelor, if you get my meaning.’
He most certainly did. Rodney’s preselection would only translate to a seat if he got married, especially after all his promises to that effect.
So this was what it came down to. Jools, or his career. He snapped his fingers and downed the promptly-delivered drink before the bartender had even left the table.
Waving off Martin, Rodney cowered in the dark corner of the club to ring his special friend. Last week they’d agreed it would be best if they were both married. Hiding behind sham marriages would minimise the chances of detection. Without the façade, their relationship would be highly suspect. Two grown, nearly middle-aged, single men spending that much time together? They’d be discovered eventually.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Rodney whined into his mobile. ‘I hate her.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ his friend said. ‘But at least give it a few months. She’ll probably get so disgusted with herself she’ll head for the nearest roof. If not, maybe you can get her a personal trainer.’
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