Naked in Knightsbridge (5 page)

Mel gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, alright? Hang in there.’

‘
Have fun at your important job. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the walk back to my rat-infested flat whilst my kneecaps are still intact.’

But Mel just smiled and raced off.

Jools watched her tiny frame walking briskly towards her car. Was Mel hiding something from her? Whatever it was, it better not involve that cretin Michel Matthews. Jools clenched her jaw thinking about what a true arsehole he was – the kind who changed names from Michael to Michel and put on a fake (and frankly, terrible) French accent to seem more exotic. The guy was about as exotic as her burnt toast.

Mel, being Mel, had fallen for his bullshit. But there were things Jools knew about him that made her blood boil. If Mel decided to take him back yet again, Jools wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold her tongue – or stop herself from attempting to suffocate him with one of her rapidly disintegrating flip-flops.

*

It was relatively easy to get started as a seller online. Seller! Much better job title than cleaner. Jools was surprised at how efficiently her rubbish-esque laptop managed all its functions – it was faster than her old business computer, and it seemed to have loads of memory. Funny that someone should throw out a gem like this.

There were no photos to upload, but as decided she could make do without – how hard could it be to write a few pithy enticements instead? Considering the state of the merchandise on offer, keeping the offers mysterious might entice more interest.

In a few moments she managed to list the items.

Near new Adidas trainers, size 4. Slight brown stain to canvas. Only adds to the trendy grunge effect.

Pristine iPod. Hot pink. All you need is the charger and battery and you’re ready to go!

Prada trousers. White. Size 10. Still with tags. Paid £800. Massive bargain. Don’t miss out.

Toaster. Slightly temperamental. Might work for patient handyman. All offers accepted.

Finally, she keyed in her credit card details to pay the fees, crossing her fingers the card would be accepted with the unrealistic hope of a two-headed cripple at Lourdes.

Buoyed by the possibility of a sales career that could be carried out in close proximity to the telly and HobNobs – and the fact that her card hadn’t been immediately rejected online – Jools set off for the supermarket in case the miracle of available funds could be repeated at Sainsbury’s.

When she returned to her flat an hour or so later, the little red light on her answering machine was flashing wildly. The phone bill was about five months overdue. It was a wonder they hadn’t cut her off yet.

‘
Joolsy, baby! Alright? It’s your old dad! Listen, I need to talk to you. Somethin’ important.’

Jools rolled her eyes. In the background she could make out a woman’s shrill voice yelling: ‘Just ask her now! Ask her!’

‘
Huh? Alright, uh, honey, listen. Suze and I – hey have you met Suze? Right little looker!’

‘
Hieeee Charlie’s daughter!’

Christ, she sounded about 17.

Jools hoped she was at least 17.

‘
Suze and I are going to Ibiza. Remember how I went there last year with, uh, thingy, the 26-year-old? Amazing pins.’

‘
CHARLIE! I knew you still thought about her!’

Charlie Grand continued unabated: ‘Well, anyways, we had such a good time I want to show Suze how great it is. But the thing is, well, remember how I loaned you money for school all those years ago? Well, I know you paid it back but maybe I could get a loan from you this time around . . . You know, ‘cause I’m your dear old dad and you love me and . . .’

BEEP.

Thankfully, the answering machine had decided enough was enough.

Jools staggered to the window, wrestled it open and leaned out, taking deep breaths of stale, petrol-scented air. She’d thought maybe her dad had grown up a bit since the fiasco with the 26-year-old, but no. He was onto a new vacuous bimbo.

The thought of him dating anyone at his age was obscene. That he was dating women even younger than her was enough to put her off HobNobs.

Well, nearly enough.

When her mum died five years ago, Jools’ hopes of her parents ever getting back together were finally laid to rest. She’d assumed her father would follow the usual route of acceptance, sink into a fading armchair somewhere, and live out his life watching
Countdown
with the odd pint down the pub for fun.

But her dad had other ideas, the only path he had committed to was growing old as disgracefully as possible. Jools shook her head. He could at least find someone his own age. Or at least within twenty years of his age.

In an attempt to forget the message, she settled down to watch the
A Place in the Sun
marathon, but the lobster-red holidaymakers only reminded her of Charlie Grand. The nerve of the miserable bastard. To ask for money when he knows I’m dirt poor. If she continued to ponder the mysteries of her dad, her head might explode, so she decided to check her online shop. Maybe the sight of all that soon-to-be-available cash would perk up her afternoon?

A host of messages were waiting in the inbox. Brilliant. Her sales patter must be doing the trick. Eagerly, she clicked onto the first one.

Question from GinaBuys09: Used trainers? How do I know your feet aren’t covered in fungus
?

Evil troll. If you don’t want them, just move on.

Question from NickySize36. Hi, I’m interested in your sweaters. I am a size 36 and I wonder if they might fit?

What was wrong with these people? She wasn’t a size 36. Well not yet, anyway.

Question from Techdude899: Hey lady. if u want to do a online scam try something less dum than selling a shitty old ipod without the cords. U must have nicked it. u can’t even buy that shit new anymore so whats n it fur us?

WERE R NOT IDIOTS.

Clearly. Jools didn‘t bother replying. What was the point? Christ. She scrolled down. The only item that anyone had bid on was the new Prada trousers. They were already up to £200! If the auction kept going at this rate, those trousers alone would cover her rent and maybe her telephone bill.

Jools went to the kitchen to find some alcohol to celebrate. Ah, Latvia’s finest. Opening the bottle of red wine and taking a large swig, it crossed her mind it might have been a good idea to sell the wine along with the trousers, but the cork was already pierced, so never mind. Grabbing a glass and the 10p custard tarts from the clearance section of the supermarket, she sat down to watch a group of feral foodies slag each other off in
Come Dine with Me
.

Two glasses later, Jools heard a knock on the door. Who the hell would visit at this hour? Maybe Hunk of No Fixed Abode looking for a bed for the night? I’ll give him more than a bed, Jools sniggered through her alcoholic haze.

She arranged her features into a sexy, come-hither gaze and swung open the door to find her worst nightmare. Rocco ‘Pay the Rent or Die’ Martucci was leaning against the chipped frame, eating a kebab.

‘
Rent, Joolsy, rent. You only gave me two weeks. I need a month, in advance.’ Some red sauce dripped down onto his chin. Jools watched it trickle, repulsed. Even in her current pathetic state she wouldn’t go there. Well, not immediately. Maybe if he bought her dinner and . . . Stop! She told herself to pay attention, she was in mortal danger! There wasn’t any money to give Rocco until the auction ended on Thursday.

‘
Really lovely to see you, Rocco. You look like you’ve been working out.’ In fact, he looked like something out of a mattress factory reject shop, but whatever.

‘
Yeah? I never work out.’

Quelle surprise. ‘Hey, can I offer you a glass of wine?’

‘
Got beer? Wine don’t go great with my kebab.’

‘
Sorry, just wine. Come on, try some, it’s great. From Latvia.’ Jools went into the kitchen to get him a glass.

Rocco poured it down his throat and a second later said: ‘Where the fuck is the rent, innit?’

‘
Oh, the, ah, the rent? Oh, uh. Yeah. I have it, just not in cash right now.’

Rocco cracked his knuckles, not an easy feat considering he was still holding half a kebab. ‘That’s bullshit, Jools. Then how do you have it?’

Jools shook her head. ‘It’s not bullshit. See those white trousers over there?’ She pointed at the Pradas thrown over a solitary dining chair. ‘Those are worth three weeks’ rent alone. Trust me. When my online auction ends tomorrow, it will provide plenty of cash by Monday at the latest. I guarantee it.’

Rocco grabbed her chin, kebab grease sliding down onto the only unstained top she had left. ‘You’d better, because if Monday comes and there’s no money, there will be trouble. I guarantee
that
.’

The next morning Jools woke with a splitting headache. She vaguely remembered drinking wine and distracting Rocco from violent acts by showing him the trousers. God, she felt rough. Promising never to drink again, she dragged herself out of bed to get some water. On the kitchen counter was a pile of white material, decorated with a large, surreal-looking red patch. What the – ? She squinted, making out the squat silhouette of the Latvian plonk lying right beside the white heap.

‘
Shit!’ Jools snatched the white pile off the counter, catching sight of the telltale gold button fly. The Prada trousers! Her legs gave out and she sank to the grimy kitchen floor.

With a brain that pounded with the bass of a malfunctioning speaker, she shakily picked up the phone. Maybe Mel could help, suggest something to get wine out of white trousers without washing them. Maybe – oh God, Jools was going to be sick.

After emptying her stomach of Latvian wine and HobNobs, she dialled Mel. Perhaps it was okay to let the auction ride, then blame the Royal Mail when the trousers ‘mysteriously’ never arrived? No, that wouldn’t work. miSell, the online auction store, said you had to get proof of postage or you were liable. Shit. Shit. Shit. Mel would know what to do. And if not, at least Jools could stay with her when Rocco broke both legs and threw her carcass out onto the grubby Willesden Green pavement.

A male voice answered the phone, groggy.

Jools recognised that voice. None other than that pretentious twat Michel Matthews.

‘
You!’ she spat. What else could you say to the deviant who had crushed her bestfriend’s heart by running off with a rusty whore from Bada Bing. And not just any rusty whore. Jools couldn’t tell Mel the truth about that, could she? It would kill her.

‘
It’s been too long, Joolsy! You should come over for dinner tonight, to celebrate!’ He tried to give the word ‘celebrate’ a French twist but it sounded Indian, which made him an insult to Indians as well as the French. Tosser.

‘
Celebrate what?’ Jools felt her stomach twist again in revulsion at the thought of seeing him again.

She had already seen far too much of him.

‘
Mel did not tell you? I’m moving back in! We are
tres, tres
excited!’

Feeling
tres, tres
sick (again), Jools hung up without replying. So much for the option of crashing with Mel. There was no way. Not if that bastard was there too, especially after – yuck, it didn’t bear thinking about.

She logged back onto the auction. The Prada trousers were now at £500.