Naked in Knightsbridge (10 page)

‘
Bloody hell!’ £22,000 and four days left? That was more than Mel earned in a year! What kind of person bids that high? From what Mel had seen at the café last week, only insane lunatics and perverts.

Picking up the phone she dialled Jools.

‘
I’m sorry, the number you are calling has been disconnected,’ was the only response she could get.

‘
Oh Jools,’ Mel whispered to herself. ‘I hope you’re okay.’ She’d go over to Jools’ flat later to check on her. Right now, she and Michel had an anniversary dinner to commemorate the old days, before their love had run amok – or to be accurate, before he’d run amok with an old bag and his todger.

The dinner had been Michel’s idea, and Mel was touched. Jools couldn’t believe that Michel had changed, but their renewed relationship was living proof – he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since they’d rekindled their love.

Mel put on the old but still elegant red dress she’d worn on their first date, and the strapless gold heels she’d bought in Harvey Nicks a few years ago but had never had the chance to wear. It was getting dark out, but she decided to walk to the restaurant. It wasn’t far, and besides, the rain had finally stopped. She and Michel had planned to meet at the restaurant, as if they were just meeting for the first time all over again. God, he was so romantic, she thought.

By the time she got to the west corner of Kensington Gardens, there were blisters down the sides of both toes. Stopping at a bus shelter, she sat and rubbed her feet. Dim street lighting cast narrow pools of yellow on the pavement, but the enclosed space in which she sat was shrouded in black.

Just as Mel decided she better get moving, two figures moved towards her.

She slipped her shoes back on, stood and turned towards the street with the intention of hailing a cab for the rest of the journey. But before she could, footsteps came up behind her and a female voice whispered: ‘Not a woman, leave her alone.’

Mel turned, her heart racing and face hot with fear. A heavyset woman in an oversized coat and a misshapen figure with a beard were standing right behind her.

‘
I can’t do this. It’s wrong. We can’t take people’s money!’

Mel should have sprinted away but she was transfixed by something familiar about the woman. Mel stared hard at her until the woman turned her face up and the light from the streetlamp illuminated it.

‘
Jools?’ Mel shrieked. The woman’s mouth dropped open and she sunk to the ground The man jumped the fence and ran off into the park.

Mel pulled her up and onto the bench. ‘Good God! What are you doing out here in the dark, and why are you wearing that hideous mac?’

‘
I, I, I’m . . .’ Jools trailed off and looked at the ground.

‘
No! Don’t tell me . . . don’t tell me you were about to mug me?’

‘
Of course not.’ Jools was indignant. ‘I was just going to ask for money. I’m homeless.’ Mel rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what homeless people do.’

‘
You’re not bloody homeless, you fool.’ Mel pulled her off the bench. ’You live with me now. You’re coming home with me, and you’re going to live in my flat until you get back on your feet. Listen, I’m on my way to dinner with Michel. I’ll just go explain things to him. Then we’ll get a cab home. Tomorrow, we can go get your things, wherever the hell you put them.’

Jools didn’t say a word as Mel flagged a cab. She never should have agreed to wander in the park at night with Skuttle. He’d insisted there was lots of good food – and other expensive stuff – just lying around. When they’d seen Mel, he’d suggested Jools ask for some booze money. Initially refusing, the thought of a nice Cab Sav to go with their rubbish-bin dinner was so alluring she’d finally agreed.

Where the hell had Skuttle run off to? Some friend he’d turned out to be. It really was dog eat squirrel on the street, wasn’t it?

The thought of eating made her stomach rumble.

*

Night-time for future MP Rodney Wetherspone meant one thing: clubbing. He loved to dance and he loved the anonymity of club-land. Either people who followed politics didn’t go to clubs, or people just left that all behind when they were out. Or maybe he just looked so different in his tight, silver-spandex leggings and snakeskin boots that no one recognised him as Rodney Wetherspone. In any case, he could slough off his professional image and just be himself. He had to be careful, though, because he was liable to forget all about politics and do things that would not impress the party or his parents – especially if they read about it in the morning papers.

For instance, tonight, over by the water fountain in the shape of a huge penis, was his ideal man. Even more tempting, the guy was staring him down like a piece of meat. But should he risk it? An isolated flirtation was one thing, but he’d hooked up with this guy – Mike, he’d said his name was – a few times over the past few weeks, and his internal alarm was sounding. Rodney longed to go the distance with a male friend, but the risks were too great. Maybe once he had a wife, the press wouldn’t be so interested in him. Eligible single men from aristocratic families over a certain age attracted rather too much attention.

So he dragged himself away from the club – and Mike’s overly suggestive eyes – and went home to engage in the increasingly important sideline of upping the bid on his prospective new wife.

*

When Jools and Mel reached the restaurant, Michel was already inside swigging wine from an expensive bottle of something rare on the table.

‘
Look, Jools. Do you mind waiting outside for a bit? This is kind of an important night and I should just go inside for one little drink.’

Jools shrugged, which Mel interpreted as ‘no problem, go and live it up drinking your fine Merlot while I wait out here in the cold,’ and she disappeared into the warmth of Chez Françoise.

Jools turned on her heel and walked north towards the bus station. It was the height of rudeness to expect her to sit and wait for them to finish their fancy dinner. Besides, seeing Michel’s smug mug reminded her there was no way she could live with that useless idiot. Someday Mel would have to be told exactly why Michel was such a tosser, but even in her current state of annoyance, Jools knew that it would kill her friend to discover the truth. Right now, it was easier to stay away and say nothing.

Besides, Jools was surprised that the thought of spending another night with Skuttle in his basement hole wasn’t exactly awful. After almost drying out her sofa with a nearly new hairdryer he’d apparently found in rubbish behind ‘Hairs That’, he’d provided some sheets and a pillow (which also seemed brand new – another miraculous find!). She’d slept comfortably in the main living area, and even though it was damp and chilly despite the small heater Skuttle had hooked up, and rats could be heard skittering around inside the walls all night, she was so happy to be rid of Rocco (not to mention the money-grubbing bank) that she’d slept solidly for ten hours.

When she slid back down the chute to the basement squat, all was quiet. There was no sign of Skuttle. Not that surprising, considering the desertion at the park. She’d lie low too if she were him.

But he’d obviously come and gone, for on top of the pile of scrappy items that had once hung in her wardrobe was another laptop. Like the first, it was dirty but remarkably modern. It even had a sticker on it saying ‘Wi-Fi’.

Jools tapped the keyboard, and the screen came to life with the message: TO JEWELS FRUM SKUTAL.

She logged on and the MSN home page appeared instantly. The power and speed of the wireless connection amazed Jools, even – especially – since she was living deep in a basement. Quickly logging on to miSell, she was delighted to discover the bids were all the way up to £30,000.

Absolutely bloody brilliant! What a great couple of days. Her new home was dry and safe-ish, plus thanks to the auction’s success, a decent home was on the horizon. And there would be enough so that Skuttle could move too.

I knew things would work out, Jools thought as her eyelids dropped. Falling into a deep sleep at the small kitchen table Skuttle had rescued from the tip (she could have sworn she had seen it in Harrods; her hobo friend certainly had a good eye), Jools only woke when she heard someone coming down the chute.

She opened one eye to find Skuttle looking at the screen of the laptop intently.

Shit. She’d forgotten to log off.

Chapter 8

To whom it may concern at the Willesden Green Post Office,

I am writing to complain about my mail delivery service. Despite my best endeavours to stop you (please tell the postman I apologise for threatening him with a day-old baguette), you continue to redirect my mail to the basement of the bus garage. Whilst it is true that I am currently living at the garage, I have never instructed, for my mail to be redirected here. I am quite happy for my mail to continue to be sent to my previous address, and hope I will receive no further unauthorised redirects.

Yours,

Julia M. Grand

RODNEY BLAMED HIS parents for the conflict between his political career and his true desires. Everyone outshone him, no matter how hard he tried. He’d graduated with a first from Cambridge, but that particular feat was about as exciting as an M25 traffic jam to a family like his. His father was a retired High Court Judge, his mother a former model and muse of Yves Saint Laurent. His cousin Harry finished Cambridge, then built the UK’s biggest Internet provider, marrying a bright but mouthy girl from a horrendous soap opera. His nephew Ronald managed to win a coveted scholarship to Oxford, despite his dyspraxia and Ecstasy addiction, while his aunt wrote a book that fascinated half the world’s population, including a fair few Booker Prize judges. And what had Rodney done? Nothing, he thought glumly. At least nothing that would impress his family.

He was branded the family underachiever. His mother loved to tell the story of how the doctor had left him in a drawer an hour after birth and mistakenly set a heavy, jumbo-sized box of wooden tongue depressors on top of him – certain proof that poor Rodney’s brain wasn’t all it should be. It didn’t matter that Rodney’s ideal image of his future involved dancing on tables in seedy little Soho clubs, dressed in stilettos, black fishnets and a red patent leather halter dress. He had to achieve something that would make his family sit up and take notice – something that didn’t involve stilettos. Becoming prime minister might just do it.

Of course, for that he needed to be a minister – and for that, he needed a wife. Now, thanks to Jools and miSell, he might be finally moving closer to his dream. Not only that, the marriage would also appease his parents. They’d been on at him for years, saying how embarrassing it was that their 38-year-old son was still a bachelor; that it was a sure sign of loose morals and a lack of substance.

God, loose morals was an understatement. Imagine if they knew the truth! Unlikely, now, as Rodney calculated that if he won the auction on Friday, Jools would be sitting in his parents’ overly-opulent Eaton Square living room by Saturday evening, celebrating their engagement. He had even hinted as much in that morning’s weekly interrogatory phone call with his mother.

Moving to his state-of-the-art, home-office ensemble, Rodney voice-activated his computer and checked the progress of the auction.

*

‘
That’s an extremely simplistic view of the complex man I love!’

Jools felt ill. She hated when Mel used her lawyer voice to defend stupid Michel, he wasn’t worth an ounce of her intelligence. How could Mel be so blind? ‘Mel, I can honestly say that I’m better off homeless and selling my soul on miSell than you are sticking with that loser.’

‘
You’re selling more than your soul, Jools. And how you can compare the mess you’ve made of your life with my relationship with Michel is beyond me.’

They were standing outside the bus garage, screaming at each other. When Mel had tracked Jools’ down in the middle of the night, calling pitifully outside the garage until Skuttle told Jools to go and chase away the waiting cats, she’d assumed it was to apologise for abandoning her for her twat of a boyfriend.