Naked in Knightsbridge (27 page)

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 looker 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?

Surely it couldn’t have been via miSell? A wealthy, handsome politician didn’t need to shop for women online. Five minutes in some posh joint in South Kensington would do the trick.

Besides which, Jools didn’t seem the type to frequent nightclubs of the rich and royal. Homely and unkempt weren’t attributes that would endear her to bouncers at ritzy West End clubs.

Niles broke yet another tile and grew hot with rage and jealousy and incompetence. Why was he doing all this anyway? How could he get close to her when she had abandoned communication with Brad? Approach her? No way. One word to that fiancé of hers and Niles would be banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure in a minute and a half. Plus, he needed to stay under the radar, because he wasn’t daft enough to think what he was doing was entirely normal.

He could drive to central London and stake out Jools’ house again, but he’d become bored with that. Wherever she went, hungry photographers followed. His stalking was already yielding poor results and it would be even worse now that she was on the verge of getting married. How to lure her into his car without a hundred paparazzi documenting it was quite a problem. Then Niles had a brainwave. The paparazzi! They had the best access to Jools, probably second only to Rodney Wetherspone. And you didn’t need a press badge to be a scumbag photographer: all you needed was a camera and attitude.

Niles immediately got on the phone to his manager at the call centre and told him that he wouldn’t be able to come in that night. He’d come down with a terrible flu and was worried that he might be infectious. Insect flu, or pond flu, or something of that sort. He certainly didn’t want to run the risk of spreading his terrible virus to all of the operators at the centre. The manager, a dim-witted young graduate of about thirty, quickly agreed that he should stay home and rest until he was fully recovered and disease free.

‘
In that case, don’t expect me before next week.’ Niles promptly hung up.

Logging onto to Google, Niles searched ‘high quality cameras’. One website, ‘Professional Camera Barn’ had exactly what he was looking for — used photographic equipment for the paparazzi. Scrolling quickly through the selection, he finally purchased the best second-hand camera they had. Overnight shipping promised that Niles could be on the street, snapping pictures of Jools, within twenty-four hours. He couldn’t wait to get started.

There might even be a few pounds in it.

Chapter 22

Dear Miss Julia,

I used to work for you – Lopez, yes? I see you on cover of magazine looking big and fat and rich so I write to ask if you need cleaner. You no look like you do much yourself. I charge only little, and happy to go shopping for all your food so you no go outside and have photo taking.

Lopez Vasquez

RODNEY WAS HOME when Jools returned from her speed walk.

‘Shit’, she grumbled when she saw him at the kitchen table. She’d picked up some cupcakes on the way home as a reward for all the exercise and had been hoping to spend some quality time with them.

Rodney got up from the table and stormed down the hallway towards Jools’ room. Hearing his heavy footsteps, Jools closed her door and locked it quickly. She really didn’t want to deal with him right now. She didn’t have the energy to deal with much – except her precious cupcakes – after her workout. The walk had been less the streamlined athlete she’d envisioned when she’d thrown on her tracksuit bottoms, especially when someone called out that the sea was 50 miles south. Besides, all exercise seemed to do was make her hungrier.

The wedding! Jools would call off the whole stupid affair – if only she still had that £76,000. Why parade around in a silly sausage-style white dress, trying to convince people she and Rodney were in love, when the truth was they could barely stand to look at each other? Jools could accept marrying a gay man and being celibate. She couldn’t accept marrying a total control freak who failed to understand her weight issues.