Blokebusters Page 12

  She arrived home from Marks & Spencer and carried the turkey through to the kitchen to put it in the fridge. He fetched the remaining bags from the car to the kitchen, growing increasingly excited at all the lovely things she’d bought; his mouth salivating at the stuffing, the Dijon mustard ham, the chocolate desserts and the Christmas pudding. He rejoined her in the living room. She stood with her mouth open trying not to voice what was going through her mind – that he’d stolen the Leicester Square Christmas tree.

  “Didn’t they have any larger ones?” she eventually asked.

  “I didn’t realise how big it was until I got it home. They always look bigger in situ.”

  It almost obscured the television. She could tell by the fact that he’d already started decorating it how delighted he was with it. OK – it was huge. But how long would it be there? Couple of weeks and it would be gone.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said and noticed him relax.

  Georgia spent the afternoon making mince pies. Personally, she hated the things but Matt adored them. She wondered how many other thirty-two-year-old men were currently decorating their Christmas trees listening to Radiohead. Somehow, him singing along to ‘Paranoid Android’ didn’t quite sit with wrapping tinsel around the branches. She floured the worktop in order to roll out her pastry, keen to get to her favourite part of the process – the cutting out. The way the pastry scraps got rolled out again and got another chance at becoming a mince pie warmed her heart, a loser being given a second shot at success. The phone rang as it always did when her hands were coated with flour.

  “Matt – can you get it?”

  He trotted out into the hallway and answered. He didn’t speak for long before hanging up.

  “It’s Fi,” he said, coming into the kitchen wearing a long piece of red tinsel like a lei. “She’s coming over to have a chat about Blokebusters. She sounded arsey – it must be about her Rabbit last night.” He noticed her hands floured up. “You look pretty defenceless – a man could take advantage of a girl disabled like that.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She jabbed a floury finger on his nose.

  “Sounds like a challenge.”

  She giggled and couldn’t resist running her fingers through his hair. She admired her handiwork; yes, she’d definitely fancy him old and grey.

  *

  Matt answered the door to Fiona completely unaware of what his hair looked like. Fiona peered at him.

  “Have you had a shock?”

  “No,” he replied, his face screwing up in puzzlement.

  Fiona went into the living room,

  “Is he OK?” she asked Georgia.

  “Fine. He doesn’t know he’s got flour in his hair.”

  “Doesn’t know? How could he not know?”

  “His mind was elsewhere.” Georgia’s tone closed the subject.

  Fiona did a double take at the tree.

  “Good grief it’s… ehm… large.”

  “You’re not the first girl to tell me that,” Matt said and was surprised to see Fiona blush. She glanced at Georgia and then Matt.

  “Tell you what – I’ll go and do something else.” He made a discrete exit.

  “What’s up Fi? You’ve got your cow face on.”

  “I’m pissed off.” She sat heavily in the armchair. “How many clients have we each had?”

  “I don’t know exactly – twenty maybe?”

  “How many refusals have you had?” Fiona asked, agitatedly rearranging the baubles on the tree that she could reach from her seated position to suit her more ordered sense of design.

  “I don’t know.” So that’s what it’s about, Georgia thought. “Quite a few.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “Four out of twenty. That’s what percentage?” Fiona was hopeless at maths and always turned it into a question.

  “Twenty percent.”

  “Do you know how many rejections I’ve had?”

  “No,” Georgia said.

  “Eleven.”

  “Twelve actually,” Georgia corrected her and withered under Fiona’s gaze.

  “Which is what percentage?”

  “Sixty percent.”

  “At first I thought that maybe I had nicer men. Maybe the ones that went for the big boobed brunettes were more easily led astray. But who’m I kidding? I’m obviously a crap seductress.” She tweaked a branch so hard that it snapped in her hand. She looked nervously at Georgia.

  “Tuck it behind the branch next to it – he won’t notice.” Georgia smiled. “Fi, it’s not about who can seduce the most men. It’s about offering it to blokes and seeing if they take it. I’m always delighted when they refuse – it reaffirms my belief in the goodness of love and human kindness.”

  Matt entered the room during her last sentence, searching for his newspaper, and glanced approvingly at her.

  “Look, if it helps, pretend you’re in a bar and Matt’s a Rabbit. Try and seduce him. I’ll watch and see if I can work out where you’re going wrong. If you’re going wrong,” she added quickly.

  “Er hello. I am here y’know.” Matt said.

  “Seduce him. Go get him, girl!”

  Fiona sat on the arm of an armchair and patted the seat in invitation. He sat as if expecting punishment.

  “Hi there,” Fiona said.

  Georgia tried not to giggle as Matt leant as far away from her as possible.

  “Hello.” His voice resonated with unease.

  “Radiohead t-shirt,” Fiona said and Georgia frowned – she hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. “D’you like Radiohead?”

  “No. Can’t stand them.”

  “Ah come on. You’re not helping – don’t give me sarcasm.”

  “Sorry. It was a silly question though.” He scratched his head oblivious to the small cloud of flour that puffed out of his hair. “You should say something like – ‘hmm, Radiohead. Great. What’s your favourite Radiohead album?’ An open question – d’you see?”

  Fiona nodded.

  “OK. Let me try again. Hmm, Radiohead. I love Radiohead. What’s your favourite track of theirs?”

  “‘Columbia’.”

  “Yeah – me too – it’s my favourite.”

  Matt shook his head.

  “‘Columbia’ is by Oasis. I didn’t believe you – you lacked credibility in your comments. You shouldn’t ever make a statement you can’t justify if challenged to – you’ll look stupid. And whilst most men warm to a dim girl, a stupid one is an entirely different, and somewhat less appealing, prospect.”

  Georgia was surprised by how tough he was on Fiona but agreed with his sentiment. He glanced over to her.

  “Georgia – come and show her.” He turned back to Fiona. “I’ve listened in to a lot of Georgia’s work and she never sets herself up like you just have. She’ll never claim knowledge she hasn’t got but turns her ignorance round into something appealing – it gets blokes eating out the palm of her hand. Come and show her. Let’s pretend you don’t know any Radiohead songs.”

  Fiona moved back to her chair and watched events with a very serious expression, like she was watching Newsnight. Georgia took the arm of the chair.

  “Hmm, Radiohead. What concert was that you went to then?” she asked.

  “Big Tent Tour at Mile End. Did you go?”

  “No, I’m not a Radiohead fan myself.”

  “Your loss,” he shrugged, careful to give her a hard time too.

  “Why?” Georgia purred at him. “Convert me. Sing me a burst of your favourite Radiohead song.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t – I’m not much of a singer.”

  “I bet you are. I bet you’ve got a voice that could turn a girl’s heart to butter at fifty paces. Sing to me. Please.”

  Even though he knew it was only a demonstration he could feel a warm tingle working its way around his groin. She should’ve been an international spy – there wasn’t a villain in the world who’d have resisted her.


  He sang a couple of lines from ‘Paranoid Android’ as self consciously as if he was standing on the stage at the O2.

  “It’s beautiful.” Her eyes locked on his. “You’ve got a lovely voice. What other talents have you got?” Her eyes fell to his crotch.

  “Right,” he said, leaping out of the chair, “I think that gives you the general idea Fi.”

  Fiona nodded. She hadn’t seen Georgia in action since they were at uni together. They’d shared a room in the halls of residence in the first year. Georgia had always had more success than her then, too.

  “You’ve got a real talent Georgia,” she said, the admiration oozing out of her tone.

  “If you’ve both finished toying with my emotions I have a garden to tend to.” He went off to his shed to potter around. Pottering around in a shed was something that had grabbed Matt at a far younger age than most other men.

  *

  Christmas morning dawned clear and bright. It wasn’t a freezing cold Christmas like the ones Matt remembered from his childhood, but that might have been due to his parents’ viewing heating as a tool of the devil rather than actual climate change. A stream of cold breeze wafted into their bedroom. Matt always insisted on having the window open and compensated Georgia by making sure she never got cold: a win-win scenario. He knew she was asleep without looking, her rhythmic gentle breath buffeting his skin. Kissing the top of her head made her snuggle closer into him. He felt great. Stretching his legs out straight he let his feet dangle out from under the bottom of the duvet over the end of the bed; they became cold quickly and he enjoyed the delicious sensation of lifting them back under the warm, toasty duvet. When his feet had recovered he did it again.

  “What are you grinning about?” Georgia asked, her voice newly woken, clicky and dry. She hadn’t slept well; Matt kept getting up in the night and dashing into his office.

  “Morning. Happy Christmas.”

  She stretched like a cat.

  “Happy Christmas.”

  They kissed and both momentarily recoiled at the other’s stinky morning breath. She looked like she might slip back into sleep and he watched her heavy-lidded blinking with curiosity. She’d never ceased being a subject of interest for him, everything she did and, more importantly how she did it was wonderful – the way she buttered bread, the way she ironed a shirt, the way she opened a pint of milk – mundane tasks performed extraordinarily.

  “Suppose I should get up – I’ve got a turkey to stuff,” she said.

  “Lucky turkey.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, as if summoning energy for the final push of standing. Matt couldn’t resist leaning over and nibbling her back. She twitched but didn’t move.

  *

  When he joined her in the kitchen she did a double take.

  “A Christmas t-shirt.”

  “Yeah – d’you like it?”

  It was the tackiest garment she’d possibly ever seen. A white t-shirt with a big Father Christmas face in the middle surrounded by all his reindeer. As if to win her over he pressed the small pad in the middle of Father Christmas’ mouth and the t-shirt started singing ‘Jingle Bells’ to her.

  “It’s very you.” She returned her attention to preparing the Brussels sprouts, peeling off the outer leaves and making a small slit in the top, exactly how her mother always had. She realised that she didn’t have a clue what the slit was for but did it anyway, too scared that they might explode if she didn’t. They were supposed to be Matt’s home-grown sprouts but they’d suffered a disaster and turned black three days before Christmas. Neither Georgia nor Matt particularly liked sprouts but she was very conscious that he needed the Christmas days he never got as a child. Even if that included sprouts. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. When he pressed against her it set his t-shirt off singing again. They both laughed at the surprise of it.

  “We should sell those on the Blokebusters website,” Georgia giggled. “Our clients could sew them into their men’s shirts to hear when they were up to naughtiness.”

  She felt him release her waist with a sigh.

  “Can we have one day without Blokebusters? Please?”

  “Yeah. Of course. Tell you what – let me give you your Christmas presents.”

  She couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened his main present. When she handed him the envelope his face fell, suddenly he was back in the domain of having to look pleased at book tokens. But when he opened it he almost burst with excitement.

  “A greenhouse – a greenhouse is actually going to be delivered and put up in my garden – in the first week of January – honest?”

  “Yes.” She was delighted at getting it so right. “It’s a beauty – it’s that one you always admired in the garden centre advert in the local paper. The one with those roof flaps you can open.”

  “Gosh. I don’t know what to say.” He was puffing for air, until his breeding stepped in. “Well, that’s silly – of course I do. Thank you. It’s the best present in the world – thanks.”

  He opened presents in the excited way a small boy would. Georgia adored watching him. Sometimes he was a thirty-two-year-old child. She’d reasoned it out that he hadn’t ever received a loving gift until they’d met, so in present receiving terms he was only nine-years-old, thus hadn’t become as jaded as most adults. Even his selection box was greeted with delight.

  His face suddenly clouded over; Georgia thought that maybe he was upsetting himself with memories of his parents.

  “What is it?” she asked, softly stroking his cheek.

  “I’ve always wanted a greenhouse.” His voice was unusually flat. “Can we afford it?”

  “Yes – I ordered and paid for it a while back,” she lied.

  “Will we be able to move it – take it with us if we have to sell the house? Is it free standing?”

  “Yes. But we’re not going anywhere.”

  He nodded.

  “Here’s yours.” He passed her a large heavy box.

  She didn’t have a clue what to expect with his gifts. Erratic was the best description. He’d never gone for the safe options of jewellery or perfume – their first Valentine’s Day together he’d given her a pot of earth (from which the Lily of the Valley never sprouted) and an egg timer (why, she never knew). Much as she felt too grown-up to get excited he had reignited her interest in gifts. Anything in the world could be inside the wrapping; he had no boundaries. The last predictable gift she’d received from him was the briefcase she still used for work; he’d bought it as her graduation present. Since then she’d received, amongst other things, ceramic Japanese fortune cats (which she’d liked so much she’d started collecting them), an aquarium for sea monkeys with sea monkeys (they’d died), a radio control car (she’d always wanted a Porsche and he said it was the nearest he could afford) and an all-expenses-paid day learning pottery (she’d never expressed the slightest interest in pottery but went along anyway and made a jug, which turned out to have a leak when they’d tried to use it). The gift-wrap helped too; he viewed wrapping presents as a skill given to the Chosen Few of which he wasn’t one. He refused to accept that you were meant to cut the paper to an appropriate size. He could wrap a CD or a briefcase and use the same amount of paper. She’d once received a DVD from him with so much gift-wrap that it ended up shaped like the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. She cautiously peeled back the paper revealing a beanbag bed, cat food and cat toys.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Wait one moment.” He grinned and dashed up the stairs, three at a time. As he returned Georgia got ready to fix her ‘pleased’ face – the one that he accepted as proof that he’d selected well. She was careful not to overdo it and create her ‘ecstatic’ face because then he’d become suspicious. She couldn’t see any difference in him, until he sat back on the floor next to her and she saw a tiny but fluffy ginger kitten cradled in his arms.

  “I know you’ve always wanted a cat or a do
g. We’re not really right for a dog yet – what with being out so much.” The kitten squeaked feebly. Matt looked at her, concerned. “Have I got it wrong?”

  “No. It’s a fabulous present. Thank you – that’s why you kept dashing to your office last night.” She kissed him and tickled the kitten’s head, unable to stop her mind adding up the cost of food and vet’s bills. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Boy. Didn’t want to be outnumbered. Did we, Genghis?” He held the kitten up to his face. His plan was that the kitten might bring out Georgia’s maternal side. Kitten first, baby second.

  “Genghis?” She frowned. “There is no way you’re calling my kitten Genghis.”

  “It’s a great name – he loves it. Imagine when he meets other cats – how cool will they think he is? ‘Hi, I’m Fluffy’, ‘I’m Sooty’, and ‘I’m Tigger’. Not quite up there with ‘Hi, I’m Genghis.’ Is it?”

  “He’s not called Genghis.”

  “Conan?”

  “No.”

  “Chewbacca?”

  “No!”

  “Obi Wan Ken —”

  “No,” she interrupted.

  “Well, I’m out of names then.” He stroked the kitten’s head and it squeaked at the touch. “Sorry mate – looks like you’re going to get landed with a mad-cat-lady style name. Something like Mr Paws.”

  “Gyp.” She scooped Gyp up and held him to her cheek. “Gyp the Cat. As in the Bobby Darin song. Gyp’s a villain in the song. So it’s not a mad-cat-lady name.”

  “Suppose. But it’s not as hard as Genghis or Conan.” He was glad to see how Georgia had bonded with the kitten; it didn’t require a huge leap of imagination to see a baby in her arms. “Hello Gyp.” He tickled him under the chin. “I got you something else too.” He took Gyp back from her so she could open her other present. It was a t-shirt similar to his but playing ‘Deck the Halls’.

  She smiled and, knowing it was the only day of the year he could expect her to, put it on.

  At 8 pm, just as Matt was wondering whether it was too early for an early night, the phone rang.