Blokebusters Read online

  She dashed out to the nearest newspaper bin. The delivery man was in the process of stacking the papers into the bin and looked stunned as she wrestled some from his hands.

  “Sorry,” she said over her shoulder as she ran back to her office. The newspapers generated heat in her hands and she could barely wait until she got back to her desk to read one. There was a fierce, icy, stale-smelling wind blowing, channelled between the tall buildings into something even more cutting. Georgia was glad to get back inside; the great outdoors held no appeal at all for her. She reasoned that if people were meant to spend time outside, nature would’ve evolved plug sockets in trees so she could take her television and kettle with her. Closing her office door she sat at her desk, taking a cursory glance at the message left by her secretary to call Fiona about Laurence Pink. The name meant nothing to her. The article wouldn’t appear in the first half of the paper, which covered the news. The latter half dealt with articles, entertainment and sport. She flicked the pages violently, as if they were infected, desperate to find what she was looking for. When she found the page she stared at it for a while without reading. Matt had been vague about how it went but she could tell it must’ve gone well as the article occupied a whole page, barring a rectangular advert at the bottom. As Larry had refused to be photographed they’d published a stock photo of a man and a woman sitting together at a bar. She read and her cheeks burned, not with shame or embarrassment but pride. Matt had done it. He’d put aside his own feelings and given the best interview he could to promote the business.

  Calling time on the love rats

  Any woman who has been cheated on will know how awful it feels: the pain, the frustration, the anger, the helplessness, the soul-searching that takes place, the destruction of confidence and the feeling that somehow it’s her fault too. How many times have you sat with your girlfriends and discussed how great it would be to find out whether your new man was likely to cheat on you? A sort of ‘try before you buy’?

  Well now, thanks to one enterprising businessman, you can.

  Marisa Smith spoke to Larry Pink who is the founder of a website called Blokebusters.co.uk

  ‘Blokebusters just evolved out of a conversation with one of my female friends,’ Larry explains in his warm, excited and slightly camp voice. ‘She’d been cheated on for about the millionth time and I realised that if lovely girls like her were being treated so badly the problem must be huge. So I decided to help women fight back and limit their hurt. I’ve always been a huge supporter of Girl Power and this was my chance to get involved.’

  What Larry’s referring to is Blokebusters.co.uk, a website that allows women to submit information about their partner and book a woman to ‘test’ his loyalty. ‘It’s very important to point out how respectable and professional our service is. None of our testors – or Carrots as we call them – are full time, they all have day jobs – all are professionals working in the City, they’re intelligent women. The client very clearly specifies what she wants – some allow the Carrot to touch the Rabbit – that’s what we call the male target – others don’t. Some clients come along to listen in on proceedings; others choose not to and receive a full report the next day. Carrots always leave as soon as their advances are accepted or rejected. Personally, we’re all delighted when a Rabbit resists – everyone believes in love and adores a happy ending after all.’

  But is Larry the feminist romantic he purports to be or a ruthless manipulator of female self-doubt? Larry laughs at the question. ‘Men can’t keep on thinking they’re allowed to behave in such a terrible way. All I’m doing is helping women to rid themselves of rotten eggs. I could gladly punch some of the awful excuses for manhood I’ve encountered – they haven’t got a clue about chivalry or charm or fashion. One man believed he was God’s gift and tried to seduce our Carrot – d’you know what he was wearing? Brown corduroy trousers. Women deserve better. That’s what I hope to show them.’

  Anonymity is paramount to the success of the business. Larry only agreed to be interviewed over the phone and is evasive about his background. ‘Sometimes I feel as if I’ve only existed for months rather than years on the planet,’ is typical of the vague way he answers personal questions about his age. He admits to having a background in technology and that his partner aids him in the business. ‘Who I am is not important. What I am offering womankind through Blokebusters.co.uk is.’ When asked how many clients he has and how many men, or rather Rabbits, are tested per week, Larry giggles, ‘That’s a very personal question which I won’t answer, you cheeky woman! Every single client receives a professional service and complete anonymity. I will never reveal any details about the business other than the service available. Respect and trust are our watchwords – just as they should be in any relationship.’

  But what of morals? Some of you reading this article may be questioning the ethics of the service. Larry is adamant that, ‘Men don’t cheat just because an opportunity to do so is offered to them. They cheat because they are cheats. They are immoral; they are unethical. All Blokebusters.co.uk does is balance the scales and give women a chance to fight back.’

  When asked what he thought about a prominent relationship therapist’s view that if you even think about using such a service your relationship is already beyond repair, Larry’s only response was, “Nonsense!”

  So, you’re in a relationship, you suspect your boyfriend/husband of cheating but you want proof before you start dividing the CD collection. What do you do and how much will it cost? Larry explains, ‘All potential clients should start by looking at the website, Blokebusters.co.uk. A client can submit a completed questionnaire and choose what level of service she wants. A basic service of a Carrot meeting the Rabbit and reporting what happened costs £150. If you want to listen in it costs £200. We can tailor our service to specific requests and will quote a price on demand for that – an example would be where the client requests two Carrots.’

  Currently the service is only available in London but Larry has plans to expand. As he says, ‘There’s no reason why only London cheats should be rattled. Plans for expansion are afoot. My vision is that before any man cheats, the name Blokebusters.co.uk flits through his mind and makes him think twice.”

  Larry can be contacted via his website: Blokebusters.co.uk

  Still staring at the page she picked up her phone and hit the button programmed to call home. It rang for ages before Matt answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Matt, it’s me.”

  “Hello Me. Sorry I took so long to answer – thought I spotted a spore on some of my potato tubers, I was out in the greenhouse.”

  “Is that the current trendy hang-out for you media types then?”

  “Is it in?” He finally cottoned on to why she’d called.

  “Oh yes.” She stroked his face in the photo on her desk.

  “And?”

  “You never told me Larry’s surname was Pink.” As she said it Fiona’s message made sense.

  “I didn’t know till that journo asked me. I realised he needed to have a surname but hadn’t thought what. Pink seemed a fun choice. How does it read?”

  “It reads well. You’re fantastic.”

  “Larry’s fantastic,” he corrected.

  “No. You’re fantastic. I know how much you don’t want the business to expand. I know you don’t want to give interviews. I’m really grateful how you put all that aside to do this for me.”

  “It’s not that I’m against the business. You know that. I don’t like what it’s doing to us – I’m selfish, I want you to myself.” He sounded ashamed at admitting it.

  “I know. But once we get Emily on board it’ll improve.”

  “You said you were proud.”

  “I am.”

  “Proud enough to skive off work early to come home and reward me? You don’t have a client tonight after all.”

  Jeff walked into her office without knocking. Georgia sat upright in her chair and lowered her voice
so it sounded more regulated and professional.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call and let you know.”

  “Somebody’s walked into your office,” Matt said in a teasing voice.

  “Correct.”

  “I want you home early missy, I’ve done a lot of digging this morning – you know that always puts me in the mood.”

  “I’ll try and arrange something. When are you available?”

  Jeff sat in the seat opposite her desk and picked up her newspaper; it was still on the Blokebusters article and he slouched to read it.

  “Do you talk like this to all your clients? It’s very sexy. No wonder you’re so good at your job,” Matt said.

  “That’s sorted then. Was there anything else?”

  “I’m going to finish my gardening and have a nice soak – I’ll be all clean and warm for when you get home. Every pore of me aching to hear your key in the door —”

  “OK then. Goodbye.” Georgia hung up before she got any more hot and bothered.

  Matt hung up and laughed.

  The thought of Matt naked and soft from the bath contrasted cruelly with the sight of Jeff in front of her. He’d put on weight since his wife had left him and he looked less wholesome – not that he’d ever looked truly wholesome. He’d always reminded Georgia of the sort of man who gave you change in an amusement arcade, he had a pallid complexion and waxy eyes. He was engrossed in the article and she decided to leave him be. Eventually, he put the paper back on her desk and smiled.

  “Did you read that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bet you wish Matt had come up with something like that – it looks a real money-spinner to me, all these women with more money than sense. How’s his dotcom empire shaping up?”

  “You’re assuming that website, what was it called – Blokebusters – isn’t his?” She spoke with just the right degree of sarcasm so that Jeff would dismiss it.

  “Call it a hunch,” he smirked. “The man who thought this up,” – he pointed to the newspaper article – “is a genius. He’s praying on the insecurity of the weaker sex and, being too stupid to realise, they’ll worship him as a hero. Shame he’s a bender.”

  As she often did when speaking to Jeff, Georgia thanked God that she was married to Matt. Jeff sensed that he wasn’t going to rile Georgia today, in fact he seemed to be amusing her, so he got up, pausing in the doorway.

  “Remember you personally promised to let me know when Matt makes his first million.”

  “I never go back on a promise.”

  He laughed and she heard it continue back to his own office. It was fake and hard.

  She looked around the room at the audit files, the Accounting Standards reference books and the corporate gifts she’d received over the years: crystal paper weights, gimmicky stress relief balls and mugs. What a load of junk. She was so excited to be given her own office on promotion. She’d joyfully phoned Matt for his input on which shelves certain texts should go on. It had really meant something to her at the time. Not since the end of November had she chanted her ‘partner by forty’ mantra. Auditing had become something to get through until the real work of the day began. Running Blokebusters full time had become her dream; expansion into the major UK towns the next goal.

  Georgia switched her laptop off and locked it into her desk. She took her newspapers and folded them before easing them into her briefcase, knowing she’d pick up at least five more on the way home.

  She stopped off at her secretary’s office and tried to look pale and pained.

  “I’m going home – I’ve got a migraine and think I should lie down.” The thought of Matt wearing nothing more than a towel was too tempting. She had never skived before.

  *

  Georgia called Fiona from the train and spoke softly so as not to be overheard. Whenever she’d had occasion to leave work early she’d always been surprised by how many other commuters were doing the same.

  “He said that I’d been cheated on for the millionth time – I’m going to bloody murder him.” Fiona’s indignant tone made Georgia want to laugh.

  “Oh Fi, he did say you were lovely. Lighten up – no one knows he was talking about you.”

  “I know. And you know. And Matt knows.”

  “Fi, Matt is Larry – stop talking like they’re separate people.”

  Fiona harrumphed an unintelligible reply.

  “Don’t you think it was a good article?” Georgia asked.

  “’Spose so.”

  “Someone at work read it and said whoever came up with the idea was a genius.”

  “Bloody Matt again. For the quiet one he seems to attract a lot of praise.”

  “Oh come on Fi, that’s hardly fair. He works full time on it – he deserves some credit.”

  “’Spose so.”

  “Have you spoken to Emily about becoming a Carrot? I really want her on board – Matt doesn’t want me working every night.”

  “Matt again. Can’t we do anything without it being because of him?”

  Georgia ignored her comment, dismissing it as one of Fiona’s occasional fits of jealousy.

  “Have you spoken to Emily?”

  “Yes. She’s up for it. Tell Matt – should cheer him up.”

  “Fi, Matt hasn’t got a nasty bone in his body. Stop being mean about him.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m sorry. I’m in a bad mood. I overheard my secretary telling one of my juniors that I couldn’t hold on to a bloke. And then with the article telling half of London the same thing, I’m feeling a bit raw.”

  “You’ve got a Rabbit tonight – take it out on him.”

  “I intend to. I’ve decided the bastard’s guilty as hell already.”

  *

  Matt was standing at the kitchen sink when Georgia got home. He hadn’t long been out of the bath and was dressed only in a towel draped around his waist, or rather it had started out around his waist but had sagged to his hips. He’d never quite mastered the art of getting towels to stay put like Georgia could. His hair was wet and flat. He studied his reflection in the oven door. That’s how they’d do his hair when he took over the role of James Bond.

  “I’m home.” Georgia’s arm ached from carrying her briefcase stuffed with fifteen copies of the Evening Standard. She spotted Matt at the sink and joined him.

  “What’re you doing?” she said, nuzzling against his bare back. He had a terrific back and shoulders: broad, muscular and, most importantly, hairless. She loved the smell of him fresh from the bath or shower before he’d put any deodorant or body spray on. Every person had a different natural smell and his was divine, masculine and musky but in a fresh way.

  “Watering a present for you.”

  She peered around his shoulder and saw him drizzle water into a pot of earth. Her heart sunk at accommodating another pot of earth somewhere in the house. He turned and presented her with the pot; it looked tiny in his hand.

  “Thanks. What is it?”

  “It’s one of these.” He showed her the picture of a hyacinth from the front of the packet.

  “It’s going to be beautiful. Thank you.” Not once in their relationship had he ever bought her a bunch of flowers, it was always a pot of earth. She’d fretted as to what he would wear in his buttonhole for their wedding and could still remember the relief when she saw a red carnation on his lapel.

  “Where’s Larry’s interview then?” he asked and read the article, chuckling to himself the whole time. He shook his head. “It’s crazy. I worked out some figures today – we’re more than covering what I used to earn. We’re better off. By a considerable margin. All down to a website run from our spare bedroom. The world’s gone mad!” He scratched his head in bemusement. “How did you escape from work?” He took the pot from her hand and placed it on the worktop.

  “I’ve got a migraine. Can’t you tell? Look at the pain I’m in.”

  “Bed rest for you then.” He led her up the stairs and started undres
sing her as soon as they reached the bedroom.

  She smiled as his large hands grappled with the tiny buttons on her blouse. He was never clumsy and she put that down to his years of handling tiny seeds. Going to bed during the day always seemed odd to Georgia, a bit like coming out of the cinema into daylight. Matt was far better adapted to a louche lifestyle than her and had no such qualms.

  Chapter fourteen

  Saturday morning, Georgia sat at the dining room table reading the Daily Mirror. Even when she’d studied for her degree in Accounting and Finance she couldn’t abandon her tabloid. The tutors had told them to read the broadsheets as examiners often set topical scenarios in their questions and admired students who related their answers to real-life scenarios. Georgia hadn’t bothered; she wanted to pass, not cover herself in glory.

  She sipped her orange juice and took a bite of her toast, deeply engrossed in what a disgraced soap star was up to. Matt entered the room carrying his glass and carton of juice, his copy of The Times tucked under his arm and pinned against his waist by his elbow.

  “Top up?”

  “Please.”

  He sat heavily, opposite her, and watched her concentrating so carefully on what she was reading that her lips were mouthing some of the words. The sound of the liquid glugging into her glass made her start. Matt grinned at her.

  “So what’s going on in the world of showbiz then?”

  “Like you care.”

  “I’m sure if it’s important enough it will be in my paper too.”