Blokebusters Page 2

  “She won’t go until all the Walnut Whips have been eaten – you know that. Come in and start eating some – please – otherwise we’ll be here all night. I’ve done three already and haven’t even made a dent in the stockpile.”

  “How many were in the bag?”

  “I don’t know – maybe as many as nine or ten boxes of three.”

  “Let’s say nine boxes, twenty-seven Walnut Whips. What’s her usual rate for this level of grief? About six an hour, say? If we match her all the way we can have her out of here in an hour and a half. All right. You go back – I’ll bring the mugs through when it’s brewed.”

  Georgia narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Make sure you do. I’ll come and get you if you don’t appear within the next five minutes.”

  *

  Matt shambled in with the tea and put the mugs on the coffee table, almost spilling some, when Fiona sulkily said, “All of them would be improved by having their balls cut off.”

  He sat and crossed his legs cautiously. Fiona noticed his discomfort. “I didn’t mean you – I don’t count you as a normal bloke.” He decided to take it as a compliment.

  “Chuck me a box of Walnut Whips,” he said to Georgia, “I’m three behind already.” She glared at him for making their plan too obvious.

  “I wish I knew why they cheat – why are men such pigs, Matt?” Fiona said.

  Matt squirmed, feeling uncomfortably accountable for the sins of his sex.

  “Surely we can’t all be?”

  “Of course not,” Georgia interrupted, “you’d never cheat on me, would you?”

  “I can honestly say it would never enter my mind. But then I’m lucky – I married a beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman. Some of these blokes that cheat are probably stuck with right old dogs.”

  “Like me!” Fiona howled as Georgia winced and shook her head at him. Matt’s chest deflated in horror at his words.

  “I’m going to the toilet.” Fiona exited the room as slowly as possible in order to convey how crushed she was.

  The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.

  “It wasn’t your fault. Honest.” Georgia went over to Matt and sat on the arm of his chair. “She’s looking for anything to set her off at the moment.”

  “I implied she was an old dog.”

  “Yes. Yes you did,” she swallowed back a giggle; it sounded funnier somehow in his cultured voice, “but she won’t hold it against you, remember, you don’t count as a normal bloke.” She stroked his thick, dark brown hair; it had always fascinated her, he could brush it and two seconds later it looked like when children rub balloons over their hair to make it stand on end with friction. It had just about grown back to its usual slightly-too-long length. The last time he’d had it cut he’d let the receptionist at work do it. She was about to start a course on hairdressing at evening classes and had hacked it to pieces with the blunt office scissors. Matt was typically unbothered and thought it churlish to complain about a free haircut.

  “It’s going to be one of those evenings isn’t it? Where I can’t open my mouth without getting a taste of foot.”

  “Give me a kiss – quick – before she gets back.” She kissed him full on the lips giving him no choice in the matter, not that he’d refuse. Pulling away she smiled at him. He slid his hand up her thigh, suddenly feeling that his evening might not be all bad.

  Fiona tutted from the doorway.

  “Oh great – five minutes later and you’d be naked. That makes me feel even better about myself.”

  “Y’know what?” Georgia said, knowing they wouldn’t because it was a somewhat improvised statement. Her perky tone had created expectation in both Matt and Fiona and they looked at her eagerly. Her mind raced as to what she should say. “You’re treating this like a funeral – like it’s a bad thing. If he’s a rat you’re best off without him – you should be celebrating – you’ve had a lucky escape.”

  “Do you reckon?” Fiona asked cautiously.

  “Yep. Matt – crack open the dandelion wine.” It would kill two birds with one stone; cheer up Fiona and get rid of that disgusting wine.

  *

  An hour later Matt wondered where he’d left his legs, because they certainly didn’t feel as if they were attached to his body anymore. Three empty bottles stood like skittles on the coffee table.

  “This is bloody fantastic stuff Matt – you’re the Hertfordshire equivalent of that dead bloke,” Fiona slurred, her ash-blonde bobbed hair not quite as sleekly styled as it was on arrival and her legs draped over the arm of the chair.

  “Any more clues?” Georgia asked. “Most of the blokes who’ve ever lived are dead.”

  “Good thing too if you ask me. Bastards,” Fiona shouted; her judgement over how loudly she spoke was always the first thing she lost when she drank too much. They laughed raucously and then there was silence. “Dom Perignon.” The name finally dredged from the vaults of her memory.

  “Go and get another bottle Matt,” Georgia said and, holding on to the wall all the way, Matt complied. He stumbled back into the room with a big dopey grin on his face and sat heavily on the floor.

  “What are you doing down there, gorgeous?” Georgia peered over the edge of the sofa at him.

  “It’s safer. The floor’s moving too much.”

  “Ahhhh. Isn’t he lovely?” Georgia squeezed his face and showered him with light kisses. His grin widened as he let the pleasurable sensation wash over him. “You are lovely, lovely, lovely – isn’t he lovely Fi?”

  “He is bloody lovely.” Fiona nodded wisely. “Your parents did womankind a great disservice when they only spawned once.” It was an ambitious sentence but most of it came out correctly.

  Matt frowned slightly at the recollection of his parents. Fiona wouldn’t have realised but Georgia did and showered him with more kisses to take his mind back to happier thoughts.

  “D’you know what you should do, Georgia?” Fiona leant forward conspiratorially. “You should hire him out – the perfect husband – he cooks, he cleans, he compliments you, he’s passably attractive if you like freakishly tall geeks, he must be good in bed because you’ve never complained. All these sad women like me could hire him for a day – or a night, and see what it’s like to have a decent bloke.”

  “I’d be a millionaire by Christmas,” Georgia sighed, stretching out full length on the sofa like an artist’s model.

  “But think of all those cold, lonely nights without me.” Matt’s head poked up meerkat-like over the arm of the sofa. Seeing Georgia’s pose he hauled himself onto the sofa and rested her legs across his lap. “All my good loving going to someone else.”

  “Never mind that – it would be bloody charitable work,” Fiona said. She flopped her legs over the arm of the chair and fussily arranged the cushions around her.

  “Y’see Fi, your problem isn’t necessarily you – it’s the blokes you pick. You don’t make them cheat – you just go for blokes with a cheating gene.” Matt was in the midst of a fleeting moment of absolute clarity; he occasionally had them, where everything in the world suddenly revealed its truth to him. “What you need to do is test your target’s mettle before you get emotionally involved.”

  “I don’t understand,” Fiona said. She fought back a wretch. Chocolate and dandelion wine was an unstable brew to have in an otherwise empty stomach.

  “Me neither,” Georgia said.

  “OK, let me explain. Next time a man asks you out and you have a couple of nice dates and you’re thinking ‘Ooh, he could be the one’, stop.”

  “Stop?” both women echoed.

  “Stop,” Matt nodded, enjoying being the focus of attention. “Get a friend – not Georgia obviously, to go up to him in a bar, gym, shop or wherever and try it on with him. If he’s up for it then you know he’s a rat and you can dump him before you start picking out your wedding dress. All the usual painful aftermath is avoided and we don’t have to gorge ourselves on Walnut Whips just to get you out o
f our house.” His mouth felt numb from the wine. They seemed to be following him though. “If he refuses, particularly if he says something like, ‘You’re a lovely woman but I’m dating a lovelier one’ then you know he’s a good man. And you can start planning how you’re going to change him when you get your claws fully into him.”

  “Is that what you think I did?” Georgia’s body tensed.

  “Figure of speech, my dear. I wouldn’t want your claws anywhere but in me.”

  Fiona swung her legs back over the arm of the chair and sat upright, knocking two cushions onto the floor in the process.

  “Genius. It’s so simple – OK it’s a bit sleazy and underhand but needs must. Not only would I ask a friend to do it, I’d be willing to pay for it. Someone should be offering it as a service.” She punched the arm of her chair in emphasis and Georgia was relieved that a dust cloud didn’t billow up as a result.

  They each unwrapped a Walnut Whip, Matt and Georgia biting straight away, Fiona peeling off the walnut and throwing it to Georgia.

  The wine finished, they fell into a contemplative collective silence. Fiona and Georgia glanced at Matt; his head was back against the sofa, his mouth open and he was snoring from the back of his throat so it sounded like a cross between a gargle and a yodel. It wasn’t his best look.

  “You’re so lucky, Georgia,” Fiona said tearfully. “He might be a bit bonkers and get obsessed with weird things. He might be unambitious and scruffy, he might be —”

  “Can we fast forward to the point please?”

  “He’s yours and he wants to be. It’s beautiful.” She wiped away a tear.

  “You’ll find someone Fi, you know you will. What’s that saying? You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince?”

  “A frog would be a step up for me at the moment.” She reached for her handbag, which had cost her roughly the same as the gross domestic product of a small African country. “Well, perhaps I should take Matt’s hint and go home. You’ve probably had enough of me for one night. Shit – it’s one in the morning. I’d better call a cab.”

  The sound of her using the telephone woke Matt with a start.

  “I’m going to be late for work,” he gasped.

  “Dafty.” Georgia smiled and he relaxed, realising it was still evening.

  “Has Fi gone yet? I can’t take any more of her whinging – I want some hot sex with a married woman.” His face fell as Fiona appeared in the doorway, her expression confirming she heard it all. “Sorry Fi. Remember – I’m not a normal bloke.”

  There was a quiet but insistent rap on the front door.

  “That’ll be my cab. Thanks. Both of you. I’ve had a lovely evening.”

  Georgia got up to give her a hug.

  “Cheer up. Tell you what – why don’t we have lunch tomorrow? I’m working near you at the moment. I’ll give you a call.”

  “Yeah. I’d like that. Night then.”

  Matt waited for the door to close.

  “Right, Mrs Brown. I want you upstairs, in my bed and naked – pronto.”

  “Oh I see, just ‘cos Fi said I should hire you out you’ve gone all big-headed and demanding.”

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven… ”

  “All right, all right. I’m going.” She knew that he’d carry her up if she didn’t go willingly. He’d done it several times before and she’d rather enjoyed it but it seemed foolish when they’d both drunk so much dandelion wine. She didn’t fancy spending the rest of the night sitting in a casualty department trying to explain what had happened.

  Chapter two

  Georgia woke at six the next morning. It allowed her the luxury of ten minutes dozing and thinking about the day ahead before the alarm sounded. Matt never woke before the alarm. She loved watching him sleep. He slept like a child on Christmas night – deep, contented, relaxed without a care or stress in the world, usually with a smile playing round his mouth. She suspected that he had vivid, imaginative, Salvador Dali-esque dreams as often he’d chuckle or he’d reach for her and mutter odd phrases like, “singing chickens”, “cloud buses” or, more recently, “inflatable biscuits”. Whenever she asked him what he dreamt of he’d shrug and say, “The usual stuff people dream about – nothing much really.” She found it an unsatisfactory answer and it didn’t begin to explain the occasion when he woofed in his sleep.

  Her head felt stuffed with cotton wool balls and recollections of the previous night’s excess made her queasy. Matt snuffled on his pillow; his hair was madder than usual and his jaw shadowed with stubble. Fiona had been adamant that women would want to hire him, willing to hand over hard cash to wake up next to him.

  Georgia snuggled down into the duvet, her shoulder length dark hair cocooning the sides of her face like a scarf. Three minutes till the alarm would ring. Three minutes to study Matt. He looked gorgeous set against the white bedding with a large red rose motif. A lot of men might have protested that it was too feminine for a joint bedroom, but not him. His logic was the more Georgia liked the room the more time she’d want to spend in it. As she watched him details of the night before popped into her mind. He’d been on good form, apart from calling Fiona an old dog. What had his great idea been? Getting another woman to tempt your man to see if he was the cheating sort? Only Matt with his slightly skewed moral view of the world could come up with that. She imagined the advert in a woman’s magazine: Would your man cheat on you? Visit our website and find out. Log on to… she frowned. What should it be called? Matt groaned in his sleep, “I’ll have a P please Bob.” Georgia stared at him, open-mouthed. Log on to Blokebusters.co.uk.

  The alarm went off, an electronic high-pitched beep, which made her ears hurt. Matt never heard it. She automatically gave him a prod.

  “Wake up.”

  No response. She stroked his face. “Wake up Matt.” Nothing. She sighed. “Every bloody morning.” She slid her hand under the duvet and tickled his chest. “Time to get up Matt – empires to be built, fortunes to be made.” He nuzzled his face deeper into his pillow. “Right – you’ve driven me to this.” She picked up the glass of water from her bedside table and tossed the contents into Matt’s face, only realising quite how much water there was in the glass when it splatted against him with a slapping sound. She remembered, too late, that she had refilled her glass before going to bed.

  “Bloody hell Georgia! What’s wrong with ‘good morning’? Or a kiss or something? Christ, I’m sopping!”

  “Time to get up.”

  “I’m married to a bloody loony!” He flicked his wet hair off his forehead and looked at his soaked pillow in disgust. “You shower first – I already feel part-washed.”

  Matt washed and dressed in thirty minutes. He was always ready far earlier than Georgia but lingered in the bedroom, knowing she liked their morning chats before work and the rest of the world got on her nerves. Perhaps it was during one of these he should raise the subject of children.

  “I thought you said it was your annual appraisal today?” Georgia fiddled to put her earrings on. Much as she’d moved on, her earrings remained forever studenty; she favoured dangle and beads rather than precious metals and gems.

  “It is.”

  “Maybe you should smarten up a bit – show them how committed and professional you are.” She critically eyed his ‘One by one the penguins steal my sanity’ sloganed t-shirt and battered jeans ensemble.

  “Nope – it’s not how it works in the world of computers.”

  “But it couldn’t hurt to show them how seriously you take your job.”

  “How can you say I’m not taking this seriously when I’ve put my best t-shirt on? Look! No stains or anything.”

  He helped her on with her fitted navy suit jacket and she searched for her shoes.

  “You left them downstairs – in the hallway.”

  “Thanks.”

  Their house was a ten-minute walk from the station. It was convenient but meant they could always hear the trains in the distance. Trains m
ade Matt think about work. Fortunately it wasn’t a busy line.

  Georgia locked the front door and Matt took her briefcase from her without a word. She had always liked his chivalrous streak; most men she knew would think chivalry was a herb recommended by Jamie Oliver.

  “Are you out at a client all day?” he asked.

  “Yeah, reviewing files. Being a manager sucks.” They both knew it was a lie. She’d worked hard to pass her Chartered Accountancy exams and had worked hard at auditing. Her promotion to manager earlier in the year was merited and the first milestone in her career ambitions. Matt admired her drive as it meant he could get away with having none.

  They walked to the station enjoying the cold September sunshine; a rare treat given that winter seemed to be arriving far too early this year. Matt bought a copy of The Times from the newspaper seller who set up a trestle table every morning opposite the ticket office. He’d started reading a paper on the train since Georgia told him he looked like an anorak reading his Internet magazine. He bought a bag of Revels and quickly pocketed them, so as not to tempt Georgia.

  They boarded their train and sat next to each other. He always insisted she took the window seat so that when the train got crowded he could shield her from it. Matt started with the ‘Times Two’ section of his paper and Georgia took out her Kindle. He tapped her thigh to get her attention.

  “Hey – look at that – I used to have a pair of trousers like that when we first met – do you remember? It says they’re coming back into fashion.”

  Georgia studied the photo.

  “Yes, they were just like that.”

  Matt continued to read his paper and she watched him, waiting for the next interruption. He’d never quite grasped the fact that reading the newspaper was a solitary act, and that she wasn’t holding a Kindle on the train solely to occupy her hands. Over the years she’d trained herself to read in short bursts so that when the inevitable interruption came, it wouldn’t annoy her or cause her to lose the thread of the plot.

  Georgia’s client was at Moorgate, barely a five-minute walk from Liverpool Street station. Matt’s office was at Tower Hill, a further distance in the opposite direction. He didn’t start as early as Georgia, so walked her to Moorgate.