Blokebusters Page 22

  “Get a grip woman. Don’t let good bacon go to waste.” He nudged her into action and she turned the hob off. Lifting the bacon out of the pan she rested it on kitchen paper to absorb some fat. “Have you read it all?”

  “Not the bottom bit.” She used her kitchen tongs to lay the bacon on the buttered bread. “Ketchup or brown sauce?”

  “One of each please.” He held the paper with both hands halfway down the page, the top half of the paper flopping backwards. “Ahem, this is what the bottom bit says.” He adopted a serious, urgent tone, “‘Do you know Larry Pink? Is he a friend of yours? Were you at school or college with him? Do you have photos of him? Call us with your story and, if it’s genuine, we’ll pay you for it! If your story leads to us tracking him down we’ll pay you £5,000! Larry Pink – your days of anonymity are numbered. We know you’re out there and we’ll find you!’” He scowled. “Sounds very aggressive.” He scanned through the upper half of the page. “Apparently I’m a multi-millionaire from my Blokebusters exploits. If only. I live with my long-term partner, who they think is called Malcolm. Well, close I suppose.” He watched Georgia spread the sauce, the elegant way her wrist flicked when she reached the edge of the bread thus stopping the sauce from running over the side made his stomach twitch. “This whole page is about Blokebusters,” he said, as if Georgia didn’t realise.

  “I know. It’s serious. The Standard and Metro were just London papers – that’s a national tabloid. If they want to find out who we are, they will.” She sucked some brown sauce from her thumb.

  “I can’t wait to hear about Larry’s mates! I dread to think what sort of cranks and nutters are going to come forward.”

  “Why can’t they just leave us alone?” She pushed his plate towards him, domed with sandwiches.

  “Thanks Malcolm.” He picked up the top sandwich and had to extend his jaw to take a bite. “I suppose it’s a great story – it’s a business success masterminded by a flamboyant homosexual, it has temptresses and infidelity. What more could they hope for?” His words forced their way out from the bacon and breadcrumbs.

  “If they find out who we are, Fiona and me are dead in the water. It won’t go down too well at work.” She took a bite of her sandwich, mulling over the level of her understatement.

  “Yeah but they won’t. They’re looking for Larry Pink. They don’t know what he looks like.”

  “They could look up who our website’s registered to – you said people could connect Blokebusters to Gemtrex Limited if they knew how. If they get Gemtrex Limited they can find out who we are, where we live – everything.”

  “I did tick the anonymity box. If they knew how to find us they’d have done it by now wouldn’t they?” Matt said. It was a tough argument to refute. “Y’know, you were worth marrying for the quality of your bacon butties alone. The fact you’ve led me to be the target of a nationwide witch hunt is a bonus.”

  “Shut up or I’ll shop you – it would be the easiest £5,000 I’ve ever made.” She affected a bimbo voice. “Ooh yes, I know he says he’s gay but wait until you hear all the outrageous things he’s done to me. He was easily a five-times-a-night man.”

  “If you’re going to tell them positive things like that I’ll dial the number for you myself,” he laughed. “You get washed Malcolm, I’ll do the washing-up.”

  While Georgia was in the shower, the phone rang.

  “Matt – have you seen the papers? I thought it was just the Mail, but Emily’s called – they’re trying to find out about Larry in The Sun too – they’re offering a £10,000 bounty for anyone who can dish the dirt.”

  “Really? The Mirror’s only offering £5,000.”

  “Bloody hell. Is there a newspaper we’re not in?” Fiona snapped.

  “I haven’t checked my Times yet.”

  “What are we going to do? I’ve got four blokes tonight; Emily’s got five. How can we concentrate when we’re being hunted down?”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. You think you’ve got problems – we’re having lunch with Nancy and Alan.”

  “Are you? Bad luck.” She sounded appeased.

  *

  Matt and Georgia spent the rest of the morning shopping. Matt had been so busy handling the increased volume of questionnaires and client questions that he hadn’t had time to go during the week. Georgia got a trolley and started looking around Sainsbury’s. While she browsed the fruit and veg, Matt visited the newsagent (he said it had a better range of sweets) and Boots (it stocked Georgia’s moisturiser). He always avoided the vegetable aisles in supermarkets for fear of feeling inferior.

  As he strolled along the high street he passed a men’s fashion shop. A t-shirt in the window caught his eye. It was black with white writing on it. It said, ‘Contents 100% Blokebuster approved’. He stared at it for a while as if not trusting his eyes, then went into the shop.

  “The t-shirt in the window – the Blokebusters one, is it a one-off?”

  The shop assistant looked at him like he was simple.

  “No. We can’t get enough of them in. Latest fad.” Her chewing gum clicked at the back of her mouth and her jaw moved slowly in a circular motion not dissimilar to a cow chewing the cud.

  “Why would people want a t-shirt with that on?” he asked.

  “Dunno. ‘Cos it’s funny?”

  “Is that the only style?”

  “Nah – on the rack over there.” She pointed like it took great effort and the myriad of bangles on her wrist chinked against each other with a hollow, tinny sound.

  He flicked through the rack, selecting the design in the window in extra large. The other design was navy blue with white piped lettering, raised to the touch. It said, ‘I am Larry Pink’. He smiled and parted the hangers until he found an extra large. He took them both to the till and the assistant eyed him warily. Only a minute ago he’d asked why someone would want one, now he was buying both.

  As soon as they got home, Georgia unpacked the shopping. She had a phobia about frozen goods believing that if they weren’t put in the freezer instantly they turned toxic. Matt put his Blokebusters t-shirt on. Georgia’s eyes widened.

  “Why did you get that printed up? Are you planning a marketing campaign?”

  “I didn’t. This is currently the must-have t-shirt on the high street. Selling quicker than the proverbial hot cakes.” He smirked at her reaction.

  “You’re kidding?”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s another variety too.” He held the ‘I am Larry Pink’ shirt to his chest to show her. “Do you realise that I’m the only man in the country who can legitimately wear this t-shirt?”

  “People are buying these?”

  He nodded.

  A throbbing knot of worry announced itself in Georgia’s stomach. Things were moving a little too fast. It was all getting too big. Blokebusters was meant to let them keep their house, it wasn’t meant to be a feeding-frenzy for the media.

  “What have we started?” she whispered.

  All Matt had to do was think about how his parents would react to the business and his trepidation vanished. Apart from becoming a Labour MP he couldn’t think how he could disgust them more. It was a good feeling.

  Georgia realised Matt didn’t share her concerns so she buried her anxiety to avoid panicking him. She liked him happy and relaxed. He seemed to find the media interest funny and believed himself to be invincible. She wouldn’t spoil that until she had to.

  *

  “Well this is going to be dire,” Matt said, as he steered the car into Nancy and Alan’s cul-de-sac of detached mock-Georgian yellow brick houses. “It’s not even as if your parents are going to be there. At least then I’d have someone normal to chat to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I meant other than you.”

  Georgia looked out of her window at the first signs of spring in the front gardens. A few trailblazing crocuses and daffodils had flowered and provided dashes of colour along with winter pansi
es.

  “I’m not sure I can do this, Matt. How can we sit and have polite chit-chat with them after what we know about Alan?”

  They got out of the car. Matt had parked on Nancy’s driveway, slap-bang in front of their Mercedes. Nancy’s Mercedes was in the garage, Alan’s on the drive. Nancy usually made sure both cars were on the drive so Matt had to park in the road, that way their battered Astra could be visiting any of the houses.

  “Georgia! Matt! Come inside!” Nancy shooed them into the house.

  “We brought you this.” Matt passed her a bottle of his homemade rhubarb wine.

  “Delightful,” Nancy said in her strained, faux upper-class accent. She stared at the bottle like it contained cat pee.

  Matt loved Nancy’s attempts at talking posh. He’d been to an expensive boarding school where he had grammar, enunciation, Latin and Greek drummed into him for seven years. He’d deliberately – and with much effort – shed his plumminess when he started university. It wouldn’t have been a problem if he’d gone to Oxbridge but he’d chosen London; the lure of the bright lights was too strong after rural Ipswich. He was probably the most upper-class person Nancy would ever meet yet here she was treating him like he was something she’d just scraped of her shoes.

  “Alan – take their coats.”

  Alan did as ordered.

  “That’s an interesting t-shirt,” he said, eyeing Matt’s Blokebusters slogan, “I’ve been reading about them in the paper.”

  “Yeah – can’t seem to avoid it at the moment,” Matt deadpanned.

  “It’s all a bit tacky if you ask me.” Nancy gestured they should go through to the living room.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. If Alan was playing away wouldn’t you rather know?” Matt asked.

  Georgia watched Alan’s reaction. There wasn’t one.

  “My Alan!” Nancy screeched in derision. “He’s so busy at work he couldn’t have the time – why, only tonight he’s heading off to a four-day conference.”

  “Really?” Matt spread the word over three syllables. “What’s the gig Alan?”

  Alan coughed.

  “It’s a… ehm… conference. I’m speaking about advances in my field. New techniques.”

  “New positions?” Matt asked. Georgia wondered how he could look so innocent.

  “Positions?” Nancy queried.

  “Maybe I’m using the wrong words. I’m not as adept as Alan.”

  Alan narrowed his eyes at Matt. Nancy went off to make some tea. Georgia flicked his thigh.

  “Ease off a bit.”

  “Please – sit down,” Alan said before excusing himself.

  “I hate this sofa – folds me up in all the wrong places.” The sofa was a two-seater overstuffed pink chintz design. Because of the length of his legs Matt looked like he was hatching a large egg. Although the living room was large with an airy high ceiling, Nancy had opted for three small cottage-style sofas rather than one decent sized effort.

  “So, this conference he’s going to – do you think it’s one of the mistresses or some new woman he’s picked up?” Matt asked.

  “I wouldn’t like to guess. Wouldn’t surprise me whoever she was. Just remember that we don’t know about the mistress – only what he got up to with Emily.”

  “This room is appalling.”

  “Don’t be rude.”

  “It’s horrible – all frills and flowers. Everything’s so pink, I find it odd that’s all – can you think of a woman less pink than Nancy? Icy blue perhaps but not pink. And look at that monstrous thing that’s appeared above the fireplace.”

  Georgia snorted as she looked at the picture. It was a large photo of Nancy and Alan at a surgeon’s ball. They posed rigidly but it was obvious that Alan’s hand was on her backside and she was trying to push it away.

  “They make a beautiful couple,” she sighed.

  *

  During tea, Nancy commenced her ritual boasting.

  “We’ve had the bedroom done since you were last here of course. The bed’s divine – it should be for £3,000. And all new fitted wardrobes – a further £6,000. Alan – take Georgia up and show her – it might give her ideas for her own room, when they can afford to do something nice to it.”

  “Oh really, there’s no need.” Georgia panicked at Alan’s sudden delight.

  “Go on,” Matt nudged her. “You know we look to Nancy for our style tips. It always helps to see what she’s done with a room.” He didn’t need to add, ‘then we can make sure we don’t pick it’, Georgia read it from his eyes.

  “That’s very kind of you Matt,” Nancy said, patting her hair with pride.

  “I don’t mind.” Alan leapt to his feet. “Come on, Georgia!”

  She glared at Matt for setting her up. He grinned back.

  “Don’t you want to come too? I might forget some of the details.”

  “No. I don’t think so. There’s only thing I want in my bedroom.”

  “What’s that?” Nancy asked.

  “Georgia.”

  Nancy looked at her feet with embarrassment.

  “You lead the way,” Georgia said to Alan at the foot of the stairs. She’d been caught like that once before, with him tweaking her bottom all the way up. He smiled at her and pressed past, far closer than he needed to.

  Must be a young bit of stuff he’s got lined up, Georgia decided. He had jeans on. She’d never seen Alan in jeans. Ever. They looked like Nancy had pressed them with an iron although they didn’t have creases down the front; she’d spared him that indignity. Georgia smiled; they were the sort of jeans her dandruff-coated physics teacher used to wear and all the girls had fancied him because he was the only male teacher under forty. Alan’s crisp turn-ups and dark blue jeans transported her back fifteen years. If she really concentrated she could almost smell the odd chemical aroma in the school labs. He stood in the bedroom doorway gesturing her in so she had to rub past him.

  “Makes the room look bigger,” he explained, closing the door.

  Georgia glanced around the room. It was vast. She walked to the opposite corner taking in the rose pink walls, pine fitted units and large bed with a fussy floral quilted bedspread.

  “It’s lovely,” she lied.

  “Try the bed.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Try it.” He sat on one side and patted the other.

  She knew she couldn’t refuse without making a scene, so sat on the edge of the other side.

  “Not like that,” Alan smiled. “Try it properly. Lie down.”

  Georgia recognised a bad idea when she heard one and tried to distract him.

  “You haven’t got anything on your bedside table.”

  “I’m not allowed in this room. I sleep in one of the spare rooms. Your sister isn’t like you – she’s cold.” He smiled, baring both rows of teeth. “Try the bed. Nancy will want to know what you think of it.”

  “I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks.”

  Alan rolled across the bed and sat close to her, their hips and thighs pressing against each other.

  “It’s a lovely bed,” she said, standing up. Her instincts proved correct and she timed her movement just as Alan made a clumsy lunge for her. She dodged it and enjoyed watching him lose his balance, ending up banging his head on the wall. He sat on the floor with a perplexed expression. She shook her head at him.

  “Really? With Matt and Nancy downstairs?” She paused. “Not that it’s my only problem with the scenario.”

  “I think you’re gorgeous. I know you like me too,” Alan said, a little breathily from his fall.

  “Don’t be disgusting.”

  Downstairs Matt and Nancy were discussing how nice it was to see the daffodils starting to bloom.

  “Would you like some more tea?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  Nancy took his chintz cup and poured from her chintzy teapot. She passed it back to him; it looked like a doll’s tea service in his large hands. He tr
ied to ignore the thud coming from upstairs.

  Georgia glared at Alan. Things had reached an impasse. She’d have to walk past him to leave the room. This was why she always lost to Matt at chess on the rare occasions they’d played: the inherent inability to think more than one move ahead. She took a deep breath, tensed herself and walked past Alan. He patted her bottom and, in her effort to swat him away, she caught her foot in a frilly loop along the bottom of the valance. There was nothing she could do to stop herself falling face-first onto the bed. Oh God, how humiliating. She realised she was one of the pathetic women in films who always managed to find the world’s smallest twig in the forest to fall over when fleeing the enemy.

  Alan almost fell on her in delight but she managed to shove him off and roll onto her back. He grasped at her.

  “A man could suffocate in those bosoms – what a way to go,” he whispered.

  Even with the emotional charge of the situation Georgia felt giggly when he referred to her ‘bosoms’. She hadn’t thought anyone used the word anymore.

  He rolled on top of her and the only thing she could do to get him off was flip him. Because he wouldn’t let go of her wrists, she found herself astride him.

  “Slap me. You know you want to,” he said, his voice hoarse with desperation.

  “Ugh. Just when I think you cannot get anymore repulsive,” Georgia said. As she finished the sentence and felt physical evidence of his excitement pressing against her, she realised he had managed to raise the bar even higher.

  “This is lovely tea,” Matt said. He was starting to wonder if he’d done the right thing, sending Georgia upstairs with a known sex-god.

  “Pure Assam. My favourite.”

  Georgia slapped Alan’s hands away and got up. He made one final lunge for her but she pushed him, far harder than she anticipated, and he fell off the bed with a much louder thud than his first fall.

  “I hope they’re OK up there,” Nancy said.

  “I’m sure they are.” Matt anxiously drained his cup.

  Georgia smoothed her hair; it looked like Matt’s. Alan sat on the floor wheezing.

  “What are you going to tell Nancy?”

  “Don’t know. That you fell over the Ottoman?”