Blokebusters Read online

  *

  Fiona went straight home. As soon as she got home she went to bed. She didn’t switch a single light on in the flat and didn’t even pause to take her make-up off. Half an hour later, she got up and went into the bathroom. She pulled the cord and the unflattering, harsh light hurt her eyes; the glare from the white tiles compounded it. Bad skincare was inexcusable. She could’ve been on the Titanic and would still have found time to apply moisturiser before she drowned.

  “Christ you look a state,” she muttered at her reflection. Her eyes were puffy from crying. She took a cotton wool pad and loaded it with her make-up remover, gently rubbing it over her face, careful to only rub upwards as she’d read rubbing downwards could lead to premature sagginess. “As if he’d look twice at you in ordinary circumstances.” She poked the bags under her eyes and tried to add volume to her straight, fine hair. Her skin was pale and clear. In the bathroom lighting she looked ghostlike. Why had Leo upset her so much? As long as they paid the fee, who cared if they were genuine or not? She’d never felt tempted before, not even with the tasty American man who’d lied about his name. He was gorgeous but looked hard work. Leo, if that was his name, was perfect. Except for being the biggest liar she’d ever met. But no one was without a minor fault or two.

  It took her a long time to get to sleep and she didn’t wake until mid-morning the next day. She noticed her answerphone flashing and listened to Georgia’s excited message. Georgia. Fiona should tell her what happened. She picked up the white phone. It stood on a pale beech table in the white living room, the only colour in the room being the beige sofa.

  “Georgia? It’s Fi. Can I come over? I need to talk to someone.”

  A few minutes later Georgia hung up, looking concerned.

  “Everything OK?” Matt asked.

  “Fi’s coming over – she sounded upset.”

  “Have we got enough food in the house? Should I go out and buy some Walnut Whips?”

  “No, it didn’t sound like a Walnut Whip scenario. It sounded more like a cheese frenzy.”

  *

  Matt opened the door to Fiona. She breezed past him.

  “I need cheese – have you got any cheese?”

  “Ehm, yeah. I think so.” He followed her into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Cheddar, Brie, Stilton or Dairylea?” His voice echoed, bouncing off the white shiny interior fridge walls.

  “Brie. And Cheddar. And Stilton.”

  He put the blocks of cheese on the worktop and smiled at her before getting plate and knife. She watched and chewed her lip as he unwrapped each piece of cheese.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to flounce in and demand food. I had a rough night last night. I got a copy of the Sunday Sport though – what did Georgia think?” She looked around her. “Where is Georgia?”

  “Upstairs – checking the email.”

  Georgia heard voices and bounced downstairs. Gyp followed her, his fluffy little legs a blur. They reminded her of Cossacks’ voluminous trousers, which tucked into tight black boots. Gyp was just like that, his fluffy thighs tapering into small, sure little paws.

  “All right Fi?” Georgia said. “You sounded upset on the phone.”

  “Am I required or can I get on with my turnips?” Matt wanted to leave the room before anyone started emoting.

  “I need to speak to Georgia, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come through to the living room – it’s comfier,” Georgia said.

  “Can I bring the cheese?”

  “Yes.”

  They sat on the sofa and, having a weakness for Cheddar, Gyp snuggled close to Fiona. She fed him tiny slivers and he purred with joy.

  “Oh it was awful Georgia!” she said suddenly, making Georgia jump. “Why can’t I find a nice man and be happy? Why do I always fall for the dregs?”

  “Rewind a minute – who are we talking about?”

  “My fifth Rabbit yesterday,” Fiona howled. Gyp tapped her with his paw and she fed him a morsel of Cheddar.

  “Don’t give him too much – makes his wind all eggy,” Georgia said and Fiona giggled. “It’s not funny. I was blaming Matt till I realised.”

  Fiona told her everything about Leo, right down to the pudding and him licking her fingers.

  “He’s perfect for me – I’ve never fallen for any of my Rabbits before. I know it’s unprofessional, I know you’re going to tell me I’m insane, I know he was a journalist and trying to wreck our business. But I’ve never looked into a man’s eyes before and seen it all there – sexiness, intelligence, looks, personality. It sounds stupid, Mills and Boon-y – I know.” She broke off in despair.

  “God – that pudding sounds good.” Georgia realised she was focusing on the wrong part of Fiona’s story. “It’s not silly at all. When I met Matt – he might’ve looked like a tramp but I could tell even then; he just had that something about him – it’s hard to define, a gentleness, a way about him. And I knew. It’s really difficult to describe it – when you know it’s right. But it’s an unmistakable feeling.”

  “But a Rabbit! How pathetic can I get? You’d never fall for a Rabbit would you?”

  Georgia shifted, her thoughts zeroing in on Dan Goldstein. It might not be his real name but it was her favourite.

  “There have been some I haven’t disliked.”

  “Leo was gorgeous. He’s about 6 foot – probably a bit over, dark, well groomed, brilliant blue eyes, hirsute enough to be manly but not disgusting, big hands, a wonderful voice, full lips, firm chin, great body, nice packet… ”

  “Yeah OK – I get the message. But more importantly, what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. He only had dinner with me for his job. He might be married for all I know – although there wasn’t that white band on his finger you get when blokes think they’re being clever and take their ring off.” She stared at Georgia. “I’m never going to see him again, am I?”

  *

  Georgia travelled into work in her usual Monday morning stupor. She got off her train at Liverpool Street station and went down onto the Underground to board a Central line Tube to Holborn, where her client was based. Normally she loathed the Underground, preferring to walk when possible but it was too cold for the thirty-minute walk to Holborn so she wedged herself into an already packed carriage.

  She was jammed between a stocky man who smelt of talcum powder, the dried vomit stain on his coat a testament to his recent fatherhood, and two young women chatting excitedly, insisting on making hand gestures even though they kept hitting other people.

  “And she said, ‘Don’t give me any of that shit – I know you’re a cheating bastard. I’ve Blokebustered you.’ Well, his mouth fell open at that. None of us knew what to say.”

  “And had she – y’know – Blokebustered him?” the friend asked.

  “Yeah. Got some blonde tart to come on to him – he was well up for it.”

  “Bloody hell. So has she dumped him?”

  “Yeah – cut all his clothes to shreds first though!”

  They both cackled and Georgia couldn’t help smiling too but for a different reason. Hearing people discuss the business felt odd; it was like they were talking about a similar business but not actually her business. How could they possibly know about her business? It was run from a spare bedroom – it wasn’t exactly an empire.

  *

  Matt tapped away at his computer logging the new questionnaires and planning the weeks ahead. He did a rough calculation on revenue earned in February; he expected it to be good, they’d all been busy. Fiona and Emily both worked five nights a week, Georgia three. Between them they’d serviced 270 clients and earned an income of £44,000. Matt rechecked his calculation. It couldn’t be right. He got the same answer again. And again. Christ. Gyp leaped up onto his desk and started sniffing the keyboard as if to decide whether it was edible. Matt scooped him up and sat him on his lap, fearing that if his hairs got into the keyboard they’d be impossible to get out.

  “Gyp, y
our parents are tycoons,” he said, holding him close and kissing the top of his head. Gyp purred.

  The questionnaires sorted, he read through the other emails normally comprising of client enquiries and feedback. Today there was something extra. He read it right the way through once. Sighed. Opened his chocolate drawer and selected a Cadbury’s Caramel. Ate it and then read the email through again. A moral rights group called Trust had given an interview to the press setting out why they thought Blokebusters was a repugnant concept and why they thought the company should be shut down. Elaine Rogers, a spokesperson for Trust, referred to Larry as, ‘the most dangerous sort of renegade: one who has no regard for morals or relationships and won’t rest until he’s dragged society down to his own degraded levels of sin.’ Matt grinned and puffed up with pride. The name Elaine Rogers was familiar to him. He wished he could place it. She challenged Larry to a live debate on a London radio station.

  “Sorry my dear, Larry doesn’t ‘do’ radio.”

  Matt couldn’t wait until Georgia got home so called her at work. As soon as she saw his name flashing on the display she broke off what she was doing and took the phone out into the corridor.

  “Hello you – what are you up to?” Her voice switched from business to affectionate in an instant.

  “Careful. Do you know you’re talking to ‘the most dangerous sort of renegade: one who has no regard for morals or relationships and won’t rest until he’s dragged society down to his own degraded levels of sin’?”

  “Who said that about you? They left out you make a wicked lasagne,” she giggled.

  “Some woman from a group of moral campaigners.”

  “Po-faced cow.”

  “Quite.” He was constantly impressed by Georgia’s succinct character assassinations. She needn’t even have met the person. “She wants to have a live radio debate with Larry. I’m not doing it.”

  “Oh you should – it would be hysterical.”

  “No way. If she’s that uptight she’ll probably throttle me. You know I like my women base and saucy – I couldn’t handle a moralistic one.”

  “Matthew Brown, you’ll pay for that,” she laughed. “I don’t think we can let people like her trample all over us and wreck our reputation though, she’ll accuse us of all sorts if we’re not there to defend ourselves. It won’t look good, it’s like we’re hiding.”

  “We are hiding.”

  “I’ll do it if you won’t.”

  “Oh yes, what a marvellous idea. All she’ll have to do is make some dig and you’ll kill her, live on radio.”

  “No I won’t. I’m capable of finesse.” She paused while someone passed her in the corridor. “Anyway, when’s the debate? You could coach me before then – I could get our answers off pat.”

  Matt opened a Twix and took a small bite.

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re eating something – is it chocolate?”

  “No.”

  “Let me do the debate… please?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Is it a Twix? It sounded slightly crisp?”

  He laughed; she didn’t miss a thing.

  Chapter twenty

  The first two weeks in March were packed with clients. Amongst others Georgia had a stutterer who seemed to want to ask for a blow-job but had trouble with words beginning with ‘b’. It took him half an hour to spit it out. She’d met a banker who adored his wife so much she’d been genuinely touched, until she remembered it was his mistress who’d paid for her services. She had a dalliance with an insurance broker who had a thing about tweed, and a brief liaison with a computer programmer who’d turned her down as his heart belonged to Lara Croft. A mixed bag. At least the clients had become more imaginative and she’d enjoyed a little more variety in scenery. There was Boris with the magenta hair and squint at the Tate Modern, Gert with the unlined pockets on the London Eye (she’d only realised that he’d picked open the seams inside his pockets when he let her help herself to a sweet. There was no sweet she realised, as her hand groped his hairy thigh and his eyes rolled skywards.) And, her particular favourite, Imran, in the easy listening section at HMV. He hadn’t taken her up on her offer but had recommended a couple of great new CDs. Each client took her closer to Dan Goldstein; she still hadn’t decided how to play it.

  Georgia walked home from the station glad of an early night. Matt tried to keep her Friday nights free, even if he loaded her schedule on other days to do it. She was tired. It had been a long week. Her proper job was always busier at this time of year and she had to work longer hours. It meant that she’d be working until seven or eight and then head straight out to a bar or wherever to seduce some men. It was like being single again. She was aware she was trudging but didn’t care. Her weekend was free, barring one client.

  “Great – you’re back.” Matt pecked her on the cheek. He unbuttoned her coat and hung it up on a peg. “Busy day?”

  She nodded and he hugged her vigorously.

  “Never mind, it’s the weekend now.” He scanned her eyes and detected her fatigue. “Thought we’d get Chinese tonight – you need fattening up. I’ve noticed you’re losing weight.”

  “It’s all this dashing about. Look! My waistband’s loose.”

  “Your mother would kill me – letting you get all skinny like that. I’ve got a chocolate cheesecake in the fridge, we can have it whilst watching TV tonight. I’ve got a film all lined up.”

  “What one?”

  “An Affair to Remember.” It was one of her favourite Cary Grant films. Matt usually ended up getting told off during it for sniggering when Deborah Kerr got run over.

  *

  “I was thinking,” Matt said as he attempted to roll a pancake far too loaded with duck to ever make the nice fat cigar shape he was aiming for. “We’re raking it in at the moment. We could probably get a new car – if you wanted to. Or have a really nice holiday – go somewhere special.” He bit into his pancake and the duck splatted out of the end onto his plate. He looked bemused as if unable to comprehend where he’d gone wrong.

  “Would you mind if we didn’t?” Georgia said. “Could we be really boring and just save? I’m not sure how any of this is going to pan out. I’d rather just save and know we’re OK when, I mean if the wheels come off – do you understand?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Really?” She wondered if he’d been eyeing up a new car.

  “Yes. I’ve got a greenhouse, a wife and a cat. What more could any man possibly want out of life?”

  She smiled at him before concentrating on her own pancake.

  *

  Georgia was hopeless all of Saturday in the build-up to seeing Dan again. Matt put it down to tiredness and it suited her not to correct him. She studied the questionnaire; it was strange how different girlfriends all thought he fancied a different sort of woman. This one wanted blonde and busty. His others had selected brunette and smart or brunette and sexy. She sat at her dressing table fixing the wig, enjoying how it changed her whole look. Normally she looked professional and reasonably intelligent but the blonde wig instantly gave her a sex kitten demeanour, which she rather enjoyed. Matt sprawled across the bed, lying on his stomach and watching her. She stretched to take a clip off the edge of her mirror and the seat creaked.

  “Maybe you could check it? Should it creak?”

  “Wood flexes – you can’t do anything about that,” he said defensively. “Are you putting a blouse on?”

  “Bloody cheek! This is my top.” It was a low cut corset-style black top trimmed with lace. She’d bought it especially for Dan. To avoid looking too tarty she’d teamed it with tailored black trousers, which had a long satin sash belt. “Do you think I should have a necklace – or would it clutter my neckline?”

  He blinked, surprised his opinion was sought.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if it was you, would you rather it was all on show or would you like to see some beads against my skin?”


  “All on show.” He regretted it as the words left his mouth.

  She smiled and fiddled with her earrings.

  “How do I look?” She stood up and gave him a twirl.

  “Like I shouldn’t let you out of the house.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She glanced at her reflection self-consciously. “Do you think the lipstick’s too much? Too vampy?”

  “You look great. Stop panicking. Anyone would think you were getting ready for a proper date. Did you fuss this much when we were dating?”

  “I wish I could do something about these.” She pulled the skin around her eyes taut to smooth out her crow’s feet.

  “You should be proud of laughter lines – they’re like little certificates of happiness.”

  “They’re bloody wrinkles – that’s what they are. My boobs look pale, I’ll give them a dusting of blusher.” She took a large blusher brush and swished it over her breasts. Matt watched in awe; it reminded him of how people dusted priceless antiques in stately homes.

  “Would you like a go?” She held the brush out to him and he took it nervously. He dusted slowly and gently at first before finding the courage to accelerate. Her skin dipped under the bristles of the brush and plumped up again as soon as he moved onto another area. She took the brush back.

  “I think that’s enough. I’m aiming for a healthy glow – not borderline aneurysm.”

  Matt made sure he had a Bobby Darin CD to play in the car; Georgia seemed edgy enough without inflicting his music on her. Every time he looked across at her she was gazing out of the window, her eyes unfocused.