Blokebusters Read online

  The seat was so itchy. It was her fault for fidgeting too much and disturbing the rough weave fabric. She tried to focus on the agenda: Jeff was up next to deliver news of his recent appointment as the department’s ethics adviser. Poacher turned gamekeeper. What a joke. He probably thought ‘Ethics’ was a county next to Hertfordshire. Therefore, when Georgia’s secretary appeared meekly in the doorway and beckoned Georgia out of the room, she could’ve kissed her. Until the secretary spoke.

  “Sorry to pull you out of the meeting – you’ve got an urgent call, she said it couldn’t wait. I’ll put her through to your office.”

  Georgia’s heart sank. She only ever had one ‘urgent’ caller. Nancy.

  “Nancy – how are you?”

  “Very well. I’m calling to arrange the weekend with you,” Nancy said in the faux posh accent she’d developed over the years.

  I’m fine too, thanks for asking, Georgia thought, but said, “What weekend would that be?”

  “I wish you’d pay more attention to things. Mother and father are flying back for the weekend and staying with Alan and me, well – we’ve got the room haven’t we? I plan to bring them over to yours on Sunday. You can prepare tea and a meal and we can all spend some time together as a family – won’t that be nice?”

  “Absolutely ripping,” Georgia replied, irritated by Nancy’s voice and reduced to imitating it for cheap laughs.

  “Perhaps Matt might even be encouraged to wear something with a collar and buttons?” And perhaps Alan might be encouraged to keep his grubby paws to himself, Georgia thought, but refused to say it and show Nancy she’d won.

  “What time will you be coming over?”

  “Three?”

  Georgia hung up and allowed a sense of dread to engulf her stomach. Nancy. At her house. It would be lovely to see her parents as they didn’t come over from Spain all that often, but a shame Nancy and Alan would be there.

  Nancy was Georgia’s sister, older by five years. The age gap had meant that they were never really close. Whatever joint activity was suggested by their parents, Nancy was either slightly too old to enjoy it or else Georgia was slightly too young. They were like only children who just happened to grow up in the same house. Nancy had sneered her way through Georgia’s wedding even though she was secretly delighted that Georgia had married an unambitious man. Nancy had married Alan more for the status he provided; she’d the vision to see that the hospital doctor would eventually become a surgeon and he had. She wouldn’t have allowed him not to.

  Jeff sidled into Georgia’s office, making her realise she’d been thinking about Nancy for too long. He came round to her side of the desk and sat on it, forcing her to wheel her chair back to maintain space between them.

  “Meet the department’s new Head of Ethics,” he smiled. Every tooth was a different shade of cream, like a paint sampler card.

  Georgia tried to think of a clever response but couldn’t.

  “Great. I’m very pleased for you.” She avoided eye contact and stood up to sort through some files.

  “Very responsible position. Not just in our business relations. I’m meant to make sure the staff stay on the straight and narrow in their private lives too.”

  She didn’t know what he was trying to imply so ignored him. Sensing that he might get a warmer reception from other females in the department he got up to leave, turning when he reached the doorway.

  “In my professional capacity I hope I don’t catch you behaving unethically. In my unprofessional capacity – well… ” His eyes took a slow walk down her legs then up to her breasts. She stared back at him, fearless and unconcerned until he’d gone, then shivered.

  *

  It was dark as she walked home from the station. Their house was toward the end of the street and, being a dead end, seldom got any passing traffic. She smiled at the warm glow of lighting flooding the driveway and bathing the car. The pansies in pots by the front door were already bowed by dew for the night and wouldn’t perk up until midday. Her breath shot out in cloudy mist but she didn’t go indoors. She sat against the bonnet of the car and made herself look at the building, the garden, the front door they’d argued over what colour to paint before compromising on red, and the windows. If she concentrated on their bedroom window she could just make out a hint of curtain; Matt never pulled them back fully enough. She smiled at the memory of him putting the curtain rail up. She’d stood on a chair to hold the pole for him while he drilled. She’d complained her arms ached but he promised it would only take a couple of minutes longer. Shortly after, she’d dropped the pole on his head and surprise, rather than pain, had sent him to the floor. She’d leapt off the chair and he pretended to be unconscious until she leant over him and he could get both arms around her. It was more than the sum of its parts, it was something intangible: it was home. She got up and wiped the wet from her backside.

  “I’m home!” she called from the hallway. The heating caused her cheeks to flush.

  “Upstairs!”

  She hung her coat on the vacant hook, kicked her shoes off, and carefully stood her briefcase against the wall before plodding up the stairs. Matt could tell from how she climbed the stairs what mood she was in. Stairs were her barometer. Two at a time and she was in a good mood; stomping was bad; plodding was tired and miserable.

  He met her on the landing.

  “Hello gorgeous – what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  “Bad day?” He gave her chin a tickle to make her look at him.

  “Rotten.”

  “Tell your Uncle Matt all about it.”

  “Maybe over dinner – not yet.” Both Nancy and Jeff had rattled her but she knew she’d only tell him about Nancy.

  “I’ve got something to show you that might cheer you up.”

  “What an appalling chat-up line.”

  “What? Oh, no. Not that. You can have a look if you want though.” He grinned, his eyes twinkling sexily. “The Blokebusters website was what I had in mind.”

  “You’ve started it?”

  “Oh yes,” he said and she detected that he was proud of his efforts. “Tell me what you think.”

  He guided her into his office and sat her down in his large padded leather chair; he’d joked that no employer ever deemed him worthy of an expensive chair so he’d have to buy one to find out what working in comfort felt like. Crouching beside her he tapped away and she couldn’t resist scraping the hair off his forehead. He gestured to the screen for her to watch.

  “This is how it will appear when someone accesses the site.”

  She watched as bold letters spelling out Blokebusters whizzed around the screen before settling into their rightful order. Underneath, ‘Test your man’s fidelity – Today!’ scrolled across in a perpetual loop. ‘Don’t trust him – Blokebuster him!’ appeared underneath. Menu options sat down the left of the screen: About us; The service; Price guide; Contact us.

  The whole time she read, a little cartoon played in the top right corner of the screen: a front door opened, a man was thrown out of it at force, then a woman appeared and flung his clothes out after him before turning to the reader and giving a thumbs-up.

  “You hate it.”

  “It’s absolutely brilliant!” Georgia turned to him. “I’ve always known what you did for a living but it’s only now I can judge what a genius you are at it.”

  “It was nothing really.”

  “But you did all this in a day?”

  “It doesn’t take long if you know what you’re doing. I haven’t fleshed out the menu options yet. I can have a stab at them and then you and Fi can see if it suits.”

  The oven timer sounded from downstairs.

  “Get changed,” he said, “dinner’s ready.”

  “Dinner too? What are we having?”

  “New recipe – I had some leeks to use so have made a pork and leek casserole.”

  He let her get a good way through her meal before asking, “So who’s r
attled your cage?”

  She swallowed her mouthful of casserole.

  “This is really good.” She realised she couldn’t avoid the question. “Nancy called. I’d forgotten Mum and Dad are staying with her this weekend – I thought it was a couple of weeks off – and she’s bringing them over here for Sunday tea and dinner.”

  “Alan too?” His shoulders slumped when she nodded. “They’re not dropping your parents off – they’re coming in too?” He sighed when she nodded. “Bugger.”

  Matt liked Georgia’s parents, he always had. He’d liked them even more when they retired and moved to Spain. In fact, the only way he could like them more was if they encouraged Nancy and Alan to move out there with them. He chewed another forkful of casserole.

  “Still, it’ll be nice to see your parents. Your Dad’ll be interested in my veg.”

  “Yeah, he will.”

  “And have we got anything new for Nancy to deride?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “She’ll have to make do with me then. She’ll love it when she hears I’ve lost my job.”

  “She doesn’t have to find out.”

  He pushed a chunk of pork around his plate.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Georgia reached across the table to clasp his hand.

  “Of course it isn’t. But she’ll only be nasty and I don’t want you to have to hear it.”

  *

  Midweek, Fiona marvelled at Matt’s website too. He’d added more detail and it was close to being usable.

  “So, what’s the process for a client entering our site and booking a Carrot?” She beamed at her correct use of terminology.

  “Simple,” Matt said. “Client looks at website and thinks ‘I’ll have some of that thank you’ then picks what level of service she wants. She’s then guided to providing some detail on the Rabbit. Age; time/date/location for the testing to take place; why she suspects him et cetera. She fills out my questionnaire as to how she wants the testing to take place – listing his preferences and how she wants the Carrot to behave. When she’s entered all that, she picks a time and a number for me to contact her – probably she’ll pick a time during the day, when she’s at work and not in the proximity of the Rabbit. She uploads a photo of the Rabbit and then – most importantly – she’s guided to PayPal to pay. I then call her back to run through the answers she’s given on the questionnaire and finalise arrangements.”

  “It’s exciting isn’t it?” Fiona said.

  “Yeah – I get butterflies whenever I think of actually going out and doing it.” Georgia hadn’t felt as excited about anything in a long time.

  Matt hoped they never got any clients. His opinion may have been different if he knew how the house depended on it. Georgia had recalculated her figures to accommodate the business start-up. They could only keep the mortgage going for two months without having to make any serious cutbacks. She hadn’t told Matt; there was no point stressing him.

  *

  Georgia and Fiona sat in the living room waiting for Matt to arrive with refreshments.

  “What’s up with you?” Fiona asked.

  Georgia puckered her mouth.

  “Nancy’s coming over at the weekend.”

  “Y’know, whenever I want to strangle Emily – which is pretty often, I stop and remind myself: things could be worse, I could have Nancy for a sister. It always works. I’m sure it’s why Emily and I are such good mates.”

  “The good part of it is she’s bringing Mum and Dad over, the bad part is she’s also bringing Alan.”

  “Hmm, mixed bag then.” Fiona knew the true extent of Alan’s lecherous behaviour; Georgia had never gone into full detail with Matt.

  “If he lays one finger on me —” The sentence hung unfinished as Matt appeared with a bottle and three glasses.

  “I forgot I’d made this – remember, Georgia? The one I tried from gooseberries?”

  “I thought you’d abandoned it?” Georgia said, clinging on to a fast-evaporating hope.

  “If it’s special shouldn’t you save it for Sunday – when your guests are here?” Fiona thought it was worth a try.

  Matt uncorked it and recoiled from the fumes.

  “Are you driving, Fi?”

  “No – I came in a cab,” she said, then regretted it as he passed her a glassful of pale green liquid.

  “I’m not sure it should be that colour.” He eyed the liquid with concern.

  They all took their glasses.

  “I propose a toast – to Blokebusters and all the women we help ditch their rotten men.” Georgia wondered whether it was a bad omen to be using such an awful brew to toast the launch of a new venture.

  It didn’t taste as bad as it looked, but then it probably couldn’t. It was, however, much stronger than it tasted. Half a glass in, they all felt their temperatures rise.

  “We should work out an advert – now our little Web-Guru over there’s come up with such a wonderful site,” Georgia said, embarrassing Matt with her praise.

  “Where should we advertise? It need only be the London edition of a magazine – there’s no point paying for an ad for women in Manchester to read when we’re only operating in London,” Fiona said.

  “Does it have to be a magazine? How about Facebook?” Georgia suggested.

  “No,” Matt snapped. “You know my views on Facebook. Tool of the devil.”

  “But —” Georgia wasn’t allowed to make any further progress into her sentence.

  “No,” Matt said.

  She let it drop. Any further argument would set Matt off on his Facebook rant and she couldn’t face hearing it again. “Where then?”

  “WOT magazine.” Matt rarely spoke with such certainty. Georgia and Fiona stared at him.

  “Why?” they said in unison. Both read the magazine.

  “Because WOT women have to be the least secure women to ever roam the earth.”

  “Why?” they said in unison.

  Matt leant forward, warming to his theme.

  “Because every article purports to be about how to improve but really the message is, ‘Do this or stay as crap as you currently are’. You’re too fat, you’re not curvy enough, you’re unfit, you spend too much time at the gym, you’re not groomed enough, you wear too much make-up, you’re frumpy or mutton, your friends probably hate you, you don’t eat right, you’re not wearing the latest clothes so everyone’s laughing at you on the street, your boyfriend won’t love you anymore unless you brush up on your blow-job technique – he’s probably already picked out a younger replacement, your career’s crap, your home décor is laughable compared to these loft apartments which cost millions. It’s awful. They publish articles about how you should have a career and a family and then, at the same time, write articles about how women are burning out from doing too much. They have articles about how terrible the media pressure to be thin is and how anorexia’s increasing and then, on the next page photos of skeletal models wearing clothes most normal women couldn’t. I checked your last copy of the magazine – there are sixteen pages of classified ads at the back. Over eight pages of these are dedicated to cosmetic surgery and image enhancement. Just once – just once, I’d love to see them publish a cover without any contents and say, ‘We’ve decided you’re all gorgeous so we haven’t got anything to say this month’.”

  Fiona blanched as he spoke. For a moment she suspected he’d acquired a freaky sixth sense and had tapped into her soul, listing her greatest fears one by one. Georgia didn’t speak, she was too surprised by the intensity of feeling in Matt’s voice; she had no idea he objected to her magazine so much. Woman of Today, or WOT as it was known, was a best-seller. Every woman Georgia knew of around her age read it.

  Matt realised he’d been ranting and calmed down.

  “I’d love to make all women wake up to how fabulous they are. Every one of them a goddess in my book – except Nancy of course, there are always exceptions. But it will never work
– I’ve concluded that women like having things to fret about. I mean, look at you, Georgia – the most gorgeous incarnation of womanhood currently roaming the earth, yet I’ve seen how you fret and beat yourself up when you spot a new wrinkle, which I can never see by the way – it breaks my heart. No doubt you’re representative of your species.”

  “Is this leading anywhere?” Georgia sniffed. “Or is it just an airing of your latest feminist philosophy?”

  “All I’m saying is this: what we cannot change we have to accept. I can’t stop women thinking these self-destructive thoughts,” – he brightened – “so, I might as well target them and make a few quid out of them.”

  Both women laughed at the unexpected punch line and Georgia threw a cushion at his head; it missed, skimming his hair.

  “I have actually mocked up an advert that I thought we might use,” Matt said. It was unusual for him to be proactive and demonstrative, particularly when he was so lukewarm about the business. He knew it was guilt driving him, guilt at losing his job and causing Georgia stress. He passed a sheet of paper to Georgia and Fiona sat next to her so they could read it together.

  It read:

  Would your man cheat on you given the chance? Not sure?

  Want to find out?

  Visit BLOKEBUSTERS.CO.UK today.

  Remember – don’t trust him – Blokebuster him.

  “Wow,” Georgia said. “It’s good.”

  “Powerfully direct,” Fiona said.

  “But enticingly cryptic. I think it’s great – I reckon we use it as it is.” Georgia handed the paper back to Matt.

  “Terrific – well, I’ll finish the website and contact WOT magazine to get the ad put in. If you want to back out ladies, speak now or forever hold your… whatever the rest of it is.” He had a mental block at to whether it was ‘peace’ or ‘tongue’.

  *

  Matt never had the slightest worry as to how Georgia would age. Her mother was in her fifties when he’d first met her and looked stunning. When he opened the front door on Sunday afternoon she was in her sixties and still strikingly attractive, the spitting image of Georgia, but older and with slightly more garish make-up.