Blokebusters Page 8

  “Hello Val.” He beamed as she squeezed his face before hugging all the air out him.

  “Matt – you do look well. Doesn’t he look well Bob?”

  Georgia’s father shrugged awkwardly, not keen on being asked to admire another man.

  “Bob, great to see you again.” Matt gave him a firm handshake. He took the proffered bottle. “Cheers. Well, come in, come in – you didn’t fly over from Spain to stand on our doorstep, go through to the living room.” He heard Georgia’s excited voice from the living room as soon as she set eyes on her mother.

  “Nancy,” Matt nodded. Nancy looked similar to her mother and sister but had a pinched hardness that stopped her from being as attractive. He didn’t know much about clothes but he realised her sweater was probably cashmere and the scarf was fussy enough to be Hermes. He’d seen the scarves in airport shops and marvelled at who would buy them, neither the price nor the designs appealing to him.

  “Still got the same old car then?” Nancy said, glancing at the Astra.

  “No – it’s a hologram.”

  She coolly looked him up and down.

  “Is that a new t-shirt?”

  “No. But I’ve done something to my hair – maybe that’s why I look different.” He fluffed his hair for her to admire.

  “We bought you this.” She combined passing him a bottle and brushing past him to go inside into one flowing motion.

  “Hello Alan.” Alan. Pastel shirts and grey loafers; Brylcream carefully applied to disguise where his hair was thinning. The coldest man Matt had ever met.

  “Matt,” Alan said, barely opening his mouth. He’d always viewed Matt as hippy pond life, which was odd as he’d never been a hippy but Alan had.

  Georgia and Nancy greeted each other like two tigresses, wary and competitive. Val followed Georgia into the kitchen.

  “Georgia – you look so happy. Matt too. And I wouldn’t have recognised the living room since I was last here, it’s beautifully decorated.”

  “Thank you. What’s it like being back in Hertfordshire?”

  “Cold. We’re not used to it anymore. The weather back home has been glorious – unbelievable for autumn. We should’ve moved years ago, your father doesn’t get any pains in his shoulder at all anymore. That bloody shop.” They’d run a haberdashery shop for over thirty years before selling up and moving to Spain. Val spotted all the plantless pots of earth on the windowsill and grinned.

  “He doesn’t give up, does he?”

  “I wonder if he’s hallucinating sometimes. He’ll bring in a new seed he’s planted and he’ll go, ‘I’ll put it with the bunny ear cactus ‘cos the tones will contrast nicely’ – like there’s actually plants there.”

  “A man could have worse obsessions,” Val said and mother and daughter both giggled.

  “That’s what I like to hear – happy guests,” Matt said. “I came in to help.” They both knew he’d come in to get away from Nancy and Alan but neither said anything. “Oh, Nancy brought us this.” He put the bottle on the worktop. Georgia picked it up and read the label with disgust.

  “Look at that! Tesco own-brand champagne. Five bedroom detached house, a Merc each and we get bloody Tesco own brand. I’m surprised she even ventured into Tesco to get it – I thought she’d be frightened the neighbours might see her. Nancy wouldn’t wash her windscreen with it.”

  “Listen to you!” Matt laughed. “Since when were you such a connoisseur? If it’s fizzy and alcoholic it’ll do you – you always were a cheap date.”

  Val smiled at him.

  “And how’s my favourite son-in-law?” she asked, then covered her mouth. “Oops. I shouldn’t say that with Alan in the next room.” She giggled in exactly the same way Georgia did. “How’s work?”

  Matt scuffed his foot along the side of a kitchen cupboard.

  “Not great. I’ve been made redundant.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Val said. Matt prayed she wouldn’t make an embarrassing offer of money. He’d die if she thought he couldn’t support Georgia properly.

  Val shook her head. “It’s not fair, is it? Matt’s so clever too. Tell me who the company is so I can phone them up and tell them they’ve let the best employee in the world go.” She’d bonded with Matt the first time Georgia took him home, viewing him as the son she never had. Georgia didn’t doubt that if, God forbid, her and Matt ever split, her mother would side with him.

  “Matt’s lost his job?” Nancy could hardly disguise the delight in her voice. No one had heard her enter the kitchen. She smiled, her thin lips almost disappearing into her mouth. “Strange. I was only reading the other day what a boom industry IT is, particularly websites.”

  “It is,” Matt answered so Georgia wouldn’t, “but it’s cut-throat. They hire you for a project then dump you.”

  “Surely anyone half decent gets picked up for other projects?”

  Georgia’s hands clenched into tight fists, her knuckles white and close to bursting. Matt winked at her to show how unwounded he was by Nancy’s barbs and her hands relaxed.

  “How are you occupying your time then? Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those gutless househusbands?” Nancy said.

  “Freelancing,” Matt said, choosing to focus on the first question. “Quite exciting really. I’m working on a site for a new online service company at the moment. One of the directors is an interesting woman – I think she fancies me – she keeps coming on to me.”

  “Hmm, I doubt it. Probably a dyke,” Nancy snorted. The idea of women working had always been repugnant to her.

  “Still growing veg?” Georgia’s father, Bob, asked. He joined them in the kitchen having run out of conversation with Alan. Alan skulked in after him.

  “Absolutely – we’ve had some terrific crops this year – beetroot, leeks, onions. Runner beans were disappointing but no one gets everything, do they?” Matt said.

  “You’ve forgotten the radish,” Georgia prompted.

  “I’d love to have a tour of it all.”

  Bob inspected everything in the garden with the kind of interest Matt could only usually dream about. Alan had been sent out to look too on the grounds that it was ‘man talk’.

  “You’ve been digging manure into the ground since I was last here, haven’t you?” Bob said.

  Alan stayed on the path as he had no desire to feel earth underfoot. Nancy would kill him if he got any on his trousers. He watched with disdain as Bob scooped up a handful of earth and held it to his nose; for a second he thought he might eat it. Bob noticed his expression.

  “Ha – look at Mr Poncey-Townie over there! What’s up Alan? Allergic to earth? Or will Nancy make you have a manicure if you go in with mud on your hands? I bet you couldn’t grow onions like these. A couple of hours hard digging would do you a lot more good than mincing around at that toffee-nosed golf club.”

  “If I want an onion I go to bloody Waitrose and buy one,” Alan snapped. He meant it to sound cutting but Matt and Bob just smiled at him in a pitying way that told him he’d missed his target by some distance. “I’m going in.” He picked a careful path back to the house.

  Bob let the earth drop out of his hand.

  “Val told me you lost your job. Hard luck son.”

  “Something will turn up,” Matt shrugged. He’d always felt that Bob should’ve been his father rather than the one he got.

  “Georgia and you are OK?”

  “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Matt said softly.

  “Good lad.” Bob patted his shoulder and returned to the house.

  *

  During dinner Val frowned at both her daughters.

  “So when am I going to get to be a grandmother?”

  “I hardly think that’s a topic for the dinner table,” Nancy said. “Alan and I will start a family when the time’s right.”

  “You’ll have to let me back into the bloody bedroom first,” Alan said through clenched teeth.

  No one commented but the ra
ising of eyebrows was deafening.

  “We’re just waiting till we find the right song,” Matt said and Val tittered. Both her daughters were named after songs: ‘Nancy With The Laughing Face’ and ‘Georgia On My Mind’. Georgia smiled at him; he could always manage an affable response to an awkward question.

  She became aware of a foot rubbing against her leg, slowly working its way up to her knee. With loathing lining her stomach, she looked up; Alan’s eyes were devouring her. She gave him her most withering glance but it seemed to turn him on. Must be the effect living with Nancy has on you, she thought sourly. At least with all the family in the room she wouldn’t have to suffer a repeat of her wedding day. To save money Alan had driven her to the registry office. Her father was downstairs trying to attach his buttonhole and Alan had come up to collect her. She was seated at her mother’s dressing table, giving her make-up a final inspection. He appeared next to her and, because she was in a tizzy, it took her longer than it usually would to realise what it was Alan had sticking out of his trousers. She snorted at the memory and a piece of roast chicken went down the wrong way, making her choke. Matt rubbed her back.

  “Have a sip of drink.” He held the glass to her lips.

  “Thanks,” she said, her face red and eyes watering.

  Alan removed his foot from her leg. He tried his luck twice more that day; once during the washing-up when he lunged for her breasts whilst pretending to put a plate on the worktop, and then when they were saying their goodbyes he held her in a way that a brother-in-law shouldn’t. His tongue was surplus to requirements in their goodbye kiss and Georgia pushed him away, disgusted. If Nancy noticed she didn’t comment.

  The car was about to drive off when suddenly the back door opened and Val hopped out.

  “I forgot to wish you luck with your new business. Whatever it is you’re doing on the Web, I hope it’s a success.” She winked and trotted back to the car. Matt grinned; Georgia remained inscrutable.

  They stood on their driveway and waved until the Mercedes was out of sight.

  “Did Alan do what I thought he did just then?”

  “Most probably,” Georgia said, turning to get back inside to the warm.

  Chapter eight

  Georgia was sitting at her desk, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger, deeply engrossed in reviewing a file one of her more junior colleagues had put together. Georgia’s gut instinct was that a baboon of meagre intelligence could’ve produced the same work without charging the client £200 per hour. She mused how to communicate her opinion without it sounding offensive. Her phone rang.

  “Hello, Georgia Brown speaking.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A navy suit with a cream shirt.”

  “What underwear?”

  “I’m not wearing any.”

  “Liar,” Matt said.

  “What are you wearing?”

  ”Nothing.”

  “Now who’s the liar?”

  “Seriously – I went out to check on my cabbages and slipped. Fell face first in the earth. I’ve had to have a shower.”

  Georgia laughed before asking, “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Nice to know in what order your emotions function.”

  “So, why the call? Is it just to drive me wild with erotic thoughts?”

  “Not entirely. I was surfing the Net and came across this amazing looking website. Thought you might want to have a look. It’s called Blokebusters.co.uk.”

  “We’re up and running?”

  “Have a look,” he said. She could tell he was smiling.

  She tapped at her laptop and accessed the Blokebusters site in seconds.

  “Doesn’t it look great?” she squeaked down the phone.

  “Yeah. It does. Congratulations Georgia – you’re in business.”

  “We’re in business.”

  “I’ll let you phone Fi.”

  She noticed Jeff in the doorway.

  “It’s brilliant news Matt. Listen, I’ve got to go. See you later.”

  She put the phone down and smiled at Matt’s photo on her desk.

  “Has he found a job?” Jeff asked. The element of surprise in his tone gave her an overwhelming desire to castrate him with her staple remover, but she suppressed it and smiled sweetly.

  “Jeff, surely as our ethics champion you know better than to probe a member of staff’s private life?”

  “I have to admit there are other areas of you I’d rather probe,” he said and Georgia wished he hadn’t. He didn’t understand her or why she was glaring at him. She was a tasty piece and obviously knew it, but seemed devoted to that geeky web-head of a husband. He, Jeff, wasn’t ugly; he was witty, dynamic, heading in the right direction career-wise and sensitive; he could pick up a bird for a night of fun with little effort. Why wasn’t she interested? Why wouldn’t she allow him one night to stick it to her? She might like him. She hadn’t even smiled at the clever response he’d just given her, and it was completely improvised.

  “I can’t help but notice you’re still in my office. Perhaps you should go and find another female member of staff to delight with your silver tongue – I’d hate to think I was monopolising your charms.” If she had the slightest inkling of how horny she made him feel she wouldn’t even risk being in the same room as him.

  He slunk out of her room, words deserting him. He spotted Gina, two years junior to him, and summoned her into his office to discuss her latest client. She had a good figure and was more open to a bit of flirting than Georgia.

  *

  Fiona insisted she meet Georgia for a celebratory lunch and had chosen a small, independent coffee shop known for its filled baguettes. Fiona tried not to look at the mottled walls crammed with framed photos of the Italian countryside; none of the frames matched and it made her panic.

  “It seems wrong that Matt’s not here,” Georgia said as she sat down.

  “Yeah, it does. Tell you what – let’s call it the first meeting of Carrots.”

  “The first meeting of Carrots,” they toasted and raised their hands pretending to chink glasses. A waitress took their order, holding her small notepad close to her body like it was a precious gem and someone was going to try and steal it.

  Georgia glanced around at the occupants of the other tables. She pondered if she could recall a time when coffee shop tables weren’t solely occupied by people having job interviews, appraisals or meetings. When did the person who wanted a quiet cup of coffee cease to be the target client for coffee shops? Maybe there’d been a reversal and the offices that could be hired by the hour were now packed out with people having a couple of minutes’ peace, a hot drink and a biscuit. Other than her and Fiona, there wasn’t a customer without either a pen in their hand and a pad of paper on the table in front of them or a laptop.

  “Of course, the website being up and running is only half the story,” Fiona said.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “It’s the second of the month – so?” Fiona grinned.

  Georgia shrugged.

  “WOT time!” She waved a copy of the magazine so it looked like it was dancing across the table.

  “Are we in?”

  “Hmm. I don’t know. I haven’t looked.” Fiona tried to sound casual. “Watch this.” She held the thick, glossy magazine by its spine and allowed it to fall open naturally, the pages curling around her hand. It opened towards the rear, amongst the small ads. “I’ve looked at it so much I don’t need a bookmark!”

  She turned it round to face Georgia; Georgia couldn’t believe her eyes. There. Sitting in the middle of all the small ads was theirs. Her pulse tap-danced in her throat. No going back. She traced her finger around the box surrounding Matt’s wording. The last time she’d seen it was in Matt’s handwriting and she was sitting on her sofa. Now it was in a national magazine.

  “It’s like it needed this to become real. It was a joke before but now it’s real,” she said quietly.

  “I know,�
�� Fiona nodded.

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  “Ask me that when I’m lounging on my yacht in the Algarve. Pina colada in one hand, doom hunk’s testicles in the other.”

  *

  For almost two weeks Blokebusters’ email and dedicated phone line was untroubled. Matt joked that maybe WOT magazine attracted slow readers.

  “It was that bloody article on Jimmy Choo. It had too many photos. It makes it impossible to read past it – you keep turning back to ogle the shoes again. It’s bloody scuppered us,” Fiona complained.

  Georgia wasn’t sleeping well. She couldn’t get Matt’s face out of her mind, imagining him packing up their belongings to move back down the property ladder to another small flat; saying goodbye to his garden. She had never been religious and didn’t even know to whom she was praying, but every night, lying in bed she prayed for things to work out.

  Matt felt it too. Georgia was prickly. She picked on him, trying to get an argument going – even tossing his Radiohead t-shirt into the dustbin right in front of him; he’d waited until she was asleep before tip-toeing downstairs to rescue it. Without telling her, he’d resumed his job search. He was looking at an online recruitment firm’s list of jobs when he heard her key in the door and quickly closed the web page. Her footsteps plodded up the stairs and she came into his office.

  “Any interest?” she asked, as she had every day when she got home from work.

  “No. Sorry.” He moved towards her. “Come here.” There was a time when he believed he could make everything all right for her if he only hugged her enough. One of Nancy’s cattier comments came to mind: ‘Cuddling and affection’s all well and good but it doesn’t pay the mortgage. There comes a point when you need a bank note more than arms around you.’

  “Have you eaten all that ice cream?” Georgia pointed to the empty tub on his desk.

  “‘All’ is a very black and white term,” he said. “Besides, I only did it to save you from temptation. The last quarter of the tub was a struggle – I didn’t enjoy it at all.”