Naked in Knightsbridge (2 page)

Then things started to unwind.

First, one of her cleaners went on a pilfering spree and redefined ‘cleaning out’ a bedroom by nicking £4000 worth of jewellery from the Slatterly-Walsh household on Montpellier Street. Their insurance company sued Jools for it. Bastards. It wasn’t her fault, was it? Of course, not having insurance presented more than a slight problem in defending the claim. Even with Mel’s pro bono aid, all of Jools’ reserves went to appease the ‘We Are Not Kidding We Will Send the Boys Around’ insurance.

After that, Jools got business insurance, which cost her triple thanks to her business being sued for theft. But she was certain things would work themselves out, so she just called the bank, increased her overdraft, paid the insurance and carried on.

But things didn’t get better. A chain of gourmet sausage shops – for which Jools had the exclusive cleaning contract – poisoned a couple of hundred people, including the local health and safety officer. They had to close, and Jools took a heavy hit – 60 per cent of her income was sausage-related. That’s what you get when you rely too much on cheap meat. And they even had the nerve to blame
her
for the listeria!

Her remaining clients were the finicky kind no one else wanted – and they rarely paid on time, if at all. Like Mr Polowski, who always found ‘DE FLUFF’ under the sofa. Jools suspected he had a jar full of ‘DE FLUFF’ he’d gathered, placing it strategically throughout the flat to test her. And he was nothing compared to Madame Nabet, who insisted Jools vacuum her annoying little Chihuahuas. Jools rubbed her wrist where one had clamped onto her. Neither had paid since . . . well, Jools would need to look over her largely non-existent records to be sure.

So in the last month, once she took out insurance payments, wages and all the other stuff you needed to run a company, Jools earned negative £2000. Not exactly the lucrative business she’d been hoping for. She’d thought she could deal with it, though.

Until Eugenia, her last remaining employee, burned down Mrs Pho’s house. Who knew burning incense near a gas burner would cause explosions? It wasn’t like there were warnings – on either the stove or the incense! Eugenia might have noticed the top-floor studio was on fire if she hadn’t been bonking her boyfriend Nutto on the kitchen table. By the time Jools arrived to supervise (as per the contract with Mrs Pho), the place had burned to the ground.

Literally, it burned to the ground. Jools had assumed it just a saying, but no – Mrs Pho’s beautiful, white Victorian terrace was indeed reduced to a pile of black soot.

‘
How could you!’

What could she say? Clearly she could because she had.

Or at least Eugina and Nutto had. In more ways than one.

‘
Mrs Pho, I can explain everything.’

But Jools’ most important client (and landlady) wasn’t in the mood to hear anything.

Not even the hunky fireman with the ever-so-subtle goatee was on her side. ‘Pretty bloody hard to explain how you blew up a whole house, without trying to.’

Eugenia piped up: ‘Actually, it wasn’t that hard – ’

Mrs Pho stomped her Manolo on the footpath. ‘What do you mean, stupid girl? I pay you to clean my beautiful home, and you burn horrible stick in mother-in-law’s room and blow up house!’

Then it was Jools’ turn. ‘How come you alive anyway? You supposed to watch cleaner. How come you not dead?’

She made it sound like Jools being alive was a bad thing. Looking at the fierce frown on the face of the cute fireman, it seemed a popular opinion.

‘
Well?’

Oh shit. ‘I had an emergency, Mrs Pho. I’ve been here all the other times, I promise.’ Total lie – she was in Harrods’ foodhall most other times, indulging in macaroons at
Laduree
, but there was no point in upsetting the poor woman any more, was there?

Mrs Pho moved in close. Her Botoxed face shone like her brass door-knocker – before it was blown off the front door and became a projectile. She grabbed Jools by the neck.

‘
I would love to say you fired – and evicted. But there no business, no house, and no point!’ She jabbed Jools in the chest as she spoke. ‘But I promise you,’ she spat, as one of the firemen somewhat begrudgingly dragged her off Jools, ‘you never work in Knightsbridge again. Not as long as I breathing.’

Soon after, the insurance company informed Jools they wouldn’t cover her anymore. Shockingly unprofessional, Jools thought – what was insurance for, if not for incidents such as these? She was probably their best customer! Then the stuffy Royal Borough called to tell her if she worked without insurance, they’d put her in jail – if the police didn’t get to her first for something called criminal negligence.

Jools updated Mel on the latest bit about the council. She knew the rest of the gory details already.

‘
God, Jools, what are you going to do?’

‘
What everyone else does when they go bankrupt – go on the dole. At least I’ll be able to live.’

‘
Oh.’ Mel went quiet.

‘
What is it?’

‘
I think that little problem a few years ago might work against you.’

Shit, she’d forgotten about that. Jools had claimed for a non-existent child for three years. It hadn’t been total bogus in the beginning – she had honestly thought she was pregnant for a week or two. And she’d paid it all back. Surely that must count for something?

Mel shook her head. ‘Not really. They had to threaten you with jail before you paid up. Remember?’

‘
I was broke – a uni student. Talk about stingy!’

Mel shrugged. ‘Not big on fraud, the government.’

‘
Unless they’re the ones with their noses in the trough,’ Jools spat. ‘Like that guy who claimed second home allowance on a wheelie bin.’

Mel reminded her he actually was in jail as they spoke. ‘May I suggest you try to drum up some more business and avoid bankruptcy? Surely you can work as a cleaner for someone else? That way you avoid the whole insurance problem?’

Jools groaned. God, she was sick of bloody working. Cleaning other people’s muck for ten quid an hour wasn’t exactly a dream job.

She stared at Mel enviously. Life was alright for her – sitting at a desk and lording it over people. And even though she tried to distance herself from her aristocratic family, her mother insisted on buying the Kensington crash pad, and her father was constantly sending cars round for the drive back to their Hertfordshire country estate. (Apparently when her father had said he disowned her, he meant for five minutes, on full trust fund.)

Jools’ life looked even more rubbish in comparison. She lived in a studio flat near the Willesden Green bus garage. Well, ‘near’ was putting it nicely. She was so close to the drivers’ canteen that remarkably consistent farting could be heard day and night through the flat’s only opening window.

‘
Well, what else are you going to do? Maybe Deepak will give you a job at Handimart?’ Handimart was the nearby 24-hour off-licence where Mel and Jools were infamous late-night regulars seeking emergency alcohol supplies.

Jools turned a deep shade of puce. ’Deepak caught me pinching a packet of Tampax last week.’

‘
Jools!’

‘
Oh, come on, Mel! I was desperate and there was a huge queue. I was going to pay for them right after I went to the loo.’

Mel was silent.

‘
I was, I just forgot.’

‘
Well, if not Deepak, then someone else. You’d better start looking for work, or you’ll get evicted.’

‘
I figured that out for myself, thanks very much.’ Jools was slightly indignant. ’In fact, no matter what you say, I’m going to apply for help, join the queue of the great unwashed. Isn’t this what our taxes – ?’

Mel interrupted. ‘Actually, isn’t Inland Revenue chasing you too?’

‘
Whatever.’ Mel was such a stickler for the law. ’All that preggers stuff was ages ago. Surely they can’t hold a grudge that long?’

Chapter 2

Dear Mr Fortescue,

Thanks for your letter. Horace is a unique name. You must be a very special man. As I recall, you’re extremely buff as well. Alright, well, to the issue at hand. I can assure you I am doing everything I can to bring down my overdraft. In fact, I hope to hear of a new, secure income stream in the next few days. Meanwhile, I don’t suppose you would consider extending the overdraft by an extra £2000 to cover my out-of-pocket expenses in establishing this vital new addition to my business model?

Kind regards,

Julia M. Grand

APPARENTLY THE unemployment office was busy catering to those even needier than Jools, and she couldn’t get an appointment for two weeks.

The nice man on the toll-free number assured her they could pay from the moment she’d lost her job, as long as she had all the relevant paperwork and she met the criteria for Jobseeker’s Allowance.

Relevant paperwork? Jools wondered if a copy of the call log to the Fire Brigade would do the trick, and if so, how could she get one. Maybe call her insurance company or even Mrs Pho? No. That might attract further expensive lawsuits and old Horace at the Commercial Bank would definitely hang tight on future advances if he discovered there was yet another negligence claim on the horizon.

She sank onto her musty little sofa and stared out at the brick wall of the bus garage. The cleaning business had imploded. There was no way to get new clients – she couldn’t even advertise with the local rag since her account was 120 days overdue. How on earth could she pay for the little necessities in life, like rent, water and HobNobs? Hopefully, her dear friend Horace would continue to expand the overdraft until the dole kicked in. But right now the cash point was being most unhelpful. Jools had to make some money.

In desperation, she tried other cleaning companies, but the moment she gave her name, the response was the same.

‘
You’re not the Julia Grand of Julia Grand Cleaning?’

‘
Yes, but . . .’

CLICK.

‘
Didn’t you burn down a client’s house?’

‘
Yes, but . . .’

CLICK.

‘
You give cleaners a bad name. I’ve lost three clients because of you.’

CLICK.

Mrs Pho had been busy. How had one small woman managed to spread the word so quickly? Clearly there was no chance of working as a cleaner in London again unless Jools changed her name and invested in that extreme makeover – which in turn required the rapidly vanishing generosity of her bank.

Hand creeping towards her second pack of HobNobs that day, she considered Mel’s Handimart suggestion. If not Deepak, maybe one of the shopkeepers on the high street would consider giving her work?

It was time to make some money and keep the bank and her landlord from her slightly warped door.

Standing up, she shook the crumbs off her tracksuit. It felt a little tight under the arms.

Must have shrunk in the wash. She couldn’t have put on that much weight, could she? After all, she’d been running around Knightsbridge cleaning houses until a week ago. Or, at least, her cleaners had.

Jools stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Maybe she should change first? Shellsuit-needing-wash was hardly a great look when one was on the hunt for employment.

She turned to her wardrobe, a rickety contraption with a missing leg supported by old textbooks. But when it was impossible to get a leg through one of her skirts – let alone her sizable bum – it soon became apparent nothing suitable would fit.