Naked in Knightsbridge (8 page)

Image upload: Hmm, where to get a convincing picture? Niles Googled manically. Stockphotosmales had a nice one of a tall, lean catalogue model, posing at a lakefront chalet in boat shoes, shirtless, with flat-fronted chinos. A sales assistant had once told him that girls love a man in flat-fronted chinos.

Wait. Perhaps the model was too good-looking? Someone with that poncy floppy hair – the sort of bloke who obviously looked in the mirror a lot – would hardly be shopping online for a wife. Who’d be dumb enough to believe such a thing? Niles sniggered. Probably the kind of girl who auctioned herself online. Besides, once she got a look at that photo, it’d be game over.

Brad, Wisconsinesque hunk, would seal the deal.

Once his new ID and bid were entered, Niles immediately found Jools’ auction, and clicked on ‘Send Question to Buyer’.

I am absolutely taken by your beauty in this photo. Even more, I find your courage and confidence to put yourself out in the world in such a way totally irresistible. Though I can’t meet you immediately, because I live in Wisconsin, USA, I would love to speak with you on the telephone. I need to find a wife so I can stay in England permanently to look for work in the finance industry. If you’re not interested in a possible relationship, I would completely understand, and would settle for the possibility of staying in a country I know I would grow to love like my own. Please write if you are interested.

Quashing his growing nausea at writing such drivel, Niles started a ‘To Do’ list:

1. Get American phone number – or maybe just a silent UK number that can’t be easily traced?

2. Practice American accent.

3. Start preparing basement.

Excited, Niles allowed himself an hour or so of defacing that day’s paper before he went to bed. He was a happy man. No more dull evenings surfing the web from his mid-terrace in Slough, searching fruitlessly for naughty women to teach a lesson. He had a purpose. He had a goal. And when he reached that goal, he would have a wife.

*

Jools sat at her computer, satisfied with the power granted to her index finger via the mouse. One click and Niles was gone. At least, he had the good sense to understand she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Well, he did mention something about being friends, but hopefully he was just being polite. Her skin was still crawling with thoughts of his twitching, pock-marked face peering under the café table to perve at her tracksuit bottoms.

Luckily, there seemed to be no hard feelings at the deletion of his bid.

Pity she couldn’t delete kebab-squaffing Rocco with one finger – and that twat Michel Matthews too, come to think of it.

Tempting fate by leaning back on the back legs of an ancient dining chair, Jools smugly acknowledged she was now worth £5000. At least. That was a major improvement on the negative £25,000-odd figure that sad little dweeb of a man from the bank insisted she was worth. Horace Whateverhisnamewas.

Flicking idly through her auction statistics, she saw that some wealthy bloke – a Brad Brown from Wisconsin – had helped up the bid to £5000. A more sensible person (Mel, for example) might have asked why someone would try to bid from the States, with no guarantee of clearing Immigration, but she was willing to believe anything at that point, so God bless America. And with a name like Brad . . . well, if a Brad was good enough for Angelina, a Brad was good enough for Jools.

Okay, it was highly likely this Brad was bored, intoxicated or addicted to online fraud, but Jools was unperturbed because there were now two serious bidders again.

Plus, her favourite, HotRod38, was still winning.

Suddenly the inbox pinged, indicating a new message. Wow. Must be telepathy or something. A message from Brad himself.

Jools read it quickly, then looked at the photograph he’d sent. Well, okay, not exactly Brad Pitt, but nearly as gorgeous, and, from what she could work out, heterosexual too. No sign of man bags or makeup.

Feeling carefree, she emailed her mobile number, instructing him to call anytime after 11 am London time. Then, deciding it might be worth getting into shape for a prospective video-cam affair with Brad, she flip-flopped out of the flat for a bus ride then brisk-ish walk in Kensington Gardens, where there was a lot less doggie business than in any park near her.

At last things seemed to be picking up.

As she waited for the number 52 – along with a rancid old man who kept shouting ‘piss’ and a young mother who mumbled ‘off’ each time he did – she felt a dim fear that the bids might be a hoax, or a result of peoples’ alcohol-induced mistakes, or that if Brad won, Immigration would interrogate her using disposable gloves and lie-detectors and expose her highly illegal plot. In any scenario she wouldn’t see a penny – unless the judge was understanding enough to let her keep some money to aid rehabilitation after being released from prison.

The bus arrived as Jools considered another option – Ross was actually a Russian pimp and she would be kidnapped and sold as a sex slave in Thailand, or horror of horrors, Blackpool.

Calm down, she told herself sternly. Precautions have been taken. Sort of.

Rodney Wetherspone (although she preferred to think of him as HotRod) checked out – he even had a grainy mugshot on the Rising Right website.

As for the American, well, he was so far away that he really wasn’t worth worrying about, was he? If she liked the sound of his voice, maybe, just maybe, he might have a chance. If not, one click and he was history.

The sun suddenly made an unexpected appearance, which was slightly eery in a British winter, but Jools was pleased that even the London weather was cooperating today. Finally things were moving in the right direction.

Spying a familiar cross-street, Jools got off the bus one stop before the park, deciding that a short walk to Mel’s flat was a vast improvement on an exhausting trek through the Royal Park.

It was only when she had spent 15 minutes loitering at the front of the building, buzzing at two second intervals, that she remembered Mel worked until at least 5 pm and it was only mid-afternoon. It wasn’t a good idea to hang about – being in Kensington in a rather smelly tracksuit was risky if one wanted to avoid persecution for bad fashion – so Jools gave up on the whole thing and headed for home, where a nice new packet of HobNobs was waiting.

A half hour later, the bus pulled into the garage and the doors swung open. The only upside of living near the toxic bus station was the proximity of the bus stop to her flat – about five metres.

Walking the few steps home, she spotted Hunk of No Fixed Abode heading towards the canteen again. God, had he no shame, carrying on like he owned the place? Although a few of the drivers threw him strange looks, no one actually questioned his presence. Lucky bugger. If Jools tried that they would probably mistake her for a woolly mammoth and shoot her in the bum with a tranquilliser dart.

Jools watched as he rounded the canteen door. As hobos went, he looked reasonably well-kept. In fact, you could clean him up and put him to work in a bank or law firm without too much effort.

Rats. Hunk had caught her staring. What to do? Hide? A wee bit difficult given her girth. Instead, Jools went bright red and waved. Remembering his laptop gift she tried to sign drinking and eating to invite him for dinner.

Thankfully (because she had no food and drink except tea and Hobnobs), he shook his head and pointed at the canteen, then headed inside. In spite of her relief, she was a tad insulted. Was he, a hobo, to good for her, an almost hobo? No. Maybe the bus drivers had offered him supper tonight? God, her love life was officially as dead as roadkill if she couldn’t even attract a hobo with an offer of food and drink.

Before she had a chance to begin scoffing her HobNobs, she saw the answering machine flashing. Must be from Rocco. She deleted it without listening.

‘
What can he do, throw me onto the street?’ she muttered, wrestling with the tightly-packed biscuits. ‘Tenants have rights too.’ She’d no idea what those rights might be, but Rocco didn’t scare her. Well not much. Not when she was in here with the door locked and a chair propped up against the door knob and he wasn’t outside jangling keys and kebabs. Plus, there were better prospects than this dingy old flat on the horizon, such as HotRod and a nice abode fit for a politician. And, of course, the gorgeous Brad from America.

The phone rang again. Jools answered tentatively, hoping for Mel. If it was Rocco she’d pretend to be from an overseas call centre and hang up.

‘
Joolsy, alright?’

Great. The sponging father. ‘Oh, um, everything’s fine. Are you having a nice time in Ibiza with, uh, what’s her name?’

‘
The name’s Tash – er, sorry, uh, Suze. You’ll have to meet ‘er, a right sweetheart. Great boobies on her. Listen, have you found a job yet?’

Jools felt nauseated, which went with the territory when in conversation with her dad. How could she even consider moving in with him? Jeez. Living on the street was infinitely better than having to slap away his constant hand out all day long.

‘
No Dad, there are no jobs out there. I’ve looked.’

There was a pause. ‘How about a new boyfriend? I tell you, it sure is great to have a partner in crime, eh, Suze? What a sweetheart, she’s still passed out from last night. It was a wild one, alright.’ Another pause as he reminisced about his gross and possibly illegal activities with the much-too-young Suze.

‘
Listen,’ he said, ‘You should look on miSell if you’re lonely. Must be a new thing in online dating. I found this sweet girl, sorta looks like you when you was a skinny little teen. Real cute, a bit old for me, but only going for a few thousand pounds. You couldn’t lend me a few thou to bid, could you?’

It was all Jools could do to stop from losing her lunch then and there. ‘Christ, Dad, you’re sick and I’m still broke. I’ve got to go.’

‘
Come on. You know I’m kidding, only kidding. Well about the girl, not the money, I do actually need the money. But the girl wouldn’t hurt, eh . . .’

Jools hung up. If he whined about it later, she could pretend they were cut off, which was bound to happen any moment now. Charlie Grand bidding on her was making her re-evaluate her whole miSell career.

Speaking of which . . . she sat down to check the current auction value when the phone rang again.

She hadn’t been so popular since forgetting to wear a skirt to school after a cider binge in Year 10.

‘
Hello?’

‘
Yes, hi. May I speak with Jools?’

The American! Jools threw a hand over her mouth to keep from squealing out loud.

‘
Ahem. Yes. Speaking?’

‘
Oh, hi there, Jools, this is Brad, I believe you read my message on miSell? I wanted to call and touch base with you, let you know that I am real, and not one of those weirdos who tend to lurk around online.’

‘
Oh, I didn’t think that for a minute,’ said Jools as seductively as possible.

‘
See, I was browsing online for women’s life preservers, looking for one for my mother who is coming out on my, ah, yacht for the weekend, and accidentally deleted the word ‘preserver’ and your profile was the only result that showed up. Naturally, I had to click and . . . Anyway, I’m so sorry to ramble on like this. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’

So far so good, thought Jools. He sounded just as gorgeous as he looked. ‘Oh no, no. I was just, I was just getting some Hob . . . er, fish. For dinner.’

‘
Oh, well, be careful you don’t overcook it! There’s nothing like a perfectly moist trout fillet with a touch of lemon and dill. But I suppose you folks prefer the battered and fried variety?’

‘
Right, that’s what you all think of us over there, isn’t it . . . ’ Jools laughed awkwardly. Was dill food? ‘No, I’m actually just going to broil a nice fresh Scottish salmon with butter, pepper, and you said it, lemon.’

‘
Ah, my second favourite fish!’