Phoebe Smith’s Private Blog: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  ‘I saw him harassing you. I’m happy to be a witness,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t think one incident is going to count for much, but thanks anyway.’

  I sling my bag over my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ I say.

  Why is it that whenever our eyes meet, I remember that kiss and how it made me feel.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. He may be waiting outside,’ he says firmly.

  ‘I’m sure he has gone home,’ I say.

  But I can’t be sure at all and I really don’t have the energy to argue with Harry or to fight off Henry. I sway slightly. The absinthe must be kicking in. Why am I always pissed when I see Harry Bloom? He’ll think I’m an alcoholic.

  I wait while he fetches his jacket and makes his goodbyes. He seems very popular in the club. I can see why. He’s good looking, friendly, attentive, talented and presumably quite wealthy. But I must not forget he is the son of the arse who puts people out of their homes. Also, I must not forget that Harry Bloom is the type of man who comes on to other women when his girlfriend isn’t around. I wouldn’t have fish and chips with him if you paid me.

  *

  Best laid plans and all that. The truth is, once I’d discovered Henry wasn’t hanging around outside I realised I was famished. The fish and chip shop was only around the corner. So, it seemed churlish to say no and frankly one shouldn’t turn down a free meal. The fact is, soon I won’t know where the next one is coming from. We talked about everything except the kiss. He told me how his parents had taken the dog as Harry felt it wasn’t fair to keep him any longer.

  ‘I’m out gigging a lot these days,’ he says.

  I finish my fish and chips and check the time on my phone.

  ‘Thanks so much for your help,’ I say pulling my purse from my bag.

  ‘Not again,’ he laughs.

  I blush at the memory and realise I never did give him my half for the cab that night.

  ‘The last time you tried to pay me I got bandaged by your knickers.’

  I laugh but the memory of the kiss is on my mind.

  ‘I really don’t want to be in your debt,’ I say.

  ‘You keep saying that. I’m not going to send the heavies around.’

  No, not much.

  ‘Right,’ I say, standing up.

  ‘I’m going your way,’ he grins, ‘why don’t we walk together. That way if Horrid Henry is waiting you’ll have me to protect you.’

  My stomach churns at the thought of Henry. I really don’t want to go to work tomorrow.

  Fortunately, there is no sign of him on the way home. Maybe Harry frightened him off. Who knows, maybe I won’t need to do anything about Henry after all. Of course, this hasn’t solved my problem with Nigel Taylor-Lynworth has it?

  ‘Why do you live in that flat?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve got to live somewhere,’ he laughs.

  ‘But you could afford somewhere better than that. After all, you’re friends with Prince Harry.’

  ‘You’ve been googling again,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Mak googled you,’ I lie.

  Well, it’s only a small lie. Mak did google him.

  ‘Are you suggesting I move into Kensington Palace?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Some of us can’t afford anything better so we’re stuck but I’m sure you could.’

  ‘I like it there and …’

  I stop and look at him.

  He bites his lip.

  ‘It annoys my father that I live there.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Why would you want to annoy your father?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  We walk the rest of the way in silence. We finally arrive at the flats and I hurry up the stairs.

  ‘Thanks Harry for walking me home and sorting out Henry.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let that continue, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, it was great seeing you at the club tonight even if it wasn’t under the best circumstances.’

  I nod. Oh go in Phoebe.

  ‘Night Harry,’ I say.

  I’m in the flat and have the door closed before he can reply. I sigh and grab a bottle of wine from the fridge. I have an overwhelming urge to knock on his door and ask why he wants to annoy his dad. Oh, if only Harry wasn’t Arthur Bloom’s son, and if only Harry Bloom didn’t have a girlfriend. If only life were a bit simpler.

  *

  Sunday 18th February: morning

  Liking Harry Bloom far too much. Must avoid him at all costs. This can only end in tears.

  Facetimed Imogen to tell her about Henry, only to have her rush off to throw up, leaving me with the sounds of her retching in the background. Practically congratulated myself on not being able to get a man. At least I won’t end up looking like death for six months and then swigging cystitis relief for the next two years. Christ, if you want to finish off a woman get her pregnant.

  Couldn’t believe it. Had a private Facebook message from Ashby. He wants to meet at The George on Tuesday after work. At last, my luck has changed. Maybe he wants to support me in this business with Henry. Wonder if Essex Earring knows we’re meeting. Immediately messaged saying yes and then realised it seemed too keen so waited thirty minutes before sending. Tried to play it cool and messaged ‘Sure, see you then.’

  Phoned the bank and managed to get a larger overdraft. Thought I’d never get off the phone. The guy wanted to know everything. Was surprised he didn’t ask for my bra size. Feel much better about the money situation now. Have decided I’ll go on the dole if I lose job. Everyone else does and I’ve paid my taxes. I might as well get something back from the government.

  Looked on eBay for a new pair of boots and found a designer pair for only sixty quid. Couldn’t let them go.

  Later spent twenty minutes looking at Harry Bloom’s Instagram page. Was amazed to see a photo of the two of us together taken at The Blue Note. Reposted it on my Facebook page hoping Ashby would comment but there had been nothing. Remembered the kiss again and found myself wishing that Harry’s last name wasn’t Bloom.

  Read some of my self-help book and tried to connect with my inner child but just kept connecting with the blueberry muffins in the kitchen. Finally gave in and had two. The bloody Christmas bulge is still going to be there next Christmas if I continue at this rate. I’m stressed, that’s the problem.

  Hate Sundays. Did think about going to the gym but only got as far as thinking about it.

  Phoned my mother and told her about the sexual harassment and how I now had two men harassing me and that I will probably lose my job. Mum said it’s because I don’t wear a bra and blamed it on the Women’s Liberation Movement. Said I could have my old room back but only temporary because Dad has taken up beer brewing and needs the room for his demijohns. Couldn’t imagine my dad brewing anything.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I know I wanted to be an activist and make a difference, but this was not quite the difference I had in mind.

  ‘O. M. G.,’ says Imogen as we turn the corner to the store.

  A crowd of people are protesting outside, or should I say a crowd of women. Mak rushes up to join us.

  ‘It’s probably those dodgy dolls we sold. We shifted tons at Christmas. I don’t know what they expect for two pounds.’

  ‘They had a warning with them,’ adds Imogen.

  ‘You alright petal?’ asks Mak. ‘Are you worried about Henry?’

  I feel the colour drain from my face. Two of the women are holding up placards that read Sexist pigs, when will it all stop? And another with Sexual Harassment - Sack the bastards.

  I couldn’t agree more but why are they outside Lynworths?

  ‘There must be a harassment case going on,’ says Imogen unperturbed.

  ‘But why are they outside our store?’ I ask worriedly.

  ‘She has a point love. There are bigger stores than this on
e,’ agrees Mak.

  ‘Well … I don’t know,’ says a baffled Imogen. ‘After all, it’s only you getting harassed and they wouldn’t know about that,’ she says.

  Exactly, no one knows about that, except Imogen and Mak.

  ‘O. M. G., did you report it?’ Imogen asks.

  I shake my head and look at her suspiciously.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone,’ I say.

  ‘Nor have I,’ Mak says quickly,

  ‘I haven’t told a soul,’ adds Imogen.

  ‘Do you think Malcolm?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s the ultimate in discretion,’ says Imogen.

  I shake my head. How silly. This has nothing to with me. How horrid of me to suspect my best friends. They would die for me, I’m sure of it. Okay, maybe not die I guess, that’s taking friendship a bit too far. I know I wouldn’t die for them, as much as I love them. Anyway it’s good that they’re protesting. Hopefully it will give Henry a message, although frankly no message seems to get through to Henry.

  ‘I hope we can get in,’ says Imogen. ‘I feel like I’m going to throw up just for a change.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mak asks a security officer.

  ‘No idea,’ he replies. ‘They just pitched up this morning.’

  We go to the cloakroom and take off our coats. Imogen throws up while I check my hair and make-up. I imagine this will be our routine for the next few months.

  ‘O. M. G.,’ she groans, ‘is it supposed to be like this?’

  ‘Apparently,’ I say.

  Is she okay?’ asks Sasha as she joins us.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Imogen mumbles.

  ‘I hope I don’t catch it,’ says Sasha.

  ‘I don’t think you will,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘What’s going on outside?’

  ‘No idea,’ I say and head to Menswear. There is a scuffle at the entrance as several of the women try to come in.

  ‘It’s disgraceful,’ says Brian. ‘It’s giving the store a bad reputation.’

  Huh, I want to tell him that it is the likes of Henry and Nigel Taylor-Lynworth who give the store a bad reputation.

  I’m in the middle of serving a customer when there is mayhem as the protesters storm the building.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ utters Brian, ‘call security. We’ve been compromised.’

  He makes it sound like Die Hard. He’ll be asking me to call Bruce Willis next.

  Imogen looks confused.

  ‘I’ve never called security,’ she says, catching a pack of underpants that are thrown her way. She’s right. We usually just call Big Mary but even Big Mary can’t cope with this one.

  ‘Extension 302,’ yells Brian.

  The women are going mental, pulling ties and shirts off hangers and throwing them around the store.

  ‘Security to Menswear,’ Brian shouts into the new tannoy, causing it to screech.

  Socks and underpants are flying everywhere.

  ‘Where’s Henry?’ one of the women shouts. ‘Why is the perverted pig still working here?’

  I gasp. Fuckety bollocks, she surely can’t mean my Henry? I know he’s not my Henry, but you know what I mean. She surely isn’t referring to my harassing Henry. How could she even know about him? I look around but everyone is panicking and no one seems to have heard Henry’s name.

  ‘It’s disgraceful,’ another shouts. ‘We want Henry fired. They’re dicks, all of them.’

  Well, she’s not wrong there but how do they know about Henry? He must have been harassing someone else. This just gets worse.

  ‘You can’t let the perverted little shits win,’ they shout as the security guards struggle to round them up.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ says one of the guards.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ says Brian.

  ‘Brian to Mr Taylor-Lynworth’s office please,’ says a voice over the tannoy.

  ‘Mr Taylor-Lynworth is in a filthy mood about all this,’ says Brian. ‘I need to go up. Will you two be okay?’

  ‘We haven’t sexually harassed anyone, so I imagine we’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘It’s not us they’re after.’

  He gives me an odd look.

  ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ says Imogen.

  This hidden pregnancy isn’t going to stay hidden for very long at this rate.

  ‘You can’t keep throwing up, Imogen.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of choice.’

  I look outside to see the protesters are having their photos taken for the local press no doubt. Oh God, I hope they don’t mention any of us. I don’t want to be in the paper again. I’ll no doubt be forty next time I’m featured.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ says Henry, looking around in shock.

  ‘For some odd reason they have a problem with men harassing women,’ I say.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath from Imogen.

  ‘Clean this mess up,’ he snaps to Imogen. ‘And Phoebe, I need relief at 2pm. So please come down to stationery.’

  ‘Now there’s a sexist statement if ever I heard one,’ I say.

  He gives me one of his leering looks and walks away.

  ‘Phoebe Smith to Mr Lynworth’s office please,’ says a voice over the tannoy.

  Oh pissing great. Sainsbury’s shelves here I come.

  ChapterForty-Three

  I arrive at Marsha’s office and she looks at me sympathetically.

  ‘He’s waiting for you,’ she says. ‘Just a sec, I have to use the new intercom system and I’m still not used to it. I don’t want to announce you to the whole store.’

  I smile weakly.

  ‘Right,’ she says studying the buttons. She pushes one and says,

  ‘Phoebe Smith is here.’

  ‘Good, send her in,’ says Nigel in his official voice.

  I hesitate outside the door of Nigel’s office and try to decide whether it would be easier to simply hand in my notice than get the sack but I hear the shouts of the women outside and feel strangely supported.

  I knock and walk in. Nigel is looking out of the window. He turns to me and says,

  ‘What the fuck is all this about Phoebe?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply.

  He nods.

  ‘Why do you think they’re protesting in our store?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Maybe they like quality at affordable prices.’

  He turns and meets my eyes.

  ‘You don’t think you’re being sexually harassed at Lynworths do you Phoebe?’

  Right this is it isn’t it? Oh God, what to do? Do I say yes or no? It’s like being on a television quiz show. Will Phoebe say yes, or will she say no?

  Yes, will mean an immediate dismissal. He’ll find something he can pin on me that will be a sackable offence. Or, I could say no, and hang on to my job, and also my flat, although not with the increased rent. That’s another first world problem. I’m almost thirty-four. Am I going to be sexually harassed at work and stay quiet, or am I going to stand up for sexually harassed women all over the country? I sigh and he looks at me.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down Phoebe,’ he smiles and walks to the coffee machine in the corner. It’s then my eyes land on the new tannoy intercom on his desk and my mouth turns dry. I don’t want to announce you to the whole store, Marsha had said. I stare at the buttons. The red one is marked ‘Office’ the green one is marked ‘Shop Floor’

  My heart thumps in my chest. Nigel hands me a mug of coffee and I place it on the table in front of the intercom so he can no longer see it. The tournament begins.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he says.

  ‘It needs a bit of thinking about,’ I stall.

  He looks at my Christmas bulge. I don’t believe this.

  ‘Have you gained a bit of weight Phoebe?’ he asks.

  Ooh, dirty move.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say, widening my eyes.

  ‘If you need a larger blouse.
We can order you one.’

  Ouch, a bad move.

  Fuck you Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. That’s it. I never thought my Christmas bulge would be the tipping point. I push the shop floor button and feel my heart flutter.

  ‘Actually, to answer your question, Mr Lynworth, yes I do believe I am being sexually harassed at work. Henry Millstone harasses me on a regular basis. Oh, and yes, to answer your other question, I do believe I have gained a bit of weight.’

  A very good move, if I do say so myself.

  He laughs.

  ‘Really, Miss Smith, is this an official complaint you’re making?’

  A smart move.

  ‘Yes it is, although I did try to talk to you about it,’ I say calmly, although I’m not sure how I am staying calm. I feel sure my voice should be quivering all over the place. ‘But you seemed more interested in getting me into bed.’

  He laughs. He doesn’t seem in the least drop dead gorgeous any more.

  ‘Oh come on Phoebe. You’re surely not referring to the other night, are you?’ he smiles. ‘Taking a woman for champagne and cake is not harassment. I thought I was giving you a nice evening out. Instead I got a champagne hair rinse.’

  A thoughtful move.

  ‘No, but sliding your hand along her thigh and suggesting she goes with you to your hotel room is bordering on it, don’t you think? Not to mention, Mr Lynworth, the suggestion that you could put in a word here and a word there at work for me, your exact phrasing if I remember. I got the impression you were offering me a promotion in exchange for sex.’

  A calculated move.

  Did I hear a gasp from Marsha’s office? His eyes harden. Please sack me, I plead.

  ‘You should be flattered that a man finds you attractive. If you don’t want to be noticed then maybe you shouldn’t flaunt your huge breasts at the men here.’

  An exceptionally bad move.

  ‘Ooh, I rather think that was another sexist remark Mr Lynworth.’

  An excellent countermove.

  ‘Okay, let’s stop this shall we? I’m sure you don’t want to put your job at risk do you?’