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

  ‘I don’t think it’s Harry Bloom’s fault,’ Jenny Oliver had said.

  Jenny Oliver is the chair of ‘Save our Homes from Bloom’ committee and manages to see the best in everyone. How she can see any good in Harry Bloom is beyond me. Clearly, after his father has bought our block, Harry Bloom will get a free luxury flat. I detest the privileged little sod. Why he lives here, I’ll never know. Of course it’s his fault. After all, he works for his father doesn’t he? He obviously lives here rent free and what’s more Harry Bloom makes my life a misery with his constant bad drumming and irritating dog, not to mention his bimbo girlfriend, the long-legged, toothy, Jilly, who often arrives in her riding outfit and looks at me like I’ve just crawled out of the dustbin. She has a laugh like a hyena that penetrates the walls and makes my skin crawl.

  ‘Everything?’ he questions.

  ‘Yes everything. And what I hear confirms that you’re lousy at everything you do.’

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Just keep it down,’ I say.

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ he says with a mock salute. ‘And a Happy New Year to you too.’

  ‘Arsehole,’ I mumble.

  ‘Premenstrual woman,’ he mutters.

  God, I’ll be glad to get back to work. I slam my door shut.

  ‘Let’s hit the shops,’ says Rita, ‘New Year sales.’

  Ah, now that’s just the thing to cheer me up.

  *

  New Year’s Day: 6 pm

  Finally home from sales shopping. Aaargh, nightmare. I suppose I should have known sales shopping would be horrendous. Can’t think where people get the money from. I thought the country was in a bad way. Even worse was shopping with a lactating mother and screaming baby. Rita insisted on dragging me into every store known to man. She also exposed her big blue veiny breasts to every store known to man. Mind you, it cleared the crowds in John Lewis, so was a bit grateful. Finally strolled into ‘Luxury for Women’ and then lust took me over. The place was full of gems. Rita told the sales assistant we needed lots of sexy dresses, silk stockings, suspenders and ‘some very filthy underwear’. It didn’t do my confidence much good when she also added ‘And a pair of very sturdy pants,’ and then patted my Christmas bulge.

  Had to remind her that things cost a bomb in Luxury for Women, but by that time I’d became seduced by a pair of red Chanel heels that had been slashed in price. Love ‘Luxury for Women’ and have vowed to never shop anywhere else. Huh, that’s a laugh. Even in the sale their prices were astronomical. But they do give their customers free glasses of Chardonnay and seem oblivious to protruding nipples. Rita’s protruding nipples, that is. I don’t have protruding nipples and would most certainly not show them off in public even if I had.

  ‘A good choice may I say,’ the assistant had smiled. For one horrible moment I thought he was talking about Rita’s protruding nipples. I had lovingly stroked the shoes, a pair of real Chanel’s. Decided I could treat myself. I’d had a Christmas bonus after all.

  ‘This should be your New Year’s resolution,’ Rita had declared. ‘Phoebe Smith, sexy new woman, about to burst on to the New Year. Of course that bulge has got to go.’

  Emma had let out a burp in agreement. Have to admit I was surprised at how much bigger the bulge had become since I last looked. I’ve now made a vow to stop eating mini pork pies before I end up looking like one. Wonder how long that will last. The thing is when you’re a bit depressed, or in my case very depressed, pork pies make all the difference, especially, Besties pork pies. They’re my favourite and the best. I should know because I’ve tried them all.

  God, trying to get the sturdy pants over my Christmas indulgence bulge was a bit of a mission. I seriously looked three months pregnant. For one very frightening moment I found myself wondering if I was. After working out the maths, which wasn’t easy after a glass of Chardonnay, I realised it could not be possible, which meant the bulge could only be caused by one thing: eating and more eating. I know I comfort ate after Ashby broke up with me but Jesus, hadn’t realised it had all gone to my tummy. I’d taken a deep breath and went for one last push.

  ‘Oh for the love of God,’ I’d groaned. Seriously don’t believe looking beautiful should cause so much pain. It looked quite good actually, except it pushed the bulge up, so I then had a funny roll at my midriff.

  Rita had suggested a longline bra. Five minutes later with sturdy pants and longline bra on, I think I looked okay. The only downfall was I couldn’t breathe. Rita gave me the thumbs up. Great, except I’ll need to carry an oxygen cylinder around with me. ‘Think Jane Austen. If they could do it so can you,’ she’d instructed. She then went on to talk about her non-existent sex life and how she hadn’t screwed in months. Was sure everyone in the shop was listening. Very embarrassing but at least there was lots of free Chardonnay to numb the pain. You can’t turn down freebies, bulge or no bulge. That would be plain rude.

  Rita’s absolutely right. It’s time to move forward. Here’s to the New Year. Make way for a new sexy Phoebe Smith.

  *

  Tuesday 2nd January: 11 pm

  Back to work today. Couldn’t believe Nigel Taylor-Lynworth came into the store. God, he’s gorgeous, beyond gorgeous in fact. I somehow imagined him to be old with grey hair and a walking stick. Can confirm there was not one grey hair to be seen or a walking stick.

  ‘O. M. G.,’ Imogen had exclaimed. ‘Is that our boss?’

  Clearly she had also imagined him with grey hair and a stick. Turned out that Nigel Taylor-Lynworth was, in fact, the boss’s son and according to Brian, our floor manager, would very soon be the new CEO. It seemed Lynworth senior had already progressed way past the grey hair and walking stick stage.

  Nigel Taylor-Lynworth wore a white shirt under his very expensive suit, except the white shirt looked very green. Talk about déjà vu. Of all the days for Mr Drop Dead Gorgeous, Nigel Taylor-Lynworth to come into the store it had to be the day I was having a bad hair day. I practically died on the spot when he walked towards me.

  Brian explained that Mr Lynworth had had a mishap with his shirt, like it wasn’t obvious. Couldn’t help wondering if someone had vomited over him too. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth that is, not Brian. I don’t think anyone would dare vomit over Brian. I’d pushed my hand through my dry, very static, hair and tried to smile. Brian spouted some bullshit about ‘our very capable assistant’ taking care of him and then nodded to me. He then somehow managed to pronounce my name so it sounded like Fi Bi. I’d said hello, while trying to dampen down the electricity in my hair. I blame the heating. It’s like the Sahara without the sand in our store. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth then went on to ask me if I was French. Couldn’t understand why the buggery he would think I was French. I don’t look in the least French. I certainly don’t sound it with my south London accent.

  ‘Fi Bi,’ he’d said, tongue in cheek. Could hear Imogen sniggering behind me. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth then became all businesslike and explained how he needed a replacement shirt, preferably white, and Versace if we had it. Was gobsmacked that he was unaware that Lynworths didn’t stock designer brands. I told him this in a very apologetic voice. Don’t know why I was so apologetic. After all, I don’t own the store, he does. Clearly, it’s his fault we don’t stock Versace. He then asked me why we don’t stock designer brands. How the buggery would I know? He seemed a bit put out and said he didn’t have time to go to Savile Row and then went on to ask me what brands we did stock. That was a laugh. The type of clothes we sell you wouldn’t actually call a brand. I’d pulled in my bulge and then proceeded to show him our so-called brands.

  His fragrance wafted over and I almost died with pleasure. Tom Ford, ah, such class.

  He seemed a bit tense, said he only had ten minutes. He had an important meeting and that’s why he needed a clean shirt. He had been visiting a school and some kid had splashed him with paint. Liked him immediately. How can you not like someone who does charity w
ork. He probably gives pots of money to the starving and homeless. I’d asked him for his collar size. Most men know their collar size. Nigel Taylor-Lynworth didn’t. Almost fainted when he asked me to check the one he was wearing. I got a stern look from Brian at that point. Not sure what he imagined I planned to do. I’m not likely to strip a shirt off a man, not even gorgeous Nigel Taylor-Lynworth, but had to admit it was very tricky trying to get a collar size from a shirt that someone was already wearing.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I’d said without any idea how to do it. The Mission Impossible theme vibrated from his jacket. He pulled an iPhone from his suit pocket and barked into it. I looked at Imogen who formed commas with her fingers and mouthed ‘loaded’.

  I was beginning to struggle for breath. It’s not easy breathing while holding in your bulge.

  Heard Mr Taylor-Lynworth say to keep them sweet until he got there and then he clicked off his phone and without another word turned his back to me. Totally panicked. All I needed was to mess everything up. After all, I couldn’t afford to lose my job not after spending two hundred quid on Chanel shoes, sexy dresses and very filthy underwear. I struggled to see the size.

  God, he smelled delicious and his hair smelled pretty good too. He said he would undo the button. Well that was it. I couldn’t hold back the swoon any longer. He asked if that was okay. Oh yes, very nice. It certainly worked for me. He had a lovely neck but I still couldn’t see the bloody collar size so asked him to undo another. Brian had fiddled with his tie nervously. Honestly, it wasn’t like I’d asked Mr Taylor-Lynworth to remove his underpants. Although that would have been very nice, I have to admit. Imogen seemed to be holding her breath too. I said I would have to tug his collar back to which he undid another button, think I almost choked him. Was mortified when I slid my hand around the collar and touched the top of his hairy chest. Two minutes later he was wearing a clean shirt and I had no idea if I was supposed to charge him. He said to put it on his account and then he commented on my perfume. Said how much he liked it. I started to tell him what it was and then couldn’t buggery remember the name of it, so stupidly said, ‘It’s French.’ Must have sounded like a right bimbo.

  ‘Nuxe Prodigieux,’ he’d smiled.

  Gobsmacked, I hovered between a curtsy and a bow and when I came up he’d gone.

  Later went to pub with Imogen and Mak to discuss plan for meeting new men. Have decided I can’t brood over Ashby forever.

  Imogen puffed on an electronic cigarette, surrounding all of us in a white cloud of vapour. It was worse than a fog by the time she’d finished. I wouldn’t mind but Imogen has never smoked in her life. She claimed it was calming, or that was her excuse, anyway. Imogen agrees with Rita and thinks I should join Tinder, she said they have all ages on there so I was bound to find someone. Not sure what she was trying to say. I’m not that old. I’ll be thirty-four in a month, much to my mum’s despair. It doesn’t help that my little sister, Rita, was married at twenty-one and by twenty-eight had three kids and perpetual cystitis. She’s forever swigging cranberry juice and seems to permanently have a baby hanging off her tit. I’m not married, never have cystitis and nothing hangs off my tit, not even a tassel.

  ‘My body is never going to get back to sodding normal,’ is Rita’s mantra. While my mother’s mantra is, ‘why can’t you be more like your sister?’

  Clearly my mum wears rose-coloured spectacles and hasn’t seen the vomit down Rita’s dress, or that the poor cow can’t sit down without wincing, or that she squirts milk from her tits at the drop of a hat.

  It was happy hour and Mak had suggested we all go for a champagne cocktail. There’s nothing more decadent, so obviously Imogen and I nodded enthusiastically and I pulled a pack of blueberry muffins from my fake Burberry tote bag. Five quid in Camden market and you really can’t tell the difference. The bag I mean. I’d never pay five quid for muffins. You can’t beat a blueberry muffin with a glass of champagne.

  Imogen had assured me that Ashby would friend me again on Facebook. She said he had just retreated a bit and that men do that kind of thing. Apparently Daniel does it a lot. They retreat to their caves, so Imogen said. It was in one of her self-help books. I really should buy some. I’m sure they would make all the difference. Then again, looking at Imogen, maybe not.

  Mak had nodded knowingly and went all philosophical. ‘Oh the cave thing,’ he said. ‘I never really understood that thing about the caves.’ To which Imogen had replied, ‘You probably have to be macho like Daniel.’ If you ask me, Daniel lives in his cave but there’s no point telling Imogen that. She’s totally convinced that Daniel is going to leave his wife this year and has even been looking at wedding dresses. The day Imogen becomes Mrs Daniel Marks, wife of top London solicitor, is the day I win the lottery.

  Mak said he would only unfriend someone if they pissed him off and it had nothing to do with caves. I think I did piss Ashby off with the green vomit and everyone agreed it hadn’t been my best move.

  Imogen shoved her iPhone in my face. It was a photo of a broad muscular blonde Adonis in running gear.

  ‘This is the kind of talent you get on Tinder,’ she’d giggled.

  Mak had drooled a bit and then agreed that Tinder did indeed have some better hunks than Grindr.

  Mak is my best boyfriend, and bent as a two bob note as my mother would say. Mum thinks I’m only friends with him because it’s fashionable. My mum honestly, she’s so out of date. She still thinks it’s racy to read Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I don’t have the heart to tell her Fifty Shades has taken over the number one spot when it comes to sexy reads. Mak is the most handsome man ever. He has more piercings than a pin cushion. His wit, flamboyance and chic style are the reasons we all love him so much. Mak is the only person I know whose fashion sense matches my own. He livens up the dullest of parties. Mak works in the optician department of Lynworths, sizing up frames. I’ve shed more tears on Mak’s gay shoulders than I can count. Mostly over Ashby. In fact, come to think of it, only ever over Ashby.

  Hate myself. Of course Ashby prefers Essex Earring, slim, high-cheekboned, Riyana. Men prefer slim, long-legged, high-cheekboned women to chubby, New-Year-bulging women don’t they? How stupid of me, silly Phoebe Smith, to think he would phone. I’ve not had so much as a text. He’s probably with her right now, the two-timing shagging bastard.

  ‘I’m going to be thirty-four,’ I’d said miserably. The champagne was making me feel very sorry for myself. I didn’t mind being thirty-four. I just didn’t want to be thirty-four without a boyfriend. Imogen reminded me that I still have a few weeks before my birthday and slid into the next picture of a black hunk flexing his muscles. Mak took a liking to that one and said he could knock on his door any time.

  God, how did I get to be almost thirty-four? Obviously I know how, but when did it happen? One minute I was in my twenties and now look at me. I’ll be dead before I know it.

  Imogen decided to search for Nigel Taylor-Lynworth. But it seemed he wasn’t on Tinder. I wasn’t surprised. A good-looking guy like him doesn’t need Tinder to get a woman.

  Announced I was going to get my eggs frozen. It seemed a good idea at the time. At least it would calm my mother down a bit. Mak took this as a cue to order a round of absinthe. Fifteen minutes later and I was on my second glass of the green fairy. If absinthe doesn’t fix it, nothing will. I swallowed the aniseed liquid and thought of Ashby.

  How could he unfriend me? Being unfriended on Facebook is the worst feeling ever. I’ve been known to hit the absinthe when someone I don’t even know has unfriended me. Why do people unfriend? Don’t they realise how devastating it is? What kind of person am I that people don’t want to stay Facebook friends with me?

  I remember mumbling something about getting my eggs cooked and Mak ordering more absinthe and saying how it was clearly working. I don’t remember much else.

  *

  Saturday 6th January: 5pm

  I had to trudge along to bloody protest about flats. Hone
stly, it really was the worst time of year to be protesting. But Jenny had spent weeks organising it and I really hadn’t wanted to let her down. Although, I must admit, I did think about it. After all, figured there would be loads there. Jenny had been advertising it for months on lamp posts and in the local rag, so I figured they probably wouldn’t miss me. But then again, I really didn’t want to be the only one in the block who hadn’t turned up. The plan was to stand on the Embankment and protest loudly about Bloom Properties and their corrupt methods. Although, no one seemed able to discover what their corrupt methods were, so eventually, Jenny had advised against that. So the placards were to read ‘Down with Bloom Properties’, ‘Save affordable housing’, ‘No more homeless’ and ‘Stop capitalist developers’.

  Really wasn’t keen on having my nipples turn to ice cubes and my toes develop frostbite. Donned two thick jumpers, two pairs of gloves and socks and a beanie and made my way reluctantly to the Tate Modern. Really wanted to be committed and all that but it is far easier doing your Vanessa Redgrave bit in the summer. So off I’d trotted fully expecting a good turn out as Jenny had phoned the media and had apparently even contacted Russell Brand’s publicity machine.

  So I couldn’t believe it when I arrived outside the Tate Modern. Was expecting crowds and seriously wondered if I’d got the meeting place wrong. Or possibly the time, but then I spotted them, all bloody six of them and that included me. No sodding sign of Russell Brand. He was probably all cosied up in front of a warm fire with his new chick, whoever that may have been, which is exactly where I should have been. Next to a warm fire, I mean, not with Russell Brand. I can assure you meeting Russell Brand is most certainly not on my bucket list.

  There were more placards than people.

  Jenny’s eyes had shone with relief at seeing me. Apparently a few had cried off because of the weather.