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

  Ooh, extremely bad move.

  ‘I’m not doing the harassing; Henry Millstone is the one harassing me at work.’

  ‘I’m thinking that perhaps Lynworths is not the place for you. You show serious errors of judgement Miss Smith. I think we’re both agreed that you’d be far more comfortable working somewhere else. I think a month’s notice is fair.’

  ‘Am I being fired?’

  I smile and lift my coffee cup, pushing the intercom towards him.

  ‘Why don’t we ask the other employees what they think,’ I say and turn to the door.

  Check.

  When I turn back his face is ashen and his look could kill at ten paces.

  ‘Oh, and if you’re going to be a sexist pig Mr Lynworth, at least be accurate. I don’t just have huge breasts, I have fantastic huge breasts.’

  And checkmate. Oh yes, way to go Phoebe Smith.

  *

  Monday 19th February: 7 pm

  I really couldn’t believe I actually did it. Marsha had applauded as I left the office and given me a look of respect. Couldn’t imagine what Nigel Taylor-Lynworth was thinking. Almost expected an immediate text from him, telling me I was fired. But it never came. Can’t help wondering if I went too far; after all, it’s a bit embarrassing knowing the whole store heard our conversation. Especially that bit about my huge breasts. I suppose everyone will be looking at them now. They’re not in the least huge either, although they’re nothing to be ashamed of. Keep telling myself I had no other choice. I don’t see why I should have left as if I was the one in the wrong. The only thing I was guilty of was being a woman. I’d walked into Menswear to applause and cheers. I’d got my coat and walked straight out of the doors of Lynworths and into the cold February day and past the protesting women. I suppose I should have stopped and asked them how they knew about Henry but I was still in a state of shock.

  Imogen had said the Menswear department came to a standstill. They couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Henry had fled to the off-site stock room and stayed there for the rest of the day.

  Mak later told me that some other women said that Henry had been harassing them too. Couldn’t imagine how he found the time. Felt very proud of myself for standing up for what was right. Have no idea what will happen to my job. Imogen says I should go in tomorrow as usual unless I hear to the contrary. The protest ended shortly after with the police moving the women on.

  Have decided not to look for a man any longer as feeling more and more depressed with each one I meet. I really don’t believe that nonsense that everyone has a soulmate. Mine must be hiding under a rock or something. Have decided the Guildhall doesn’t really matter any more. I probably won’t be going now anyway. Wonder what Ashby thinks about it all. The protest was on the local news this evening. Had awful visions that I might be featured as the sexually harassed woman who left the store as ‘Phoebe Smith aged 42.’ Couldn’t bear looking at it so turned it off. Really can’t help wondering why that reporter thought I was thirty-seven. God, I bet it’s all these men that have aged me. After all, it’s well known that after smoking, stress is the worst thing for your skin. God, don’t want to look old before my time. Slapped on some of that expensive face cream. Who knows when I’ll be able to buy more? Must get into a proper skincare routine, cleanse, polish, moisture and all that. That’s what the celebrities do isn’t it? They always look young in the photos but that’s probably got a lot to do with airbrushing. Hate being a woman. Aside from the sexual harassment there is just so much more to contend with. Men have it made. No periods for them. No pregnancies or tearing of vaginas. No mastitis or sodding smear tests, no premenstrual tension or post-baby blues. I suppose they would say they do suffer the premenstrual syndrome from the other side but it can’t be as bad though. Wish I had a penis. Life would be so much simpler.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  At precisely 10:30 pm the shit hit the fan. Just like that, without any warning. I’m quietly stuffing a Besties into my mouth and polishing off my second glass of red wine when the door buzzer sounds. Oh what? I was just about to go to bed. At least I know it isn’t Harry Bloom, he’d just thump on the door. The buzzer doesn’t just go once either, it goes several times. I check the time. Who can be calling this late? Even the Jehovah Witnesses have some respect. I curse, slide my feet into the fluffy slippers that Mum bought me for Christmas, and shuffle to the entry phone.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s us,’ crackles Imogen and Mak in unison. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘It’s ten thirty,’ I say, sounding like an old woman. ‘I’m about to go to bed.’

  ‘Bed?’ squeals Imogen. ‘O. M. G., she doesn’t know.’

  What don’t I know?

  ‘Let us in,’ cries Mak. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  I push the button for the door and watch them bounding up the stairs.

  ‘What’s the emergency?’ I ask.

  ‘Fuck it all Phoeb, don’t you know?’

  Know what?

  ‘Oh shit, I need the loo,’ says Imogen pushing past me.

  ‘I was about to go to bed,’ I say.

  Mak grabs my arm and pulls me on to the couch.

  ‘Bloody hell, Phoeb, you’ve only gone viral.’

  ‘I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather but I don’t think I’m going down with anything,’ I say.

  ‘When did you make your blog public?’ he asks.

  My head spins. He grabs a glass from the kitchen and fills it with wine.

  ‘My blog isn’t public,’ I say.

  ‘Oh yes it is petal,’ he says excitedly, scrolling into my blog page.

  ‘You’ve got a thousand unread comments,’ he says clicking into them.

  I stare at the screen. My fuddled brain can’t understand what he’s saying.

  ‘I don’t get it. It’s a private blog.’

  Imogen joins us and stares longingly at the wine.

  ‘There you go,’ says Mak. ‘You went live on the 4th Feb. You had the notifications turned off. That’s why you weren’t aware of the responses.’

  My brain whirs. That was the day after the Christmas party. Nothing happened on the 4th of February.

  ‘I don’t … I didn’t make it live. I can’t even remember going on there. I had Brat Face and …’

  Oh holy shit. Buggering Brat Face. Oh no, I don’t believe it. Brat Face made my blog live.

  ‘But how did you know it was live?’ I ask.

  ‘It was on the local TV news. One of the protesters from outside Lynworths said she’d been following your blog. We had to look it up petal.’

  ‘Didn’t you see the news?’ asks Imogen.

  ‘I turned it off,’ I say. ‘Oh no,’ I groan. ‘Who’s seen the blog?’

  ‘It’s more a case of who hasn’t seen it love,’ says Mak. ‘You’ve 50,000 followers and counting. And someone recorded the conversation you had with Mr Taylor-Lynworth today. It was on YouTube. It went viral but we think he got it off because it’s not there now.’

  ‘We’ve been texting and WhatsApping you,’ says Imogen.

  I look at my phone. Shit, I’d turned if off. I didn’t want to get an irate message from Nigel.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I groan. ‘Do you think my mother’s seen it?’

  Mak grimaces.

  ‘Is she on Facebook?’ he asks.

  I gawp.

  ‘It’s on Facebook?’

  ‘Well, the YouTube link was. That’s probably gone but your hashtag is trending.’

  ‘I’m a hashtag?’

  How can I, Phoebe Smith, be a hashtag? You have to be famous or do something terrible to be a hashtag don’t you?

  ‘Shit,’ I say again, and down my wine. ‘I need a pork pie.’

  ‘We bought some,’ says Imogen, rummaging in a carrier bag. ‘And lots of chocolate for me. Thanks to you, Daniel never wants to see me again. Said his wife was devastated to read about my pregnancy on your blog. I’d actually told him I’d had the a
bortion.’

  ‘Oh Gem, I’m so sorry. It was a private blog. It was bloody Brat Face.’

  ‘I’m not bothered. He’s a prick. I feel sorry for his wife. It’s a bugger everyone at work has to know though, especially about the abortion. Anyway, fuck ‘em and it serves him right.’

  ‘Oh God, what have I done?’

  ‘I’m glad I never told you my sex secrets,’ smiles Mak.

  I turn my phone on and we all stare at it as it vibrates and bleeps manically.

  ‘I can’t look at it,’ I say.

  Imogen picks it up and pulls a face.

  ‘A text from Rita. You call my child Brat Face? Do you know how hurtful that is?’

  ‘Ouch,’ says Mak.

  ‘Oh, your mum has tried to call you three times. There’s quite a few voice mail messages. Another from Rita. Roger was very insulted to be called psychotic. Please delete those postings and call me.’

  Oh hell, Harry Bloom. He’ll know how much I hate him. I know he knows I hate him but he didn’t know how much. Why I’m worried what Harry Bloom will think I don’t know. Oh treble shit, I also said I rather liked how he made me feel. He’s also going to know how I’ve been stalking him on the internet. This is truly terrible. It shouldn’t be so easy for someone to keep an online blog.

  ‘Oh God, I called Harry’s girlfriend horsey mouth Jilly.’

  ‘I can’t wait to read the whole thing,’ says Mak excitedly.

  ‘You’ve got to get it off,’ I yell.

  ‘You want me to delete it?’ he asks.

  ‘Just take it off.’

  ‘But you’ll lose all your posts. This could be your stepping stone to fame.’

  I pour more wine into my glass.

  ‘Marcia Plumb is suing you,’ says Imogen, handing me my phone. ‘Apparently you mocked her addiction and compared it to your own addiction to pork pies.’

  ‘Oh Christ, this is getting worse.’

  ‘I can copy all the blog postings,’ says Mak, ‘should you want them and then delete the blog.’

  ‘Ooh one has just come through from Nigel,’ says Imogen.

  We all hold our breath.

  I think we should meet Miss Smith. This is all very unfortunate. I would kindly ask you to remove all blog postings that reference Lynworths. This has caused Henry great distress. I think it would be wise for you to take a few days off until this blows over.

  ‘Bugger Henry, what about old Phoebe here?’ says Mak.

  Less of the old, thank you very much. Oh no, what if I make the local paper. I must have looked ancient when I walked out of the store. I try to remember if I saw any cameramen. I can just picture the piece. ‘Phoebe Smith aged 49’

  I exhale, and top up my wine glass.

  ‘Does that mean she still has her job?’ asks Imogen.

  ‘Christ, they’d be too scared to sack her now, flower.’

  ‘I don’t understand how this happened,’ I say downing the wine in one.

  Oh God, I’ve just realised. Everyone, including Ashby and Harry Bloom, will know about my sturdy pants and longline bra. This is so mortifying to be beyond words.

  ‘The recorded message I guess. Everyone then looked you up. The protest was inspired by your blog. The protest group called … oh what is it Gem?’

  ‘S.H.A.G.’ says Imogen.

  ‘Shag?’ I repeat.

  ‘Sexual Harassment Activist Group, you’ve got to love it. Anyway they’ve been reading your blog and wanted to support you.’

  ‘Oh great, not that I’m ungrateful or anything but it has made things a touch worse.’

  ‘They put you on their site early this evening after the recording went on social media. After that it just went wild and I guess everyone has been viewing the blog. While you’ve been sitting here watching Coronation Street and eating pork pies darling, you’ve become a sensation.’

  ‘You’re an inspiration to women,’ says Imogen gleefully, tucking into a bag of Minstrels. I grab a bag myself and wolf them down.

  ‘Everyone will know I can’t get a man,’ I say.

  And to me that is the worst part about the whole thing. No woman wants to be seen as desperate do they, and right now I look as desperate as it gets.

  ChapterForty-Five

  Mak and Imogen weren’t wrong when they said it was an emergency. Funny thing is I missed writing in the blog so much that I finally resorted to an old WH Smith notebook so I could carry on. It’s like being a crack addict. You just can’t stop once you start. What a mess it’s all become, although I am now an inspiration to women the world over in the manner of Oprah Winfrey. Well, okay, maybe in England anyway. But that’s something of an achievement. Unfortunately I’ve also managed to alienate my family at the same time.

  Honestly, everyone knows that blogs and diaries are just a way of expressing yourself. It doesn’t mean that everything you say you actually mean does it?

  I stir milk into the coffees and take them into the living room where Rita sits with a stony expression on her face and where Mum is tidying up.

  ‘It’s only a blog,’ I say. ‘No one was supposed to see it.’

  ‘Huh,’ exclaims Rita. ‘The whole sodding world has seen it now.’

  ‘Still,’ says Mum, ‘at least people will know that you paid to go out with that Malcolm chap. Lilian next door said she was quite relieved to know that you didn’t meet him the normal way.’

  ‘For God’s sake mother,’ I snap. ‘Malcolm is my friend.’

  ‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,’ she says.

  ‘You sound like sodding Jeremy,’ says Rita.

  ‘Don’t swear Rita, you’re married to a minister.’

  ‘Don’t I know it? Mind you I might not be for much longer,’ says Rita, pulling out a breast and plonking Emma on to it. ‘Did you really have to mention in your sodding blog that Niall was named after my ex?’

  ‘You’re leaking dear,’ mumbles Mum, rushing forward with a tea towel.

  ‘Everything has leaked,’ says Rita miserably.

  Anyone would think this was the Levinson enquiry.

  ‘He’ll get over it. Imagine what it’s like for Phoebe. Everyone knowing how desperate she is to get a man and everyone saying she’s older than she actually is and to have an activist group named SHAG supporting her and …’

  ‘Yes, thanks Mum. I think that’s enough to encourage me to put a noose around my neck.’

  ‘You didn’t have to mention my breasts,’ says Rita, ignoring Mum.

  What I wouldn’t do for a pork pie, or two come to that.

  ‘I only mentioned them in one blog posting.’

  At least I think I did.

  ‘All the same.’

  Is she going to go on about her breasts for the whole afternoon? My phone trills again and Mum puts another cushion on top of it.

  ‘I imagine you’ll be inundated with men to take you to the Guildhall now,’ says Mum.

  ‘I’m meeting Ashby later,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sure you can do better than that dear,’ says Mum.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ huffs Rita. ‘Who wants to go out with a woman who shares all your sodding secrets?’

  ‘It was a private blog until …’

  ‘You couldn’t control a three-year-old,’ she interrupts.

  Huh, she can’t control said bloody three-year-old and he’s her child. I’m not going to crawl into a hole and die. I’ve got nothing to apologise for. It was a blog. I’m entitled to write my private thoughts. Okay, it’s a bit unfortunate that half the country is reading them now but everyone knows blogs are just ramblings don’t they?

  I so wish I hadn’t rambled on about how much I wanted Ashby back though. I bet he’s going to be all smug later. I could throttle Brat Face, I really could.

  My phone rings again.

  ‘You really should answer it you know,’ says Rita.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ I say.

  ‘I can barely look the congregation in the
eye,’ says Rita, standing up and spurting breast milk.

  ‘I imagine you can’t if you do that every time.’

  She stares at me for a second and then bursts out laughing.

  ‘I must admit that bit when I squirted on the Garibaldi was funny.’

  ‘What bit was that?’ asks Mum.

  I laugh with her and then we’re hugging.

  ‘I’m sorry my little horror exposed it all,’ says Rita.

  ‘It’s probably for the best,’ I say.

  The best for who though, I’m not sure.

  *

  Diary entry: Tuesday February 20th - Fallout day.

  I finally checked my phone. It took over an hour. It was a bit like watching a horror movie through the gaps in your fingers. I read the messages through squinted eyes.

  Text from Mak:

  ‘Henry has gone. Think he has been suspended. Everyone is talking about you, in a nice way of course.’

  Oh, of course. I somehow think not. Had a WhatsApp from Ashby asking if we’re still on for tonight. Can’t decide if we are or not.

  Text from Nigel:

  ‘Phoebe, let HR know when you’re ready to come back. No rush. Let me know when you’re free to meet. Can I reiterate that you remove all postings on your blog that reference Lynworths?’

  Huh, remove the posts about him is what he means.

  Blog is still there but says ‘Under Construction’. That no doubt has him worried.

  Text from my mum:

  ‘Wondered if you could give a little talk at The W.I. next week.’

  Talk about what exactly? How I can’t get a man? My friend’s almost abortion or Rita’s leaking breasts? I can’t think of one subject that would be suitable for the W.I. Can’t believe my mum is taking advantage of my predicament.

  I’ve been chucked off the ‘Save our Homes from Bloom’ committee. They don’t want someone whose name is connected to a group named SHAG. Felt quite indignant about that. There’s nothing wrong with a group who fights against sexual harassment.

  Loads of emails from women supporting me and asking when the blog is going back up and loads from men offering to be my date for the Guildhall. I’m overcome with FB friend requests and my Twitter followers have trebled. I’ve had to make my Instagram account private. I don’t want everyone knowing what I look like. No doubt, they’ll be looking for my Christmas bulge. Could die from the shame.