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

  Blimey, I’ve never been in such demand.

  An email from my landlord telling me that my tenancy would be taken over by the new owners who I’d be hearing from very soon and that he hoped I would be as happy with my new landlord as I was with him. I think not. I imagine Harry Bloom has read my blog. Have a feeling my rent will be sky high.

  Text from Marcia Plumb telling me I’d be hearing from her solicitor.

  God, I’d need Amal Clooney to get me out of this lot. Wonder if Citizen’s Advice handles these sorts of cases. Almost thirty-four and … Oh Christ, it’s my birthday tomorrow. Totally forgot.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I spend ages trying to decide what to wear. I’ve got an army of online supporters now. There is a forum where they discuss me and my love life. It feels very weird to have strangers talking about me.

  ‘I think Phoebe should tell Ashby where to get off,’ says one.

  ‘I bet he’ll want to see her now she’s high profile,’ says another.

  God, I never thought of that.

  ‘He seems too weak for her, now Harry Bloom, he sounds gorgeous.’

  I blush. I can’t disagree. Harry Bloom is rather gorgeous.

  ‘I think Malcolm is the best of the bunch.’

  I nod. He’s a very nice man, I can’t deny that but I don’t think Malcolm is for me.

  ‘I hope Imogen gets off with him.’

  I hope that too. Oh God, I hope Malcolm doesn’t see this. I wonder if Harry Bloom has seen the forum. I bypass all the notifications on my phone and scroll into Harry’s Instagram account. There are some new photos of him taken at The Blue Note. I scroll into the photo of us to see if there are any new comments and almost pass out. There are hundreds. I wonder why he hasn’t taken it off. He must have seen the comments. I feel tempted to check all the #phoebeandharry posts but fight back the urge.

  I press my ear to the wall and struggle to hear if he’s home, but its silent. It’s been silent for days. God, he’s not dead is he? No, of course not, what a stupid thought. Harry Bloom is a young healthy male. I feel myself grow hot at the thought. Had it been Mr Tyler living next door I might have been more concerned. I turn my attention back to the forum.

  ‘She should be on TV. I was ROFL,’ from a girl named ‘Gingerhead’.

  I can’t say I’m exactly rolling around the floor.

  ‘Anyone managed to get the Joe and Paul perfume?’

  Holy shit, they’re actually buying my perfume. Well, it’s not my perfume, I know that, but wow, that’s pretty flattering. Maybe I should design my own perfume. I can call it Eau de Phoebe. What a brainwave. I could start my own business. At least I’d be able to pay the rent and stick two fingers up at Harry Bloom. Ha, that would be good. I look at the wall. He’s usually home on a Tuesday. Not that I make a note of when Harry Bloom is home. I couldn’t care less when he’s there, unless he’s playing his drums.

  I close the lid on my laptop and search through my wardrobe. I’ve no idea what to wear for meeting Ashby. I pull out my Chanel shoes and then throw them back. It’s only a drink at the pub. Finally, I choose a grey cashmere jumper and a pair of jeans and shove my feet into a pair of Sketchers. I grab my bag and coat and head for the door just as my phone bleeps. The thing is starting to drive me mad. I quickly check it isn’t a message from Ashby cancelling our date and see it is an email from the Besties company. God, don’t tell me they’re suing me as well. Is it a crime to eat pork pies?

  Dear Miss Smith,

  We were delighted to read on your blog how much you enjoy our pork pies. We would like to discuss the possibility of you working with our marketing team by becoming the face of Besties pork pies.

  Please call me at your earliest convenience,

  Sincerely

  Patricia Jones

  Marketing Manager

  That’s typical isn’t it? Helen Mirren gets asked to be the face of L’Oréal while Eve Mendes gets to be the face of Estée Lauder and what do I get? Phoebe Smith, the face of Besties pork pies.

  *

  As the new face of Besties pork pies I make my way to the local. I thought it best to wear sunglasses. Well, I am a minor celebrity and this is my first public appearance since the shit hit the fan. The problem is I can’t see anything. It’s already dark so with the added darkness of sunglasses I’m starting to know how Stevie Wonder feels. I pull them off as I enter the pub and look around for Ashby. He waves from across the room and I make my way towards him.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, forcing a smile.

  ‘I got you a white wine,’ he says, waiting for me to sit down.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘So, how about SHAG then?’

  I fall into my seat. Good God, he’s not wasting any time is he?

  ‘Ashby?’ I say.

  He looks puzzled.

  ‘Oh no no,’ he says, his face colouring. ‘I mean, how about that group SHAG making the local radio today. They were full of praise for you.’

  ‘They were?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear it?’

  I shake my head.

  He clinks his glass against mine.

  ‘I’m proud of you too for standing up to Henry and Mr Taylor-Lynworth.’

  I wish I could say I was proud of Ashby for standing up to them but he didn’t did he? If I remember he blatantly ignored Henry when he was harassing me.

  ‘Thanks Ashby. Was that why you wanted to see me?’

  ‘I’d read your blog and I thought it was a bit unkind to call Riyana Essex Earring. She was really upset about it and I was going to ask you to take it off and then yesterday all hell broke loose and …’

  ‘Yeah, it felt a bit like an avalanche.’

  ‘Anyway, she was understandably upset.’

  He takes a large gulp of wine. Have I come here to discuss bloody Essex Earring all night?

  ‘Right, well it’s just a blog Ashby.’

  I’m sounding like a broken record.

  ‘Absolutely, that’s what I said. That’s why we argued yesterday and I broke it off.’

  ‘Broke what off?’ I ask.

  ‘Our relationship, it hasn’t been working for a while.’

  It hasn’t?

  ‘You’ve broken up with Essex … Riyana?’ I say in disbelief.

  ‘Are you going to be on the radio?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Or even on the TV?’

  As the face of Besties Pork Pies? I hope not.

  ‘I’ve not gone through all my messages yet. I don’t know if anyone has asked.’

  ‘You need an agent,’ he smiles. ‘I bet your phone’s constantly going.’

  Not while it’s on silent it’s not. I’m seriously considering getting another phone just for personal calls. Princess Diana had three mobiles didn’t she? Okay, down to earth, Phoebe Smith. Being the face of Besties pork pies doesn’t exactly put you in the royal league, but having said that, is Pippa Middleton the face of anything?

  I can’t help remembering all those pathetic posts I’d written about how desperately I wanted to make Ashby jealous, especially that one about how I had to hire an escort as my date. I blush at the memory.

  ‘You’re not looking fat at all,’ he says suddenly.

  ‘Who said I was?’ I say defensively.

  ‘You did, in your blog.’

  ‘Ah,’ I smile.

  ‘I can’t see a Christmas bulge anywhere.’

  Thanks for pointing that out Ashby.

  ‘I’ll get us another drink,’ he says, jumping up. I look down and am amazed to see I’ve finished my wine. I watch him walk to the bar. I can’t believe he’s broken up with Essex Earring. He returns with another wine and removes his jacket. He smiles at me confidently. The bugger knows how much I want to get back with him. He also knows how hard I struggled to find a date for the Guildhall. There’s nothing like public acknowledgement of your worth to make you feel good is there?

  ‘There’s
talk at work that Brian is up for Henry’s job and that the manager position in Menswear will be going for grabs.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, my ears pricking up.

  They couldn’t stop me applying could they? Not unless they want SHAG outside the store again.

  ‘Hello Phoebe Smith,’ says a voice.

  I turn around to see Daniel. Oh shit. It never rains but it pours.

  ‘Daniel, we don’t often see you in these parts. Fortunately.’

  His eyes narrow. I can’t think what Imogen sees in the bloke. He’s the ugliest sod I’ve ever met.

  ‘You’re a complete narcissist Phoebe. I can’t imagine how many lives you’ve ruined with that blog.’

  ’I can’t imagine how many lives you’ve ruined with that cock,’ I say bluntly.

  He splutters.

  ‘Did you think about Imogen?’ he says angrily, his face turning a strange purple colour. God, I hope he doesn’t have a heart attack. Imogen said he had high blood pressure.

  ‘No, did you?’

  ‘I’ve got a family.’

  ‘Just remembered them, have you?’

  ‘Fuck you, Phoebe Smith.’

  ‘Fuck you, Daniel.’

  ‘Fuck you Ashby,’ he snarls, although I’m not sure what Ashby has got to do with any of it. Ashby opens and closes his mouth. What’s wrong with him? Can’t he stand up to anyone?

  ‘Is Imogen with you?’ Daniel asks.

  ‘Not when I last looked.’

  He’s such a dick.

  ‘I can’t even be sure it’s mine and …’

  I don’t even give myself time to think the action through. It seems like the right one and I go for it. I pick up my wine and throw it in his face.

  ‘Piss off Daniel before Ashby makes you.’

  Ashby turns white.

  ‘Phoebe …’ he begins.

  Daniel splutters and pats at his face with a tissue.

  ‘You bitch,’ he mutters through tight lips.

  ‘Thanks for the compliment.’

  He gives us a stern look and then turns on his heel, muttering ‘she owes me three hundred quid, the little gold-digger.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ mumbles Ashby. ‘He’s bloody mad isn’t he?’

  I look down at my empty glass. What a waste of wine.

  ‘I’ll get you another,’ he says jumping up.

  I’ve never known Ashby to wait on me so much. He returns with a large glass.

  ‘It’s your birthday tomorrow,’ he says, as if I didn’t know.

  ‘Yes, I’m thirty-four,’ I say, just in case he’s unsure and thinks I’m thirty-seven, or was it thirty-nine, the paper said? All I know is that I feel eighty.

  ‘Are you doing anything special?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘We could go out for dinner,’ he says. ‘Make it special.’

  ‘But … Essex … I mean, Riyana. You couldn’t have broken up because of the blog.’

  ‘It’s been rocky for a while,’ he says dismissively. ‘So what do you think? How about Ramero’s, I can book a table.’

  At the risk of sounding narcissistic, supposing that woman in the forum is right and Ashby only wants me because I’m high profile? After all, I could soon be the face of Besties pork pies. I feel that this birthday is a landmark for me. Turning thirty-four means not worrying whether you have a party or not. I imagine everyone has forgotten about my birthday what with this whole blog thing. Thirty-four, Christ, how did that happen? Still, no point dwelling on it. I’ll spend the day going through my clothes, looking for jobs and maybe even applying for Brian’s, and later I’ll eat a muffin or two with a glass of wine and have an early night. After all, I’ve got to stave off those wrinkles.

  ‘Thanks Ashby but I’ve decided to spend my birthday alone and do some reflecting.’

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Reflect on what?’

  ‘My life.’

  ‘But I thought …’

  ‘What did you think Ashby?’

  ‘That … that you were … that you …’

  I widen my eyes. That I was desperate, is he trying to say?

  ‘Text me if you change your mind,’ he finishes.

  I nod.

  ‘Best go, loads to catch up on,’ I say.

  I grab my bag and walk from the pub. I don’t believe it. I had Ashby eating out of the palm of my hand. I’d dreamt of this day and now I realise that I don’t want him at all. I almost feel sorry for Essex Earring, but only almost.

  *

  Diary entry: Wednesday 21st 9 am

  My Birthday

  Post hasn’t arrived yet. Not expecting any cards or pressies as I think everyone has forgotten due to the blog explosion.

  Who’d have thought a blog could be so powerful? I have removed all postings that mention Lynworths in a bad light. Mak said it was safer.

  Had an email from ‘Luxury for Women’ offering Rita and I a fifty-pound voucher to thank me for featuring them on my blog. That cheered Rita up no end. Not that fifty pound will go far in that shop but, every little bit helps. Quite excited about going in there again especially as bank has offered me a larger overdraft. Who gets that without begging?

  Have a meeting on Friday with Besties to discuss me being the face of Besties pork pies. Can’t help wondering where my face is going to go. Could be off-putting if it is on the wrapper. I don’t want my face staring up at me when I take a bite. Couldn’t believe it when I had an email from Burberry. Offered me a real Burberry handbag in place of my fake one if I’ll mention it on the blog. I shall use it every day and will not let it get into a muddle. Mak is going to set me up with a new blog named ‘Phoebe’s Fakes’ or something like that. I am not sure if it makes me sound a bit shallow, or even not very trustworthy. I’ve yet to come up with a better title. But very excited and will share lots of fashion ideas on it. I keep checking to see if I’ve had an email from Chanel. Oh well, you can’t have everything I suppose.

  Elizabeth Snograss unfriended me on FB, said I’d upset her mother. Huh, her mother rather upset me with her condescending tone towards Malcolm and asking him if he ate normal food indeed. Mrs Snograss pushed a letter through the letter box and said I’d hinted she was a racist on my blog. She is a racist, her and my mum, they make a right pair.

  Seemed Marcia Plumb changed her mind about suing me. Was relieved. Couldn’t afford a solicitor, not even with the new overdraft. I had to post an apology on my Facebook page. Said I felt sure addiction to pork pies was nowhere near as bad as a real addiction. Lots of pork pie eaters disagreed but you can’t please everyone. So, I apologised to my fellow pork pie eaters too.

  Have decided not to try and lose weight at the moment, not after a huge box of blueberry muffins was delivered from my local Sainsbury’s. I really should have got that Nectar card. I reckon they would have dumped loads of points on to it.

  Couldn’t believe Lycra shorts Nick tweeted me. Said I was the worst date he’d ever had. Bloody cheek. That my eating habits appalled him, apparently.

  ‘All those pork pies,’ he’d written. ‘They’re furring up your arteries.’

  Well Lycra shorts Nick, I didn’t think much of your eating habits either. He got loads of sponsors for his bike ride, thanks to me. I didn’t hear a word about that though.

  Mum phoned, very excited, said I was in the local paper again. Honestly, they can’t get anything right. Now I’m Phoebe Smithson, aged 39. Seriously how could they get Smith wrong? Never going to believe anything the newspapers say again.

  Ooh just had phone call from local radio. They want me to go on and talk about the protest outside the store. I suddenly feel very political. Must read up on sexual harassment rules and give out good advice. I make a note to post the link on Facebook.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  ‘Happy Birthday.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, opening the door. ‘I thought you’d all forgotten.’

  I feel quite emotional seeing them all bounding up the sta
irs with prettily wrapped presents in their hands.

  ‘Happy birthday love,’ says Mak, handing me a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ smiles Malcolm.

  I take his small expertly wrapped present.

  ‘We’ve brought all manner of good things,’ says Jasper, holding up a bottle of Dubonnet and two packs of Besties.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re all here,’ I say, welling up.

  ‘No crying on your birthday,’ scolds Imogen.

  Of course, after deciding not to celebrate my birthday, I realised that the last thing I really wanted was to be alone. Just because I’m thirty-four it doesn’t mean I don’t want to get shit-faced on my birthday, does it? I’ve had loads of birthday messages on Facebook and Twitter.

  Rita had sent a cute card of two girls kissing and wrote ‘Happy birthday sis. Love you with all your flaws.’

  Mum and Dad sent a card along with a yoga mat and a book on meditation. Mum had Facetimed me again. I so wish she wouldn’t do that when she has her friends round. She moved the phone around so much that I felt dizzy.

  ‘Rhoda wants to say happy birthday. Where are you Rhoda?’

  At one point I was talking to a bunch of bananas on her kitchen counter.

  ‘What’s this?’ says Mak, nudging me.

  He wrinkles his nose and taps my baggy leggings and oversize top with his finger.

  ‘Yuk darling. Not what I’d expect from the queen of fakes.’

  ‘Tart yourself up while we heat the food,’ instructs Jasper.

  ‘But the flat is …’

  ‘More than big enough,’ interrupts Mak. ‘Imogen, glasses and cutlery please and no skiving just because you’ve got a bun in the oven.’

  I laugh and hug him before I’m pushed into the bedroom. I so love my friends. They’d all been terribly forgiving about the blog. Mak had joked that he would have written far worse things about me. I happily climb out of my jogging pants and pull on my favourite black dress. I knot my hair at the back and apply some blusher to my cheeks. By the time I return the table is half laid with boxes of Thai food. It smells divine.