The Calendar Game (The Alpha Series Book 2) Page 4

'I've had sex with women I didn't want to, but I've never tried to kill anyone. I can't believe that happened to you, but I don't know anything about it. I heard the same rumours as everyone else. That you tried to top yourself.'

  'Well I didn't.'

  He scratches his chin. 'Well I know that now. God, I'm sorry Ronnie, but Arnie could have had anyone in there on his payroll, seriously.'

  I nod at him. 'I guess so.'

  He takes a drink. 'I still can't believe I'm finally fucking free of him to be honest. How are Gabe and Stella doing anyway?'

  'They're getting married. Next Christmas.'

  'Really? Well good for them. They had a kid didn't they?'

  'Athena. Yeah.'

  'So how is it, your best friend being in the states?'

  'It's a crock of fucking shite. I have no friends.'

  'I'll be your friend.'

  I decide that's my cue to leave and call the waitress over. 'Can I have the bill, please.'

  'I'll get this,' says Harry.

  I nod and thank him.

  'You can get the next.'

  'There won't be a next. I don't think my boyfriend would be very pleased at me having a new male best friend called Harry Taylor.'

  'Damn, my reputation spoils everything.'

  'Harry, your reputation is everything. You're more famous for that than your football.'

  'True. Something has to pay the bills. Well, I still want you to do my garden, so he'll have to get used to it.'

  I sigh. 'It's work. He'll be fine with it.' I get up. 'Thanks for lunch.'

  He stands up himself and then helps me into my coat.

  'The pleasure was all mine, Ronnie,' he says. 'If you don't believe me, look at my crotch.'

  I shake my head. Harry is a male version of me. There's no hope for him.

  We leave the restaurant and a series of flashes go off in our faces.

  The press are here.

  'Oh God. Get behind me Ronnie. I have this everywhere I go. Can't even piss in private.' Harry grabs hold of my hand and steers me behind him. Before I'm looking at his back however, I see him flash a mega-watt smile at the camera before putting his hand up to his face and shouting 'enough, please.'

  I free my hand and stomp off towards the tube station.

  The press start to follow me.

  'Ronnie. Give us a smile.'

  'Ronnie. Don't karate chop us, will you?'

  'Ronnie. How's the ladygarden?'

  I turn around like a rabbit in headlights to find myself surrounded. Harry is a few metres away, running his hands through his hair, he stares at me. His jaw sets and then he sets off towards me, pushing through the journalists. He grabs my hand again and steers me into the nearest taxi.

  'Wow. A star is born. Ronnie, I didn't get to see your interview this morning. What did you do?'

  'I talked about my minge on morning television.'

  Harry snorts and shakes his head. 'Jeez, Ronnie. Let's get you out of here.' He prompts me to tell the taxi driver where I live and then gives his own address.

  I get out of the taxi outside my apartment.

  'Let me know when you need to check out my garden, Ron. That's if you're not too busy with your own… ladygarden.'

  'Fuck off.'

  'Hahahahaha. I love your language, posho. Faaarck off.'

  'Oh, go back to Scotland.' I slam the taxi door shut and watch it reverse.

  I walk into the coffee shop and Col smirks at me.

  'Do not start.' I tell him in a firm tone. 'Espresso pronto, monsieur, and I mean the damn drink. Then change the subject.'

  He passes me a coffee. 'Have you got time to come with me to check out the new branch tomorrow?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'I know you have your course, but do you think you might be able to manage things over there a bit?'

  'Ah. Well it's not something I'd thought of, but I guess I could try to help a little. I could help train new staff and as long as there's some wi-fi I can do some course work there.'

  'Oh, thank God. I thought on your new voyage of discovery you might not want to be part of the business.'

  'Well I'll help out and get it up and running, but then you'll probably need to look for a new Manager as I'm hoping to have gardening clients by late Summer.'

  'Oh, that's ages away. Let's see how it goes first.'

  I shrug my shoulders at him and finish my drink.

  'Right. I'm off to the gym, and then tonight, I'm going to catch up with my Game of Thrones box-set.'

  'Want me to come by and rape and pillage you later?'

  'Nah, I fancy a face pack and an early night. I'll see you tomorrow. You can tell me all about the new shop.' I lean over the counter and give him a hearty kiss.

  'Shame. I wanted to beat around your bush.'

  I laugh. 'I need to tend to the ladygarden. Make sure the lawn is trimmed. I'll see you tomorrow.'

  Col sighs and then moves over to serve his next customer.

  I make my exit and return to my apartment.

  All the time Col was giving me innuendo, I kept picturing Harry. Fame hungry fucker.

  My answer machine is flashing and I take a seat on the sofa and listen to the messages. There's one from my father asking when they are getting a visit, and a message from Tony, the Producer of Happy Morning. I pause the messages and call him back.

  'Hey, thanks for ringing me back so quickly, Ronnie. Listen, today was an absolute blast and the viewers loved you. The Hub went mad. The viewers want to see you again.'

  'Oh, gosh. Really? Thanks for letting me know. I really enjoyed it.'

  'How would you feel about a weekly ten minute slot? A lifestyle piece? You can talk fashion, beauty. I reckon the viewers would love it.'

  My eyes almost bug out of my head. 'Seriously? A weekly slot?'

  'Yep. How ‘bout it?'

  'I'd love to. Starting when?'

  'Well you did great today, so how about each Wednesday? We'll stick you on about ten-fifteen to ten-twenty-five.'

  'That would be amazing.'

  'Any ideas of a subject for next week? Then I can get the researchers on it. I'll give them your number to liaise.'

  'Ah. Let me think.' I look around the apartment and my eyes fix on my wardrobe. 'How about shoes? Like what to wear for different occasions?'

  'Love it. I'll let them know. Thanks Ronnie. Our Finance Department will be in touch to discuss salary.'

  'Pardon? You mean I'll get paid to talk about shoes?'

  Where the fuck has this job been all my life?

  'Course you will. It's a weekly presenting job. If it takes off, we'll consider extending the time, but for now we'll just leave it at the ten minutes. Speak soon Ronnie.'

  'Yeah, of course. Thank you.' I put the phone back on the receiver and sit on the sofa stunned. I'm going to be on the programme. Every week. I'm a television presenter. I squeal out loud and stamp my feet excitedly on the floor. The man in the apartment below yells at me to 'fucking quit it.' I'm starting to hate living in this apartment, surrounded by people on all sides, plus above and below. I think about the penthouse, but it still has people below it. I want some space of my own. I decide to shelve that thought for another day and lie on the sofa daydreaming about taking over Molly's job when she has another baby.

  After about half an hour of daydreaming that I'm such a good presenter they sack Molly, I remember I have other messages.

  'Hello. Miss Huntington-Jones. This is Sally Goodley from LoveBug. We would like to set up a meeting with you to discuss marketing a range of products in connection with the theme of ladygarden. We have some ideas that we think we could develop with you. Please give me a ring on ...'

  Again I quickly dial the number and after waiting about five minutes and going through several different departments, they finally track down Sally.

  'Hi, Ronnie. Thanks so much for calling back. Sorry it's very busy here today. I've had a lot of meetings with marketing.'

  'Okay.'


  'Basically we saw the trend of ladygarden on Twitter and as a result we've had lot of google hits on our Vajazzle range. Do you know what that is?'

  'Jewels for around your pubes?'

  Sally laughs. 'Kind of, yes. Well we saw the interest peaking and our Marketing Team quickly assembled. Basically we were thinking of running with the ladygarden idea. Kind of maybe stick on flowers? Templates for shaving into a flower. You get the idea?'

  'Yah, I think so.'

  'So do you think you would you be interested in a collaboration? Could you pop in to see us to discuss producing a line of goods? We think the faster, the better, while the interest is there.'

  I tuck my hair behind my ear to hear better. 'But I only mentioned it in passing this morning. It will be forgotten about by tomorrow, surely?'

  'Are you joking? My friend works on Women Power magazine. Expect a call from them soon for an article on empowering your vagina.'

  'Pardon?'

  'Seriously, it's Vajazzle all over again. Prepare for celebrity status, Ronnie. Are you able to come and see us?'

  'Yeah, sure. When do you want me to pop in?'

  'Would Friday be alright? About one-ish. Grab a pen for our address.'

  I head off and run a bath as my mind is racing with everything that's happening. I had several messages from the press and magazines as well. I leave them on the machine, deciding to deal with them tomorrow. For now I've said bugger off to going to the gym. I intend to soak in the tub and gather my thoughts.

  I'd decided January was career month—to try and gain some calm and maturity in my life. It's just over one week in and I have my gardening course, a coffee shop to run, a weekly TV presenting job and a line in pubic products to arrange. I wasn't looking for a new job for each day for Christ's sake.

  Thursday 9 January 2014

  I'm a little late meeting Col due to examining my pubes in the shower for too long this morning. I was trying to imagine ways of decorating. I have a nice neat patch. I can't do with going bare down there, but neither do I want a forest. Do people seriously faff around sticking jewels down there? I've never paid much attention to my pubes, more interested in what they cover. When I put my hair conditioner on earlier, I added a bit down there. It did actually make my pubes silky smooth. Why don't they advertise that? Or is there a pube shampoo I don’t know about?

  I'm about to open the door when there's an intense banging on it from the other side.

  'Ronnie? You in there?'

  I open the door. 'I'm nearly ready, just come -'

  Too late. Col barges past me and heads to the dining table where he thumps down a copy of The Sun. 'Want to explain this?' he spits.

  I stare down at the paper. There's a photo of me on page five. I’m holding hands with Harry Taylor, and his face is showing a triumphant smirk.

  'Oh fuck.' I answer.

  I accompany Col to Bayswater. In the car I'm met by a pissed off boyfriend and the silent treatment.

  'You know what newspapers are like.'

  He gives me a dirty look and then turns back to the road.

  'Col. I just had lunch with him and caught up.'

  'You just had lunch with someone who possibly tried to kill you?'

  'He explained all that. It wasn't him.'

  'Oh, well if he said it wasn't then that must be true, because Harry comes across as an altogether Mr Nice Guy with his constant knobbing around, doesn’t he? You could make a book out of the kiss and tells, Ronnie. Don't become another.'

  'How fucking dare you. We had lunch.'

  'How would you feel if I went out with another woman for lunch? Someone who I might have had a flirtation with? How about I give my ex, Suzanne, a call?'

  'Don't be ridiculous. I don't think of him that way. Besides, I've got to see him again, so you might as well get used to it.'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'I'm designing his garden.'

  'No you are not.'

  'Yes, I am. You do not get to tell me what to do, Colin Fernbsy. You do not own me.'

  I see Col's hands tremble on the steering wheel. He takes a left and turns the car around.

  'Where are you going?'

  'I'm taking you back to the apartments.'

  'Col, we're supposed to be looking at your coffee shop.'

  'I’ll go on my own. You're right, Ronnie. I don't own you.'

  'You're being ridiculous.'

  The return journey passes in silence, and I'm getting more and more pissed off.

  He pulls up and looks at me.

  'What?'

  'This is where you live right? Although I don't get a say on where you live either do I? It's certainly not in the bloody penthouse I spent months getting sorted.'

  'Nobody asked you to do that.' I pout.

  'Get out.' There's an undercurrent in his tone that I've not heard before.

  I open the door and get out. 'So, will I see you later?'

  'Probably, seeing as we live in the same building.'

  'I mean are you coming around?'

  'No. It's time for you to work out what you do want, Ronnie. I agree with you. Your game's a great idea. However I'm not a puppet for you to pull strings as you see fit. You want to see Harry Taylor. Go right ahead. Fuck him if you like. Just know I won't be around to watch it. I've things to do myself.'

  I lean into the car, getting a brief whiff of the suffocating air freshener hanging on the mirror. 'Col, why are you being like this? I don't want Harry. I'm with you.'

  'Don't do his garden then. I don't trust him.'

  I shake my head. 'I'm sorry, and you may well be right. I don't really know him. But you aren't laying the law down to me.'

  'Well that's it then Ronnie.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'We're done.'

  My voice rises several octaves. 'You're acting crazy.'

  'Am I?'

  'Honey, this is the overreaction of the year. Let's not forget that you fucking lied to me. I'm still trusting you.'

  'Oh here we go again. I do apologise for not telling you I had money. You can't forgive me for that, but you can have lunch with a murderer.'

  'Oooooh, just fuuuuucck off.' I slam the door.

  Col skids the tyres and drives off with a gust of dirt billowing behind the car. The smell of burnt tyre wafts past me.

  I sit at the kerb edge and begin to cry, then spot a man with a camera.

  I get up and hurtle through the apartment doors as another patron let's themselves in. I run across the foyer and throw myself into the lift. I put a hand on the cool glass of the lift mirror. My breath steams it up as I pant. Right now, I don't want to go back to my apartment by myself. I decide to grab some belongings and go back out. I'll have to disguise myself somehow, so I can get past the paparazzi.

  An hour later I answer my mobile. 'I'm here, Miss Jones.'

  'Thank you, Howard.'

  It’s my parents driver. I pull the black twenties style wig straighter. I quite suit a chic bob. Thank goodness for the Downton night at Le Cirque.

  When all turns to shit a girl needs her mother—even a social climbing one.

  'Oh Ronnie. Don't worry about upsetting that Barista too much. Goodness darling, I have much higher aspirations for you than him.'

  My mother. God love her. Ever the sympathetic carer. Still as thin as a pipe cleaner and sporting long golden blonde hair, my mother really could pass for my sister. A lot of that is due to special skills of her plastic surgeon, but she insists on telling me it's down to Astral.

  'Anyway, never mind him for now. What's all this footballer nonsense? I know he has money but goodness me Stella, he's a male whore, certainly not fit for our family, darling.'

  'Mother. I'm not dating or fornicating with Harry, and right now, Col can kiss my arse.'

  My mother shakes her head. She forgets the reason we have a driver is because she can swear like a sailor behind the wheel.

  'I have some gentleman friends that would be just perfect for you, but you
're too young to settle down just yet. You need to come out into society a little more. We need to get you a Baron or something.'

  'Mum, I don't want you to find me a boyfriend. I liked the one I had.'

  'Well I'm not touring Costa Coffees to find you another. You can do better than a coffee server. Why did you fall out anyway?'

  'Because he was lying to me.'

  'Marvellous. A deceptive coffee seller. Sounds like a dream catch. What did he say?'

  'He didn't tell me that he owned the shop and the apartments.'

  My mother stops stroking the Pomeranian at her feet and looks at me with what I assume would be a shocked expression, were it not for the Botox. 'What was that, honey? I think I must have misheard you.'

  'Col—Thomas Colin Fernsby Jnr—owns the coffee shop.'

  My mother takes a huge drink of Bordeaux and feels her forehead as if she's running a temperature.

  'Fernsby. You were dating a Fernsby?' Her voice gets louder with every word. 'You've fallen out… with a Fernsby?'

  My father comes rushing in. 'What's the matter, Penny? Do you need a tablet?'

  She shakes her head. 'No. No, darling. Just a refill.' She holds out her glass.

  My father looks at me, arms folded. 'What have you done now?'

  'Nothing.'

  'She was dating a Fernsby, Henry. A Fernsby.'

  'And?' My father is a self-made entrepreneur and doesn't speak mother's societal language. He just turns up when she asks.

  She holds her chest. 'She's fallen out with the son of a Billionaire.'

  'Now look, you've come here and upset your mother. That's not on, Veronica.'

  'Apologise at once,' says my mother. 'Before it's too late.'

  'I will not.'

  'God, you're being as stubborn as Perdy.'

  I'm now being compared to the dog? A fucking dog!

  'Look,' says my dad. 'If they've had a row it'll probably blow over in a day or so. You know how dramatic our Ronnie is.'

  'I hope so,' says my mother, picking the newspaper off the coffee table and fanning herself with it. Luckily my parents like to read The Guardian, so I should be quite safe.

  'Pass me that. I've not had a chance to look at it yet,' says dad.

  It's about five minutes later when I find out that even the Guardian finds vaginas a journalistic matter.