Also by Sibel Hodge:
The Fashion Police
Be Careful What You Wish For
The Baby Trap
Voodoo Deadly
How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories)
Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave
About the author
Sibel Hodge has dual British/Turkish Cypriot nationality and divides her time between Hertfordshire and North Cyprus. Her first romantic-comedy novel, Fourteen Days Later, was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. My Perfect Wedding is the sequel to Fourteen Days Later, although it can be read as a standalone novel.
The Fashion Police is a chicklit comedy-mystery novel, the first in the series featuring feisty, larger-than-life, Amber Fox. It was runner-up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. Be Careful What You Wish For is the second Amber Fox murder mystery.
Based on her own experiences with infertility and two attempts at IVF, The Baby Trap will have you laughing and crying at the ups and downs of modern baby-making
Her novella Trafficked: The Diary of a Sex Slave has been listed as one of the Top 40 Books About Human Rights by Accredited Online Colleges
For more information, please visit http://www.sibelhodge.com/
Fourteen Days Later
Sibel Hodge
Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2009
My Perfect Wedding
Sibel Hodge
Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License notes
The ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Praise for Fourteen Days Later & My Perfect Wedding
"A hilarious romance! The storyline was entertaining and funny; the characters were unique, colorful,and relatable. I had a hard time putting this one down because I never knew what funny catastrophe or line would come next." The Cajun Book Lady
"This story was impossible for me to put down." Coffee Time Romance & More
"This was a great romantic comedy. I found myself laughing and smiling throughout and really enjoyed it." I'm just sayin...Book Reviews by KK
"A very good read. Very enjoyable and fresh." Trisha Ashley, Novelist
"I loved this book. It is funny, witty and intriguing. If you are a fan of Sophie Kinsella I am positive you will love My Perfect Wedding by Sibel Hodge" Geeky Girl Books
""I uploaded this book on my Kindle this morning and was so engrossed, I let everything go for the day. A must read, you will enjoy" I'm Just Sayin...Book Reviews By KK
"In this laugh-out loud, real to the bone, commentary on what being married is like. I recommend this to anyone!" --Hot Gossip Hot Reviews
"My Perfect Wedding was entertaining and funny. The dialogue is sharp and witty, which had me laughing out loud at times. If you enjoy chick lit, this book is for you." Inky Impressions
"The fun never stops and you will find yourself laughing out loud at odd moments throughout the story. Ms. Hodge is rapidly becoming a favorite of mine." Coffee Time Romance & More
Table of Contents
Sibel Hodge
*****
For all the underdogs out there…
“It always seems impossible until it’s done”
NELSON MANDELA
This one’s dedicated to my husband Brad,
for all your support and belief in me.
Chapter 1
‘Fourteen days,’ said Ayshe. ‘That’s all it takes to change your life for the better.’
‘You are joking, right?’ I arched an eyebrow. ‘Nobody can change their life in fourteen days.’
‘That’s not what it says in here.’ Ayshe held up the magazine she’d been flicking through, her finger underlining one of the articles.
‘“Orgasms or Chocolate? What do women really want?”’ I read the headline aloud.
‘What?’ Ayshe looked at the magazine and adjusted her finger. ‘Not that. This. “Turn Your Life Around. The Simple Fourteen Day Plan Anyone Can Do”.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Tucking my legs underneath me on the sofa, I picked at my frayed jogging bottoms.
‘No, what’s ridiculous is you still moping about over Justin. It’s been six months since you split up with him. You need to move on with your life.’ She rose from her chair and flounced down next to me, resting her arm on my knees.
I wriggled away from her. ‘I’m having another iced coffee; want one?’
‘It’s too cold for iced coffee. It’s the middle of November for God’s sake,’ she called out as I clattered around in the kitchen. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d promised to cut down on your caffeine intake.’
When I returned, I sank down onto the sofa. ‘I still haven’t managed to get a plumber out to fix the dishwasher. Either they don’t turn up when they say they will, or they won’t come out for anything less than a total bathroom refurb.’
Ayshe watched me in silence.
I sat it out for a while, her steady gaze drilling into me. ‘What?’
‘Trying to change the subject isn’t going to work. You can’t avoid this much longer.’
‘I’m not, it’s true. You can never get hold of a plumber these–’
She clamped her hand over my mouth. ‘You need to go out and do things – and don’t give me that rubbish about you’ll never meet another man – he was the right one – he was the love of your life. I know four years together is a long time, but everybody always says that when they split up with people. You will get over him, but not if you keep refusing to move on with your life.’ She pushed me on the leg.
I wasn’t expecting the jolt and spilt my coffee all down my attractive jogging bottoms.
My thoughts drifted back to the time I’d discovered a size sixteen Agent Provocateur thong stuffed into the pocket of Justin’s best work trousers during the usual laundry run. I was pretty sure his company hadn’t suddenly changed their dress-code. I mean, smart trousers, shirt, and thong, wouldn’t sound too good in the staff handbook. I was also sure he couldn’t have picked it up innocently – as he’d told me – because he needed to dust the photocopier and thought it was a rag. And I knew it wasn’t mine because I’d never really fancied a piece of dental floss chafing my bits and bobs.
She lifted her hand away from my mouth.
‘So what else does it say then, this article?’ I feigned interest, rubbing at the coffee stain with my hand.
‘It’s about trying to get more interests in your life if you’re stuck in a rut. It was written by one of those new trendy life coaches who try and get you to organize your life better. Apparently, you have to set yourself challenges to have a brand new experience every day for fourteen days, to gain more confidence; something to do with re-evaluating things and re-balancing your yin and yang – or your Hong Kong Fuey – or whatever it is.’
I snorted. She ignored me and ploughed on regardless.
‘The more things you do, the more confidence you gain, and you become a more focused and better person. You need to be more proactive with your life, and I think this is just what you need.’
I heaved a dramatic sigh.
‘It’s not just about meeting a man. It’s about changing your perspective. Come on, what is there to lose? Worst case scenario, you might discover things that you never knew before, or find something new that you like doing. Best case scenario…’ She shrugged. ‘You might meet a “the one”.’
I pretended to ignore her and fiddled with my hair.
‘You never know if you don’t try, and you need to take every single opportunity you can to meet new people, instead of making the usual pathetic excuses you’ve been using for the last six months.’ Sitting back on the sofa, she crossed her arms over her chest. The lecture was over.
‘I don’t know if I’ve got the time for a Hong Kong Fuey experience. I mean what with…work…and…’ I tailed off, staring out of my flat window at the dreary, sludgy winter day outside. How much longer could I make excuses to keep my life on hold, waiting for Justin to come back?
‘Hellooooooooo! Earth to Helen.’ Ayshe poked me hard in the ribs. ‘The most important thing is to keep busy and keep your mind open to new things. Look, I’ll help you. We can even do some things together, but you need to get out of this flat and into the big wide world again and stop hibernating.’
I narrowed my eyes, deep in thought. ‘You’re marrying Atila in a few weeks. You’ll be too busy to baby-sit me. And anyway, I’m not hibernating.’
But if I was honest, truly honest, I knew she was right. I’d spent so much time drowning in self-pity and pining for Justin that I’d lost myself. I needed to find out what I wanted for a change. A fourteen day challenge to myself might not be such a bad thing. Would it change my life? I was pretty doubtful. Would it get my yin and yang back? I felt a flicker of excitement at the thought of unknown possibilities.
‘Actually…I haven’t got any more wedding photos to do until yours,’ I started with caution. No one wanted to get married in November anyway, so my diary wasn’t exactly heaving. ‘Maybe I could give it a try.’
‘That’s my girl. And you never know, come my wedding, you may have a new guy to bring, eh?’
I stood up, catching my reflection in the mirror. Anxious eyes like soggy limpets stared back at me. I must admit, I had let myself go a bit lately. My chestnut curly hair sprang out in all directions. I could do with a trim – maybe even a few highlights, and – aargh! – look at my eyebrows! Denis Healey eat your heart out. And as for my hairy legs and bikini-line – well, I was beginning to resemble a silverback gorilla. The only good thing to come out of it, I supposed, was that I had shifted a few pounds and was now a size twelve, although I wouldn’t recommend The Getting-Dumped Diet to anyone.
Ayshe’s cackling brought me back down to earth. ‘You look fine. Nothing a hair cut and a pair of tweezers won’t fix.’
‘So, if I do this challenge, what will be on the agenda for tomorrow? I might as well start as soon as possible before I change my mind.’ I felt my mood lift slightly.
Relief spread across her face. ‘I’ll think about it and text you later. In the meantime, have a look through the local paper and the internet and get some ideas for new things to try. You won’t regret it. I have a good feeling about this.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Aagh! Look at the time. Me and Atila are going to Mum and Dad’s for dinner, which basically means Dad will be on the whisky again, cooking enough shish kebab to feed a small continent, and Mum will want to read everyone’s Turkish coffee cup, predicting the same things she always sees: babies, rings, and marriage!’ She leapt up from the sofa, grabbing her bag and coat.
‘I love Yasmin and Deniz’s Turkish Cypriot cooking.’
‘So do I. It’s just that fifty-two Sundays a year of shish kebab gets a bit too much. You can come, as well, if you want. You know they think of you as their surrogate daughter.’ Her oval, dark eyes implored me.
‘No, I’m fine. I’ll just have a think about my new life-changing challenge. I’ll do some work on the computer and have an early night.’ I pulled the door open for her.
‘OK then, text you later.’ She kissed me on both cheeks, Turkish style. Her long, sleek black hair fanned out over her shoulders as she dashed up the corridor.
‘Bye – and by the way, it’s feng shui, not Hong Kong Fuey!’ But she’d already disappeared up the stairs to her flat on the floor above.
Just as I was shouting this enlightening piece of information, Charlie, who lived in the flat next to mine, opened his door to collect the paper from outside. I stared at the incredible sight of him wearing nothing but a pair of pink, spandex hot-pants.
‘Helloooo, dahling. What’s feng shui?’ He paused, deep in thought, ignoring my startled expression. ‘Is it a restaurant?’ Without waiting for an answer he peered at the big coffee stain down the front of my saggy jogging bottoms. ‘Is that a new look?’
‘No,’ I said, trying not to look at what must have been a sock shoved down the front of his hot-pants. What a cheek, I thought, as I scrutinized his own rather unique attire. ‘Are you on something?’
‘I’m just high on life.’
I retreated back inside as I heard him calling out, ‘We must do drinkies soon!’
Sitting at my computer desk, I grabbed the paper from the floor where I’d deposited it the night before and read it with renewed interest. If I didn’t find something to do for my challenge, I was sure Ayshe would have a brain wave. An hour later, I’d worked my way through the adverts, the classifieds, and another coffee, but nothing inspirational had pinged out at me.
I switched on the computer and waited for it to bleep and spring into life. I had some photos to enhance and mess around with so I could finish a proof book for the Ponsonby-Smythe’s – a rather eccentric couple whose pictures I’d taken last weekend.
I called up their photos, staring at the happiness which radiated from their faces and a twinge of jealousy tugged at my insides. One of the hardest things since splitting up with Justin had been smiling to all the ecstatically happy brides and grooms who were embarking on a whole new exciting life together, while I was carrying a dull ache around inside.
Fiddling around with the programme, I made all her teeth black. Then I decided to squash the picture down and turn her from a nice size ten into a short, dumpy Sumo wrestler, but this only made me feel slightly better.
After an hour of messing around, I was startled by the sound of my phone meowing, signalling a text message. I leapt up and retrieved it from my bag, which was sitting on the wooden floor, spilling out its contents.
The message read: ‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to volunteer to walk dogs in Hartham Park. Report to the Canine Animal Rescue Centre at 09.00 hours. Do not pass “Go”. This message will self-destruct in ten seconds.’
And that was how this whole crazy thing began.
I relaxed with relief because that didn’t sound too bad. I’d even been toying with the idea of getting a pet to keep me company. Not that I’d had much to do with dogs since I’d made my mum’s dog a birthday cake when I was about four-years-old, and it had exploded in the oven – the cake that is, not the dog. The funny thing was that Rover did die rather suddenly afterwards from some kind of strange gastric complication. But anyway, it didn’t seem too crazy for my first challenge, and nothing as outrageous could happen again.
****
As I got undressed for bed that night, I took off my attractive jogging bottoms and threw them into the bin. In a moment of madness, I also decided I could do with a whole drawer-full of new knickers and grabbed a handful of oversized ones, which didn’t fit my new svelte figure – well, OK then, my almost svelte figure – and threw those into the bin also. Now I had a plan to force myself into action, I decided I needed to be firm with myself and do something to freshen up my appearance. Gazing at my legs, I promised I’d have a grand splurge of de-fuzzing tomorrow.
My eyes wandered down to my neglected toenails. Rummaging around in my bedside drawer, I took out a bottle of quick drying, chip resistant varnish in Pillar Box Red, which still looked useable and commenced toenail-painting duties. After waiting the designated drying time, I crept under the sheets and drifted off to la-la land.
What would tomorrow bring?
Chapter 2
Monday, day 1 – I Shouldn’t Get a Pet
I rolled out of bed the next morning at seven-thirty and realized two things. One: it was the first night in six months that I hadn’t dreamed about Justin, and two: something pretty freaky must’ve happened last night.
My heart skipped a beat as I flipped back the covers to discover bright red stains everywhere. It looked like a blood-bath, something out of a scene from The Godfather. I checked the rest of the bed to make sure no one had mysteriously deposited a horse’s head in my bed overnight, and then found the culprit. My toes, and also half my feet, were encrusted in bright red smudged nail varnish.
Quick-drying, my arse! Oh well, I would have to deal with that later. I didn’t have time to take it off again now, otherwise I would be late for my challenge of the day, and last night, in the depths of my sleep, I’d resolved to take it all seriously.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While waiting for my coffee to brew, I put a slice of bread in the toaster and turned on the radio. Bob Marley’s soulful voice was singing, ‘No woman, no cry, no woman no cry.’ I sang along enthusiastically until someone in the next flat banged on the wall and told me to go away and do something to myself that probably wasn’t even humanly possible.
After I’d taken a bite of toast, I realized I wasn’t at all hungry, so I wrapped it in tin foil and shoved it into my bag, thinking I would eat it later if I got a bit peckish after my walk.
Complete with my morning caffeine rush, I retraced my steps back to the bedroom and opened the window, peering out to check the temperature. For once it wasn’t raining or hailing, or anything else that involved vast amounts of water. I thought that was a good sign until I glanced down to the car park just as Clive, my lecherous neighbour, emerged from the entrance to the flats below my window, wearing a ripped T-shirt and paint splattered jeans. His unkempt shoulder-length hair looked like it hadn’t seen a dose of shampoo since the sixties.
He looked up and waved. ‘All right, gorrrgeous.’ Then he pointed to his mouth and proceeded with his nasty little party trick of removing his denture plate with his tongue and wiggling it around, giving me a bird’s eye view of the single false tooth attached to it. ‘Ha-ha.’ He sauntered off with his jeans so low on his hips, I could see his builder’s bum winking at me.
‘Ew.’ I wrinkled up my nose and hurried away from the window, wondering what to wear for a spot of dog walking.
I pulled on a skirt and jumper and stuffed my feet into knee-length boots. Slinging on my coat, I grabbed my bag and headed off in the direction of the Canine Rescue Centre.
The day was crisp but bright with just a smattering of cloud, and the sunshine gave me an unexpected boost, which I’d lost since my break-up with Justin.
I arrived at the centre, red-faced and out of breath. The reception desk was empty, but an elderly man leaned on the front of the counter, waiting for someone to appear. Boxes were strewn around the floor half opened, as if in the middle of being unpacked.
‘Morning, love.’ He doffed his flat cap at me.
‘Morning,’ I replied.
‘Nice day for it, eh?’
For what? I wondered. Climbing Everest? World peace? Mass suicide?
‘Mmm,’ I mumbled, catching my breath back.
‘Done it before, have you, love?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know, walk the doggies. I’ve been doing it every day since my wife died.’
‘Oh, how nice.’ God, that sounded terrible. ‘I mean, not your wife dying, of course.’
‘He never misses a day, do you, Eric?’
I turned to see a middle-aged woman walk behind the desk. She gazed up at him, patting his hand.
Maybe there was more to this dog-walking lark than met the eye. There certainly seemed to be a bit of romance blossoming here!
‘This lady is here for walking the doggies.’ Eric smiled at the receptionist.
‘Sorry about the mess. We’ve just extended the office, and we’re still unpacking. It’s much better now, though, there wasn’t room to swing a cat in the old one. Now, have you got a doggy-bag, dear?’
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had to bring some food for them.’ Then I remembered the half-eaten breakfast in my bag. ‘I’ve got some toast. Will that do?’
‘I meant bags for the poop!’ She gave me a warm smile and handful of plastic bags. ‘Well, you’re both in luck. There are two dogs left for walking today.’
‘Who’s left then, pet?’ Eric asked her.
‘We’ve got Fang and Pussy. Which one would you like, dear?’ she asked me.
A sudden vision of a rabid Rottweiler versus a small, cute little puppy came to mind. Was it a trick question? I mean, come on, who was going to choose a dog called Fang over a cute little pooch named Pussy? Stranger still, though, was why anyone would want to call their dog Pussy?
Eric peered at me, awaiting my decision, while the receptionist stared at me.
‘Er…I think I’ll have…Pussy, then, if you don’t mind.’ An uneasy feeling crept over me.
‘Okey-dokey, then, dear.’ She nodded, trotting off to collect the dogs.
A few minutes later, she returned with a black Labrador, flecked with grey around her temples, and a German Shepherd, the size of a small horse. Thank God I’d gone for Pussy, I thought, as the horse-dog licked his lips and eyed me up like an industrial size tin of Pedigree Chum.
‘Here you go, Eric.’ She handed him the German Shepherd. He gave her a wave as he disappeared out of the door. ‘It’s OK.’ She passed me the lead for the Labrador. ‘She probably won’t want to walk too far, she’s very arthritic.’
‘Come on, then. Nice Pussy.’ I opened the door, not believing that I’d actually uttered the words, ‘nice pussy’ in public.
The dog was very slow on her feet and trotted beside me, stopping every two minutes to sniff the ground.
Trot, trot, trot. Sniff, sniff, sniff. At this rate, the ten minute walk to the park would take an hour. I gazed at the 1920s-style houses on either side of the road as Pussy took her time waddling along, smelling the doggy telegraph messages. I studied the manicured gardens and the bay windows and porches and wondered whether I would ever live in this kind of house with my future husband – if I ever found one before I turned into a Zimmer frame-wielding, pension-collecting spinster, of course.
A few metres ahead of me a nice-looking guy emerged from his front door. Wearing a well-cut, charcoal business suit and carrying a black briefcase, he strode along his path, sweeping a hand through his immaculate hair. When he neared the kerb, he clicked his car keys and a beeping sound emanated from a silver Porsche 911 in front of the house. At the same time, Pussy decided to sniff around the wheel of his car with heightened interest. As I waited for her to finish, I sneaked a look at him sliding into the driver’s seat and straightened myself up, trying to appear casual as I checked him out. Mmm, not bad. This was definitely a good idea of Ayshe’s. He placed his briefcase on the passenger seat just as Pussy decided to arch her back and squat on the pavement. I tugged on the lead slightly, but she gave me a look as if to say ‘I ain’t moving lady!’
I whispered to myself please let it be a wee, please let it be a wee, groaning inside at the thought that I might have to clear up something larger and smellier in front of Mr. Porsche-driver.
‘Pussy!’ I tried to drag her away.
The driver’s window slid down, and I was sure he was about to say something. Instead, he looked on in horror as Pussy deposited a massive, steaming plop on the pavement, inches away from his car.
‘For Christ’s sake get that bloody animal away from my car!’
Pussy had now finished her business and turned around to sniff it with delight.
‘Oh, God!’ I exclaimed, blushing an interesting shade of vermillion.
I fished a plastic bag out of my pocket to pick up the Mr. Whippy style plop which was now deposited on the pavement in all its glory. Pulling a disgusted face, I put the bag over my hand like a glove and retrieved the offending dollop, turning the bag inside out when I’d finished.
‘Dirty old bitch!’ he yelled in our direction as his tyres screeched and the car flew off up the road.
I wondered how he knew Pussy was a girl, then realized he was talking about me. How insulting! I’m not that bloody old.
‘Oi!’ I shouted after him, sticking up my fingers and waving them in a frantic up and down motion.
A crowd of rubbernecks had gathered, gawping at me open-mouthed and sniggering. Not wanting to lose face, I pretended everything was hunky-dory and, with a flick of my hair, I dragged Pussy along the path, nonchalantly swinging my bag of plop and plonking it into the nearest bin.
Pussy’s bowel movement must’ve had the same effect as a weekend at a canine spa snorting Sanatogen, because as soon as we reached the park she had a complete personality change. She zigzagged through the fallen Autumnal leaves, kicking them in the air and chasing them around. After twenty minutes of re-energized action, she insisted on bounding round the park with me struggling to keep up.
When I found myself back on the path leading out of the park, Pussy spied something in the distance and sprinted off like Linford Christie from the starting blocks, managing to pull the lead out of my hand as she shot off. I ran at warp speed factor one, shouting after her, but she was intent on her mission.
She seemed to be running towards a man who was strolling along with a pram, unaware of the danger ahead. With a sudden leap, she jumped into the pram. I had a quick flash of terror as I imagined the headlines: ‘Wild dog savages baby in sleepy suburb!’ The man was screaming and shouting at Pussy, trying to get her out of the pram. Huffing and puffing, I finally caught up with them.
‘Agh!’ My eyes darted into the pram expecting to see blood and gore.
Instead, to my surprise, Pussy was sitting on top of the baby, wagging her tail with fervour. She’d squeezed her whole body into the tiny pram and was licking the baby’s chubby little face like there was no tomorrow. The baby – thank God – looked like it was quite enjoying the experience and giggled with delight, its eyes about to pop out on stalks in excitement.
‘What were you thinking?’ the man snapped as he managed to half-lift, half-tip Pussy out of the pram.
‘I’m so sorry, she’s not my dog. I think she’s a bit over-excited.’
‘That is certainly not the word for it!’ He threw me a filthy look as he wiped the dog drool off the baby’s face. ‘Be more careful next time,’ he said, marching off.
I warned Pussy about her behaviour, but she took no notice and looked around with wild eyes, trying to find some other mischief to get into. Then she decided to change her naughty thoughts and sat down with tail wagging and eyes full of apology.
‘Come on.’ I tugged the lead, desperately wanting to get her back to the centre before any more mishaps occurred, but she wouldn’t budge.
Trying to coax her in my best Barbara Woodhouse voice, she just crinkled up her eyebrows and stared at me with huge, doleful eyes. I crouched down to stroke her soft black fur and that’s when I realized it was all an act. She was just lulling me into a false sense of security and, before I could yell ‘No!’ she was off again.
She’d caught sight of a squirrel munching on an acorn under a vast oak tree, and she dragged me off towards the nearby woods. This time, however, I was determined to hang on for dear life. As I tried to get up in a hurry, I stumbled and was teetering out of control as she pulled me towards the trees. My feet crunched on the leaves as I staggered to right myself and my arms flailed in the air. Suddenly, the ground dipped beneath me, and I lost my footing. I went over on my ankle, and then before I could regain my balance again, she dragged me down a bank. I fell to the ground with all the grace of a rhino on roller-skates and landed on my back in a patch of slimy mud as little white stars exploded behind my eyeballs.
An involuntary sound escaped from my lips as the air flew out of my lungs. I lay there, winded for a few minutes, dazed and confused. As I tried to sit up, I was pushed gently back down again by a tall, bald man, in a black cashmere sweater.
‘It’s all right, I saw everything. You’ve had a fall.’ He peered down at me. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. You might have concussion.’ He produced a slim-line torch from his pocket which he shone into my eyes.
‘Where’s my…Pussy,’ I slurred.
‘Hmm.’ He looked puzzled, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd beginning to form. ‘Confusion and slurred speech, possibly a case of concussion,’ he volunteered to the others, then turned back to me. ‘I need to check you out. Does anything hurt?’ He clicked the torch off and put it in his pocket.
I tried to sit up again, but he instructed me in a firm voice, ‘No, I need to have a look at you before you get up.’ He put his hands under my neck and gently palpated. ‘Does it hurt here?’ He worked his way along both arms and then up my legs, feeling through the soft suede of my boots.
‘Only my ankle.’ I forced a smile, struggling to regain my composure as I ventured a look at his shiny head, which was Bic-razored to death.
‘Good job I was having a sneaky cigarette in between patients and saw what happened. OK, everything seems fine, but I think you might have sprained your ankle. My surgery is over there.’ He motioned to a row of Georgian houses on one side of the park. ‘Can you make it if I help you?’
By then my breathing had returned to normal. ‘I think so.’ I nodded and instantly wished I hadn’t – my head still felt a bit woozy.
He led me, bedraggled and groggy, the short distance to his surgery. I hobbled along beside him, holding on to steady myself as he steered me up the front steps which were lined with wrought-iron railings. We entered a shiny black door with a semi-circular fanlight above it. Once inside, the pristine whiteness hurt my eyes, and I squinted as he led me past a wooden reception desk and along a corridor. We reached a door with a name-plate that read: DR SAVAGE.
‘Right, let’s get these boots off and have a look, shall we?’ He lowered me onto a very firm grey couch.
As he started unzipping them, I studied him with interest. He was in his early forties with olive skin and the palest green eyes I’d ever seen. He really was rather tasty. I gazed at him for a few moments, then my eyes widened with foreboding as I suddenly remembered my woolly mammoth legs. Why hadn’t I shaved them last night when I’d had the chance? A warm glow crawled up my neck.
He removed my socks and stepped back in amazement. ‘For a minute I thought you were bleeding.’ He picked up my heel in the palm of his hand, scrutinizing it.
I lifted my head from the comfort of the couch, realizing he was talking about my rather unique pedicure. I felt myself growing hot and clammy, crackling with shame.
His eyes wandered up my leg, taking in the bristling, dark hairs, a centimetre long. I clawed at the neck of my jumper.
‘Alrighty, then.’ I cleared my throat, swinging my legs off the couch and onto the floor.
‘Wait a minute.’ He perched on the edge of his desk. ‘I have to take some details. Procedure, you know, in case I get sued!’ He waved his hand, as if the very thought of suing him was absolutely unbelievable. ‘Name?’
‘Helen Grey.’
‘Address and contact number please?’
I rattled off my details quickly, willing him to get a move on so I could get out of there.
‘Well, it’s as I suspected, just a sprain. You’ll need to take it easy for a few days. Put your foot up and rest. You can put a bag of ice on it, or frozen peas, and take some of these if the pain is too bad.’ He handed me a prescription.
‘Thanks very much.’ I flashed a quick smile, stood up and hobbled out of the surgery as fast as my gammy foot would allow.
Once outside, I sat down on the steps and phoned Ayshe to beg her for a lift to my flat. I leaned back. And then I had a ghastly thought.
Where the hell was Pussy?
Chapter 3
‘Oh, Goddy God!’ I groaned.
I was expecting Ayshe, but instead her brother Kalem rolled up in his battered old Land Rover. Actually, I could hear it coughing and spluttering up the road before I even clapped eyes on it. At some point it must have been white, but after years of off-roading, it was a kind of a murky-brown colour with just a hint of the original paintwork left. Even Dulux would have had trouble describing this particular shade – ‘crusty chocolate’ perhaps or ‘rancid coconut’?
I’d known Kalem since the day I started primary school, when he’d taken great delight in yanking my ponytail and chasing me round the playground, inciting all his mates to jump on top of me. Ayshe, who’d spotted it, came running over and proceeded to punch him on the arm, shouting something in Turkish to him. And that had been the start of my wonderful friendship with her. Because I’d known him for so long, we had a brother-sister type of relationship. He would argue lipstick was eyeliner if he knew it would wind me up, which he did, at any possible opportunity. But it was our love of Ayshe that kept us from killing each other.
I heaved myself into the passenger seat.
‘H.’ He acknowledged me with a nickname he’d used since we were kids and which still grated on me and gave me an irresistible urge to punch his lights out.
‘Kalem! What a nice surprise,’ I said through clenched teeth. He was the last person I wanted to know about my recent predicament. ‘Why aren’t you at work? Haven’t you got any ice sculpture classes to teach?’
‘It’s half-term. Anyway, I teach woodcarving and sculpture, not ice sculpture.’
‘Oh. Where’s Ayshe?’ I asked, observing his usual attire of a faded green Land Rover sweatshirt – which had more holes in it than a packet of Hula Hoops – and some even more faded army issue trousers. His cropped dark hair needed a trim, but then, who was I to talk lately? He’d boasted once that his mates often joked that he looked like David Beckham, only more swarthy and exotic looking. I mean, it was a pretty accurate description, and there was no denying it – he was heart-clutchingly gorgeous. But when I’d heard this, I’d erupted in fits of laughter, which seriously annoyed him. He never mentioned it again – I can’t think why not.
‘She’s stuck in some marketing meeting and can’t get away, so she called me instead.’
‘Um…I’ve got a bit of a problem.’
‘What? You mean apart from the obvious.’
‘Ha-ha. I’ve lost the dog I was supposed to be walking, and I need to find it before it does any more damage.’
‘Well, it’s your lucky day. Ayshe filled me in on your little trail of destruction. I’ve already been up to the Canine Centre to talk to them. They weren’t too impressed – ‘care in the community reject’ – I think were the words they used to describe you.’ His eyes shone with humour. ‘Saddam Hussein would have paid a fortune to have had you working for him. You’re a one-woman weapon of mass destruction.’ A huge cackle of laughter escaped from his lips.
My cheeks glowed. ‘We need to check the park. I’ve got to get that poor dog back as soon as possible!’ My voice cracked, the morning was beginning to take its toll on me.
‘And just how are you going to hobble around the park in that state?’ He glared at me with intense brown eyes, pointing to my ankle.
‘Look, don’t worry. I’ll do it myself.’ I eased the door open and started to manoeuvre myself out.
He leaned across me and tried to close the door again, giving me a waft of some rather yummy aftershave.
‘What are you doing?’ I yelled, panicking as he pulled the door shut, banging my ankle in the process. ‘Owch!’
‘The dog’s OK,’ he yelled back at me. ‘If you’d just let me finish!’
I sank back in the seat and waited. ‘Well?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got better things to do than baby-sit a thirty-year-old, you know.’ He narrowed his eyes at me like a cat weighing something up with cool detachment before pouncing.
‘How on earth do your students put up with you?’ I glared back.
‘They love me.’
‘Where’s Pussy?’
‘Pussy?’ he guffawed.
‘Oh, shut up!’
‘Pussy…’ He laughed, dragging out the conversation.
I waited.
‘Pussy...’ he started again.
This time I slapped him on the arm.
‘Pussy ran back to the Centre and said, ‘please don’t let that nutty woman take me out for a walk again!’ he reeled off in a garbled rush.
My eyes cleared with relief. Now I knew Pussy was safe, I didn’t want to be in the car with him a minute longer.
‘Right, can you take me home now then, please?’
‘With pleasure.’ He released the handbrake, driving off.
It was so uncomfortable in the Land Rover that the slightest bump in the road made me wince in pain. I stared out of the window rather than making conversation with him, but he wasn’t letting me off that easily.
‘Don’t they ask for any references before they let you take out dangerous dogs?’
‘It was a Labrador!’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘I forgot. It’s you that’s dangerous.’ He paused. ‘I think you need to lay off the caffeine, it’s making you too hyper.’
I couldn’t be bothered to think of the perfect retort, so we drove the rest of the way in silence.
****
‘Ha! What’s that on your back?’ Kalem snorted when I heaved myself out of the Land Rover.
I twisted round to discover a patch of crusty brown mud all over my bum – looked like I’d had an incontinent attack actually.
‘Arse,’ I muttered.
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He grinned at me. ‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
He raised an eyebrow, shifted the Land Rover into first and trundled up the road.
I limped up the stairs to the flat, hanging on to the banister for support. Once inside, I curled up on the comfy, brown leather sofa that I so adored – even though the raised stitching on its arms made it look like a sun-baked elephant’s foreskin – and moulded a bag of frozen peas onto my ankle. God, that was a bit cold! The answer phone was blinking at me. Reaching over from my foetal position, I hit the play button.
‘Just to let you know that you haven’t paid me for the last shipment. If you don’t deliver in the next two days I won’t be responsible for my actions. Know what I mean, eh?’ That was it. No name, no number, nothing. And his tone – well, it was just a teensy bit creepy.
Wrong number, I decided, and instantly forgot about it as my eyes wandered round the room. God, the place was an absolute tip, and I really must tidy it up soon.
I flicked on the television, trying to break the oppressive silence. The choice was disappointing: either a talk show with some sort of a fight going on between the guests or a boring antiques programme with a sun-tanned-to-death presenter.
With only Jerry Springer and a cold-pack for company, boredom got the better of me and I fell into a depressed sleep.
****
A pounding on the door woke me from my slumber. Rubbing my eyes, I swung the door open to see Ayshe looking at me rather concerned.
‘Who goes there?’ bellowed Charlie next door.
‘Put a sock in it!’ Ayshe shouted.
I wasn’t the only person who’d witnessed his sock-stuffing antics before.
‘Ooooh, tetchy!’ he yelled back.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, wandering in with a Tupperware bowl, which she put on the black granite kitchen worktop.
I sniffed the wonderful aroma of freshly-cooked Turkish food. ‘I feel a bit ridiculous, if you must know.’
She rubbed my arm. ‘Well, at least you tried something. You can’t be knocked for that.’ Pointing to the dish she added, ‘Atila’s made you some mousaka. He didn’t think you’d feel like cooking as usual and you’ll need to keep your strength up for your challenges.’
Ayshe busied herself in the kitchen, putting the mousaka in the microwave and arranging a knife and fork on a tray, as if I were an invalid.
‘So…any thoughts as to what tomorrow’s challenge is going to be? I mean, I actually feel like giving the whole thing up after today. I don’t know if I can carry on with this.’ I flopped my head down into my hands, tugging at my roots.
‘Oh no,’ she wagged her finger at me, ‘that’s not going to happen. You’ve only just started.’
I lifted my head as the microwave chimed.
Taking the tray out to the diningroom table, she jabbed a finger at one of the chairs. ‘Sit and eat,’ she ordered. Sitting down with one leg beneath her, she made me eat half of it before she let me in on her little secret. ‘Speed-dating: that’s what is on the agenda for tomorrow. And you have to go. It is the law,’ she insisted in a very bad Inspector Clouseau accent.
‘A bunch of saddos trying to talk to as many other saddos until a clock buzzes. That sounds like fun! I’d rather poke forks in my eyes.’
‘Anyone doing a fourteen day change-your-life-challenge has to go. Those are the rules according to Ayshe – and Inspector Clouseau. And anyway, you might meet someone nice. Sometimes it’s the one you least expect that makes you happy.’
‘Great.’ I rubbed my forehead.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go; Atila’s a bit annoyed. He took a chicken out of the freezer this morning to defrost and the cat’s eaten it. He’s not a happy bunny. If I said “foul” and “mood”, in the same sentence you’d know exactly what I mean! I’ve got to nip out and get a take-away before he starts to erupt into a full-blown volcanic explosion. I’ll pick you up after the dating thingy. Text me when you’re finished, and I’ll come and get you,’ she gushed and breezed out the door.
****
After I’d cleared up the remnants of my gastronomic experience, the phone rang. I debated whether to ignore it, but I had a sudden intuitive flash that it could be Justin, calling to tell me how wrong he’d been, begging for forgiveness because a spot of rumpy-pumpy with the boss over the office equipment just wasn’t as thrilling any more, or the late night dick-tation was getting out of hand. I’d always wanted to believe in the idea that everything happens for a reason, but no matter how hard you analyze and dissect things, sometimes you just can’t figure out what that reason is. Is that fate's way of giving you what you deserve, or is it trying to teach you a valuable lesson that you’re just not ready to decipher yet?
I dived for the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, is that the home-owner?’
For God’s sake! I’d been plagued by a spate of annoying tele-sales people at all hours for the last month.
‘I don’t want double glazing, or a holiday, or anything else you’re selling,’ I said.
‘Why not? You don’t know what it is yet,’ a Pakistani voice told me on the other end.
Why not? Because if I wanted double glazing, I’d almost certainly go and order some myself. And if I wanted to listen to a two-hour spiel about vacuum cleaners just to get a holiday, then I’d effing well do that!
‘Because I’m having sex with my husband, and you’ve just interrupted me,’ I replied.
There was a few seconds silence on the other end. ‘Pardon? I didn’t quite hear you, madam.’
‘I said; I’m making love to my husband.’
‘Oh, I am sorry. I’ll call you back later.’ He hung up without waiting for my response.
No sooner had I put the phone down than the bloody thing was off again.
‘Hello.’ I snatched it from its cradle.
‘Hello, Ms Grey? Can I offer you a cheap gas and electricity supply? We guarantee to beat the price of your current supplier.’ Same voice again.
‘You just called me a minute ago! I’m still having sex with my husband. Why are you phoning me again?’
‘I thought you would have finished, madam.’
‘What, in two minutes?’
‘Well, when would be convenient? Five minutes?’
‘More like forty-five minutes. You’ve completely messed up my rhythm now.’ I threw the phone down in anger.
Two minutes later, it rang again.
‘I’m still having SEX!’ I shouted, slightly more shrill than I anticipated.
The sound of heavy breathing greeted me on the other end of the line. Urgh, how disgusting! He was actually getting excited.
‘Hello, Helen, it’s Annabel Ponsonby-Smythe here.’
Oops.
I gulped. ‘Sorry Annabel…’ I quickly debated what sounded worse: I’m not really having sex, and I’m talking utter drivel, or I was having sex, but I’ve finished now. Probably best to say neither. ‘I thought you were someone else.’
‘Don’t worry dear, I know all about this telephonic intercourse that’s all the rage now with you youngsters. If I was twenty years younger, I’d be at it myself, it must be considerably less messy. I won’t keep you–’
‘No, don’t go. What can I do for you?’ I squeaked, trying to put my professional head on.
‘I was just wondering if you’d finished the proofs for my photo book yet, only we’re off on our honeymoon tomorrow. Dahling Jeremy has finally got a window in his busy work schedule, and I was hoping to have a little peek before I left.’
‘Of course, what time are you off tomorrow? Hopefully I can get it finished and drop it off to you before you leave.’
‘We’re leaving for the airport at two o’clock dahling, so if you could come for coffee and petits fours at say eleven-thirty?’
That would give me plenty of time, no problem.
‘Yes, that will be perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Righty-ho, then, I’ll let you get back to your sex now. Enjoy!’
Chapter 4
Tuesday, day 2 – Single Men Are Freaks
The following morning I’d reneged again on my promise to cut down on my coffee intake. Instead, I’d drunk the caffeine equivalent of almost a whole box of Pro-Plus tablets and was pretty much buzzing on the stuff. I doggedly got down to some serious work on the computer, organizing my files, sending a few emails, and finally finishing off the proofs for Mrs. Ponsonby-Smythe.
The pain in my ankle had subsided to a dull throb, although maybe that was something to do with the cocktail of caffeine mixed with several strong painkillers. I checked my watch. Quarter past eleven: plenty of time. Annabel’s plush mews house was only a short distance away. I grabbed the book, darting out the front door as fast as my throbbing ankle would allow.
I banged on the brass lion’s head door-knocker with minutes to spare, but there was no reply. I tried to peep in the window at the side of the house without looking like a prospective cat burglar, but heavy drapes blocked my view. Strange, I’m sure she said eleven-thirty. After waiting several minutes, I knocked again. I was about to turn and leave when a tall hippy-looking man, covered from head to foot in paint, opened the door.
‘Hi.’ I peered up at him.
‘Hi, you must be Helen.’ He reached his hand out to shake mine.
‘Yes, that’s right. I was supposed to be meeting Annabel at eleven-thirty. Is she here?’ I asked as he gave me a wet-lettuce handshake.
‘There was a change of plan. The airline rearranged the flight times, and they had to dash off to Heathrow early.’ He gestured inside the house. ‘Come in, come in. I’m Adrian Ponsonby by the way, Annabel’s brother. I’m house-sitting for her while she’s living it up in the sunny Indian Ocean. It’s all right for some! I was just about to have an early lunch. Do you want a cup of tea while you’re here? I’m making one for myself anyway, so it’s no trouble.’
Ayshe’s advice that I needed to take every opportunity to meet new people resounded in my head. I mean, he wasn’t my type at all, but what the hell, why not?
‘Well…OK, thanks.’
He led me past the drawing room, where I’d discussed Annabel’s wedding requirements at our original consultation, into the well-lit breakfast room, just off the muted eggshell Shaker-style kitchen. A painting stood on an easel by the window and paints were strewn on top of the table next to it. The painting was an explosion of vibrant yellows and reds with several orange blobby-looking things in the centre of it. It was surrounded by a few larger black and brown swirly things smudged in along the edges, with what appeared to be a little black stick-man nestling in the corner. It looked like an explosion in the Chocolate Orange factory.
He caught me looking at it. ‘It’s very abstract, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely.’ I leaned forward, scrutinizing it. It was the worst painting I’d ever seen in my life, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. ‘It’s very good.’
‘If you look really hard there’s a surprising feature within the picture. Can you see it?’ He indicated that I should get closer.
‘No…I’m not getting anything.’ I studied the picture hard.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll see it eventually. I get more of the stuff on me than on the painting, I think.’ He pulled up the bottom of his shirt and gazed down at the paint splattered everywhere.
‘I’m having trouble trying to think of a title for this particular piece. Any ideas?’ He turned to me with an enquiring look.
Revenge of the Chocolate Orange perhaps, I mused. Or Nuclear Reactor Strikes Back? ‘How about Total Oblivion?’
He threw me a very peculiar look, changing the subject. ‘Please, sit.’ He pulled out a breakfast bar chair for me, and I duly plonked myself down.
‘Annabel’s only left green tea in the cupboards, I’m afraid. Will that do?’
After all the coffee I’d consumed that morning it was probably a good thing anyway, and I was sure I’d heard somewhere that green tea was the new wonder substance for detoxifying. I thought I needed a hefty dose of that right now.
‘Um, fine.’
He handed me a cup of steaming green liquid that looked like iguana piss. I stared at it, then gave it a quick sniff. It smelled revolting. I tried hard not to heave, and quickly placed it back on the breakfast bar out of sniffing range.
‘So,’ he ran his fingers through his long flowing locks, as he reclined on his chair, ‘you’re the wedding photographer. I missed Annabel’s wedding, I’m afraid; I was laid up with food poisoning.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Campylobacter: it was awful.’
‘Oh, how terrible. You’re OK now, though?’
‘Oh yes, fine. Had to try and get better a bit sharpish. I’ve got an exhibition and auction of my work tomorrow night, and I’ve still got a few pieces to finish.’ He pointed to the painting which had taken centre-stage in the room.
‘That’s great.’
‘Hey, you must come. Yes, you absolutely must. I’ve got an invitation upstairs somewhere. Hang on, I’ll get you one.’
He sloped out of the room and left me studying the paintings with disbelief. It was Picasso meets Damien Hirst. One of them even looked like an exploding brain, hardly the sort of thing you’d want on your living room wall, unless you were a serial killer.
‘Here you go.’ He snuck back in the room without a sound and handed me the invitation. ‘I see you’re admiring my brain.’
He must’ve mistaken the expression on my face for admiration, instead of slight queasiness. ‘Yes, it’s very…vivid.’
‘Wait ‘till you see what’s on show tomorrow. There’s a lot more where that came from. I bet I could even get you to buy a piece.’
‘Maybe,’ I murmured with a vagueness that meant not a hope in hell. Still, I was supposed to be trying new things, and this was certainly new, in a Hannibal Lechter kind of way. ‘Can you give this to Annabel for me?’ I pulled the proofs from my bag and handed them over.
‘Sure, no problem. Thanks for popping round.’ He led me back to the door. ‘Don’t forget, I’ll be looking for you on Wednesday.’
‘See you tomorrow.’ I waved my invitation at him and scurried out the door.
Chapter 5
I completely splurged out on my beauty preparations for that night’s challenge. Soaking in the bath with a scrummy-smelling lavender bath-bomb, I spent a frantic half-hour tackling the hairs on my ever-increasing bikini-line and legs. When I finished my skin was raw and tingling. Next, I plucked my eyebrows until bright red lumps appeared. Great! Just what I needed!
Peering into the wardrobe, I wondered what to wear. What look should I go for? I hadn’t done this for so long. Understated, sexy, trendy? How about a pair of jeans? I couldn’t possibly go wrong with those. I went for the subtle look with my make-up, applying a thin line of black liquid eyeliner and then got totally carried away with lashings of mascara. My eyebrows still looked a tad on the red side, so I patted them with face powder, which reduced them to just a soft glow. A muted beige lipstick finished the look. I tousled my long hair with my hands whilst posing in the mirror. Mmm, not bad, I thought.
I caught a cab to the hotel which was hosting the speed-dating. The taxi driver gave a knowing smirk when we arrived at the venue. Fumbling around for some money, I handed it to him, then dithered a while, psyching myself up.
‘In your own time, love,’ the driver said over his shoulder in a bored voice.
Taking a deep breath, I summoned all my confidence and got out of the cab, striding up to the reception before I could change my mind. A girl who looked no more than sixteen stood behind the desk.
I leaned over so as not to be overheard. ‘Hi, I’m here for the speed-dating,’ I whispered to her.
‘Pardon?’
‘The speed-dating, where is it?’ I repeated, slightly louder this time.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ Her lips curled into a superficial smile.
‘Where’s the speed-dating?’ Even louder.
‘Sorry, madam, I’m not quite getting you.’