Читать книгу In Bloom - C.J. Skuse, C. J. Skuse, C.J. Skuse - Страница 23

Tuesday, 31st July – 12 weeks, 2 days

1. Grown adults who are afraid of dogs. Strap on a pair, FFS.

2. Pop up advertisers. In fact anything that ‘pops’ at all.

3. Woody Allen.

‘I can’t understand it,’ said Jim, crunching through his All Bran. ‘No bookings at all?’

‘Sorry.’ I packed my face with as much humility as it could muster.

‘No it’s not your fault, love. If you ask me the tourism board has a lot to answer for. This isn’t a destination area anymore. Nothing for the kiddies. The funicular hasn’t had a lick of paint for decades. Council keep putting up the rates so the little independent shops can’t afford to stay put, and that new leisure centre’s still not finished. Six years they’ve been promising that.’

Note: I don’t get an iota of blame. Note: he doesn’t check Airbnb himself. Trust, you see. Complete and total trust. I can’t help finding Jim almost unbearably sexy sometimes.

Another dizzy spell on my way back upstairs – it’s altitude that seems to affect it. I had one yesterday on my way up to the Well House. I lay on AJ’s grave for a full half-hour until it passed. Something to do with my blood pressure. I’m going to have to start carrying around emergency chocolate with me like a St Bernard.

I checked out Tim Prendergast’s social media to get the measure of the man. His avatar is a pic of himself in one of those seaside cut-outs – a fat man in a stripy bathing suit wearing a Kiss-Me-Quick hat.

What a wit.

His eyes are blue with ice splinters in them. I don’t even have to meet him to know he’s a fungus-addled prick of the highest proportions. And for a self-confessed ‘outdoorsman’ who loves hill walking, he doesn’t half spend a lot of time tweet-stalking celebrities. You know the type of thing – RTing how good their books/films/TV shows are. Incessantly @ing them in, saying Good job on The One Show tonight… or Loved your movie – what a talent you are! We’re lucky to have you, and asking them for shout outs and free tickets. The worst part about it is he gets replies. He trades on that tried and tested logic – people will believe anything if it’s a compliment. And it works.

I honestly don’t know what Marnie sees in him.

Talking of her, I haven’t heard anything since Saturday. Two texts so far have gone unanswered. I wonder if he’s throttled her. I wonder if I should go round there. I know where she lives – in one of the new houses in Michaelmas Court. She mentioned it at Pudding Club as the number was the same as their anniversary – the fifteenth.

The Plymouth Star guy was back on the doorstep today, along with several others from the tabloids. He is such a snack, honestly, and it thrills me to wind him up – to play the part of forbidden fruit now I know he wants to eat my ass so badly. I felt quite sorry for him, jostling to be the first to hound me as I sashayed down the front path in my heels and swishy top, like I was at Paris Fashion Week.

‘You brought my doughnuts yet?’ I called out to him.

‘You were serious about that?’

‘Of course,’ I smiled, gliding through the garden gate. Oh boy was I working it today. On the other side I turned back to him and he smiled like we were sharing a secret.

Gusset dryness = history.