Chapter 13

After visiting Cloud’s Hill, they drove off to a town called Dorchester. Mum had booked them into a little B&B in a side street. Mum and Granny had a twin-bedded room at the front, and Jess had a tiny room at the back with a fabulous view of a brick wall. Somehow this seemed to reflect her mood.

Mum made a cup of tea in her room, and Jess sat on Granny’s bed. There was a game show on the TV, but Jess was hardly listening. Privately, she was rehearsing ferocious texts to Fred – messages so furious she would never, ever send them.

WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIVE STRAIGHT INTO HER CLEAVAGE? DON’T HESITATE ON MY ACCOUNT . . . I COULD POINT OUT THAT ‘CHARLOTTE’ RHYMES WITH ‘HARLOT’ BUT PERHAPS IT’S BETTER IF I JUST SAY GOODBYE . . .

IS CHARLOTTE PRETTIER THAN ME? WELL, SO IS 90% OF THE FEMALE POPULATION . . . GO FOR IT, FRED PARSONS. WHY NOT? AFTER ALL, I HAVE BEEN AWAY A WHOLE TWO DAYS.

After they’d unpacked their bags, there was an hour before supper.

‘I’m just going for a walk around town,’ said Jess. She felt so stressed out, she couldn’t just sit still in her room.

Within minutes of leaving the B&B, Jess found a branch of the Body Shop. She went in, grabbed a few testers and sprayed herself wildly all over: coconut, vanilla, melon . . . Never had aromatherapy been more desperately needed.

Although why did Body Shop cosmetics have to be so intimately related to food? Food meant catering, and catering meant Fred being a waiter with the infuriating cheerleaders. Melon, vanilla, coconut – Jess doubted if she’d ever be able to enjoy any of them again.

‘Are you OK?’ asked the salesgirl.

No, thought Jess, my heart is broken. But she smiled politely and said, ‘Yes, thanks.’

Then she investigated approximately 1,000 lip-glosses before selecting the very first one she had tried. Would this lipgloss win back Fred’s fickle heart? Jess glared moodily at herself in a mirror. No wonder Fred couldn’t stay faithful to her for more than a split second. With her slightly plump cheeks and tiny eyes, she looked like some kind of crazed hamster.

She paid for the lipgloss and left. Right next door, Jess found a stationery shop. Yessss! She would buy some elegant, seductive paper and deluge Fred with witty, scintillating, passionate letters. It might not be quite as mesmerising as Charlotte’s cleavage covered with pudding, but it was Jess’s only hope.

Jess bought some postcards, too. She bought some Marilyn Monroe and Humphrey Bogart ones for her dad, who worshipped old movie stars. And she bought some photos of a dull old church for Fred. She wasn’t going to send him an image of the divine Marilyn – it might make him even more disappointed with her own rather low-key physical assets.

She also bought some terribly charismatic sage-green writing paper, raced back to the B&B and started to write. First she wrote a card to Dad, describing Mum’s ludicrous crush on Lawrence of Arabia. Then she texted her dad.

DAD — I JUST WROTE YOU A POSTCARD. HOPE YOU’RE IMPRESSED! I’M SENDING YOU THIS TEXT JUST IN CASE I NEVER GET AROUND TO POSTING IT. THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO KNOW. HOW IMPORTANT ARE CLEAVAGES? IF A GUY IS FACED WITH A REAL HUMDINGER, CAN HE LOOK AWAY AND WISH HE WAS WITH HIS FLAT-CHESTED GIRLFRIEND? LOVE, JESS.

That was her dad sorted. Now it was time for her letter to Fred. She would not mention Charlotte. She would ignore the whole thing.

 

Dear Fred,

Today we visited Lawrence of Arabia’s cottage. Terribly atmospheric. Judging by the photos he looked quite like my dad. I can’t wait to see Dad again. I wish you could meet him, though he is rather childish. I know I’ve told you about how weird and mysterious he is, but there’s nothing like meeting people face to face, is there? He’s certainly a lot more entertaining than my mum. Her obsession with history is ruining my life.

Tomorrow we shall visit the scene of King Arthur’s brave stand against the gerbils, plus a fascinating chapel where St Horace had a vision of a pork pie with wings in the year 1238. It was a sign that the famine would shortly end. Speaking of food, it’s time for supper. Judging by my massive hips, I should try and confine myself to a single lettuce leaf. But knowing me I shall give into temptation and swallow a whole live cow.

 

She had tried very hard to write a lively, lighthearted letter. But Jess was still sunk in a horrible black mood. She planned to murder Fred a million different ways.

Jess went out, bought some stamps and posted her letter to Fred and her card to her dad. Then she went back to the hotel and watched The Simpsons on TV until it was time for supper.

At suppertime they went out to an Italian restaurant. Jess devoured her pasta with grim determination. She still hadn’t replied to Fred’s text message about Charlotte’s cleavage. She hoped he was in agony, waiting. But on the other hand, he just might be staring into Charlotte’s eyes and showering her with his divine jokes and clever compliments. And if this was the scenario, Jess was definitely never going to speak to him again.

‘Hah!’ she would sneer glamorously at him, when eventually they met again. ‘So you’ve come crawling back, have you? Has the wonderful Charlotte told you to push off? Or have you tired of her magnificent, pudding-stained cleavage?’

‘Forgive me!’ gasped Fred, throwing himself face down on the carpet – no, wait, that wasn’t public enough. The park. Yes! The bandstand! With a huge crowd watching. ‘I love only you! Charlotte forced me to throw puddings at her! I never enjoyed it for a moment! And I never touched her, except with wet wipes!’

‘Crawl in the dust, you faithless viper!’ spat Jess. ‘For I shall never speak to you again, no, not for a hundred years.’ She was beginning to sound a bit like the Bible. She quite liked it. She turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving Fred grovelling.

‘And another thing!’ She turned back to him. ‘Eat dirt, Fred Parsons! No matter how hard you beg, you shall never receive another glance or word from me!’

Fred kind of frothed at the mouth like a dog who has swallowed something a bit poisonous, and scrabbled in the dirt. Jess tossed a last stony, scornful glance at him, curled her lip in contempt and turned her back on him. A murmur of pity and horror ran through the watching millions – for this scene was being beamed around the world on satellite TV.

And then suddenly, back in the real world, her phone buzzed in her bag.

‘What’s that, dear?’ said Granny in alarm. ‘Is it one of your emails?’

‘Text messages, Granny,’ said Jess, grabbing her phone. ‘It’ll just be Flora.’

‘You should switch your phone off in restaurants,’ said Mum, never one to miss the chance of a moan.

‘Yeah, yeah – in a minute,’ said Jess, trying to look cool and collected as Fred’s message flashed up.

WHAT ON EARTH’S GOING ON? WHY SO SILENT? ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH SOME DUMB LIFEGUARD CALLED GARETH?

Hastily she composed what she hoped would be a devastating retort.

HOW’S CHARLOTTE’S CLEAVAGE THIS EVENING? STILL MESMERISING?

She pressed the SEND button with a sort of bitter panache. How dare he be jealous of her, when she had done nothing but think about him for three whole days solid? While he frolicked with girls and noticed their cleavages, the beast!

‘I told you to switch the blasted thing off now, Jess!’ said Mum, getting quite ratty.

‘OK, OK, Mum, no need for stress! I am switching it off,’ said Jess.

Even as she spoke, a message came back.

CHARLOTTE IS FIFTY AND OUR BOSS, DUMBO. HER CLEAVAGE IS ABOUT AS APPEALING AS A CREVASSE IN ANTARCTICA.

Huge, huge relief swept through Jess. Dear, darling Fred! She had been so stupid. She had wasted the whole day being jealous completely without any reason. How could she apologise in a way which would be graceful and yet, somehow, seductively hilarious?

While she was racking her brains, another message arrived. Eagerly Jess peered at the tiny screen. What message was adorable Fred sending her now? A declaration of undying love? Oh no! Jess’s blood ran cold with horror.

IT’S ROSIE YOU REALLY OUGHT TO WORRY ABOUT . . .