The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy) Page 4

  All she had were Scarlet and her parents, and it seemed the later had simply taken the word of that sap Hugo over their own daughter.

  Fancy Hugo actually calling them. Bastard. That was the last time she agreed to go on a second date when the first was so bloody unsatisfactory.

  Dud fucks were obviously that way because they conducted their whole lives as if they were one huge ball of failure.

  If she ever saw that arsehole Hugo again, Rosie would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him and his horrible, weedy, traitoresque personality.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANOTHER NEW YORK MORNING, ROSIE thought, looking out of the solitary window of her room into the backyards of neighboring buildings. When they said there was no view with the cheap rooms, they meant it.

  After her altercation with that utter prick in the café and the argument with her mother, Rosie had taken herself off to the Met, but she couldn’t focus on the art because her head was spinning with the accusations being leveled at her. How come every single person she knew - or in the case of the café bastard, didn’t want to know - had something nasty to say about her? All she wanted to do was live her life in the manner she enjoyed. What the hell was wrong with that?

  Speaking of which, after the Met, she had returned to the hotel, changed, then hit some bar close-by in the hope of meeting someone cute enough to distract her from the last couple of days. Fate, however, had other things in mind, and moments after arriving and choosing what she thought was a safe seat at the bar, she was surrounded by the entire amateur, middle-aged, baseball team from somewhere deep and unmemorable in Ohio.

  ‘Well, lookee here, fine lookin’ girl, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, sure is.’

  ‘Yeah, sure is.’

  ‘Yeah, sure is.’

  By the third ‘Yeah, sure is,’ Rosie was already standing and grabbing her coat. The bartender looked at her apologetically, but judging by the stench coming from the bald idiots trying to chat her up, they were far more important customers that a girl who was nursing a lime and soda and a foul expression.

  By 9:30 p.m., she was back in her room watching some really inane programme about fat people who had to be lifted out of their homes with cranes. At 10:00, Scarlet had called, but Rosie let it go to voicemail. The way her life was progressing, any conversation she had right then would somehow lead to Rosie being dragged further into a cesspit of depression.

  Now, she was wide awake and starving. She thought about asking for room service, but given her funds were so short, a walk to a nearby deli was a better option.

  ‘Check out is at noon,’ the receptionist reminded her as she strode past.

  ‘Got it,’ Rosie replied, remembering that she would have to waste some precious dollars on a taxi to the airport to try and get a refund on the ticket. Even the deli seemed out of reach now!

  Last night she’d rung bloody BIA and asked if they had an office in Manhattan and was rudely told that the office was at the airport – ‘You know, where the planes are’. So today’s excursion was a stinky horror ride in the back of lunatic’s car to JFK, where, she hoped, hoped, hoped, that whoever was ‘up there’ looking down on her was in a better mood, and would deign to allow a win on the airline ticket.

  With the outfit of choice that day being skintight black jeans, a pair of French Sole ballet pumps and a loose floral see-through shirt with a white vest underneath, Rosie figured she should have an easier time avoiding nutcases.

  How wrong she was.

  ‘Yo, mamma, how’s about givin’ me some juice?’ A white dude in a pickup with, yuck, a pig, a fucking pig, in the back, poked his tongue at her and waggled it about for effect.

  Rosie shuddered. Did that mean what she thought it did?

  Only a few steps later a nicely-dressed grandfatherly-type asked her if she’d like to have breakfast with him, at which point a grandmotherly-type appeared and called out to ‘leave my husband alone, you slut’.

  Having reached the end of an extremely short, shoe-lace-length tether, Rosie told them both to fuck off back to whatever dire chintz-ridden hole they had crawled out of.

  ‘I don’t know why they say the English are polite,’ she heard the old woman say as the couple scurried off.

  ‘They have nice tits, though,’ the old man answered.

  Nice to know there is no age or sex discrimination amongst the league of leeches and psychos in NYC.

  Deciding that a coffee was a treat worth spending a few bucks on, she finally arriving at a place that seemed decent.

  Rosie had only just sat down with her latte, some sort of plaited bread thing, and a copy of the New York Times when her mobile rang.

  Scarlet again.

  This time she picked up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Look, Rosie, I didn’t mean to upset you the other day.’

  ‘It’s nice to know that my only friend, my best friend, thinks I‘m dysfunctional.’

  ‘Of course I don’t think that, but look, nobody’s perfect, are they?’

  ‘Apparently you are. And my mother come to that. Oh, and some total and utter prig from a café yesterday.’

  Scarlet coughed. ‘Rosie, are you okay? You sound a little, er, tense.’

  In spite of how pissed off she was at Scar, Rosie needed someone to talk to about the car crash her life was readily becoming.

  ‘My parents have cut me off, beginning now.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? Don’t you have a trust fund or something?’

  ‘Doesn’t kick in until I am 35, which means I have almost ten years to live as a homeless person, enjoying food from garbage bins and the occasional cup of slop from the soup kitchen. Oh, wait a minute; didn’t they ban those in London? Shame. Just rubbish gruel them. Might be a tad cold in the snow, but I am sure I’ll find some disgusting hobo to lie on top of me, given that I am such a slut and everything.’

  ‘Right, you still hate me, I get it.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rosie saw a middle-aged man, a university guy with glasses, a sweater vest and a horny expression, smiling at her. He had those teeth that poked out like a rabbit. As bloody well if.

  ‘Rosie, have you hung up?’

  ‘Sorry, just a loser-alert: Mr Bean Meets Startled Carrot is looking over here with hope in his slitty eyes.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Scarlet was laughing now. She always enjoyed Rosie’s descriptions of the guys who tried it on with her.

  ‘Shame for him. There is no way I am going to help him lose his virginity.’

  ‘Urgh. Aging virgin, not attractive.’

  Rosie’s thoughts shot to her therapist. ‘I totally agree.’

  Scarlet tried again. ‘Look, I am so sorry for having a go at you. I know you just want to be yourself, and that you have safe sex, and that you don’t mean to hurt people . . . .’

  ‘But you think I do?’

  ‘You know you do, Rosie.’

  Yes, that was true. But wasn’t what Rosie did what men have been doing through the ages? Where were all the feminists when she needed them?

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted you to know I am on your side.’

  ‘The side of the indiscriminate shagger?’

  Her friend giggled. ‘I never said you didn’t have taste. You are quite discriminating, if I recall.’

  ‘That’s right, I am. I require both a penis and a pulse.’

  That both set them off and all those in the café who had the two attributes Rosie had spoken of, a little too loudly, turned around and perved at her with the usual undisguised lust.

  ‘Listen, I have a suggestion, if you want to stay in New York that is.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure how I am going to fund it, but I would love to stick a Manolo or four into Mother’s little plan to rule my life.’

  ‘My friend’s uncle lives out in Queens. He’s got some sort of pizza shop, with a flat above it. She’s always saying we should visit, as he has a spare room since he is single and ch
ildless, but she can never raise the airfare to get over there. I could ask if he could put you up, for a couple of weeks at least.’

  A myriad of eventualities raced through Rosie’s mind, not the least the possibility that this friend’s uncle might be a complete freak and abduct her and threaten her with mid-morning TV or something if she didn’t have sex with him.

  ‘I don’t know about that, Scar. A total stranger? What if . . .’

  She didn’t have to say it. ‘No, its okay, he’s gay.’

  Well that ruled out the sex, if not the probable abduction. Wasn’t that guy who lived alone in Silence of the Lambs gay?

  ‘Scar, I really appreciate the call, and the offer to help, but I’ll be okay. I am going to cash in my first class ticket, and use the money to live in a cheaper hotel until I can find work. I have a 2:1 from Bristol, right? Okay, it’s in History of the Ancient Worlds, but surely I should be able to score some sort of job with that? In a museum or something?’

  ‘Er, you do know there is a recession in the U.S. right now? Some of my lawyer friends in jobs are losing them.’

  Shit. Lawyers losing jobs in New York was an ominous sign.

  ‘Maybe it’s about time I gave modeling a try?’

  A famous Scarlet silence.

  ‘Scar, did you hear me?’

  ‘No offence, hon, but you’re twenty six. Most models are heading for retirement at that age. But I would definitely ask, no harm in it. Except for . . .’

  Bloody hell. ‘What now?’

  ‘You don’t have a Green Card.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You can’t work without one.’

  ‘Really, I thought that was just to live here permanently. Can’t I work for at least six months or whatever it says on my visa?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Rosie. You need to go and check with immigration. Imagine if you were deported. You’d never be allowed back in to shop at Saks again.’

  Shit. Deportation didn’t sound good. Although, there could be handcuffs!

  ‘Well, I’ll start with the ticket and see what happens. It would serve my parents right if I were deported.’

  ‘Okay, but remember Arnie Burger; he’s there if you need him.’

  A gay pizza maker called Arnie Burger? Maybe not.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, babe, but I am bound to find come cash work, aren’t I? And how much could an apartment cost to rent? I know New York is pricey but if the employers I approach are men, I might be able to strike a deal.’

  ‘Rosie!’

  ‘I’m just joking!’

  ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘Sort of!’

  ‘Rosie!’ Scarlet repeated. ‘Please be careful. You don’t realize it but there is a world of difference between living in your parent’s gorgeous house in Kensington, having everything paid for, and trying to make it alone in a strange city.’

  ‘New York’s not that strange.’

  Scarlet sighed her ‘It’s-a-Rosie-Thing’ sigh. ‘Keep in touch, then. And head for Queens if you find yourself without a place to stay.’

  ‘Yes, mum!’ Rosie joked.

  ‘Rosie!’

  ‘Yes, Scar, I promise. But can you tell me one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where the fuck is Queens?’

  Next, Rosie bartered with the taxi driver for a reduced rate to JFK – a photo with him, arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Itza deal, honey bunny,’ the aging Iranian told her. ‘My mates at the diner are gonna love this.’

  Holding her tight, standing in front of his cab so that the license plate was clearly in view, he asked a policeman to take the shot.

  ‘Nice,’ the policeman, archetypal ruddy cheeked and rotund of stomach, nodded in appreciation.

  Between them, the men used up the space on entire SD card of the tiny digital camera, each picture showing the cabbie moving in closer and closer until Rosie had to slap his hand from her tit.

  She longed to tell that judgmental reject from the café that it didn’t make a blind bit of difference what she wore – men were still utter freaks when it came to Rosie Matchall.

  Photo over, Medhi, the cabbie, bundled her into the back of a yellow taxi that stank of cigarette smoke.

  ‘I’ll probably get bloody cancer from these seats,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What’s that, hotstuff?’

  ‘Nothing Medhi.’

  ‘I like the way you say my name,’ the cabbie, monobrow and balding head the only parts of him she could see in the rear vision mirror. ‘I’ll remember that later.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s a really attractive thought.’

  Medhi grinned happily and he took a corner on two wheels. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Thirty minutes later, he pulled up with a screech at the terminal.

  ‘There you go, twenty bucks, like we agreed.’ Rosie passed over a note.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to, er, negotiate a return fare?’ Medhi licked his lips.

  ‘You are joking, right? What about your family?’ Rosie pointed at the group photo pasted to the passenger-side rear vision mirror. A really pretty woman and two cute kids, scrunched together in front of a Christmas tree.

  ‘That’s me sister.’ The licking of lips continued.

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Rosie said, as she got out of the cab.

  ‘No, really, I promise.’

  ‘Never going to happen Medhi, but thanks for only clipping the edge of that truck, and not driving straight under it.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He took it as a compliment.

  Idiot.

  He handed her a card. ‘If you ever need another ride, call me.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’ Meaning: I won’t, EVER, not as long as I have a pulse.

  The woman at the BIA counter took the ticket and held it up to the light.

  ‘It’s not forged,’ Rosie told her, seeing that there was the immediate, usual problem that arose in these situations. Because of the way she looked, a lot of women she came across took an instant and irrevocable dislike to her.

  ‘We have to check,’ the woman replied, looking even more closely at the flimsy piece of paper. ‘It’s unusual to have one of these; most people have electronic tickets now.’

  ‘That would be the airline’s doing in London, not mine.’ Rosie was becoming bored of the cat and mouse. I have a life to live, she felt like screaming at the fluffy haired young woman, who was squeezed into a too-small uniform and looked as if she couldn’t fully breathe out without popping off the buttons.

  ‘Well, let me see. Oops. Just as I though, there has already been a refund issued on this ticket.’

  ‘WHAT?’ Rosie didn’t usually shout, but the realization that mild-mannered, limp-dicked Hugo was actually an enormous, calculating arsehole was too much to take.

  ‘The credit card holder has been issued a refund. A Mr Hugo Collins.’ She narrowed her eyes at Rosie. ‘Is that you?’

  Cow.

  ‘No,’ Rosie had to admit. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Didn’t think so,’ the woman said, smiling happily at having caught out someone she clearly believed was a scam artist.

  ‘But how the hell am I supposed to get home?’

  ‘Perhaps you could ask Mr Collins?’ the bitch suggested, a glint of something closely resembling hatred in her eyes.

  ‘Thank you so much for your help,’ Rosie spat, as politely as possible.

  ‘Problem?’ A voice with an American accent, strangely familiar, called out.

  God, Rosie thought wearily, couldn’t they just leave her alone for a second. She had to gather her thoughts, work out what the hell to do next. Calling her parents and asking them to fund her return was something she was loathed to do, particularly after telling Mother to go and blow into her wholegrain muesli.

  The next guy that tried it on was going to get an impolite ‘go fuck yourself’. The niceties ingrained in her from birth had all but worn thin these past two days.

  Serves you right for thinking you cou
ld do the second date thing.

  Oh shut it, Rosie snapped at her unconscious.

  ‘Are you ignoring me?’

  Right, that was it. ‘Listen you cretinous–’

  It was him. The judgmental arsehole from the café.

  Looking hotter than she remembered, he was better turned out today in jeans, a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and some trendy boat shoes. The hair was styled a little differently, slightly shorter (must have been to the barber), but she’d recognize those baby blues anywhere.

  Yum, her body screamed.

  Yuck, her brain reminded it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I wasn’t, but now that I know it’s you, consider yourself ignored.’ Stupid, stupid prat.

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ What was he doing here, anyway? ‘Are you bloody stalking me now?’

  He held up a small travel bag. ‘Just flew back from L.A. Got an office there. Sorry to disappoint that ego of yours.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with my ego.’

  ‘You think every man you meet drops everything after catching sight of you and dedicates his life to stalking you, then?’