Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017. C.J. Skuse

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ making small talk with the nineteen-year-old blonde student nurse behind me

       4. Man in Lycra shorts who barged past me to the last seat on the Tube

       5. Everyone who lives or works in London

      Had my usual Dad dream. Woke up with the shakes. I told Craig I was just cold. Am on the train now, travelling to London for tomorrow’s Up At the Crack interview. The OK! magazine I bought at the station is a veritable cavalcade of fake-titted reality stars and women too fat or too thin, according to what’s in fashion, so I’ve given up. I’m now enjoying watching the people who get on board whenever the train stops at a station. I like how they look around when they alight, sizing up the competition.

      Hmm, who is the least threatening person to sit next to, they think.

      Will it be the group of young men sitting around the table covered with empty beer bottles at 9.29 a.m.? No, definitely not.

      How about the oily old gent with the carrier bag on his lap who looks like Robin Williams in One Hour Photo? Not, not him either.

      How about the four ginger kids whose tablets are all on full volume? Or the two old women incessantly nattering – one who looks like Helen Mirren, the other like Helen Mirren’s less successful brunette sister who works in Aldi?

      No. They all make a beeline for me, of course. Because I’m the woman alone. Sweet and unthreatening. Friendly faced. Quiet.

      Craig had suggested a B&B for me a couple of streets away from the TV studios, one he’d stayed in when him and Stuart went up to watch QPR play Middlesbrough and his train home was cancelled. He said the fry-up was ‘beyond the beyond’.

      A man rubbed up against me on the Tube out of Paddington. He must have been thirty-something. Bit of a quiff going on, highly polished shoes, iPhone clutched in one hand, latte in the other, cock against my arse. The train wasn’t that packed. He could have moved away but he chose not to. I don’t mean just brushed against me either – this isn’t me getting all hoity-toity-Calm-Down-Dear about it. He was dry-humping me. I was in a good mood so I handled it as calmly as I could. I turned to him, so we were cock to front on and I said veeeery quietly in a voice only he could hear

      ‘You carry on doing that, I will slit your fucking throat.’

      And I gave him a flash of my knife. And it stopped. Instantly. And the next time the train reached a station, he got off.

      I got off and pootled around Covent Garden for a bit to waste some time before I could check in. I got some more money out of Julia’s bank account and bought some warm cookies in a little French bakery just off the main square. Found a kitchen shop which had the most astonishing array of Sabatier knives in the window, the display created to look like a starburst of weapons. I stared at them for ages, imagining which handle would look best with my fingers around it. They were all better than my crappy little steak knife. Might go back there tomorrow. We need a new tin opener as well. Mrs Whittaker has nicked ours.

      I couldn’t live in London but I like to inject myself with it every now and then. It’s quite nice when it’s not raining or being bombed.

      *

      Just logged back in to report that the B&B is a shithole and my mattress is covered in piss patches. I’m sleeping on my bath towel tonight.

      In other news, I’m getting bored of the chat rooms. Took me ages to cum tonight, though I do generally find it hard to climax when I’m on a mattress that was around during the Renaissance.

Monday, 5 February

       1. People who design hotels – why in God’s name can’t you put the mother-loving plug sockets by the bed?

      The fry-up at the B&B was beyond disgusting, but I kind of knew it would be because a) Craig recommended it and b) I never have luck with hotels. There’s always a pube, always a stain, and always a shag-a-thon or a troupe of horses doing dressage in the next room at 3 a.m.

      Up at the Crack’s runner Jemimah Double-Barrelled met me at the back entrance of TV Central. She was wearing trainers with neon laces, which irked me beyond socially acceptable levels, and her hands appeared glued to the edges of an iPad. In the lift upstairs, she told me I was to be on air between a segment about a botched hysterectomy and a recipe for a three-cheese quiche.

      ‘So we’ll take you in to make-up and get you all sorted and do your hair and then you can have a quick meet with the presenters.’ Her fingertips went back to the mole cluster on her neck and picked at it like she was selecting the thickest Malteser.

      ‘Who, John and Carolyn?’ I said, sending a tiny bubble of hope into the universe that the Biggest Wanger in Town, Tony Tompkinson, was ill or on holiday or something, so I wouldn’t have to spend the whole interview staring down at the massive bulge in his trousers.

      ‘No, it’s Tony and Carolyn on today. John does it with Carolyn every other day and then it’s Melinda and Tristan on Fridays.’

      Tristan was the black presenter they chucked in on a Friday with the gay weather girl to even things up a bit, diversity-wise. The weekend sister show Chatterday they gave to the blonde in the wheelchair.

      The hair and make-up women went to town on my face, and by town I mean Slutsville. Whilst doing me, I overheard them bitching about Carolyn’s demands for a dressing room of her own, some boy-bander’s request for no-carb toast and Tony Tompkinson’s latest bust-up with his agent.

      Apparently, he was shagging her.

      Apparently, Tony is shagging everyone.

      Well, when you’ve got that much hot dog it’s silly to put it in just the one roll.

      The woman in the make-up chair to my right was an actress in some crime thing. To my left was a bloke whose pug had just got through to the semi-finals of Pets Who Can Sing and Dance. I didn’t feel like conversating with either to be honest but I tried my best. Well, my head was nodding and my mouth was all ‘How interesting’ but really I was thinking about bleeding Julia out over the bathtub at Mum and Dad’s.

      Then Tony and Carolyn swept in for a pre-show ‘touch up’ before they went live. It looked to me like they’d been touched up quite a bit already.

      ‘Tony, Carolyn, this is Rhiannon Lewis, today’s Woman of the Century shortlister.’ Jemimah had reappeared behind me, sans iPad, avec protein ball.

      ‘Well, no need to introduce you, Rhiannon, your reputation goes before you,’ Tony chuckled. ‘How you doing?’ Cue unauthorised body contact #1 – shoulder rub.

      ‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.’

      ‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Rhiannon,’ said Carolyn, smiling like a grand piano. Her face was caked in foundation but there were bumps all over it. ‘What do you prefer to be called?’

      ‘Rhiannon’s fine,’ I said. Rhiannon was what I always wanted to be called but most people insisted on saying Rhee to save time. Linus once called me Rheetard and I nearly yanked his head back and spat in his mouth.

      ‘We’ll СКАЧАТЬ