Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy (13 page)

 
The walls of the surrounding buildings towered above me, and the only light came from a little square of grey sky high above. The living room/kitchen window of Adam’s flat looked out onto this, but the curtains were tightly drawn. I put my ear to the window and could hear some muffled sounds. I held my breath and listened closer. A voice got a little louder. Suddenly the curtains opened and there was Tabitha, completely naked! Her enormous pale bosoms hung down over a giant white belly. In the background a balding man in his late forties was pulling a sheaf of fifty pound notes from his trousers. Unfortunately he wasn’t wearing the trousers. He was naked too. I froze. So did Tabitha, staring back at me. Then I saw a realisation flicker across her face. She smirked and pulled the curtains shut. I ran back to the gate, but I couldn’t heave myself up. I was trapped. I stood there for a few moments in a panic, then I heard a tapping on the window and her voice echoed along the passageway.

‘Coco…
Coco…
I know you’re there,’ she said. I ignored her. Why had I left the house without my phone!?

‘Coco. I think you’re in a pickle…’ she goaded. I marched back to the window. Unbelievably she was still naked.
 

‘Put some clothes on!’ I snapped haughtily averting my eyes.

‘It’s my flat. I can do what I want,’ she said. I turned back, taking care to keep my eyes above her neck.

‘It’s not your flat, you haven’t paid the rent! Are you a prostitute?’
 

‘What do you think dear?’ she cooed.

‘You know it’s illegal…’

‘What’s
illegal
is breaking and entering.’

‘What?’

‘This sad little patch of concrete is classed as my garden. As the landlord you have to give me twenty-four hours’ notice before you come onto the property… So technically you are trespassing.’

‘
No
! Not if you haven’t paid the rent! Are you going to pay it?’ I shouted.

She didn’t answer, and just stood there, shamelessly, stark naked. I turned and marched back down the passage to the gate and tried to pull myself up, but my arm was killing me.

‘Maybe I should phone your delicious husband, Mrs Pinchard,’ her voice echoed down the passageway. ‘What would he think of you spying on me?’

‘Phone him!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.’

Then Tabitha was quiet. I leaned against the wall by the gate and waited. After what seemed like an age, the gate opened. Adam was standing with Tabitha and he looked mad,
with me!
What was most disturbing was that she was completely different around him. Like a kind, if slightly corpulent old lady. I looked at the sensible dress and shoes she was now wearing, and how Adam couldn’t be more apologetic.
 

‘What about the rent?’ I said pointedly, as we made our way round to the front of the flats.

‘Tabitha has explained that she’s having some troubles at the moment, but it should be paid very soon,’ said Adam.

I looked at her.

‘I’m on to you,’ I said. She pulled a
woe is me
face and went back indoors.

‘What the hell were you doing?’ asked Adam on the walk back home.

‘I saw her through the window, she was taking money for sex Adam.’

‘Oh my God, Coco. You can’t just go and break into her garden.’

‘Did you hear me? A prostitute. I was right. And that’s not a garden it’s a crappy square of concrete.’

‘Coco. Enough. Now thanks to this we don’t have a leg to stand on with getting the rent out of her.’
 

‘She has to pay.’

‘Yes but we have to go through the correct procedure. Do you know how many rights tenants have? You can’t just climb into her garden and peer through the windows.’

‘This is so unfair,’ I said. We carried on walking. ‘But you do believe me?’

‘Coco,’ said Adam rolling his eyes.

‘
No
. You have to believe me. She
is
a prostitute. Now I know you were being polite to her but you do believe that she is a prostitute?’

Adam stopped and took my hands.

 
‘Of course I believe you,’ he said. I felt hugely relieved.

 
‘How was your interview?’ I asked.

‘I never got to go in. I had a hysterical call from my tenant that my wife had broken in and was being threatening.’

‘She threatened me!’

We came to Baker Street station and Adam stopped.

‘Coco, please. I have to go back to this company and hope that they’ll still let me interview. I told them my wife was ill.’

He took out his ticket and went through the tube barriers. I watched as the top of his head disappeared down the escalator, but he didn’t look back. Then I trudged home.
 

Friday 9th March

Still no rent from Tabitha. We’ve had to transfer some of our precious savings to clear the overdraft. Adam had three more interviews today, and is experiencing interview fatigue. The people from yesterday agreed to interview him, but then said no. He’d told them his wife was claustrophobic and had been scared to take the wheelie bin out.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘No wonder they didn’t give you the job.’

‘It’s not that ridiculous. You can get fined if you don’t take your bin out, then there’re other fines if you put recycling items in with normal waste…’

There seemed to be one glimmer on the horizon. Angie wants to meet me on Monday, my publishing house has come up with some marketing ideas they’d like to run past me.

Monday 12th March

I helped Adam choose a tie this morning for another interview. He must be doing something right because he keeps getting interviews. He just doesn’t get the jobs. He looked so good in his black suit, so sharp and lean and handsome.

‘I would hire you in a second,’ I said. We walked to Baker Street tube together, and parted at the bottom of the escalator. Adam was taking the Jubilee line into the City, I was grabbing a district line train out to Chiswick.
 

‘Good luck,’ I said. He leaned down and kissed me.
 

‘I forgot what a pain it is to wear a suit every day,’ he said grimacing and running a finger under his shirt collar.
 

‘Don’t moan about the pain of looking good,’ I said. ‘Try being a pregnant woman. I need maternity clothes, maternity bras.’

‘You might get some sexy new clothes, if Angie has lined up magazine interviews. Don’t they come with stylists?’

‘Here’s hoping.’ I grinned and we went our separate ways.

When I came out of the tube in Turnham Green a text message came through from Angie.

CHANGE OF PLAN.
 

MEETING NOW IN THE GEORGE IV
 

ON CHISWICK HIGH RD. A x

The George IV sounded very pub-like. Would
Grazia
or
Cosmopolitan
want to meet in a pub I thought? The George IV
was
a pub, but a very nice one. Angie was outside smoking furiously. Since the smoking ban she avoids pubs, so my heart lifted a little. For her to set foot inside one meant the meeting must be important.

‘Alright Cokes?’ she asked blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. I gave her a hug.

‘I’m sorry for what I said…’

‘What did you say?’

Shit,
I thought,
she didn’t remember…

‘The thing I said about Barry being a drug addict. I know he’s cleaned himself up and it was a bit of a low blow…’ I started to say more but Chloe came outside.

‘Hi Coco. Mum, we need to get inside as Aerone can only give us twenty minutes.’

Angie stubbed out the cigarette with the pointed toe of her tiny designer shoe, and we went inside. A huge overweight lad was sitting by a flashing fruit machine. Several crisp packets were open on the table, and he had a pint on the go. I was expecting us to move past him, and over to some smart executive in a cosy corner, but Angie and Chloe stopped at his table. He rose, hitching up his tracksuit bottoms.

‘Coco this is Aerone Eldersson from Mashed Potato Productions,’ said Angie. He shook my hand.

‘Another drink?’ she said.

‘Lager top,’ said Aerone. He had a thick London accent.

‘Coco? What about you?’

‘I’ll just have a J20,’ I said.

‘She’s got a baby on the way,’ said Angie rolling her eyes. She went off to the bar with Chloe.

‘Me too,’ he grinned.

‘You too what?’ I said.

‘I’ve got a baby on the way too. A beer baby!’ he lifted up his t-shirt to show a huge saggy belly, covered in mousy hair. I gave a high pitched laugh then we sat in awkward silence until Angie and Chloe came back with the drinks.

‘Right let’s get down to business,’ said Angie when we were all settled. ‘Aerone is a very talented reality tv producer.’

‘I prefer guerrilla documentary film maker,’ said Aerone.

‘He’s done some groundbreaking stuff for cable,’ said Angie. ‘Shows like, ‘Exhuming The Parents’, ‘Romanian Spider-Baby’, and ‘Serial Killer Cribs’
to name a few. I’ll let him do the rest of the talking.’

Aerone went on to say that he’s making a new documentary series called ‘Unknown Knowns’
,
where people known for one thing, reveal a fact about them that nobody knows.

‘Where do I factor into this?’ I said.

‘Well your ‘unknown known
’
is that your husband was in jail,’ said Aerone. I looked at Angie.

‘I think a better way of pitching it, is that Coco refused to believe Adam was guilty, and she didn’t stop until the sentence was overturned,’ said Angie.

Aerone went on to say that they’d like to interview me and Adam, so we can tell our story. They’ve found news footage of his release, and the TV company has been granted permission to film inside Belmarsh Prison.

‘We’d love to take you and Adam back to his original prison cell and film your reactions,’ said Aerone.

I looked at them all. Aerone was grinning, so was Angie. Chloe was busy writing things down.
 

They were serious.

‘Can I have a moment with you Angie?’ I asked.

‘No probs, I need to take a shit,’ said Aerone. He squeezed past us and loped off.

‘What’s this got to do with my book launch?’
 

‘Everything. This is about you Coco, your life,’ said Angie.

‘Yes, but I’m a writer.’

‘The problem is, that on its own that doesn’t sell,’ said Angie. ‘If you’re Dan Brown or Regina Battenberg it’s no problem, but for you we need an angle.’

‘What about magazine articles?
Grazia, Cosmo
?’ I said.

‘They said for now they’re not looking for the prisoner’s wife angle…’

‘What do you mean the prisoner’s wife angle?’

‘It’s a great angle Cokes,’ said Angie

‘Well, I can’t do this,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be exploited for some cheap documentary. Nor does Adam. He’s trying to find a job, think what would happen if someone saw it?’

‘Coco we’ve made a big effort to set this up,’ said Angie. ‘Aerone is much in demand. I had to, well, not beg, but close enough.’

‘Is there really no magazine interested? Not even a little corner piece in
Take a Break
?’

Chloe and Angie shook their heads.

‘So what are my other options?’ I asked.

‘We’ve got Regina Battenberg’s quote for the front of the book, ‘
I laughed and laughed and laughed, what an imagination this author has!’
said Angie.

‘And there’s social media,’ said Chloe. ‘Start going on Twitter and Facebook.’

‘Does that work?’

‘Well, your publishing house would like you to,’ said Chloe. ‘We don’t know if it does work. But we don’t know if it doesn’t work either, and of course everyone’s doing it, so until it’s absolutely proved that it doesn’t work, we think you should do it.’

‘So what do I put on social media?’ I said.

‘Just, you know, tweet about stuff and mention your book,’ said Angie.

‘But keep stuff about your book to a minimum,’ said Chloe. ‘People get really pissed off.’

‘So you want me to go on social media to promote my book, but not mention my book too much?’

‘Yes,’ said Chloe. There was silence. Aerone came back from the toilet and I, very nicely, apologised and said I wasn’t interested.

‘No biggie. I didn’t have a clue who you were anyway,’ said Aerone. He hitched up his trackies and left the pub.

Wednesday 14th March

The rent still hasn’t been paid.
 

Chloe emailed me a list last night of all the social networks I should join: Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram, Google Circles, Stumbleupon, Goodreads, Tumblr, Digg, Reddit… Diaspora.
 

When I published
Chasing Diana Spencer
in 2008 all this barely existed. Even ebooks barely existed. Facebook was just something you arsed about on, and Twitter was something that only Stephen Fry did.

I decided to start with Twitter, as I have some minor experience, and an old twitter account. I logged on and sought out Regina Battenberg. She seems to be doing something right because she has nearly a
million
followers. Her latest tweet reads,

@ReginaB Ah! just found a drinks coaster I was looking 4 down back of sofa #luckyday

She had included a picture of herself with the drinks coaster, which was plain and made of cork. This tweet has had
six hundred
re-tweets, including one from Colin Thomas the head of The House of Randoms; the CEO of the publishing company! He had replied saying,

@RandomColin I love that coaster! #wineoclock
 

Imagine if I went into a meeting with Colin Thomas, and started talking about finding a coaster down the back of my sofa. He would look at me if as if I were mad; he’d tell me to stop wasting his time.
Yet on Twitter these banal conversations are the norm. I don’t mean to be a misery, and I see how Twitter can be fun, but couldn’t someone just come out and say it’s a load of old bollocks, and reassure us we don’t have to do it.
 

The problem is that the Prime Minister and the US President are doing it too. If they think they’re going to miss out, I think we’re in trouble. I sat there for two hours with my hands poised like chicken feet over my keyboard, trying to think of something to tweet, but I couldn’t. I just don’t get the rules. If there are any rules?