My Perfect Stranger: A hilarious love story by the bestselling author of One Day in December. Kat French
have a clitoris, right?’
‘Jeez, Tash! I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.’
Tash shot Honey a sage look. ‘If Simon can talk about vibrators over his organic muesli, you can discuss basic female anatomy over your morning coffee.’
‘Fine,’ Honey sighed. ‘Yes, last time I looked, I had a clitoris. Not that I actually looked, but you know what I mean.’
‘Well, there you go then. Hopefully piano man numero deux will be the one who can make it work.’
‘So now I have a broken clitoris?’
Tash drained her coffee cup. ‘Just on the blink. You need to get a man in to fix it.’
For the second time since Tash’s arrival, Honey’s thoughts strayed to the man living across the hall, and for the second time since Tash’s arrival she decided to keep her own counsel. If Tash got wind of the fact that the hot man over the hallway had snogged Honey brainless last night, she’d be over there like a whippet to find out more about him. Honey knew for a fact that Hal wouldn’t take kindly to anyone knocking on his door, morning, noon or nighttime. He’d be rude and abrasive, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she didn’t want her friends to take against him.
She saw Tash out of the house a couple of minutes later with a pensive glance towards Hal’s door, thankful when Tash left in a blur of kisses, red hair and promises that piano man number two would be different.
‘You, you, and you,’ Christopher strode into the charity shop early the next week and pointed his bony index finger at Honey, Lucille and Mimi in turn. They all stared in silence at their tall, wispy-haired boss in his ill-fitting suit.
‘I take it this is your doing?’ he barked, and slapped the local newspaper down next to the till. Glancing down at it, Honey saw a photo of the home beneath a headline that screamed out about residents facing homelessness.
‘Pack in this bloody claptrap about saving this place. Any more of it and you’re out the door right now, not in six months’ time. One more journalist or angry relative calls me or stops me in the street, or badgers me about it in the sodding doctor’s surgery like this morning and that’s it. You’re out. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. Out. O.U.T. Am I making myself perfectly clear?’
His eyes swivelled between the three women, who all tried to look sufficiently contrite. Over the years they’d all been on the receiving end of one or more of Christopher’s tantrums, and they all knew him well enough not to be unduly intimidated by him. Besides, at the end of the day he was on the same payroll as they were, or as Honey, in any case. The home was ultimately owned by a private company who cared very little about its residents and very much about its bottom line. Lucille and Mimi volunteered their time for free, so Christopher couldn’t fire them even if he wanted to.
‘I’m not sure you can do that, Christopher dear,’ Mimi said with an absent smile as she folded a pile of curtains.
Lucille reached into her pocket and extracted a packet of menthol sweets. ‘Have one of these, Christopher, your throat sounds sore. Have you been shouting?’
Honey glanced momentarily down at the glass counter top to hide her smile, then coughed and looked up. Christopher’s comb-over had flipped the wrong way in his agitation and now hung at an odd angle from one side of his head, and his already small eyes had narrowed into slits.
‘Are these women just senile, or are they taking the piss, Miss Jones? Because if you cannot control your staff then I’ll find someone to run this place who can,’ he hissed loudly at Honey.
‘I’m sorry that you’re feeling hassled, Christopher, but I’m pretty sure we’re allowed to express our concerns however we choose in our own time. Aren’t you worried? It’s your job on the line too.’
‘You really ought to be grateful to Honey for speaking out,’ Mimi rebuked him mildly whilst wafting her hand around by the side of her head and making exaggerated eyes towards Christopher’s errant hairstyle. He took her obvious hint, swiping his hair back into place and losing his dignity.
‘No more funny business. I’m warning you, ladies.’
‘It sounds more like you’re threatening them to me, Christopher old bean,’ a voice said from behind him. Billy Bobbysocks strolled into the shop, resplendent in a red Teddyboy suit. ‘Heard shouting. Came to see what all the commotion was about.’
Christopher puffed out his chest. ‘And you’re just as bad,’ he said, staring boggle eyed at Billy. ‘I suggest you stop encouraging this ridiculous charade and start looking for somewhere else to live. Understand?’ He two-stepped around Billy towards the door, who gamely put up his dukes.
‘Let’s settle this like men,’ he said mildly, hopping from toe to toe. Christopher shot them all a long, hard, disparaging look and then stalked out, holding his comb-over down with one hand as he went.
Lucille laid her cough sweets down on the counter with a worried sigh. ‘He was really quite annoyed, wasn’t he?’
‘And a good thing too!’ Mimi shot back. ‘It means we must be doing something right. No doubt he’ll have a new job with the company if he manages to sweep this under the carpet.’
Honey had to agree. It was pretty obvious that for whatever reason, Christopher didn’t share their worries about job security.
‘If he’s getting calls from reporters and relatives, then I guess Old Don’s son must have put the word out,’ she said. The news hadn’t been intended for residents or relatives until much further down the line, but Old Don’s son, the unimaginatively named Donny Jr, had called into the shop a few days back and listened with growing fury as Honey outlined the oncoming demise of the home. By the looks of the newspaper on the counter in front of them, he’d just kicked the campaign well and truly into the public arena. Honey flipped it flat and smoothed it out. Billy whistled.
‘No wonder he’s mad,’ Honey said absently, reading the part where Christopher was named and shamed for trying to keep the news under wraps.
‘We need to maximise this,’ Mimi said.
Lucille nodded. ‘But how?’
‘Would now possibly be a good time for you gals to lash yourselves to the railings by your bras?’ Billy said, the ever-present roguish twinkle in his eye brighter than ever.
Mimi elbowed him affectionately in the ribs. ‘Behave yourself, William.’
‘Ooh, I like it when you call me William,’ he said, wiggling his eyebrows. ‘Will you do it again later?’
‘You’re an old fool,’ Mimi smiled at him, and Honey folded the paper back in half.
‘Let’s wait and see what happens now that the news is out. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of worried people out there. Maybe we should try to organise a meeting or something?’
‘I happen to know the manager of The Cock, if you need a venue,’ Billy said. ‘Or rather, I knew his mother, many moons ago …’ He winked at Honey and then looked apologetically at Mimi. ‘She didn’t hold a candle to you my love, and she’s been dead a good twenty years.’
‘We could put up some posters in there inviting people to gather to talk about it in a couple of weeks,’ Honey mused, trying not to dwell on her disastrous date with Deano in The Cock Inn, because that led on to thoughts of her after-date with Hal, who’d refused to open his door ever since. She’d knocked, and she’d shouted, and he’d grunted something unintelligible back at her each time to prove he was alive and get rid of her. She’d left whisky for him a couple of nights back and yelled at him not to break his neck on it, and the fact that it had disappeared in the morning told her that he’d taken it in without incident.
‘You’re welcome,’ she’d shouted as she’d locked her front door to go out to work, sarcasm souring her voice. The truth was that she’d started to enjoy picking out things for him as