Naked in Knightsbridge Read Online Free

her stuff. But halfway through a HobNob, Jools fell asleep. She awoke with the soggy remnants stuck to her tongue, wondering what it was she’d planned to do right before phasing out.
    Sell her stuff. That’s right. A quick lunch of bread and Nutella and Jools went to work, ferreting through everything in her flat to find sellable items.
    One pair of Adidas trainers; slightly used, slightly stinky from a run-in with doggie-do on the way to the chippy.
    Four size 14 and 16 sweaters, all with at least one immovable stain located somewhere obvious.
    A four-year-old iPod Shuffle that might or might not be working – she’d lost the power cord, box and every accessory that had come with it.
    A toaster that had blown up when she’d tried to jam a crumpet into it.
    And finally, the item she was banking on to pay this month’s rent – one brand-new pair of size 10 Prada trousers, purchased as an incentive for weight loss, still gorgeous in their original black and white Prada packaging.
    Picking up a massive Online Selling for the Mentally Challenged she’d found in the specials’ bin of the local bookstore a year ago (purchased for buying cheap cleaning supplies that turned out to consist largely of water and sugar), Jools skimmed the section on ‘Setting Up Your Shop’. Halfway through the chapter, it was clear making a fortune online might not be as easy as she’d hoped.
    Thanks to the fire at Mrs Pho‘s, she was minus a computer and camera.
    Great. What was she going to do now? Maybe go to an Internet café but they cost money, and right now, every penny borrowed from Mel was going straight to Rocco to preserve her life. It wasn’t polite to ask Mel for more money – besides, the lucky cow had taken off to New York for a work conference.
    Jools stood up and gazed out of the grimy window for inspiration. There, tempting her, was a lovely new computer, sitting in the bus station’s staff canteen.
    Ideal. If only she could get in there, just to get the auctions started. Then she could use just the Internet café to check emails, without having to spend too much.
    Alright, there was still the camera issue to contend with, but she could be good with words – like those advertising copywriters who entice people with snazzy syntax.
    The canteen was empty. It might be possible to jump out the window and sneak into the canteen, but what if someone noticed. Besides, there were no guarantees she’d fit through the window.
    ‘ Psst.’
    What was that? Not Rocco! But after quickly scanning the tiny flat, she was relieved to find it free of kebab-scoffing lunatics.
    ‘ Psst!’
    It was coming from outside.
    Hunk of No Fixed Abode was standing in the door next to the canteen, eating a doughnut.
    ‘ Want one?’
    Was he actually a bus driver? It wouldn’t surprise her. Some London bus drivers did look like a Darwinian dream of the missing link. But Hunk of No Fixed Abode didn’t seem to own a uniform. If he wasn’t a driver, he definitely couldn’t be management – that required at least a shower and some form of hairbrush.
    He must have just snuck in there to steal food. Jools hadn’t eaten for at least forty-five minutes and right now a calorie-loaded treat would hit the spot perfectly. Ignoring the little voice in her head that said being an accomplice to doughnut-pinching was just as bad as stealing, she leaned out the window.
    ‘ Yes, please,’ she replied in a whisper, in case someone caught them in the illicit act.
    Taking a plate from the table in the canteen, Hunk of No Fixed Abode came over to the window – which was only slightly higher than him. He must be around 6 foot 2, Jools estimated. Impressive!
    A plate of fresh, deliciously-iced doughnuts was held up. They sat in a neat pile, begging to be eaten.
    ‘ Thanks,’ said Jools, taking only one. It wouldn’t do if Hunk of No Fixed Abode thought she had no self-control. Luckily, he couldn’t see the contradictory expanding backside from out