Page 19 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Oh, Jesus. I attempt to mentally measure Carlotta’s tits with my fail-safe ‘handful’ methodology while not actually lifting my hands in the middle of Harrods and forming them into actual cup shapes.

‘Thirty-two D,’ I say. ‘No, wait. C. No, D.’ She’s definitely a D cup, especially with that slight frame of hers.

The salesperson wisely waits.

I nod with a confidence I do not feel. ‘Thirty-two D.’

Five minutes later, I’m emerging into the July sunshine, a staggering one-hundred-and-twenty pounds poorer and in possession of the ugliest bra I’ve ever seen. It’s the colour of granny tights and about a hundred times thicker.

If Carlotta’s nipples are bullets, this is a bulletproof vest.

Perfect.

9

LOTTA

‘And I said’—Gaz stretches out his arms theatrically—‘gimme the fucking fiver, mate.’

He collapses with the utter hilarity of his punchline, and the rest of us follow. I have no clue what he’s talking about half the time, but we’ve been falling about laughing for the past hour. This guy cracks me up. It’s his delivery. The stories he’s telling about his and Aide’s juvenile delinquency are pretty funny in their own right, but the way he tells them is priceless.

‘Tell her about the time you and Aide pulled the plastic fork stunt at school,’ Judy urges him.

I gape. ‘You were at school together?’

‘Course we were,’ Gaz says. ‘All the way from Year Seven. He was a lot cleverer than me, but he always managed to get us into trouble.’

Judy shakes her head mournfully. ‘He was a troublesome little twat at school, he was. Mark my words. I’m glad he managed to pull his head out of his arse and do so well for himself.’

I don’t miss the warning shake of the head Sylvie gives her, though I have no idea what she’s talking about. And, while it’s not obvious that Aide has done particularly well for himself, I’ve seen enough this morning not to judge. I know the gap between rich and poor in London is a travesty, but this morning really brought it home to me just how poorpoorcan mean.

So if these guys see Aide as a success story, then maybe he is. He’s here, showing up every day to support his community, isn’t he? That’s got to count for a lot.

Anyway, I’m more interested in what Judy said before that.

‘Troublesome little twat, you say? Tell me more.’

Gaz points at me. ‘You, my friend, are going to need a cuppa for this. Boy, has Uncle Gaz got some stories for you.’

‘Let’s make it espresso,’ I suggest. No way am I drinking more of that pencil sharpenings shit.

When Gaz, Judy and Sylvia have sorted themselves out with cups of tea and I’ve produced the perfect coffee—thank you, Nespresso—we take a seat outside in the play area. We’ve earned a break, and I could do with some fresh air. It’s gorgeous out now. I sit back in my shitty plastic chair and stretch luxuriously. My arms are stiff from the sanding.

Gaz dips a hobnob so far into his tea, and for so many seconds, that I’m positive it’ll disintegrate and drop to the bottom of the mug, never to be seen again.

But nope. He fishes it out, soggy but intact, and pops the entire thing in his mouth. Judy snorts.

‘Right,’ he says when he’s swallowed it. He rubs his hands together. ‘How naughty do you want to go? Cos we were very naughty.’

‘You mentioned plastic forks?’ I say with trepidation.

‘That was a good one,’ Gaz says, a nostalgic grin on his face. ‘The thing you’ve gotta know about our Aide is that he is a sneaky. Little. Fucker. Came up with the most amazing concepts. He was the big picture guy. I was the executor.’ He points his thumbs at his chest.

‘Otherwise known as Aide’s gimp,’ Judy says, nodding sagely as she brandishes her hobnob.

‘Now, now, Judy. That’s not very nice,’ Gaz chides. ‘I was his henchman.’

‘And you usually got the rap,’ she retorts.

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