Read Online Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy by Robert Bryndza - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Bryndza
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one… it’s madness not to have anything in writing. We might as well have a squatter.’
‘You are being ridiculous Coco. Let me handle this,’ said Adam firmly.
‘She just wound you round her little finger.’
‘Coco you’ve taken zero interest in Tabitha. She’s paid the rent, on time, for nearly a year and a half.’
Sunday 5th February
I spent last night online, looking at websites on how to be a Landlord. They all say that you would be mad to rent a place out to someone and have nothing in writing. It also didn’t help that I discovered a baby calculator on the BBC website. Not for counting babies, of course, but counting the cost of them, which was eye watering. I think this persuaded Adam we need to act, and we found a site which had downloadable tenancy agreements and printed some off.
This afternoon we filled two of them out, then walked round to Adam’s flat on Baker Street. I haven’t been there in yonks. I noticed the panel with the six buttons on it for the flats. The bell for Adam’s flat on the ground floor had a tiny image where the name should be. A little cluster of hearts. I pointed this out to Adam, who shrugged and said that Tabitha was a bit arty.
I went to ring the bell when the main door opened. A bald middle aged man in glasses emerged. He was dressed smartly, and carrying a big hold-all. Tabitha was behind him. She must be in her late sixties, a buxom woman with very long grey hair parted in the centre, and wearing piles of red lipstick and eyeshadow. Her enormous bosom was bra-less, and barely battened down under a silk Kimono.
‘See you soon Dougie,’ she said wiggling her red painted nails at the bald man. Dougie blushed and scooted off down the road, looking furtively back at us.
‘Hello Adam,’ she said, gazing up at him with an appraising smile. As an afterthought she looked at me, ‘Have we met before?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Hello, I’m Coco. Mrs Rickard. Adam’s wife.’ Adam gave me a look as if to say, now you decide to be Mrs Rickard.
I had met Tabitha before. I’d mistakenly barged in when Adam first rented the flat out. We’d just split up, and I was hurt, angry and looking for a confrontation. Luckily she didn’t seem to remember me, and we followed her inside.
When Adam lived in the flat, it was very clean and modern. Tabitha’s style was more Miss Havisham, a sort of sweet smelling decay. Loads of overgrown dusty plants, wicker chairs, coloured beads in the doorways. There were joss sticks on the go everywhere, leaving little trails of ash on her mismatched furniture.
‘Would you like some tea? Oolong? Lapsang Souchong?’ she said sashaying into the kitchen half of the open-plan living room. A cat was snoozing on top of a big old computer monitor, and there was a single bed under the window. The curtains were drawn, and the sheets were crumpled. Adam and I said yes and no at the same time.
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘We’re just here to see if you could sign this?’
Tabitha lit the gas with a flourish, placed the kettle on the stove and sashayed back towards me taking the Tenancy Agreement.
‘Oh we don’t need this,’ she said flicking through. I looked at Adam.
‘Yes. We do, um Mrs?’
‘It’s Laycock. And I’m a Miss. I did toy with Ms. but I’ve met a lot of Mses and they always seem so uptight… What’s wrong with being available?’ she asked, admiring Adam’s backside in his tight jeans.
‘Miss Laycock,’ I said tartly, as if I were in an Oscar Wilde play. ‘We need an agreement to make this – you being here – legally binding.’
‘But it is legally binding,’ she said.
‘No,’ I said unsure.
‘But yes Ms Rickard. I have a verbal agreement with Adam.’
‘You do?’ I asked, looking at Adam.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He invited me to be his tenant. I said yes. I paid a deposit, he gave me a receipt. Voila we have a verbal tenancy agreement. Sure it’s not as watertight as if it were in
‘You are being ridiculous Coco. Let me handle this,’ said Adam firmly.
‘She just wound you round her little finger.’
‘Coco you’ve taken zero interest in Tabitha. She’s paid the rent, on time, for nearly a year and a half.’
Sunday 5th February
I spent last night online, looking at websites on how to be a Landlord. They all say that you would be mad to rent a place out to someone and have nothing in writing. It also didn’t help that I discovered a baby calculator on the BBC website. Not for counting babies, of course, but counting the cost of them, which was eye watering. I think this persuaded Adam we need to act, and we found a site which had downloadable tenancy agreements and printed some off.
This afternoon we filled two of them out, then walked round to Adam’s flat on Baker Street. I haven’t been there in yonks. I noticed the panel with the six buttons on it for the flats. The bell for Adam’s flat on the ground floor had a tiny image where the name should be. A little cluster of hearts. I pointed this out to Adam, who shrugged and said that Tabitha was a bit arty.
I went to ring the bell when the main door opened. A bald middle aged man in glasses emerged. He was dressed smartly, and carrying a big hold-all. Tabitha was behind him. She must be in her late sixties, a buxom woman with very long grey hair parted in the centre, and wearing piles of red lipstick and eyeshadow. Her enormous bosom was bra-less, and barely battened down under a silk Kimono.
‘See you soon Dougie,’ she said wiggling her red painted nails at the bald man. Dougie blushed and scooted off down the road, looking furtively back at us.
‘Hello Adam,’ she said, gazing up at him with an appraising smile. As an afterthought she looked at me, ‘Have we met before?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Hello, I’m Coco. Mrs Rickard. Adam’s wife.’ Adam gave me a look as if to say, now you decide to be Mrs Rickard.
I had met Tabitha before. I’d mistakenly barged in when Adam first rented the flat out. We’d just split up, and I was hurt, angry and looking for a confrontation. Luckily she didn’t seem to remember me, and we followed her inside.
When Adam lived in the flat, it was very clean and modern. Tabitha’s style was more Miss Havisham, a sort of sweet smelling decay. Loads of overgrown dusty plants, wicker chairs, coloured beads in the doorways. There were joss sticks on the go everywhere, leaving little trails of ash on her mismatched furniture.
‘Would you like some tea? Oolong? Lapsang Souchong?’ she said sashaying into the kitchen half of the open-plan living room. A cat was snoozing on top of a big old computer monitor, and there was a single bed under the window. The curtains were drawn, and the sheets were crumpled. Adam and I said yes and no at the same time.
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘We’re just here to see if you could sign this?’
Tabitha lit the gas with a flourish, placed the kettle on the stove and sashayed back towards me taking the Tenancy Agreement.
‘Oh we don’t need this,’ she said flicking through. I looked at Adam.
‘Yes. We do, um Mrs?’
‘It’s Laycock. And I’m a Miss. I did toy with Ms. but I’ve met a lot of Mses and they always seem so uptight… What’s wrong with being available?’ she asked, admiring Adam’s backside in his tight jeans.
‘Miss Laycock,’ I said tartly, as if I were in an Oscar Wilde play. ‘We need an agreement to make this – you being here – legally binding.’
‘But it is legally binding,’ she said.
‘No,’ I said unsure.
‘But yes Ms Rickard. I have a verbal agreement with Adam.’
‘You do?’ I asked, looking at Adam.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He invited me to be his tenant. I said yes. I paid a deposit, he gave me a receipt. Voila we have a verbal tenancy agreement. Sure it’s not as watertight as if it were in
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