Celebrity Bride Read Online Free PDF

anyone steps out of line and offends us.
    Jimmy's a great local character and is the most incredible caricature of a nightclub owner that you could ever wish to meet. When I first moved into the flat, my dad painted the front door for us. He was busy wielding his paint brush when Jimmy went swaggering up to him and said, 'Cooor . . . your girlfriend's a bit of all right, isn't she?'
    'She's my daughter,' said Dad assertively.
    I think Dad wanted me to move out of the flat right there and then.
    Jimmy's club is like something out of the 1950s because, bizarrely, it's both depraved and desperately innocent all at the same time. Its innocence comes from the fact that it's a shambles in there – Jimmy Lapdance would like to think that he's running Stringfellows, but the reality is that he presides over the most unerotic titty bar in the western world. He had a pole in there at one stage but his bikini-clad lovelies were heftier than one might expect from pole dancers and the whole thing came tumbling down one night. There were no injuries, but a girl called Chelsey tried to sue, claiming she was mentally scarred and unable to pole dance any more. Jimmy never put the pole back up and decided, instead, that the barmaids would be topless and dancing from 11 pm (although dancing is a generous description of what they do after 11 pm; as far as I can see, all they ever do is jig around a lot).
    We were first alerted to the presence of the club when we found ourselves looking out of the window of the flat at 7.30 pm one night, soon after we moved in, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gorgeous guy from the estate agents'. I should emphasise that this was all way before I met Rufus. The guy from the estate agents' tended to lock up at 7.30 pm on the dot. Locking up involved him bending right over to do the locks on the bottom of the door. Not that we were stalking him or anything, but the window of our flat did afford us the most astonishing view of his trousers tightening over his firm buttocks as he did this. We craned and strained to see the estate agent through a small pair of cheap binoculars that Mandy bought for this very reason (OK, I admit, this is probably sounding a little bit stalkerish now, but it was all very innocent really . . . and I'm sure he knew we were doing it; he'd taken to bending over ever so slowly and staying down there much longer than was strictly necessary). One night, Mandy, who was still looking through the binoculars, said, 'Oooooh, what's this then?'
    It was 8 pm We knew that estate agent man had been and gone. What was Mandy referring to? Another handsome man bending over in the street? Surely life couldn't be that kind to us.
    No, it was a ridiculous pink, open-top Mercedes backfiring as it made its way down the road with smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe. It spluttered and banged like a bloody clown's car before screeching to a halt just next to our flat. These girls climbed out of its leopard-skin patterned interior, wearing hideous seven-inch Perspex-heeled shoes and clad in dresses that looked like cobwebs. They had long scraggy hair, orange skin and shrieky voices. It wasn't pretty, but it was very, very amusing. From then on, estate agent man was second favourite viewing to the daily 'arrival of the strippers'. It came to occupy an important place in our timetable.
    'They're here, they're here,' one of us would call through the flat, like children spotting the arrival of an ice-cream van; we'd race to the window and practically hang out of it in order to get the best view possible.
    Jimmy would come sauntering out of his bar when the car arrived, his small shoulders bouncing from side to side inside his heavily shoulder-padded jacket – like a gangsta rapper from LA, not the middle-aged short-arse from Twickenham that he was. His signet rings and many neck chains glinted along with his gold tooth. If he wore his big cufflinks, I feared we'd end up scorched from the glare.
    'Hello,