Serve Cool (10 page)

‘Earth calling Troy.’ I waved my hand in front of his eyes. He turned towards me. ‘It’s a miracle, he’s alive!’ I joked.

‘S … sorry, Jenny, I … um.’

‘Did your satellite move out of range for a while?’

‘I’m s-s-sorry, Jenny …’

‘Stop saying s-s-sorry. What’s wrong?’

A guaranteed zero-response question to ask a man.

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you upset about your shoes?’

‘No.’

‘Did someone die?’

‘Jenny.’

‘Oh, don’t you celebrate Valentine’s Day in America?’

Suddenly Troy took my hand and held it tightly to his chest. I stared at his tear-stained face. He was positively blubbering. I was all for the new man as far as doing menial chores and leaving the best jobs for us was concerned, but this seemed a little excessive. I suddenly felt like Troy’s mother. I had an urge to either throw up or laugh, but I controlled myself and patted his shaking hands.

‘What is it, Troy?’

‘He dumped me,’ Troy cried, squeezing my hand even tighter. ‘Dumped, chucked, tossed away. Tossed like one of his mixed salads.’

Mmm, nice analogy. ‘Oh, oh dear,’ I stuttered.

Troy tightened his grip. ‘I feel so used.’

The exertion of my morning jog had clearly taken its toll on my brain. I could think of absolutely nothing of any help or relevance to say.

‘Um, Troy,’ I began hesitantly.

He sniffed and stared at me with tear-filled, puppy dog eyes. Oh God.

‘Y … yes,’ he whispered.

‘Um, do you think you could let go of my hand? I think you’re cutting off the circulation.’

He sighed exaggeratedly and pulled his hands away. Help, I had no training in these man-dumps-man scenarios, I didn’t know the rules. Following my recent experience of the man-dumps-woman scenario, it was hardly my favourite
topic of conversation either. Come on, Jen, I said to myself, don’t be selfish. He’s hurting, he needs advice. How different can it be from man-dumps-woman?

‘What a bastard,’ I said strongly. ‘He’s a bastard, forget him.’

Troy wailed loudly. ‘He’s not a bastard, he’s lovely.’

Ok, so it was different.

Troy shook his head, sending more than one globule of snot flying through the air. ‘He’s gorgeous, he’s fit, he’s Italian …’

Good point.

‘I love his clothes, I love the way he walks, I love the way he wiggles his neat little butt.’

Right, I get it.

‘I love the way he kisses me. I love his smooth, tanned skin.’

Yeah, yeah, I really do get it now.

‘I love the way he’s so tender in bed. I love his …’

OK, too much information coming up. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ I interrupted loudly. (Give me a break, it’s all I could think of.)

‘I love it all, Jenny,’ Troy sobbed. ‘I love him.’

Oh come on man, you’ve only known the bloke two bloody days. What are you, an emotional leech?

‘I understand, Troy, you poor thing,’ I said aloud.

I put a reassuring arm around his shoulder and listened as he poured out his sorry tale, nodding and making comforting noises in all the right places. Blimey, this was heavy stuff for a forty-eight-hour relationship. I mean, we’re all entitled to the grief, the self-pity and the lashings of attention but I
was quietly thankful that he hadn’t turned out to be boyfriend material. Troy carried more baggage than a 747. Dumping a man like him would not be a pleasant experience. Not that I’d dumped many boyfriends in my life, unless you count James Harvey. He was nine, I was just ten and we had been going out since first break (approximately three hours). I wrote a note on his times-tables book along the lines of ‘you’re not my boyfriend any more, boys smell’. Short but to the point, I thought.

‘Well, if you’re at a loose end,’ I began, trying desperately to change the subject, ‘we could spend Valentine’s Day together.’ (It’s not like I’ll be particularly busy.)

Troy stared at me blankly.

‘Let me see, we could watch a film,’ I smiled.

Not a hint of enthusiasm.

‘Or a meal …’

He brushed away a tear.

‘Whitley Bay, drinks …’

He attempted a smile but said nothing.

‘Bingo, knitting club, mass suicide, a Julio Iglesias concert …’

He burst into tears. Shit, I had to say ‘Julio’ didn’t I.

‘Sorry, bad choice of words.’ I scrabbled in my pockets for a tissue as tears seemed to erupt from every pore on Troy’s face. You’ll look back on this and laugh, I wanted to say, there’s plenty more fish in the sea, he’s not worth it. I was teetering on the outskirts of cliché city. If we had been at home, I would have put the kettle on and baked a cake. Luckily, I opted for silence.

‘Jenny,’ Troy managed during a lull in the emotional
overload. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. Flippin’ heck, please don’t be a suicide note.

‘My cousin runs a television company,’ he continued, handing me the envelope ‘Well, him and my uncle actually, they run it together now.’

I smiled a confused smile.

‘I know how much Maz loves talk shows and I thought you’d both enjoy seeing one.’ He wiped his eyes.

‘Thanks, Troy, what a kind thought, Maz will love it. Are you coming with us?’

Troy shook his head and let out a faint sob.

‘I’m going back home for a while, Jenny. I think it’s for the best.’

I nodded sympathetically. Lucky sod – given a choice between a tropical beach in Hawaii and a minuscule Italian waiter I had known for all of five minutes, I had no doubt about which one I would choose.

‘Enjoy the show,’ Troy said through a watery smile, ‘I hope it makes you happy.’

Chapter Ten

14th February, 9:05 a.m.

‘It is just a normal day. Do not check the post.’ I made the same vow for the fifth time in as many minutes as grim reality dawned. The one totally depressing day that instills dread and pitifully false hopes in the minds of most single people had trundled around again. Blimey, a year just flies by doesn’t it?

At 26 and, in my opinion, rapidly going downhill to meet my sagging backside, I still awoke early with the thought,
Perhaps this will be the year.
The year in which unidentified truckloads of roses and cuddly bears hugging lacy cushions emblazoned with ‘I heart U 4 eva’ are delivered to my door. Disgustingly shiny padded cards bearing pictures of skipping bunnies, the EC chocolate mountain, red-and-black racy knickers, heart-shaped helium balloons and gifts in equally poor taste flood to my door and necessitate the hiring of extra staff by the postal service.

‘That Jennifer Summer,’ marvel the crowd of onlookers, ‘she always gets the most cards on Valentine’s Day. I wish I could be like her.’ (Swoon, swoon.)

Of course, on any other day of the year, any semi-sane person with an ounce of good taste would puke at the sight of the majority of these gifts. Let’s face it, satin padded cards really suck. Two-foot tall, pastel-coloured, satin padded cards should burn in hell, along with ski-pants, wheel clampers and techno music. What sort of poor, disillusioned creature designs those things? I’d like to see their ideas on interior design. Satin padded wallpaper probably, with matching straitjacket.

Why then, on February 14th, am I, along with a large proportion of the population, scanning the horizon for my two-foot tall envelope? Praying to Saint Pat, the patron saint of postmen, for my fair share of satin, padding, pastel and skipping bunnies. Dying to read those gold-embossed italic words, ‘To my girlfriend’, and marvel at how the card can stand up with just a thin sliver of cheap cardboard on the back half. (They’re only ever padded on one side, you see. I suspect to keep them below the highly-inflammable-mattress rate of postage.) I feel ashamed but, apparently, on February 14th anything goes. I, along with the rest of the world, lose touch with reality. Even a card from the 96-year-old blind man from down the road would be better than no card at all.

Well, this year, I was determined to rebel against this evil force of our society. No satin for me. Not even a hint of red aluminium foil helium balloons. This year, February 14th was to be a day like any other. So far, my willpower had
lasted a total of 6 minutes 45 seconds from waking up. Only about 14 hours, 53 minutes and 15 seconds to go.

By 10:00 a.m., I had checked the letterbox and surrounding area four times, under the pretence of expecting an important bank statement. By 11:00 a.m. I had rummaged through Maz’s gigantic pile of cards, mostly unopened, in a vain attempt to find one of mine incorrectly filed. By 11:30, I had re-checked the letterbox numerous times, telephoned Royal Mail to ask whether there was an industrial strike and consumed an entire 500g box of Milk Tray, which I promised to replace later in Maz’s pile when my own eventually arrived. Things were not looking altogether bright and breezy.

Eventually, after being told to ‘p*** off you sad cow and stop phoning!’ (quite rude, I thought, for one of Her Majesty’s postmen. It was only the fourth time I’d rung), I gave up hope. Feeling sick from stress (or perhaps too much chocolate), I finally resigned myself to a romance-free life on Single Street. I dragged myself up to my room to get ready for my lunchtime shift.

‘Jen! Jen! I found this at the door. Someone must have delivered it!’

Maz burst into the room waving a pale yellow envelope above her head.

I sighed. ‘Yeah right, Maz, nice try. Thanks for the kind thought but I haven’t quite resorted to lesbianism yet.’

‘Howay man, I didny send ya it. I’m not wastin’ good beer money on shite cards for you like.’

She laughed and threw the envelope on my bed. It was
definitely a card. Pastel colours were promising. Visions of Jack’s lips lovingly licking the envelope flashed through my mind. After all, it was the day for romance. Even I deserved a declaration of undying love. I glanced over at Maz, bit my lip with nervous tension and slowly reached for the envelope.

Perhaps there is something worse than not getting any cards on Valentine’s Day. The realisation at 26 that your only hope of a card is a sympathy vote from your dad can be deeply depressing. The thought crossed my mind that he could have opted for the unsigned version. That would at least have given me the chance to pretend it was from someone else. ‘Luv Dad’ was maybe a little obvious. I’d thank him later.

‘I tellt you wuman man,’ said Auld Vinny as he sucked the filling out of his lunchtime meat pie, ‘it’s jest another excuse fer the lasses to get presents oot o’ their fella. Aye man, it’s a load o’ canny shite. A lass invented it, I bet ya.’

‘Who’s Valentine then?’ Denise asked. She fiddled with the black bra strap that was escaping from underneath her white, chunky-knit tank top.

‘He’s Italian i’n he?’ Derek replied.

‘That’s Valentino,’ I offered. ‘It was after Saint Valentine.’

‘The singer? The one in the rocking chair wi’ the dodgy cardies.’ Denise looked pleased with herself.

‘That’s bloody Val Doonican, ya stupit wuman.’ Derek tutted and gestured to me for another pint.

‘Aye well, whoever it was,’ Vinny continued, ‘he must have been a bloody florist. They’re lovin’ it man. Better than
bleedin’ funerals fer them it is. Straits, all the bunches of red flippin’ roses at fifty poont a go. Bloody lasses.’

‘Even the men get flowers these days, Vinny,’ I smiled.

‘You what?’

‘Yeah sure, it’s “PC” for the men to get flowers as well as the women these days.’

‘I’ll give ya “P flippin’ C” like.’ Vinny tutted and shook his head. ‘Howay lass, dain’t be stupid.’

‘It’s true Vinny. Some men love getting flowers. It’s supposed to be romantic.’

He stared at me incredulously for a moment.

‘Aye, well it’s nay wonder the world’s in such a canny mess.’ He hung his head dramatically. ‘The men are turnin’ into bleedin’ ponces. Jaysus man, the day I get flowers I hope they’re on me bloody gravestone, I tell’t ya.’

I laughed at Vinny’s disgust and patted him supportively on the arm.

‘Men even give each other flowers these days, Vinny,’ I added for good measure.

‘Howay! Now I know yer havin’ us on. Give us another pint.’

I was glad to be working. At least it took my mind off my lack of admirers, secret or otherwise. My unrequited love for Jack and my recent spate of disastrous dates did not bode well for a day of unadulterated romance. In my honour, the pub had been declared a couple-free zone. No public displays of affection, no Bryan Adams songs within a one-mile radius and certainly no heart-shaped canapés or special celebratory lurve cocktails. Denise and Derek were the exception to the couple rule. They maintained their usual
habit of shouting obscenities at each other from opposite ends of the bar. Very refreshing, I thought. I would forgive you for thinking I was a party-pooper, driven by the green-eyed monster, but that wasn’t true at all. I saw my task as providing a much-needed public service. Carefully maintaining one haven of doom and gloom in this pink, fluffy, love-struck world.

How is it that a single period of twenty-four hours can drive a person totally insane? I was beginning to develop a nervous twitch from looking at my watch so many times while praying for the speedy arrival of February 15th. I hoped it would just sneak up on me but to no avail. I prayed to Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases (the one I seemed to use most often), but no response. I think Jude was probably tied up trying to sort out the rest of my life, which was bound to keep the poor sod busy. The minutes crawled by with the brain-numbing pace of the Queen’s Christmas speech. Metallica, Dexy’s Midnight Runners and various heavy thrash bands were playing on repeat in a wholly unromantic manner and I was slowly metamorphosing into Victor Meldrew’s granddaughter. I would be lying if I said I had completely given up hope of a sudden rush by Interflora but it appeared my admirers were so secret that even they didn’t know who they were.

By 11:00, I was more than happy to call last orders. A cold, lonely single bed seemed to be the only suitable conclusion to such a crap day. I sighed and rang the heavy bell at the end of the bar. Hearing the front door slam shut, I turned just in time to see two small boys creeping down the
steps into the pub. The smallest had a drastic haircut which resembled a few pieces of velcro stapled to his head. He wore baggy green combat trousers and a reflective silver and orange jacket. Hardly the correct attire for a covert mission. His friend had straggly, long brown hair, a stained T-shirt adorned with images of marijuana leaves and a pair of jeans big enough to set up camp in. A heavy silver chain trailed from the front pocket of his jeans to the back. I wondered which pocket housed his pet Rottweiler. Both boys, I noticed, sported the latest look in trainer technology. Fabric that glowed with radioactive proportions and enough air pockets to keep a man alive in space for weeks.

Blissfully unaware of having been rumbled, the smallest boy led the way past the cigarette machine, underneath the tables that ran alongside the barred windows, towards the furthest corner of the pub where they would be out of sight of the bar. I headed them off at the dartboard and grabbed the warm, discarded pint of lager just as it reached the smallest boy’s lips.

‘Evening boys, nice of you to join us.’

The young drinker lifted his odd-shaped head and glared at me. What he lacked in height, he certainly made up for in bravado, unlike his friend who cowered behind his overgrown fringe.

‘Ah howay man, wuman, man,’ the boy growled, ‘I jest want a sip, like. Wor da’ lets us drink.’

‘Maybe he does but not in my pub.’

‘I’m eighteen, ye kna.’

(Eighteen months more like.)

The taller, skinny boy cast a quick, puzzled look at his
friend. He nudged him and whispered, ‘Give it to ’er.’

‘Give me what? Or perhaps you’d like to give whatever it is to the police?’

I was slightly concerned about the prospect of being done over by two four-foot assailants but I managed to keep my headmistress-like cool.

‘Ah bloody pigs, man,’ the small boy grunted, ‘locked wor Chad up they did, the bastards.’

He reached down into the depths of his knee-length pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

‘Posh git ootside tell’t wur ta give ya this.’

‘Aye, paid wuz an’ all,’ added his friend shyly.

‘Aye, we didny wanna gan in yer poxy pub anyways, but he said ta give it ta the fat ’un wi’ curly hair. Must be you, like.’

(Bastards.)

I stared at the envelope, immediately recognising the handwriting. During my time with Jack, I had received enough scribbled notes excusing him from one date or another to recognise his scrawl at twenty paces, the coward.

‘Where is he?’ I yelled at the boys, a little over-excitedly.

‘Ootside!’ they screeched simultaneously, pointing towards the door.

Without stopping to read the contents of the letter, I scrambled for the door and almost fell out onto the dark street. Playing hard to get was not my style.

‘Sad cow,’ I heard the young boys say as I left them behind.

The Shoe was the only car parked nearby, as Maz had taken the Metro to her latest hot date in town. Up the hill to
the left, a group of lads kicked each other, and occasionally a football, around the road. A broken street light restricted my view down the hill. Straining my eyes, I could just make out an old couple walking slowly hand in hand and two large dogs doing unmentionable things against a lamppost. No sign of Jack or his midnight blue BMW (known affectionately in the area as a Break My Windows). Damn. A millisecond of expectation had got my hormones raging. Suddenly remembering my underage customers, I unwillingly dragged myself back into the pub, clutching the envelope in my sweaty palm.

Eventually, the pub cleared and the mouths of my two young friends were surgically removed from the spouts of the beer pumps. Through an amazing display of willpower, I had managed to keep the envelope sealed and in my pocket. My immediate reaction had been to rip the damn thing open, but I had decided that a Valentine’s note from Jack was a moment to savour. Finally alone, I settled myself on a barstool and, shaking with anticipation, slowly opened the crumpled, ivory envelope and began to read its contents.

I stared at the letter for what seemed like hours, trying to absorb what I had just read. OK, there wasn’t much scope for an incorrect interpretation, but I couldn’t believe it. The tone was so cold and heartless. How could he be so spiteful? Blimey, I used to nibble this man’s earlobes and lick squirty cream off his body and this is how he repays me. From the tone of the letter, I half expected Jack to appear in a flash of lightening and dry ice, wearing a long black cape and yelling ‘Ha, Ha, Ha’ in a deep blood-curdling voice.