Serve Cool (11 page)

Jack, my Jack, was pushing for the closure of the pub
and, knowing him, he’d get it. I couldn’t believe the vindictiveness of it all. Maz would be heartbroken and I would lose my second job in as many months. We’d both be homeless and broke. This wasn’t supposed to happen. At that point, I should have been in the middle of a candlelit dinner with the man of my dreams, preparing myself for a night of passion, not sitting alone contemplating the prospect of living in an upturned skip and eating out of bins. Mind you, even skips are extortionate to hire these days. We’d be lucky to get a generous-sized shoebox.

It suddenly hit me how important the pub was to both Maz and me. Not to mention how big a role it played in the lives of the locals. Auld Vinny, Derek, Denise and the rest of my new, unlikely group of friends lived for their days of banter in the Scrap Inn. The lesbian darts team, where would they practise? Even my father loved the bizarre escapism the place provided.

I wanted to cry but I was too shocked. Did Jack really hate me that much or was the ‘All Men Are Bastards’ theory really so true? To Jack, work was everything. It seemed the pursuit of Partnership and wealth had clouded his vision. People obviously didn’t matter any more.

Looking around the empty bar, a sudden rage built up inside me. Slightly dingy, rough and full of so-called no-hopers (including myself) the pub may be, but it was special. It had an atmosphere I had never experienced before in my life and it had a purpose. There was no way I was going to let Jack ruin this place just to hurt me and close another deal. Screwing the letter up in my clenched fist, I threw it across the bar in anger.

‘You forget, Jack,’ I seethed aloud. ‘I was once a lawyer too, but I’m a real person. I won’t let you push me around any more. If it’s a fight you want, you’ve got it!’

Chapter Eleven

23rd February, 8:00 a.m.

Maz, Dave and I sat around the green plastic garden table that half-filled the kitchen, drinking treacle-like coffee out of semi-mouldy mugs. Numerous beer cans littered the pink-painted work surfaces, and the stench of curry wafted around my nose from the remains of various kormas, biryanis and vindaloos. It was becoming apparent that Dave’s presence in the flat did little for its aesthetic qualities.

‘Dave man,’ Maz sighed, ‘you’ve gotta clean up after yerself.’

‘Aye, I kna.’ Dave sucked the life out of a fourth cigarette and began to roll a joint.

‘And maybe limit these parties a bit,’ Maz continued.

‘Aye, I kna.’

I could see she wasn’t getting very far.

‘And stop smokin’ so much like. How’r you gonna get work if yer bloody stoned all the time man?’

‘I deen’t kna. Aye whatever.’

Maz groaned and returned to the agenda for the meeting. ‘So, has anyone thought of a plan, like?’

It was over a week since the delivery of Jack’s ‘love letter’ and we hadn’t yet thought of a possible way to thwart his master plan. Although we had heard no more about the proposed sale, I knew better than to ignore Jack in this devious frame of mind. I had never seen Maz so upset as when I had revealed the contents of the letter to her later that night.

Dave’s original suggestion had been knee-capping. It was horribly violent and totally out of the question but so far it was the only solution that had been offered. Hence the early morning war conference.

‘There must be a way to stop him,’ Maz said as she sipped the painfully thick coffee. ‘He can’t jest get rid of the pub that easy.’

‘He’s the lawyer though, Maz,’ I replied. ‘No one will even consider that he could possibly have ulterior motives.’

‘Let’s tell ’em then.’

‘Yeah, and they’re sure going to listen to me, aren’t they? The supposed drug baron who was fired from the firm after turning our best client’s meeting into a circus.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Meybe the brewery won’t listen to him. Aye, meybe they’ll keep the pub anyhow.’

‘I doubt it. Jack’s got a good reputation as a corporate solicitor. If they’ve asked for his advice then basically what he says goes. He hates me. I embarrassed him at work and I suppose he’s disgusted by the thought that people would connect him to a barmaid. If he’s out to get us, he’ll stop at nothing.’

Maz looked morose. She lit a tab.

‘Aye well, we’re fucked then.’

‘Thanks Dave for that analysis of the situation. Perhaps you could come up with something a little more positive.’

‘Howay, I did.’

‘Knee-capping is not really a viable option.’

‘Aye, but I …’

‘Neither is kidnapping, nor death threats.’

Dave sat back sulkily and sparked up the joint. We all sat in silence, staring at the crumpled letter that lay in the middle of the table. The brain drain seemed to have dried up already.

‘I wonder if this is how Maggie felt?’ Maz pondered aloud.

‘Maggie who?’

‘Maggie bloody Thatcher.’

‘When?’

‘You kna when everyone decided to gang up on ’er and kick ’er oot.’

‘Well, it’s hardly the same, Maz.’

‘Aye it is, kinda. Only difference is I didny give a shite when it happened to her.’

‘Aye,’ Dave nodded approvingly. ‘It’s like a declaration o’ war, man.’

I tried to retrieve the conversation from its bizarre tangent. ‘Let’s look at Jack’s strong points.’

‘None,’ Maz chipped in.

‘BM-bloody-W,’ Dave added through a haze of smoke.

I groaned. This was pointless. Suddenly Dave sat forward and cleared his throat, before taking a long drag on the spliff.

‘Howay, lasses, it’s obvious man. The tosser’s ganna tell’t
the brewery to sell cos the land’s worth more to them than the pub, reet? Buyer comes in, canny loaded and doesny want a pub. Knocks doon the pub, reet, builds bloody swanky flats an’ sells ’em for a packet. Howay, the whole quayside’s gan that way. So, all wuz need to do is mek the land worth less an’ put the buyer off when he comes round.’

We stared open-mouthed at the previously incoherent Dave. He was right, of course. The land was the attractive asset for a buyer. With all the new developments in the area, pubs like the Scrap Inn would soon be a thing of the past. If we could somehow devalue the land in the buyer’s eyes we could perhaps thwart the sale. The only question was how.

‘Blimey, Dave. I don’t know what was in that joint you were smoking, but it must be good stuff.’

He laughed and got up in search of refreshments.

‘More coffee, lasses?’

‘No!’ Maz and I replied in unison. All right, so he could come up with intricate analyses of situations, but his coffee really sucked.

We continued making plans until we had consumed a large packet of chocolate-chip cookies, five cold naan breads, and a litre of flat Coke. Well, they do say breakfast is the most important meal of the day and our brains desperately needed sustenance.

By 10:30 a.m. the fundamentals had been decided. I, ‘Agent Summer’, would contact Matt at Glisset & Jacksop in an attempt to discover the identity and visiting time of the proposed buyer. I would also vow never to think of Jack sexually again. Tough measures indeed. Maz, ‘Agent Fagash’, would discreetly rally the support of the punters and keep an
eye out for suspicious characters. Dave ‘Agent Hard-as-nails’ would formulate a plan for land devaluation. Dave had ‘friends’, he said, who could be relied upon to help out in such a situation. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure of Dave’s intentions but, as land could not technically be knee-capped, and because we were getting desperate, I agreed to give him a fairly free rein.

‘Dave! Phone!’ Maz yelled from the lounge. ‘Some blowky called Chip. Bloody stupid name.’

‘My cellmate at Durham,’ Dave said in my general direction as he stumbled out of the room.

‘Really?’ I gulped. ‘Mmm, I think we’ve met.’

While Dave made plans with Chip for a fun-filled day of ‘drinkin’, smokin’ and sharkin’,’ Maz and I began to get ready to leave. Today was the start of our talk-show adventure, courtesy of the now distant Troy. The show was to be filmed in Newcastle the following day. All guests and VIP audience members (which was us) were to be provided with overnight accommodation in a five-star riverside hotel. Of course, this extravagant service was for those who had travelled far and wide for their fifteen minutes of fame. Not to be denied a night in a posh hotel, and weighing our finances against those of Paradise TV Company Ltd, Maz and I simply ‘omitted’ to inform the company representative that we lived approximately seven minutes up the road. Well, needs must.

Gordon had unwillingly agreed to work in the pub for once, so Maz and I had two days to let loose, one hour of which would be on national television. All we had to do was travel into town, rendezvous with the Paradise rep at
Central Station and be driven to the luxury of the welcoming champagne reception.

‘You must be Marilyn and Jennifer,’ beamed the bony blonde woman, holding out a thin manicured hand. Fearing it would snap if I shook it too hard, I gave her hand a feeble squeeze.

‘Excellent, excellent, I’m Torica. Welcome to New
caah
stle, girls, marvellous.’ We had pretended to disembark from an Intercity train at the station and headed straight for the woman who held up a large sign reading ‘Welcome to Paradise’.

She bustled ahead of us towards the station exit, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to throw us a well-practised smile. Her tight-fitting red suit jacket and miniskirt turned most of the heads in the busy station. The pair of long, tanned legs slipped into four-inch-heeled navy court shoes turned the remaining few.

‘So glad you could join us, girls,’ she continued without looking at us. ‘The other guests are already here, awfully nice bunch. Very good. First time in Newcaahstle? Jolly good.’

We didn’t even attempt to interrupt the speech.

‘Must dash, girls. Awfully tight schedule you know. Television, busy, busy, lots to do. Marvellous.’

‘You’re not from round here, then?’ Maz mumbled sarcastically at Torica’s back.

We reached a gleaming white minibus which was parked inconsiderately across several parking spaces. A group of about ten bewildered-looking folk stood, as if
awaiting orders, in a line stretching from the minibus door.

‘Not on the bus yet, dears? Chop chop. We must dash, awfully tight schedule.’

We were shepherded onto the bus like a herd of unruly cattle. Hardly the chauffeur-driven limo Maz and I had been expecting. We grabbed the back seat and settled down to a bus tour of the city.

Throughout the journey, the group remained painfully silent except for our host, who seemed to suffer from verbal diarrhoea, and Maz, who occasionally hooted out of the window at fit men on the street.

Occupying the two seats in front of me on the left-hand side of the bus were a woman and a girl of about fourteen, who looked suspiciously like an extra from
The Addams Family
. Daughter was totally dressed in black, complete with a black lace veil partially covering her whitened face and black lips. Her mother fitted the image of Marks & Spencer’s number one customer. Her delicately pleated knee-length, Paisley-patterned skirt was teamed with an ivory blouse and a pale lilac cardigan. The ensemble and demi-waved greying hair wasn’t exactly befitting of the mother of one of the Evil Dead. During the journey, ‘Morticia’ toyed with the three-inch black talons on the ends of her fingers while mother gazed out of the window, sighing occasionally.

In front of this odd pair sat a tired-looking single man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, who evidently had a thing for beige. Uninspired by Torica’s factless description of the city, beige man was engrossed in a book entitled
A Marriage of Three.
He made no attempt at conversation but occasionally shot rather menacing glances at the couple who
occupied the double seat across the aisle. She also looked on the far side of forty, dressed totally in fuchsia with a shock of dyed plum hair. She gazed longingly through her pink eyeshadow at her much younger companion. He held her protectively and occasionally kissed her forehead or whispered in her ear. I had a feeling we were witnessing her mid-life crisis and his one and only older-woman experience.

‘Don’t kid yourself woman,’ I mumbled, ‘it won’t last.’

‘Nearly there, people!’ Torica boomed from her position at the front of the bus. ‘Lots of traffic, I’m afraid. Absolutely awful. Tut, tut. Anyway, girls and boys, let’s start with names, shall we?’

I threw a puzzled glance at Maz.

Torica grabbed the arm of the young man who sat at the front of the bus. ‘Come on, honey, you start. Jolly good. Let’s all get to know each other.’

The remainder of the trip was spent learning each other’s names, nasty habits and deepest darkest secrets. After the name-badge distribution and ‘team sing-song’, Maz and I were relieved to reach the solace of our five-star hotel room.

‘Lock the bloody door,’ Maz shouted from somewhere inside the minibar. ‘She’s canny mental that woman! Flippin’ name badges and stuff. Jesus, we’re only here to watch the bleedin’ show. I deen’t kna if I can face it now.’

I laughed and ripped open the complimentary packet of chocolate shortbread. ‘One more round of “The Wheels on the Bus”, and I would have had to put her under them.’ I looked at my watch. 3:00 p.m. ‘Two hours till the champagne do, Maz.’

‘Oh shite,’ she replied, ‘I need a drink.’

Maz and I totally drained the minibar of alcohol, biscuits and chocolate before rolling into the Paradise TV champagne reception in the hotel lounge. I instantly spotted our ten bus-buddies, still bearing their name tags, huddled in a corner of the room. The rest of the party was made up of media types, media socialites and media hangers-on. A glamorous Torica held court in the centre of the room. ‘Yah, yah, well, I told them I wasn’t going to get out of bed for that much, you know. I mean,
puhlease.
I’m a professional woman … yah.’

Maz and I made a beeline for the champagne, doing our best to bypass Torica’s verbal barrage.

‘Yah, well, it’s a new show, new format, new presenter. Yah, she’s marvellous, an absolute dahling. We’re very excited, totally. Can’t fail with my PR skills really, ha, ha.’

We had almost reached the pyramid construction of champagne glasses when I felt a bony hand on my shoulder.

‘Marilyn.’

‘Jennifer.’

‘Jennifer. Marvellous, excellent. Enjoying yourself?’

‘I … uh.’

‘Marvellous. Come and meet some wonderful people. Mingle, network, that’s the way.’

Torica pulled me towards the centre of the room as Maz dived behind the table of nibbles.

‘Peoples, meet Jackie, one of our lovely guests.’ A small crowd of people formed a circle around me and stared intently. Torica continued.

‘Phoebe, Amelia, Zoë, Melvin, Beth …’ The crowd nodded in unison and mumbled, ‘Yah, ahbsolutely, yah.’

Torica wiggled off to mingle and I was left in the centre of my circle of new acquaintances. They remained silent and continued to stare. I began to feel suspiciously like a very small mouse in a very big cattery.

‘Jackie, Beth,’ piped up a tall, buxom woman. She had jet-black cropped hair and wore gold earrings that would have worked equally well as napkin rings.

‘It’s Jennifer actually,’ I said apologetically.

‘So, Jennifer, you’re a guest.’

‘Yes, I’m —’

‘Great. That’s super, isn’t it people?’

‘Yah, absolutely.’

‘Awfully brave.’

I stared at Beth blankly. ‘Brave? Why do you think that?’

‘Well, raylay, I just think it is.’

‘What’s your pwoblem, dahling?’ Phoebe added.

‘Problem?’ My problem right now was this circle of media freaks.

‘Yah, you know, pwoblem. Alcoholic? Husband scarpered with the maid?
Do
tell, Julia.’

‘It’s
Jennifer,
and I don’t have a pwoblem, I mean a problem. I —’

‘Oh, we
all
have pwoblems hon, especially
you
people,’ Phoebe oozed.