Serve Cool (12 page)

I stared at her blankly.

‘Phoebe hon,’ said Melvin in a peculiarly female voice, ‘don’t push the poor child, she obviously doesn’t like to talk about it.’

‘Yah, yah, ahbsolutely.’

‘Look guys.’ I felt the circle closing in around me as I tried to speak. ‘I really don’t know what …’

‘Should be an excellent show,’ Phoebe continued, oblivious to my unfinished sentence. ‘
Très
fantastic.’

‘Oh totally, rahlay fab. She is just so down to earth, you know. Should raylay get all the super gossip.’ The girl introduced as Zoë waved her arms wildly as she spoke. I noticed how her long pink nails matched her Chanel suit perfectly.

Down to earth, I thought, perhaps you should all try it sometime.

‘Yah, I’ve been working on her style, you know. We’ve got a fantastic look. You will love it, people. She can totally relate to these unfortunates.’

‘Well, Zoë, we all know how
absolument formidable
you are at your styling thing.’

Zoë blushed on cue and tossed back her hazel-coloured mane of hair. I yawned and started to chew on a tatty thumb nail. The conversation dribbled on around me – each person insincerely complimenting the others and no one taking the slightest bit of interest in matters outside the circle.

‘Zoë hon,’ yelled Beth as she slapped her hand on my shoulder. ‘You should give Jane here a makeover before tomorrow’s show. That would be super fun.’

I glowered up at Buxom Beth.

‘It’s Jennifer,’ I seethed.

She ignored me and threw her Liberty shawl around her immense shoulders, hitting me in the eye as she did so.

‘Yah. Oh totally,’ Phoebe added. ‘Would that be like
totallement super,
or
quoi
?’

‘Yah, Zoë, and Lord knows she needs it. We can’t let the poor gal go on national television looking like that, can we peoples?’

Ooh, heaven forbid, I look normal. Silly fat cow. Who does she think she is?

The crowd yah’d and tittered in approval of their great plan. I glanced round desperately for Maz to come and rescue me but I couldn’t see past Melvin’s frills and the silent Amelia’s shoulder pads.

‘What do you think, hon?’ Beth asked, peering down at the ‘unfortunate’ below her.

‘What do I think?’ At last, I was no longer invisible.

‘Yah, sweetie,’ Melvin piped up. ‘Great idea, isn’t it dahling?’

I shrugged his clammy hand from my arm. ‘First, I think I’m not your dahling, and if I was I’d have to seriously consider topping myself.’

Melvin stepped back with a loud gasp.

‘Secondly, I think I wouldn’t let Zoë here touch me with a barge-pole if it meant I’d end up looking as much of a subhumanoid as she does …’ More gasps. ‘And lastly, I think none of you really cares what an unfortunate like me thinks cos you’ve all got your heads shoved too far up each other’s arses to take any notice of the rest of the world!’

Stunned faces greeted my outburst and I noticed the circle gradually begin to disintegrate. I saw my chance for freedom and took it.

‘
Au revoir,
peoples,’ I chirped and made for the nearest alcoholic drink.

⋆

Armed with two glasses of bubbly and a mouthful of unidentified canapés, I found refuge behind a ten-foot cardboard poster advertising the new show: ‘Real People, Real Problems, Real Solutions’ exclaimed the poster.

‘Real load of pricks,’ I mumbled, spitting bits of cracker and caviar in all directions.

‘Who are?’

I span around at the sound of the deep voice beside me. So much for my secret hiding place. He was about six feet tall with straight mousy-brown hair that flopped over one eye in a relaxed, unstyled fashion. He wasn’t classically good looking – his nose was fairly large and his cheeks were rosy – but I couldn’t help but notice his eyes. They twinkled like pale green glass in the sunlight and gave him an approachable, friendly manner. I felt like I knew him already.

‘Who are?’ he repeated.

‘What?’

‘Pricks?’ He laughed an almost musical laugh.

‘Everyone in this room.’ I frowned. ‘There’s more pricks in here than at a thistle convention.’

‘Charming. You don’t even know me!’

‘True. But that also means I can’t exclude you because I don’t know if you’re a prick or not.’

‘Oh I see.’

‘Yep, so we better include you just in case.’

‘Aye right.’ His voice was lilting with a soft Geordie accent. He paused and shoved his left hand casually into his jacket pocket. He looked uncomfortable in the stiff black tuxedo.

‘Are you?’ he said finally.

‘Am I what?’

‘A prick?’

‘Certainly not! I’m probably the most normal person here.’ I said with mock seriousness and added sarcastically, ‘Blimey, I don’t think much of your manners.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a prick.’

He threw me a quick glance and we smiled broadly at each other. I felt oddly relaxed in his company. Whether this was due to the free champagne or the pond life that formed the alternative, I wasn’t sure.

He leaned back against the wall and looked down at the heavy black boots he wore. ‘I take it you don’t like these sort of dos then?’

‘Oh I’d love them if you could just lose most of the people. The free food and drink is great. It’s just the free doses of snobbery and insincerity I can’t stand.’

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘So what brings you here?’

‘Do you mean, do I come here often?’

He laughed. ‘No, I mean what’s a lovely lady like you doing in a place like this?’ He crossed his legs at the ankles and reclined against the wall, impersonating a nightclub sleaze. It didn’t suit him.

‘Hurgh!’ I pretended to throw up.

He grinned.

‘I’m just in the audience at this new show tomorrow,’ I said eventually. ‘To tell you the truth, my friend and I only live up the road but we got VIP passes. It’s a long story but my ex-boyfriend of about an hour, who wasn’t actually my boyfriend because he was gay, but not because of me … he was
actually
gay. Well, he got us the tickets. His cousin owns the station. I thought we’d use the offer of a free hotel.’

‘Cheeky but cunning.’ His eyes sparkled.

‘Yeah, well, I’m sure Paradise TV won’t go broke because of it.’

‘I’m sure it won’t.’

‘I hear they’re absolutely loaded after the takeover so it’s nothing to them if I grab a few freebies.’

‘I admire your initiative.’ He took a sip of champagne and fiddled with his starched white collar. Functions were obviously not his cup of tea. I looked at his hands. His fingers were long and thin as I would imagine a piano player’s to be. He had strong square nails that were neatly cut. Obviously not a manual worker.

‘What do you do?’ I asked.

‘When?’

‘For a job, obviously.’ I could tell he was being purposefully cagey.

‘Oh, this and that.’

‘This and that? Well, that’s very informative, thanks. Is that “this ’n’ that” as in doctor, sportsman, nuclear physicist, or as in Colombian powder importer?’

He winked and tapped his nose. I felt intrigued. I wanted to know more about him.

‘If I tells you, I vill have to kills you,’ he said in a poor German accent.

‘At least I’ll die knowledgeable,’ I added.

Finally, after much persuasion, he admitted he was doing work experience at the TV station.

‘You’re not still at school, are you?’ I asked, quickly looking around for a satchel and pencil case.

‘Na, I’m just trying to experience a few different projects
at the station, first hand, and this talk show happens to be one of them.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘It’s OK. The people aren’t all that bad really.’ He didn’t sound very convincing. ‘And I get to meet nor … um …’

‘Normal people?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like me?’

He looked at his boots again and kicked his feet together. I wondered how he would choose to dress usually. Trousers and a checked shirt or jeans and a loose sweater? The latter seemed fitting but I decided a pair of neat-fitting boxer shorts and a generous covering of massage oil would be more appealing. The alcohol was kicking in. Little Miss Oestrogen was warming up.

I sat on the floor with my legs stretched out towards our cardboard screen. He smiled approvingly and settled down next to me. We stayed that way, oblivious to the frantic socialising and networking going on beyond the partition. We talked about everything from food to football, with none of the usual awkward silences. I wanted to say, ‘I feel like I’ve known you for years.’ It was true but it sounded too corny. He felt like a friend.

Suddenly we realised the party crowd was dwindling as the sound of idle chatter began to lessen. I peeked out from behind the poster just in time to see Maz striding out of the lounge door with a bottle of bubbly in one hand and a tray of food in the other. Supplies. She never was one to miss an opportunity. I laughed and crawled back to find him standing up, tucking in his slightly ruffled shirt.

‘Better look neat,’ he said.

‘Just in case the boss catches you.’

‘Er … yes.’ He bent down and took my right hand in his left. I tried to stand up but stopped when he gave my hand a firm squeeze.

‘Thanks for a good night,’ he said.

‘Well, it was one step up from behind the bike sheds.’

He laughed gently and let my hand drop. I didn’t want him to leave. He was interesting and he made me laugh.

‘Oh by the way,’ I added.

He turned towards me and inadvertently flicked his hair.

‘You’re not a prick after all.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ he smiled. ‘I value your opinion.’

He raised his arm and gave me a salute-style wave. I watched him turn. He walked casually out of the room with one hand in his pocket, scuffing his feet as he walked.

Damn, I thought, I didn’t even ask him his name.

Chapter Twelve

24th February, 11:30 a.m.

Rehearsals for the show were due to start at 9:00 a.m. with filming at noon. It was to be the first time that a talk show of this type would be broadcast live on the network. The new presenter had been styled, rehearsed and polished. The people who would air their problems and family feuds to the nation had been shipped in. All Paradise TV had to do was sit back and watch raw human emotions pull in the gossip-hungry viewers.

Being simple, although VIP, audience members, Maz and I were not obliged to attend the rehearsal. Not being an early riser at the best of times, several late-night beakers of champagne had made me highly allergic to getting up. It wasn’t until 11:20 that I dared go for vertical and face my reflection.

I stood in the white marble bathroom of our exquisite hotel room, wearing the plush white bathrobe I had found in the cupboard. The other had been packed in the bottom of
Maz’s bag within ten minutes of our arrival in the room, along with two velvety monogrammed bath towels. The harsh lights above the mirror reflected off the marble, highlighting the rather unattractive luggage set that had decided to collect underneath my heavily bloodshot eyes. I felt sick and looked even sicker. I made a meagre attempt to comb my hair and sighed. I liked to describe my hairstyle as ‘natural’, ‘slightly unruly’, perhaps even ‘Bohemian’, but I had to admit that after such influences as swimming, sleeping, bathing, showering, wind or light ruffling, my head looked like it was home to a particularly untidy family of large birds. I patted the curls with water and turned to look at Maz.

She was perched precariously on the edge of the bath with her head poking out of the bathroom window, puffing on a cigarette. Two smoke alarms hovered on the ceiling above her head. Maz called them the nicotine police. The hotel security guard was unimpressed at having been called to our room at 3:00 a.m. to investigate the brain-numbing sound of an activated alarm. Maz had explained it was due to my excessive highly potent gas problem, as she had attempted to swallow a lit cigarette.

She had then asked the man if he could possibly grab us girls some munchies from the hotel kitchen. A few rounds of toast, pudding and anything chocolate would be fine, she explained. I never realised five-star-hotel staff could swear so much.

I heard Maz cough into the brisk Newcastle air. She wobbled slightly on the bath edge but regained her balance. I gazed jealously at her long, thin legs and wondered how it
felt to have thighs that didn’t meet in the middle. I poked at my own thighs and wondered whether they had miraculously toned up since the last time I had briefly considered exercising. No such luck. Nights of calorific and alcoholic indulgence seem to have repercussions on my body within hours. Let’s face it, I was no supermodel waif even on a good day. I felt huge, enormous, of
mammoth
proportions. Of course, I was actually no fatter than the previous day, but it was psychological. It was a definite tracksuit bottoms and baggy T-shirt kind of day.

‘What you thinkin’ about, pet?’ Maz retrieved her head and sat against the white tiled wall with her feet in the bath.

‘Tracksuits,’ I replied.

‘Uh oh, feelin’ fat are we?’

‘Yup.’

‘Totally sloth-like and ugly?’

‘Sure am.’

‘Completely rejected and unloved?’

‘That’s the one.’

She could read me like a book. The sign of a true friend.

‘I need a man,’ I groaned, hauling myself up next to the sink.

‘Na, you dain’t, woman. You need sex.’

‘I need
companionship.
’

‘Get a cat.’

‘I hate cats, they’re boring.’

‘Get a dog then.’ Maz laughed. ‘Aye man, get yerself a dog. If you feed it enough, it’d love you forever. Just like a man but without all the hassle. Apparently dogs look like their owners, ye kna?’

‘I feel sorry for it already.’

‘You’d need one with lots of hair. Aye, one o’ them Durex dogs or somethin’.’

‘Dulux.’

‘Whatever.’

Admittedly, I’d rather have been likened to a cute, petite breed like a Schnauzer or a Chihuahua, but I took it that we were being realistic.

‘So what were you thinking about?’ I asked glumly.

Maz smiled brightly and gazed up at the window.

‘Hmm, lights, cameras, an audience, Ricki Lake …’

‘The usual then?’

‘Aye.’ Her eyes were wide and bright, even after a night of mixed drinks and little sleep. Bitch.

‘You kna, Jen, I was just wonderin’ how I’d feel if it were my own show startin’ today.’

I smiled and nodded, wanting her to continue.

‘It’d be lush wouldn’t it? All them people watchin’ us sort out problems. My name on boards, like, all aroond the studio and everyone cheerin’ when I come in with wur massive microphone. Aye, it’d be canny ace man. It could’ve been me, ye kna. The presenter is that heffer of a woman they picked from my audition, the posh one – lucky tramp.’

Every so often my usually brash and carefree best friend gave me an insight into what really went on in her heart and mind.

‘If it were me, I’d have lots of different shows. Like some romantic, some slushy, if I had to, and I’d have geet funny subjects for a laff, and then dead serious ones. Aye. I could help people get together, families and couples like. I could
pick people up, help them with their dreams, get them good advice. Imagine it, man.’ She took a deep breath. We sat in silence for a moment.

‘Maybe one day, hey Maz. I mean, look at me. I didn’t think I’d end up being a barmaid, this time last year. You never know what’ll happen.’

‘Na. I’m too flippin’ common.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Too bloody “regional” she said. Aye, that was it. Stupid cow.’

She jumped out of the bath and stared past me into the mirror, furiously pulling her hair into a ponytail. ‘Howay, man, Jen. Enough of this shite. Get yerself ready, we’ve only got ten minutes.’

‘Chop chop ladies!’ yelled Petronella, the audience coordinator. She grabbed Maz firmly by the elbow and marched towards the studio, frantically waving her red clipboard. ‘Terrible, terrible rush. No time to be dawdling now girls.’

‘Sorry, we —’

‘Never work with children or animals, they say. Huh! Never work with people at all I say to them. Honestly, you people will be the death of me …’

The high-pitched voice continued to bounce along the corridor as I bent down to tie my flapping shoelace.

Suddenly a shiny red court shoe appeared next to my foot. It tapped impatiently. I glanced up to see Torica, hands on her minute hips, staring down at me with an irritated look on her heavily made-up face.

‘Oh Julia, Julia …’

‘
Jennifer.
’

‘Quite.’ She shook her mane of blonde hair and tutted loudly. ‘Honestly dahling, no rehearsal, no make-up. I nearly had you as a no-show.’

‘But I’m —’

‘Come on now. Busy busy. Let’s get in our places shall we? Marvellous. This is live television you know, hon, not a holiday camp. I mean, raylay.’

Her skeletal fingers wrapped around my right hand and I was hauled to my feet. Five nails, filed to vicious points, dug into my sweaty palm as we hurried towards the studio door. Torica’s hips wiggled at a violent speed and she glanced nervously at her Gucci timepiece every five or six paces.

‘Good, good, almost there,’ she muttered. ‘Can’t let the team down can we, Jemima?’

‘It’s
Jennifer.
’

‘Whatever. Excellent, here we are. Action stations, dahling.’

I was propelled through a set of heavy double doors and emerged into what appeared to be a reject lounge scene from
Anne and Nick.
A semicircle of chairs in the centre of the room were filled, I noticed, by our motley crew of bus companions. One seat remained empty, presumably for the presenter. I scanned the babbling audience for Maz’s friendly face but the glaring studio lights made recognition impossible. With my arm shielding my eyes, I stumbled across the stage in search of a seat. Tripping on a large black cable that snaked along the floor, I toppled forward, reached out wildly and grabbed the headphones of a small, hassled-looking woman directly ahead.

‘Fifteen sec — aah!’ she shrieked, grabbing her ears as we tumbled to the floor. Sheets of paper flew in all directions from her clipboard as we struggled to untangle ourselves.

‘Bloody hell,’ she shouted, ‘these bloody people!’

I felt a strong arm pull me up by my sweater and throw me into the empty seat on the stage. The man then glared at me nastily, before jumping back into position behind camera two.

I tried to stand up but the woman with the headphones ran forward, holding out her left hand and a clipboard in a defensive manner.

‘Stay where you are, you fool!’ she screamed. ‘On in five … four …’

I looked around desperately for Maz, trying to ignore the hysterical laughter from the audience.

‘Two …’ She held up both thumbs, the lights increased in intensity, music blared out from nowhere and camera two zoomed in on my startled face.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your exquisite host, the answer to all our problems, Miss Julia Juniper.’ The voice boomed from somewhere above my wildly spinning head, then was swallowed up by a medley of painfully loud elevator music. The audience members shuffled on the blue plastic seats to get a better view of the stage and the numerous cameras revolved around the studio floor with choreographed chaos. A colossal cheer from everyone present, except yours truly, heralded the somewhat delayed appearance onto the stage of our really not-so-exquisite host Julia Juniper.

I glanced dubiously over my right shoulder. This
woman had obviously taken make-up lessons from a master plasterer. Her bright orange foundation was shovelled into the grooves of her prematurely wrinkled face, and set with a further four inches of bronzing powder. Her orange lips, circled with a thick brown line, stuck out like an adult at a Boyzone concert. Her eyelids were barely working under the strain of three sets of false eyelashes. The early-80s bouffant hair-do stood to attention with the apparent aid of half a dozen cans of superhold hair spray, making her head look several times too big for her salmon-trouser-suit-clad body. Frightening was not the word. This woman would scare most drag queens in a dark alleyway at night.

Julia Juniper wafted past my chair and took her position on the yellow cross in the centre of the stage. The audience fell silent as our host lifted the oversized black foam microphone to her enormous lips and set her mouth in a toothy smile.

‘Haylay everyone. Welcome to the first ayver live television talk show on this network.’

The small, headphoned woman raised her arms and the audience cheered.

‘Where we solve
your
problems and change your life.’

Hands up, another cheer.

‘Tayday orn the show, we have a fahbulous variety of guests for you, from the mundane to the bizarre. Wherever you are, whoever you are, we will have a storay to interest you …’

I glanced along the line of chairs at my stage companions. They wore the anxious looks of a pack of seals facing a
Canadian trawler. Evidently the idea of airing their dirty laundry on live TV was now a less appealing prospect.

‘Now I want you to meet George,’ Julia continued. ‘George says his wife Magenta is showing herself up by gallivanting around with her twenty-three-year-old toyboy Philip. Magenta is fifty-two.’

Hisses and laughter rose from the crowd. Camera one moved forward to focus on George, whom I recognised as beige man from the bus the previous day. George, who had opted instead for a combination of olive green and brown, squirmed in his chair and fiddled with the buttons on his chunky-knit cardigan.

‘So, George, do tell us what happened.’

‘W … we … well, Julia,’ he stammered, ‘Magenta and I have been married for thirty years almost. Everything was fine until that … that young punk, excuse me, came on the scene.’

‘Oh
puhlease,
’ Magenta interrupted, waving her hand in George’s face. ‘Fine? You call a life of pure boredom fine? George is an accountant, Julia. Honestly, we only had sex once every three months to celebrate the end of a financial quarter.’

‘But …’

‘We went out once in a blue moon with his spectacularly dull friends, and they always ended up discussing debits, credits and capital gains tax over a light ale.’

‘They …’

‘Life with George was less interesting than watching paint dry, Julia. His calculator has more appeal to him than I have. He’s dull, he wears Y-fronts, and he’s vegetarian. I mean,
please, I’m not going to waste my life darning socks and knitting lentils, Julia. Dull, dull, dull!’

Say what you mean, Magenta,
I thought.
I mean, don’t hold back or anything.
I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for poor, dull George.

George coughed nervously and touched Magenta’s pink-stockinged knee.

‘I can change. I love you, Maggie,’ he pleaded desperately.

‘Get yer bleedin’ hands off her,’ yelled Magenta’s young stud, jumping to his feet and grabbing George’s trembling arm.

‘She’s my wife!’

‘She’s not your chuffin’ anythin’, mate. She’s mine.’

Philip was obviously blessed with a huge amount of testosterone.

The crowd yelled, ‘Deck him man!’

People jumped to their feet and cheered while Julia Juniper looked around nervously.

‘Magenta, please,’ George wailed.

‘I’m warning you, mate!’ Philip stepped towards the cowering accountant, puffing out his chest like a Wonderbra girl. George’s chances of success were looking slim. Magenta feigned mild distress at the sight of her duelling men.

Bitch,
I thought. I couldn’t understand how Mrs Plum-hair-do, mid-life crisis could have two men, albeit a hopeless pair, fighting over her 52-year-old self on national television while I, a young, vibrant, not bad looking 26-year-old was forced to live a life of almost total chastity. I vowed to discover Magenta’s secret after the show.

It was only after the second punch was thrown that
security stepped in and removed Philip from the stage. Our pusillanimous host cowered on her spot amongst the audience shouting, ‘Stop! Stop! You hooligan! You’re ruining my show!’