Serve Cool (15 page)

Fat buyer looked disapprovingly at the crumbling figure before him.

‘Richard, I’ll sort this out.’

‘No need, Jack. I think we should be on our way now.’ His team nodded in agreement.

‘Just give me a minute gentlemen, please.’

‘Thank you for your time, but perhaps you need to do a little more homework next time, Jack.’

‘But this is a
mistake,
I assure you.’

‘We won’t be proceeding any further with this deal.’

‘Please gentlemen,
please.
’

‘Shame on you, Jack,’ tutted barrel man. ‘Begging is most unbecoming of a lawyer.’

‘Goodbye, Jack.’ They turned to leave.

‘They did this.’ Jack pointed a trembling finger at Maz and me. We feigned surprise. I put my hand on my chest and gasped.

‘Oh please,’ Richard scoffed. ‘Now you’re not making any sense, Jack. How could they have done this? They’re just barmaids.’

We let this condescension pass just this once, and chose to smile sweetly rather than punch him in the teeth. Maz and I looked on with great satisfaction as the buyers and their legal team disappeared up the hill, Jack wailing pathetically behind them.

As they vanished into the distance, there was a momentary silence until Maz began to laugh. Our customers joined in and the laughter inside me finally erupted. We clutched our stomachs, patted each other on the back, and fell about in the street, roaring hysterically. The contaminated waste
team joined in the frivolity. The largest of the three pulled off his space-age visor and wiped hysterical tears from his eyes.

‘Dave!’ I roared. ‘You should have been an actor.’

‘Aye, my talents were wasted in jail.’

Maz hugged her brother fondly. ‘Thanks Dave, man.’

‘Nae problem, sis. It pays to have mates in the refuse business. The rest of the stuff me an’ Chip just … uh,
borrowed.
He’s security at a lab.’

‘Aye well, you better clean that rubbish up bloody quick … after a pint or two.’ She grinned.

The crowd trooped merrily through the door of the Scrap Inn for an impromptu celebration, Denise still clutching her lampshade. Maz and I were left standing alone on the litter-strewn pavement. Maz put her arm round my shoulders. We beamed at each other. I noticed her eyes were brighter than they had been for a while.

‘Ah thanks, Jen, yer a bleedin’ star.’

‘Well, we’re not out of trouble totally, Maz, but we’ve bought ourselves some valuable time.’

She took a deep breath. I hugged her. Over her shoulder I caught sight of a male figure in the distance. He looked familiar but I couldn’t be sure. I shrugged and looked up at Maz again.

‘Yep. We may be “just barmaids”, Maz, but we’re a force to be reckoned with when we put our minds to it.’

‘Aye, pet. Never judge a barmaid by her cleavage eh.’

We laughed and headed for the pub door. As we reached the step I turned to replay the scene in my head. I sighed happily.

‘Who needs the A-team?’ I smiled. ‘I love it when a plan comes together.’

Chapter Fourteen

4th March, 9:30 a.m.

I awoke with butterflies doing the fandango in my stomach. I instantly sensed that it was an important day, but my mind took a few minutes to catch up with my instincts. Suddenly the mist cleared and I sat bolt upright in bed, whacking my head on the ethnic mobile (made in Sunderland) that was supposed to bring a touch of culture and mysticism to my room. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

I jumped out of bed, found Victor and Hugo, my furry cat slippers, and cautiously approached the dressing-table mirror. Eugh! These early-morning inspections of my underlying natural beauty were always a big disappointment. Fresh-faced and delicate I most certainly was not. I looked as if I’d spent the night being dragged backwards through very dense hedges. My hair was wildly ruffled on one side and pasted flatly to my face on the other. My right cheek bore the imprint of my watch and my face was red and blotchy. I
rubbed my eyes in an attempt to dislodge the several tonnes of sleepy dust (or eye-snot as Maz liked to call it) that had coagulated in each corner. Any man waking up with me would seriously curse the camouflage properties of make-up. Oh to be Worzel Gummidge, I thought, inter-changeable heads would be a blessing.

On a stressability scale of 1–10, first dates with men whom I consider to be even remotely good looking score about 16.5. For me, they are way up there with job interviews, smear tests and 30,000-feet solo free-falls (I imagine). At that moment, any of these options would have been preferable to an afternoon on the flight path of cupid’s arrow. What if we had nothing to say to each other? What if he found me, or I found him, excruciatingly boring? What if, when relieved of his beer goggles, he realised with horror that his date was the best living example of a human pear? Damn, why oh why had I said the yes word? Turning
Club Tropicana
up to full volume in the hope that George and Andrew would lift my spirits, I set to work with my Epilady.

The previous night, Maz and I had been passing the time discussing career moves for Jack when
he
had entered the bar. We had almost settled on the idea of a plastic-flipflop seller in Morocco when Maz had suddenly exclaimed, ‘Why-aye, check oot the fit bod in them kegs!’ His slightly faded blue Levis hugged the contours of his thigh muscles as he walked slowly down the steps into the bar. The black T-shirt accentuated his firm pecs and trim waist. His heavy black boots scuffed the floor as he walked, sending shivers up the creases in my trousers. And those eyes. Sparkling like green
pools in the moonlight from behind the dark locks of hair that fell over his face.

‘Must be in the wrong pub,’ Maz had concluded.

All I had been capable of was opening and closing my mouth like a gormless goldfish. I had instantly recognised him as the work experience boy from Paradise TV. My nether regions had also recognised him as the dishevelled beauty who was really starting to tickle my tastebuds. He was hotter than a stolen vindaloo.

‘Ow! Bloody Epi-flippin-lady.’

Ripping three inches of raw flesh from my shin brought me back to reality with a bump. No chance of wearing my pedal pushers now, after falling victim to this twentieth-century instrument of torture. Probably just as well.

‘Maz, please come with me,’ I groaned.

‘Jen, man, I’m not coming on a date with you. It’d look reet stupid. Anyhow, he looks lush, you’ll be fine.’

‘Oh please, I’m shy.’

‘Howay jen, if you’re shy Ulrika Jonsson’s a bloody rocket scientist.’

‘But …’

‘Jen, you’ll thank me I promise. It’ll be good for yer self-esteem.’

‘What self-esteem?’

‘Precisely.’

So it was that I boarded the Metro alone, destination first date. Every so often during the journey into town, I caught sight of my reflection in the window opposite. By the end of
the short trip, I had decided that my top looked too tight, my make-up was too thick and my hair resembled the aftermath of a bad perming incident. I felt like Limahl from Kajagoogoo in drag. Not a great boost for the old self-confidence.

I got off the Metro at Monument Station, cursing the train’s central heating for having successfully disproved the fresh and dry qualities of my deodorant. In a vain last-minute attempt to shed a few excess pounds, I bounded up the escalator and jogged out to the main street. Pausing at Grey’s Monument to suffer a mild heart attack, I scanned the people milling around for any sign of my date.

A group of scantily clad girls tottered past dressed in the uniform of Lycra, bare flesh and Spice Girl shoes. Husbands and boyfriends trailed sulkily behind their partners as they were frog-marched from one women’s clothes shop to another. Black and white footie shirts dotted among the passers-by made it clear that this was Newcastle, the home of the Toon Army.

Turning to face the monument, I noticed a young, trendy guitar player with straggly blond hair and a Brit Pop attitude singing ‘Champagne Super Nova’ in a surprisingly tuneful voice. Despite being soulfully engrossed in his music, he managed to give a menacing glare to every person who neglected to see, and add to, the small collection of coins in his open guitar case. Hoping it would make me look less desperate, I positioned myself strategically next to the busker and pretended to be lost in a world of musical appreciation.

Still no sign of old green eyes.

‘I’ve been stood up,’ I concluded pessimistically.

OK, I had only given him 3 minutes and 30 seconds grace but I’m a great believer in invoking the escape clause at the first available opportunity. I sighed happily. First date embarrassment had been avoided for that day. No need for stilted conversation, feeble jokes and forced enthusiasm. I could go home, eat doughnuts and wallow in an afternoon of self-indulgence. Call me a coward if you will. I never claimed to be anything else.

Breathing easily for the first time that day, I spun around and headed for the station entrance. Suddenly feeling an uncomfortable tightness across my ankles, I glanced down just in time to see the busker’s guitar lead wrap itself firmly around my legs. The pavement came up to meet me at an alarming rate. The busker was instantly unplugged and about £200-worth of amplifier crashed to the floor behind me.

The previously small crowd of music enthusiasts around the monument metamorphosed into a St James’ Park-sized throng as everyone in the vicinity came to have a good look at my misfortune. The crowd laughed and hooted as I rolled in the cigarette butts on the ground, clutching my bleeding knee. I briefly hoped that ripped jeans would soon come back into fashion. Busker boy leapt around with one hand on his forehead and the other swinging his guitar dangerously close to my head. His catalogue of swear words didn’t appear to be in danger of drying up in the near future. I considered telling him that my real name was Jennifer but, taking stock of the situation, I decided ‘You dizzy bitch’ would do.

Just as I was completing my third plea to God for an Armageddon-scale natural disaster, an arm was suddenly thrust into my scarlet face from the surrounding mob. I grabbed the hand helplessly and was gently pulled up to face my saviour. The first thing I noticed was the colour of his eyes. They shone like precious emeralds, burning into my own watery iris. My whole body was shouting ‘Blush!’ but my burning cheeks took the brunt of my increased circulation. Extreme embarrassment coupled with luscious hormonal surges were, I decided, not a good recipe for softly glowing skin. I felt like I had Jupiter on my shoulders.

‘Were you waiting for someone, Jennifer?’ he smiled. He ran his free hand through his hair and laughed. All I could muster was a giddy smile. For once, I was glad that my date had turned up. Very glad indeed.

A hazy half-hour later, we found ourselves in McDonald’s on Northumberland Street. The busker had somehow been pacified (I suspected by way of a monetary donation but my saviour denied any such thing) and the crowd had eventually dispersed. I had hobbled away from the scene of the crime, trying to play down the gaping hole in my new jeans and the blood gushing from my knee. I now sat, leg raised on a plastic stool, with a wad of McDonald’s serviettes pressed on my injury.

I had originally hoped for a, shall we say, classier lunch destination. A cosy Italian, the arty-farty place above the theatre or, at the very least, a Miss Marple-style coffee shop. At that moment, however, McDonald’s seemed just the ticket. No frills, no fuss, just lots of noise and the
soothing smell of fast food. I felt unusually relaxed and content.

‘To think I was worried we might miss each other,’ he grinned, taking another handful of anorexic French fries. ‘I might have known you’d stand out in a crowd.’

I blushed. ‘I’m not usually that clumsy, it was a momentary lapse of concentration.’

‘Aye well, I’m sure I’ll find out,’ he smiled. ‘’I can’t wait to see what you’ll do on our next date.’

His last two words sent a warm glow through my body. ‘Next date.’ So this wasn’t a one-off in his mind, despite my very public display of lunacy. If we went on another date, then ‘me and him’ might become an ‘us’. Thoughts of a whirlwind romance, rings, churches and fluffy white dresses flashed through my mind. I banished them with a shake of my head before he had the chance to see the glint in my eye, and concentrated on extracting the wilted gherkin slices from my Big Mac.

We gorged ourselves on 30p ice creams, drank cheek-crushing triple thick shake through the same straw and shared stories over sesame-seed baps. When my knee finally stopped bleeding, we walked/limped to Eldon Square shopping centre in search of plasters and antiseptic cream. I had never spent a first date in Boots before but, with him, it felt amazingly natural. Finally, with a Mr Bump wash-proof Elastoplast firmly in place and his hand firmly in mine, we made our way slowly down to the market that ran along the banks of the river.

The stalls were crammed with all manner of things, from hand-knitted pink tea-cosies to Newcastle United
condom holders. I spotted a great offer on the underwear stall but decided against openly purchasing three pairs of sturdy thermal knickers for £3.50 at this early stage in our relationship (2 hours and 26 minutes to be precise). We got head spins from sniffing aromatherapy oils, searched the CD stalls for anything other than Whitney Houston compilation albums and were forced to endure a demonstration of an entire set of Tupperware tubs. ‘
The blue one fits inside the red one, which fits inside the orange one, which … um … fits inside the green one
…’ and so on. It was only when we were threatened with a complimentary demonstration of the Tupperware beaker and jug ensemble that I instantly developed acute pain in my knee and just had to leave.

We sat down on a bench next to the river and he carefully changed the plaster on my knee. I felt a twinge of excitement as his strong, slim hands touched my skin.

That was replaced by a twinge of pain as he ripped off Mr Bump to make way for Mr Happy.

‘Ow!’ I squealed.

‘Sorry, pet.’

He called me pet. I glowed with pleasure. His calm, concerned bedside manner was so attractive. I set my brow in an expression of pain and decided to play the sympathy vote for a while longer.

We sat in silence for a few minutes and gazed at the boats passing up and down the busy River Tyne. For once, I didn’t feel awkward not speaking. It was an easy silence and purely by choice. I wanted to savour the moment and, rather than open my big gob, breathe in the stillness that spoke
volumes. As his right arm slipped across my shoulder, pulling me closer to him, I knew he was feeling the same way.

‘Have you ever been there?’ he asked eventually, nodding towards a heavy white ship that was moored to the opposite bank.

The upper deck was emblazoned with the words
Tuxedo Royale.
I wondered at how quiet and empty it looked in the afternoon light, as if nothing ever happened there.

‘I have actually,’ I replied wistfully, ‘just the once, but it was a pretty … um … memorable occasion.’

His bright green eyes searched my face for more information. He looked so interested, I found myself recounting the tale of my none-too-successful New Year’s Eve. Not yet assured of his unconditional affection, I decided to leave out such details as my marathon puking session in the Tuxedo Royale’s toilets and my early-morning skirt-less gate-scaling episode. He listened so intently that, before long, I had revealed all the details of how the events of that night had snowballed to change every facet of my once-comfortable existence.

I told him about Jack’s affair with my secretary and of his heartless plan to ruin my life. I told him about Glisset & Jacksop and the untimely end to my legal career. About my lovely flat on the quayside and my involuntary move to ‘Chez Maz’ above the Scrap Inn. I then found myself telling him about my new life as a barmaid. The days and nights of endless conversation with the punters. The goals and dreams revealed over a bottle of Brown Ale too many, most of which would never be achieved but which kept us all going. I told
him about our ‘family’ of regulars. Denise and Derek with their marriage-made-in-purgatory, Auld Vinny, the Ultimate International Sex Machine, banging on the door at 10:30 a.m. and demanding to be allowed to start his day’s work, and even my dad who had found solace in this unlikely place. I told him about Maz’s ambition to be the next Ricki Lake and of her brother Dave’s life as a very unsuccessful criminal. He laughed at all the right bits, looked concerned when that was required and assured me that Jack ‘had a slate loose’ for cheating on me and dumping me so unceremoniously.

When I had finished, I was breathless – partly due to speaking too fast and partly due to how tightly he was holding me. Hearing his breath close to my ear, I turned my face towards his shoulder and looked up at his profile. He felt my gaze and lowered his chin, bringing his face tantalisingly close to mine. His eyes glowed, almost unreal in their vibrancy.

Women would kill for those eyelashes,
I thought. They were jet black, thick and breathtakingly long, curling up towards his eyelids. I couldn’t help thinking that they wouldn’t have looked out of place on a camel. I could almost feel the breeze they created each time he blinked.