Serve Cool (18 page)

Chapter Seventeen

19th March, 11:40 p.m.

‘How many times?’ Maz yelled over the chorus of ‘Super Trooper’. ‘Ya little slapper, man. It’s nae wonder yer glowin’ like, yer circulation’s gone mad, lass, all that bumpin’ and grindin’.’

We both let out a shriek of laughter and I wiggled my hips in mock sex motion as I sat on the sofa.

‘Aye, he’s nice like,’ Maz said, referring to the newly crowned superstud Randall. My official boyfriend, since last night and this morning’s marathon of desire.

‘He’s kinda … different,’ Maz continued, gnawing thoughtfully on a beer bottle, ‘like, a … oh, whaddya call it … an enema?’

‘An
enigma?
How do you mean?’

‘He just looks a bit mysterious ye kna. Doesn’t give much away when he talks. Pretty quiet.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed, thinking back to the close-call in the restaurant, ‘he’s a bit shy, I s’pose … but he definitely comes out of himself at the right moment!’

We laughed again until our stomachs hurt and sighed, ‘Oh dear,’ until one of us thought up the next line.

I was glad our shift was over. I’d only just got to the pub in time for work and had been desperate to tell Maz about my hours of indulgence. She knew, of course, and had winked obviously as I poured Randall his one drink before he left for work.

‘Good on you, pet,’ she had muttered as I flounced around behind the bar. I was feeling sexy and wanted, and exploiting every minute of it.

Of course, on the one night I had hoped for a girlie chat, the pub had been uncharacteristically busy. The lesbian darts team had brought their ‘partners’ along to their training session, hence a batch of frustrated husbands from the estate, with an idyllic view of female homosexuality, had come along to ‘watch’. Corduroy dungarees, DM boots and builders’ bums had been rife in the vicinity of the dartboard.

A raucous hen party, unfortunately choosing the Scrap Inn as their final destination, had filled the opposite corner for the second half of the night. The group of Liverpudlian slappers – no other word would be appropriate – were decked out in white lacy angel costumes adorned with multi-coloured condoms and pictures of naked men, that is when they weren’t auditioning for the female version of
The Full Monty.
Saint Peter would have had a full-scale security system fitted to the pearly gates if he’d seen this lot of angels
coming. Of course, I was pleased for ‘Paula’s gettin’ married on Saturdee – poor cow’, but I vowed if I heard ‘We’re really mad, we are’ one more time, I’d shove their tinselly halos where the sun don’t shine.

My father had also popped in for his twice-weekly dose of medicinal whisky and one or two stories from Auld Vinny’s sea-faring days. Apparently my mother had tried to put a stop to his regular alcoholic encounters with the wayward daughter by announcing that her therapist had advised they partake of a ‘joint hobby’. Tupperware parties had been scheduled for the offending evenings with Dad playing host to gaggles of Mum’s highly pretentious friends. In a moment of unprecedented bravery, much to my amusement, Dad had told Mum an unrepeatable alternative use for the interlocking plastic tubs and had caught the first Metro to Byker.

Auld Vinny had been on fine form, expostulating over Robson’s latest football team signing (‘Bloody six million poont, man, ’bout as useful as a fishnet bathtub’); the standard of British TV (‘Load o’ canny shite, man, feckin’ grown men in cuddly suits wi’ coathangers oot of their heeds’) – the Teletubbies; and female equality (‘Flash in the pan load of bollocks’).

Only when he asked Randall, ‘Did you give ’er one, then?’ did I decide to point out that his lesbian friends were leaving and ‘surely they’d want him to escort them all home for a
party
’. I’d never seen him move so fast.

‘Mars, Snickers or Bounty?’ asked Maz, waving a handful of fun-size chocolate bars in front of my glazed eyes. Convincing
myself that four mini-Snickers didn’t quite add up to one whole one, I reached for the fifth and sixth of the night and cracked open another bottle of Bud. I was on a well-earned short break from guilt trips about my six-figure daily calorie consumption.

Randall’s hormonal appreciation of my naked body had done enough to persuade me I was beautiful. I knew I shouldn’t be relying on him for reassurance but, let’s face it, it helped. Perhaps I was a slim baguette-legged, ‘I eat so much and can’t put on weight’ nimble beauty after all. To think I’d been living in denial for the past 26 years. Shocking.

‘You soppy cow,’ Maz smiled, noting my smiling indulgence. No groans of ‘Oh I really shouldn’t’ or ‘But my thighs are so massive’ before shoving the chocolate in my gob. (I never actually refrained from devouring it.) Just happy, silent troughing.

‘Takes you home fer a bit of hinky kinky,’ Maz continued, ‘and you gan al’ loved up on us.’

I smiled. ‘Piss off, I’m not loved up, I’m just happy.’

‘Aye, ga-ga more like.’

‘Rubbish. I am not ga-ga, or loved up. I’m not “in love” either.’ I was doing my best to convince myself, although the soft focus, hazy dreams in my head said otherwise. ‘Anyhow, you’re just jealous.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of me having one of the few remaining gentlemen in this world for a boyfriend.’

‘Me? No way man.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find someone soon, Maz.’

‘Piss off,’ Maz tisked and tutted, slamming her feet on the coffee table. ‘I dain’t want a boyfriend. Come the day my body clock’s tickin’ fer stretch marks, mornin’ sickness and a life of naggin’ some useless fella, then I might get a boyfriend. There’s plenty fellas oot there when a girl’s gaggin’ for it if you kna what I mean. I won’t go without.’

We laughed loudly. Maz certainly had no shortage of men willing to take her out and show her a good time, as it were. They stuck to Maz like flies to a car bonnet when she wanted a date. She was living proof that the ‘play hard to get’ and ‘don’t give a stuff’ theories worked like a dream. Without fail, the dedicated philanderers, infidels and arrogant tossers, most of whom were ridiculously good looking – loved by all but mostly by themselves – would be reduced to quivering celibate wrecks, willing to die for their woman, as soon as they realised they had been filed in the one-night stand cabinet by my gorgeous best friend. ‘I love you’, ‘Please marry me’, ‘I’ll buy you a car … a house … a small planet’ were heard by Maz on an almost daily basis but she kicked them to the kerb with an ‘I’ll call you, maybe never’ or ‘Pull yerself together man and piss off home’.

Mmm, come to think of it, she really didn’t seem to want a boyfriend. Realising I was in danger of becoming one of those very boring ‘I’m in a relationship, it’s fabulous, you must be thrilled for me’ type people, I decided to shut up and change the subject.

‘So have you heard any more news about your show?’

‘Oh aye, they were ganna write us a letter. Was there any mail today? I forgot to look.’ She jumped up enthusiastically and headed for the hall.

‘Knowing Dave, he probably filed it in the microwave,’ I called over my shoulder.

‘Aye, I’ll check the washin’ machine.’

I laughed and dreamily undressed, I mean unwrapped, a Bounty.

‘What the bleedin’ buggery bollocks is this like?’ Maz stomped into the room, eyes bulging, face redder than a chicken tikka masala, frantically waving a piece of paper in her shaking, outstretched hand. It came to rest two inches from my nose. Lucky – paper cuts are pitifully small but they bloody well hurt.

‘They’re jokin’ man,’ she yelled, ‘it’s a wind up, must be.’

‘What? What is it, Maz?’

I tried to grab the paper but her grip was steadfast.

‘Bloody tossers. It’s an April fool. What’s the date, eh?’

‘What? Just tell me what it is, Maz.’

‘I’ll give ’em bleedin’ “yours sincerely” and all that crap. So bloody up themselves they can’t speak chuffin’ English man.’

‘Maz.’

‘Flippin’ legal bloodyistic waffley shite. What the hell stunt are they trying to pull eh? They can’t do this.’

‘Do
what?
’

‘They can’t. Not that easy can they?’

‘I don’t
know
do I? I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re drivelling on about have I?’

I jumped up from the sofa and wrestled the piece of paper from her hand, peeling her fingers off one by one. It was a letter. Good quality, sturdy cream paper. Typed and headed. The bold heading I recognised immediately. I experienced a
sudden sinking feeling and started to sweat as I read the words. I hadn’t even reached the main body of the letter. In bold black type across the top of the page were the words ‘Glisset & Jacksop Solicitors’.

More often than not, an unrequested lawyer’s letter is an ominous sign. Either we had been named as sole beneficiaries in a mad recluse millionaire’s Will or, the more likely option, this was going to be very bad news. Feeling like a teenager about to read the dreaded A-level result slip, I cast my eyes unwillingly over the print and began to read.

I could hardly believe my eyes. What I read was a notice to quit the premises. The flat had been sold, along with the pub, to an unnamed buyer, and both were to be vacated within a fortnight. All our efforts had been in vain. Evidently, Jack had managed to push a sale through quickly, without us ever getting wind of the transaction. The very formal letter was signed at the bottom, ‘Jack xxx’. The bastard. I lowered the piece of paper with shaking hands and stared at Maz. I could tell she was gobsmacked. The three lit cigarettes in her right hand were a fairly solid indication.

‘Maz … they’ve sold the pub,’ I stammered.

She took a long drag of nicotine.

‘Aye well, it doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’

‘Buy why didn’t Gordon tell us? He’s the bloody manager.’

‘Gordon, aye fat chance. He’s too friggin’ scared to give me bad news, flippin’ poof. He’d rather I heard it from the lawyers than him havin’ to come here and tell us face to face. He knas I’d probably deck ’im, that’s why.’

I thought for a moment, turning everything over in my
head. Maz chain-smoked and drummed her feet on the coffee table.

‘Have you got a signed lease?’ I asked eventually.

‘Have I bollocks,’ Maz retorted, ‘it were all just casual, us livin’ here.’

‘But you must have
rights,
’ I stressed. ‘I know I was here just as a favour, but you were the real tenant. You were practically running the place. We can fight it.’

‘Fight what? There’s nay point, pet.’

‘Of course there is. You’ll have
rights.
They can’t just chuck us out!’

‘Rights my arse! That’s what you learned at law school, pet. It doesn’t work like that in the real world. They can do whatever they bloody well like. Remember what happened with your landlord.’

I felt defensive and angry at being thought of as naive by my best friend.

‘They can’t,’ I muttered tearfully.

Maz looked at me, almost pitifully. She was now amazingly calm and collected, resigned to the fact that we were being chucked out on our ear.

‘Anyway, Jen,’ she sighed, ‘there’s nae point in fightin’ it. The pub’s been sold so we’d only be delayin’ the inevitable if we caused a scene.’

Inevitable.
Maz never said words like inevitable. The whole situation just seemed so unreal.

We sat in silence for a while, me staring at the wine and beer stains on the carpet from many a raucous evening, Maz working her way through a pack of twenty fags with amazing speed. She produced more smoke in an hour than a
steelworks’ factory chimney. Eventually, when she could bear the mortuary atmosphere no longer, Maz stood up.

‘I’m gan to bed …’

‘Right, OK.’

‘While I’ve still got one.’

Sitting alone in the flat, with only
Crimewatch Update,
a subtitled French B-movie and two incomprehensible documentaries for company, I felt very alone. My heart had sunk to somewhere below my knees and my head was pounding with the sound of my own pulse.

Suddenly I remembered that Randall had, at last, given me his phone number. How could I have forgotten? I jumped up excitedly and bounded to my room to find the piece of paper with the number on it – or rather, the
pieces.
I had copied it out on about twenty different Post-it notes and placed them strategically around my bedroom. Well, I didn’t want to risk losing it, did I? It was my lifeline. I glanced at my watch. 12:05 a.m. It was late but at least I knew he would be there. I had to call. I had to get him to cheer me up, maybe even pop round to comfort me. He’d definitely be in.

He wasn’t in. I stared menacingly at the receiver as the answering machine clicked into action. It wasn’t even his own voice, it was some
woman.
She claimed to be a BT recorded message and, to be fair, she sounded particularly robotic, but how could I be sure? I couldn’t. Where was he? How
dare
he not be in when I needed some sympathy. Where could he possibly be at this hour of the night? I gripped the receiver tightly, hoping it would change its mind and say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, actually Randall
is
in and he will be round in
no time for a shag, beep.’ But the message stayed the same. I built myself up to shout, ‘Where are you? I need you now.’ But when the tone sounded I took a deep breath and said, ‘Randall, darling, it’s Jenny. Um … I’ve just had a bit of bad news and … um … I wanted to speak to you. S … orry it’s so late … I’ll call you again. Sweet dreams. Bye.’

Sap.

Chapter Eighteen

20th March, 5:00 a.m.

I hardly slept at all that night. Every time I closed my eyes I had visions of waking up in a cardboard box with only a discarded copy of Hello! magazine for warmth. Surrounded by tramps, drunks, and addicts of one sort or another – not unlike our customers, come to think of it – and occasionally kicked or sworn at by passers-by. Now and again one would throw me the odd coin.
Odd
being the operative word – ten pesetas, two francs, three Indonesian rupiah, worth all of one hundredth of a penny. I would never know where my next meal was coming from. A bin, the gutter, a half-eaten meal on a pavement café table. I would dream of hot food. What I would give for a chicken Pot Noodle. Oh, how low had I sunk?

Finally I could take it no longer. I threw myself out of bed and began a frantic search through my wardrobe to find an outfit befitting of a squatter. Not too tarty, they’d think I was on the game. Not too expensive looking, I’d never be a
successful beggar that way. Not too Oliver Twist-ish, I was sure things must have progressed since then. God, I was never going to survive on the streets, I didn’t even know what to wear.

The early hours of the morning took about a month to pass by and I became increasingly panic-stricken. I sat down, stood up, paced the room, stood still, lay on the floor, lay on the bed, jogged on the spot, even read a book –
Newcastle A–Z Street Atlas.
Anything to make me feel like I was doing something useful. I know people always say ‘things will seem better in the morning’ but how could they? No job, no money, no home. Things were terrible now and they’d still be terrible when the sun finally decided to get up. Not just terrible, but bad, apocalyptically awful, stunningly dire, life-threateningly traumatic. But at least if it was daytime I could
do
something about it. I could phone people, moan, bitch about Jack, talk to Randall. This 5:00 a.m. business was just such a waste of time.

Finally I woke to the sound of Maz slamming doors, unaware of ever having fallen asleep. My head was resting on the bottom shelf of my bookcase, my body slumped on the floor. I had a crick in my neck the size of Ireland, and a heavy, grey cloud perched ominously over my head. Amazingly, though, I awoke with an intelligent thought in my head – first time for everything. ‘Call Matt,’ said the sensible voice, ‘he’ll know who bought the pub.’

‘Nice one,’ I nodded. ‘Thanks!’

Anything was worth a try. I needed more information.

⋆

‘Matthew Capley is not available at the moment.’

‘Bloody machines!’

‘… leave a message …’

‘I hate you. Hate you, hate you, HATE YOU, HA …’

‘Hello?’

‘… um …’

‘Hello. Who’s that?’

‘Oh … um … Matt?’

‘Yes, Matt Capley speaking, who are you?’

‘Jen, Matt, Jen … it’s Jen,
Jennifer.
’

‘Jen.
Jen.
Oh, bloody hell, hon. You get nuttier by the minute,’ he guffawed. ‘How are you?’

‘I thought you weren’t there.’

‘Soz. Popped to the wee-wee house for a second.’

‘Nice.’

‘Anyway, babe. Is this a social call?’

‘Yes.’ I felt guilty for only phoning him when I needed a favour.

‘Great!’

‘… and … and … er … no.’

‘Oh.’

‘I need a favour, Matt.’

‘I guessed.’

I launched into my tale of woe. The sale of the pub, the letter from Jack, losing my job, losing the flat, the cardboard box, the rupiah, the Pot Noodle. Matt oohed and aahed and ‘no-way’ed in all the right places, having quickly recovered from his initial disappointment that I wasn’t ringing for a girlie chat. This was much more exciting.

‘Well, you
know
what I said about that Jack,’ he said
dramatically when I had drawn to a close. ‘Never trust a man with a —’

‘Square jaw. Yes I know.’

‘He would do
anything
to secure a deal, darling. Sell his own children if anyone was mental enough to make some with him.’

I blushed.

‘
Anything
to make Partner, Jen. That’s what he lives for. Well, that and waking up every morning to see his own beautiful reflection.’

‘This is a lecture isn’t it?’ I sighed.

‘Yes,’ Matt said, surprisingly sternly, ‘a lecture to any poor cows out there who can’t see that black is white, I mean, black is black. Oh … you know, a spade’s a … whatever.’

‘It’s OK, Matt. I don’t like him any more. I’ve found someone.’

‘Ooh!’ he squealed. ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me!’

‘Not now, later. Right now I need to know who …’

‘Tell me,
please
.’

‘… bought the pub.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Matt, please, I —’

‘TELL ME. How tall?’

‘Six foot. Now —’

‘Mmm, tall! Hair?’

‘Brown. Can —’

‘Long or short?’

‘Shortish.’

‘Bod?’

‘What. Oh, lovely, yes now —’

‘Occupation?’

‘Matt, come on.’

‘Name, then. Name?’

I sighed dramatically. Of course, I wanted to tell him everything about Randall. About his eyes, his soothing voice, his mannerisms, his shoe size. Matt would take in every word, tell me that I had the catch of the century and assure me that it would last for ever. But, there would be time for all that later. I needed information.

‘Name!’ he shrieked again, before I had time to speak.

‘Oh, OK then. It’s … it’s’ – even his name made me breathless – ‘it’s Randall.’

‘Randall?’ Matt repeated. ‘Lovely name.’

‘Thanks.’ As if it were my doing.

‘Funny though.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos that’s the same as the name you’re after.’

‘What?’

‘The man who bought your pub.’

‘What about him?’

‘Randall. His name was
Randall.
We didn’t represent him cos we were for the sellers but it was definitely Randall because …’

I heard the sound of cracking glass somewhere inside my head. My mouth was suddenly very dry. ‘R … Rand … all. Randall what?’ I cleared my throat.

‘Pettifer,’ Matt said triumphantly. ‘Randall Pettifer.’

The bottom fell out of my world. The glass shattered into a million pieces. I heard the sound of falling, the bottomless sound in a cartoon when Wile E Coyote plummets at top
speed into a vast chasm. Only, this wasn’t funny. This wasn’t the figment of an animator’s imagination. This was real, horribly, horribly real. My body shook with fear and rage. Matt was still waffling in my ear.

‘You know him, he’s …’

A bastard.

‘His dad …’

Has a lot to answer for.

‘… always on the lookout …’

For a gullible sap. I was in despair. I couldn’t bring myself to listen, until something he said caught my attention.

‘What?’

‘What, what?’

‘What did you say then?’

‘When?’

‘Just then.’

‘Um …’

‘About a flat or something.’

‘Flat … oh yeah. I was just saying we did a flat for him a couple of weeks ago.’

‘
Did?
What do you mean,
did
?’

‘Arranged it, hon. Fully furnished from taps to tapestries. He didn’t care which flat it was, just that he wanted one and fast. We got one, rushed it through and hey presto! He didn’t even have to buy the loo roll, honestly. Funny these people aren’t they, darling?’

He laughed. Wile E Coyote hit the floor. Dead.

‘Jen, I was saying they’re funny, aren’t they? Rich folk.’

No answer.

‘Jen?’

A quiet sob.

‘Are you OK, Jen?’

Tears. Lots of them. The Aswan Dam had burst.

‘B … b … bye … M … M … Matt.’

‘Jenny babe, are you …’

‘M … mus … must go.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘G … g … go n … now.’

‘Jenny …’

‘Bye.’

I slammed the phone down and ran up to my bedroom. Throwing myself on the bed, I buried my face in the duvet and sobbed uncontrollably. My shoulders shook, my eyes exploded, my nose ran and my mouth contorted in agonised expressions. All I could think was Randall. Pub. Flat. Don’t. Understand. I was so confused and shocked, I could think of nothing better to do than wallow in the pain. Then I thought of something.

‘I’m sorry, but Randall cannot come to the phone right now …’

Stupid posh tart.

‘… a message after the tone …’

Oh hurry up.
Hurry up
with your Queen’s English!

‘… as soon as possible.’

Snotty bitch.

‘… the tone.’

Gulp.

‘Beep.’

‘
Bastard.
You no-good, worthless piece of scum! How
could
you? How
dare
you? I hate you. Hate you as much as I hate people with Walkmans on trains! Hate you as much as you hate Jeremy Beadle. Ha! I hope you’re happy now you … you
man.
’ I was running out of insults. ‘I never want to see you again you …
bastard
! Go to hell … By the way, it’s Jenny.’

Well, he might not have known it was me. We hadn’t had a proper row before, he might not have recognised me in my new role as the She-Devil. I slammed the phone down, picking it up and slamming it down again several times for effect. I was so outraged, so angry, so
furious,
so … miserable. I slumped in a heap on the floor and continued to cry.